Chapter 20
It was Spike’s birthday today.
The big, uneventful nineteen.
He used to love birthdays.
Jimmy, Eric and Charles always made a big deal out of them, no matter whose birthday it was. If he were back home, they’d be piss drunk by now, have girls tucked away for later, and he’d wake up the next morning with bruises he’d never remember acquiring.
Those were the salad days, he figured. A time he’d be smart to keep in the past. He loved his mates, but they were a toxic lot of rambunctious fuckers who were never up to any good. He stopped blaming them after his third month in prison. It really was true what they said about that place. You got your ass kicked on a fairly regular basis, especially if you had an attitude, and after a few months of that, Spike learned to stop pointing fingers and own up to what he’d done.
Then opportunity came knocking and lo and behold, he was ushered into the courts to be let out on temporary release to live for six months with his blasted uncle. Not quite healed from his old wounds and rather bitter about being imprisoned for several months, Spike got his rocks back. Enough to build up a wall of defense in case his uncle was full of it.
His moods were everywhere, from incredibly high to the lowest low, and it was all quite exhausting at the end of the day, but each day that he made it through, Spike promised himself he’d make it another. And another. And another, until he made it those six months and could tell Latchmere to stuff it. It was a great motivator, and he’d just have to learn how to cool off every now and again.
He felt older than he should. Felt as if someone had taken the wind out of his sails. He didn’t know what to do with himself. Where to go. What sort of man he was supposed to be. Everything he did now felt like a sad attempt at finding that out. Sometimes even his feelings towards Buffy felt unreal, as if he didn’t belong in a body made to love her. He supposed he deserved the torture of waiting for her to figure things out, but he couldn’t help fearing what might happen if she decided that she did want him.
Was he even good enough for her? She didn’t really know him, not the real him anyway. And if she did decide to be with him, what man would she expect him to be? The cocky, confident asshole that’d pushed his way into her life, or would she want to start digging and find out what lay hidden beneath the surface?
He was terrified to show her.
Eighteen had been one hell of a fucking year, and he wasn’t sure he was done receiving blows.
Rupert was nice enough to take him out for the evening, accompanied by that bird from the shop. Jenny, or whatever. She was a nice lady and Rupert seemed head over heels already, but Spike couldn’t pay attention to their conversation. His mind kept drifting off to the past couple of days.
Before Buffy’s recital, Spike had made peace with the fact that he didn’t put his fist in Angel’s face. He’d done the right thing. Bigger, scarier bastards than Angel had shared their punches and kicks with Spike before, so the act itself wasn’t what bothered him.
What bothered him was that he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He had been fine with that, determined to press forward even, because Spike had a hunch he’d win the girl in the end.
But all of his wishful thinking, good spirits and positive attitude were before the recital last night. Before he’d left Buffy behind and walked to the parking lot.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Rupert asked him, pulling him out of his dark thoughts.
“Yeah, fine. Just tired. Didn’t sleep last night.” It wasn’t a very convincing lie, but it was enough to put Jenny at ease, which in turn, had Rupert backing off a bit.
“This place is kinda corny, but they have great chicken wings,” Jenny said, scrunching her face up sympathetically and trying to relate to him in some way.
He looked around, took in the pinball machines, laser tag room, basketball hoops and various other family games, all brightly lit and bombarded with loud sound effects. He shrugged, and turned back to the couple at the table. Both of whom had on turquoise party hats. Rupert’s idea, naturally.
“Not that bad.”
“I suggested this place because I used to take my niece here,” she said. “Rupert kept talking about his kid nephew and I just…I didn’t know you were nineteen, I’m sorry.”
He laughed genuinely. “It’s all right. Was nice of you to suggest it anyway.”
Rupert smiled warmly, and very casually placed his arm on the back of Jenny’s seat. Spike kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t hide his knowing smirk.
“Well, your mother sent you a present and I think it’s high time you open the damn thing,” Rupert said, sliding a package over to him with his free hand, rumpling a pile of torn wrapping paper from the presents Spike opened earlier. Socks, a new chain wallet, a pack of Hanes black tees, and eyeliner. Though the last was meant as a joke, Spike wondered if Rupert had actually gone into his bathroom to check the brand he always used, because it was spot on.
