He had lost consciousness somewhere in that undefined period where night becomes morning, just before the faint green tinge that is the harbinger of dawn began to suffuse the sky. Lucky for Spike, he had chosen to pass out in the lee of a dumpster, in yet another narrow alleyway, so that he was well hidden from the light of the aforementioned dawn when it began to break in earnest across the now-quiet City of Angels.
It was several hours before he became aware of his surroundings. The sun was still low, and the alley provided plenty of shadows. But the sounds and smells of day at last triggered the survival instinct to rouse the weary, wounded vampire.
The downpours of the night had passed, leaving the air fresh and unpolluted, and every surface clean and sparkling. As he stood clinging to the corner of the waste receptacle, evaluating his damage, Spike could see beyond the end of the alley to where the city glittered in the light of the new day. The refraction of light through the residual mist that hung in the air imbued it all with a dreamy quality that made him wonder if he'd come to in the same dimension in which he'd blacked out. He blinked several times, and the scene resolved itself to something a bit more focused and like the city to which he'd become accustomed. It seemed tangible enough...though with none of the smoking ruins or giant holes in the ground that he would have expected.
'Nuff mooning 'bout it all still bein' there...best to get goin'. Spike had had plans for this day for some time, and hadn't been about to let confrontation with all the hellhounds at the Senior Partners' disposal re-arrange his schedule. He hobbled through a series of connecting alleys to a nearby sewer entrance, and set out to keep his self-appointed commitment.
By the time he reached a quiet neighborhood in what had once-upon-seventy-years-ago been the outskirts of LA, the pains of most of his body were settling down to a dull throb that, over the course of his many decades of physical punishment, he'd come to consider the white-noise of his existence. That background ache was punctuated frequently with the intense sensation of his broken ribs being bumped or jostled as he moved. Several times he'd been forced to stop and hold very still until the pain receded a bit and he could carry on. He was fervently grateful that his discomfort was not intensified by the need to breathe; never having had a broken rib when he was human, he wondered absently and in passing how the average person managed under such circumstances.
Spike ground his teeth against the protestations in his pummeled midsection as he stretched his arms overhead to push against the manhole cover that marked his destination. Luckily, this tunnel was a couple of branches off of the main line, so small enough that he didn't have to reach too far. With a groan, the cover was shunted to the side, and Spike slowly pulled himself out of the hole over which a car from the Wolfram & Hart garages had been strategically parked.
He lay still for a few moments under the car, thanking whatever Fates governed such things that, thus far, all had gone his way. He hadn't had very long to scope out a stash for the car, and chanced upon a residential area old enough that the sewer entrances did not just march down the center of the street. Now, he hoped that that luck held, and that the protective properties of the car windows were more physical than magical, and would still be in operation if the Senior Partners weren't.
It was still quite early, and the sun was low in the sky, casting a comfortably long shadow on the passenger side of the Ford GT he'd chosen ~ penis on wheels, he'd thought to himself with a derisive smirk when he'd "borrowed" it just the day before. Forcibly not thinking about what a difference 24 hours can make, he crawled out from under the car, laying himself along the curb while he found the key and pressed the button to unlock the door. He fumbled for the handle, keeping as low as possible, and then, with much cursing at the pain involved, dragged himself into the car and slammed the door behind him.
As he was now in full sun on the passenger side of the car, and not a pile of dust, he determined that in this, too, fortune was smiling on him. No doubt, there'll bloody well be payback for it later...then again, his cynicism was tempered a bit by the latent idealism of his inner William, p'rhaps this one was paid in advance.
He sat for a moment, thinking of their little band, of which he was only lately, and still, only partially, a member. And yet, they were what he had...and now....
Distraction...don't think, don't mourn, just do...just go. He kicked the floorboards hard, letting the impact rattle through his body, drawing his thoughts back to the immediate situation, gritting his teeth as the intended wave of excrucia broke over him and began to recede. Then, he pulled himself across to the driver's seat, attempting to keep the gear shift from getting fresh. He settled himself behind the wheel, revved the engine, and peeled away from the curb.
He made one stop before pointing the vehicle towards the freeway. There was a particular butcher with whom he'd struck up an acquaintance, and he pulled up to the delivery entrance behind the shop, hoping that even though he'd not called ahead, there'd be an ample supply of fresh blood.
He had to wait for nearly a quarter of an hour after making his request, availing himself of the opportunity to change into fresh jeans and t-shirt, attempting the feat with as little actual movement as possible. Soon enough, his battle-stained clothes were lying haphazardly across the backseat, atop his trashed duster. Since it was no longer his real coat, he almost didn't care about the damage to it. Almost.
Then, his contact was handing him a bag with two plastic quart containers of "whatever he had lying around". Spike assumed this meant it was a non-gourmet blend of whatever had come in overnight ~ prob'ly a bunch of chicken. The idea was less than appetizing, but it was better than rodentia, to which he had been forced to resort a few times in his history. He thanked the proprietor and placed one of the quarts into a styrofoam cooler in the back seat, then took a long drink from the other.
Yep, cold cluck juice...brilliant. He forced himself to consume half of it right away, knowing that blood of any description was going to be key to knitting those ribs back together, along with closing the assorted lacerations and deep bruises he'd sustained. Blood's blood...jus' not all equally tasty...he gave a short laugh as he remembered a television commercial from years ago, asserting that "parts is parts." 'At was 'bout chicken too...he mused, and began to laugh out loud. It suddenly seemed outrageously funny...he sat and laughed and held his ribs, whose appreciation of this jag was somewhere in sub-Kelvin territory, but he laughed some more, the rational fragment of his brain beginning to wonder if he was too punchy to drive safely.
When the pain in his side and his heart began at last to spill out of his eyes and to slide down his cheeks, he pulled himself together, wiped off his face and placed his breakdown on hold. He put the car into gear and set off in earnest. |