Spike was saving this present for later, in case his mother became sentimental overnight and made him teary-eyed. It was a stretch, but he hoped for it all the same.
“I’ll do it later,” he said, picking it up and placing it by his side on the leather booth.
“I used to do that,” Jenny said, her cranberry lips twitching a bit as she spoke. “I’d open all but one present so that my birthday wouldn’t be over right away. Then I’d open it just before bed.”
“Must have insulted the other people who bought you something, knowing that their gift wasn’t important enough to save,” Rupert said, teasing her.
“Well, I was sneaky about it! You had to be sneaky in my family.”
As Rupert and Jenny continued to flirt, Spike stared at the table, unable to stop his mind from wandering. He’d been unable to think of anything else since it happened, and obsessively thinking of it only managed to highlight just how down on himself Spike could be.
He had walked straight to his car the night before, feeling jazzed about his conversation with Buffy, even if he’d put a kink in the good vibrations with his stupid persistence.
If he hadn’t parked beneath a street lamp, he probably would have missed it and drove off unaware.
But he saw it right away, a note stuffed beneath his windshield wipers.
I see you. Do you see me?
He’d turned around frantically, searching the almost empty lot for signs of Angel. There was nothing out of the ordinary, and he cursed himself for playing into the head game. Just as he’d turned back around to open the driver’s side door, a pair of headlights clicked on across from him and the sound of an engine revving rumbled through the parking lot.
Spike squinted, trying to see the driver, but it was far too dark. He took a step closer, and without warning, the car sped forward, tires eating up the pavement with an ear-piercing squeal, and headed right for him. His eyes widened a second before his legs got to work, and he had to jump on top of Rupert’s car to avoid collision. He landed safely on the trunk a mere instant before the homicidal car side-swiped him.
“You crazy cunt!” he said, his expression animalistic, fueled with rage as he hopped off the VW and gave chase.
A hand came out of the renegade’s car window and waved politely, showing off the cuff of a handsome leather coat. Then the car peeled out of the parking lot, taillights trailing as the back end shook from the force of its sharp turn onto the road.
“I should rip your balls out through your eye sockets, you fucking pansy,” he screamed at the retreating vehicle, uselessly kicking one foot in the air in frustration. “You fucking, fuck! Fuck you! Fuck you!”
As he caught his breath, whirled around to stomp back to the Volkswagen, the sounds of people gasping caught his attention. A mother and her two daughters, both dressed in pink tutus to match their tiaras, on their way to their car, stood in a huddle of shock and horror. The younger daughter, probably all of four years old, started to cry as if her throat had a warning siren in it.
“Mommy, the scary man said the f-word!” the older daughter said, chin trembling.
“Several times,” the mother said, ushering her children to the car and scowling at him with barely contained revulsion.
“Oh, now I’m the bad guy!” he said, shouting loud enough for all of Southern California to hear. He’d lost his wits, and a bit of his sanity, but because his bladder was kind enough not to release itself when he was almost murdered a second ago, he was also a bit pumped up with adrenaline.
“He just tried to kill me…and I’m the fucking criminal? Well, isn’t that just typical! Fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck! How you like that, you uptight bitch!”
“Spike, I think that’s plenty of salt.”
“Huh?” he said, looking up at his uncle right as he took the shaker from his hands. Slightly dazed, it took a moment for him to realize he’d covered his meal with a mound of salt.
“Oh,” Spike said, forcing a laugh. “Guess I lost track of what I was doing.”
Jenny stabbed at her salad with a fork and tried not to pay attention.
Rupert sighed softly, his concern wrinkling his brow. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yeah, fine. Just need to pop into the little boy’s room. Splash some water on my face and I’ll be right again.” He slid out of the booth and stood up, almost knocking their waitress over right as she approached the table. Spike tried to help steady her rocking frame, but she moved away from his aid due to embarrassment.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” Everything was really loud and his head started to pound.
“I’m ok,” she said, unable to look him in the eye so she turned to the table to ask for drink refills.
He made his way to the bathrooms, inhaling and exhaling slowly to keep it together. He was glad to find the stalls empty, and walked to the sinks to wash his face.
“Not a coward,” he murmured, splashing cold water on his cheeks. “I’m not a coward.”
* * *
It wasn’t very prettily wrapped. A brown box with packing tape wasn’t exactly a wrapped present, but at least you still had the fun of opening it.
Spike sat on his bed, freshly showered before he retired for the evening, and tore through the tape on his mother’s present. There was a card inside, and he brushed away some bits of packing peanuts to pull it out and open it.
On it was a picture of a puppy with a superimposed kazoo in its mouth. A big, blue number 6 hid behind the dog, and in festive font on the top it read, “You’re a big boy now!”
He smiled. His mother always bought cards far too young for him. Whether she did it out of laziness, as a joke, or an unwillingness to let go, he didn’t know. It made him miss her, even if she hadn’t been there for him these past few years.
When he opened it, it read in a similar, whirly font, “I didn’t know it was paws-ible! Happy Bruffday!” He snorted at the bad joke, and wasn’t surprised that she didn’t write much beneath it.
I wish I could be there with you today. Rupert says you’re doing well. I hope so. Be happy, son. Don’t forget who you are.
Love Mum xoxoxox
She wasn’t ever eloquent with her words, nor was she able to express her feelings very well in that particular fashion. That might be why he was feeling misty eyed now, because he saw what she’d sent him. It was one of the figurines he’d made out of bolts and wire and scrap metal, just a couple of months before the fire. The figure stood proudly, its legs wide and sure, chest out, hands on its hips, and a lopsided grin made from the metal striker on a cigarette lighter.
He hadn’t ever told her that the figure was supposed to be him.
He set it on his nightstand, positioned it just right beneath his lamp, and clasped his hands between his knees as he stared at his metal façade, his chest bubbling with emotion.
“Love you too, Mum.”
* * *
Have fun at probation today.
The next note came the following morning. He was getting bolder, because this one was on the passenger side window of Rupert’s car. Angel knew where Rupert lived. He also assumed Rupert would be the one to drive him to probation that day. He’d been right, and Spike tucked the note into his pocket before his uncle saw it.
This was getting out of hand.
Angel was toying with him now, trying to scare him, trip him up. He must have had a lot of time on his hands now that he and Buffy were on a break to go through all this trouble.
But, Spike had a clean slate since he’d been in the States. Angel didn’t have shit on him. A few threats and a whole lot of effort to protect what didn’t belong to him wasn’t enough to get Spike’s newly restored confidence to falter.
“You nervous?” Rupert asked, right as they pulled into the parking lot.
“What do I have to be nervous about?”
“That’s my boy,” Rupert said proudly, and killed the ignition. “Well, let’s take you to wee in a cup, prick your arm and answer some questions. How’s that for a Thursday morning?”
“How many more of these do I have to do again?”
“Five after today, and then evaluation,” Rupert said as they walked up to the front door. “Perhaps they’ll take pity on you. You are dressed like a homeless person.”
“Somehow I doubt I’m the only one,” he said, his eyes roaming over a large crowd of people, all sitting in plastic chairs, waiting for their probation officer to call them in. Rupert might as well have come in a tuxedo the way this bunch was looking him over.
They couldn’t walk any further until they went through the metal detectors. This was quite problematic for Rupert, as he’d worn clip suspenders today and was extremely embarrassed for the inconvenience to the officers for dallying.
Once they entered, he cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Let’s sign in and find a seat.”
They walked to a white, painted cement column with a poorly hung clipboard on it, pages wrinkled, masking tape wrapped furiously around a chewed up Bic pen that hung from a piece of yarn tied to the top. Spike signed his name, his case number and the time they arrived, and as soon as he let go of the pen and turned around, a police officer walked into the waiting room.
“William Pratt. Is there a William Pratt here?”
His lungs felt as if they’d collapsed. He couldn’t move.
“Spike,” Rupert said, practically hissing.
“I-I’m William Pratt,” he said nervously. The police officer looked him over, spoke into a walkie on his shoulder, ticking his head back in silent command that Spike should approach him.
“Is there a problem, officer?” he said, his legs somehow carrying him forward.
“Come with me,” the officer said. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Yes, sir.” He swallowed, glanced at his uncle over his shoulder as he began to walk away. Rupert looked as confused and worried as he did, which did nothing for his nerves.
Perhaps he’d underestimated his enemy.