The Beginning Of...

"Can I help you with something?"

Spike looked up guiltily and then straightened away from Wesley's desk, put on his best "I'm not doing anything wrong" face, and smirked. "Saw your light on and thought you might have a bottle stashed in here and be willing to share a tot. Fellow gets thirsty, being an ex-ghost and all."

Wesley sighed, walked over to his desk, closed the drawer Spike had been rummaging through and said, "No, as a matter of fact, I don't have a bottle. If that's all you're here for, Spike, I would appreciate it if you would leave so I can get some work done."

Of course instead of leaving, Spike flopped down on a chair in front of Wesley's desk, locked his fingers over his belly, stretched out his jean-clad legs and crossed his feet at the ankles. Wesley sighed again. Apparently it was his turn to be pestered by the irritating vampire.

"I thought you were busy fighting the good fight these days and had no use for us. Why are you here?" Wesley asked, carefully laying a package down on his desk.

"Yeah, well, thought I'd check in with you lot, seeing as how the last time I stayed away, Angel nearly got himself turned into a kumquat."

There was a slight hesitation and then Spike said casually, "He's not in his office."

"No, he had a date with Nina."

"Yeah? Hope he doesn't have too good a time," Spike leered. "It's a real bitch when he loses that soul of his."

"Indeed," Wesley said distractedly as he began working on opening his package.

"Didn't see Fred in her office either."

"No, she and Knox went out to dinner, I believe," Wesley said hoping the jealousy he felt wasn't apparent.

"Charlie?"

"I've no idea where he is, to be honest."

"Well, guess it's just you and me then," Spike grinned.

Wesley was about to ask him to leave so he could get on with his work when he noticed a look in the vampire's eyes, a hint of... loneliness perhaps. The look was quickly gone though, replaced by a smirk.

"So tell me, Percy," Spike said, ignoring the glare Wesley shot at him. "You do anything at all for fun?”

"I do research," Wesley answered cutting the sealing tape along the length of the parcel.

"I said for fun. You know, drinking, pool, darts, girls... You do like girls, don't you?" he asked with yet another smirk.

Wesley clenched his jaws together, determined not to try the new spell he'd read about last night - the one for gathering a fireball into the palm of one's hand. Spike had a soul now; he was seeking redemption – well, maybe not actively seeking redemption in the same way that Angel was, but he was certainly trying to do good. Wesley couldn't help but remember how Spike had sacrificed what might very well have been his only chance to become corporeal in order to save Fred from Pavayne. As far as Wesley was concerned that said a great deal more about the vampire that his sarcastic, childish behavior did. Besides, they had few enough allies within Wolfram and Hart that it probably would be bad form to incinerate one as potentially powerful as Spike.

"Spike, I'm very busy right now. I have this new text to translate." He finished opening the package and withdrew a largish, leather-bound volume. It was obviously ancient, marred by spots of mold and smelling faintly of must. "I really don't have time to banter with you."

Spike sat up and snatched the ancient book from Wesley's hand.

"Spike!" Wesley cried out in alarm. "Be careful with that. It's priceless. I've been searching for this text for years."

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Head Boy," Spike said as he carelessly leafed through the pages. His eyes tracked across the text and then he looked up at Wesley with a devilish gleam in his eyes.

"Why, Wesley, I didn't know you were into P'anthanian love poetry."

"What?" Wesley asked, completely confused.

"This book," Spike said. "P'anthanian love poetry. And," he flipped through a few more pages and grinned delightedly, "Sex manual." He turned the book around and showed Wesley the rather graphic illustration that graced the page.

"Well, that's not exactly what I was expecting," Wesley said with a frown taking the book back from Spike and moving to sit behind his desk. "I thought it was a history of the P'anthanian culture," he said absently as he gently turned pages and skimmed over an occasional passage.

"History of their sex lives, more like," Spike grinned.

Wesley looked up from the tome and studied Spike contemplatively. "You read this book rather easily."

Spike shrugged. "Drusilla had a soft spot for their poetry, so I hired a P'anthan to teach me to read it."

Wesley looked at him with new respect. "Did it take you long to learn?"

Spike shrugged, just a shade of embarrassment showing on his face. "Don't remember. It was a long time ago."

"And yet, you remember how to read the language."

Spike shrugged again, sitting up a bit and drumming his fingers restlessly on the arms of the chair.

"Can you read any other demon languages?"

Spike stood up. "Look, while I'm sure this is a fascinating conversation to you, my throat's dry."

He turned to walk out the door when Wesley called after him, "Spike, wait." Getting up from his desk, Wes hurried across the room. "What do you say we go have a drink together?"

Spike narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Wesley. "You just want to pick my brain about what I know."

"Well, we can certainly discuss our mutual interest in various demon languages while we have a drink together, can't we? As friends?"

"Friends, are we?" Spike looked at him for a couple seconds and then nodded. "Yeah, all right. You're buying."

"Of course."

"Meet me out front in ten minutes."

Wesley carefully packed away the volume, pulled on his jacket and hurried out of his office. He'd just reached the front walk when a low-slung black car screeched to a halt at the curb. The passenger door popped open and Spike leaned over and yelled out, "Well, come on! Night's not getting any younger, you know."

Wesley walked to the car and leaned down to peer in. "Spike, you know Angel doesn't want you driving the Viper."

Spike's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Why do you think I always take it?"

Wesley shook his head trying his best to hide his amusement and climbed in. He'd barely gotten his seatbelt fastened when Spike threw the car into gear and raced off down the street. Wesley offered directions to a fairly decent bar, one that Spike wouldn't be too out of place in, but Spike ignored him and jumped onto the freeway. They drove for about fifteen minutes at speeds exceeding one hundred miles per hour until Spike cut across all four lanes of traffic, almost getting hit by two cars and a truck, and took an exit. By this time, Wesley was clutching desperately to his seatbelt, too terrified to speak in case he made Spike lose his concentration. They raced through narrow streets in a rundown neighborhood until Spike jerked the wheel and swung into a tiny parking lot adjacent to a small building built of cinderblocks. Spray-painted graffiti marred the outside walls and a neon sign pulsed in the window naming the bar Dan T's Inferno.

Spike got out of the car, hit the electronic lock button, and headed for the door. Wesley reluctantly followed on legs that barely held him upright. He was surprised when they entered the bar. He'd expected the patrons to be gangbangers or at the very least, demons. Instead it was a solidly working-class bar filled with men and women watching a basketball game on television, playing pool, or just talking. The place smelled of beer and bodies and cheap perfume.

Spike walked up to the bar and ordered two beers, not even bothering to ask Wesley what he wanted. Gathering the bottles up, he told the bartender, "He's paying," and headed for one of the booths. Wesley paid and followed Spike, sliding into the seat across from the vampire. He picked up his beer with a slightly shaking hand, took a long, appreciative drink, and then rested his head on the back of the bench, closing his eyes.

"Spike," he said resolutely. "I'm driving back."

"Yeah?" Spike sounded amused.

He opened his eyes again and glared at Spike. "You drive like a bloody nutter. I'm not riding back with you at the wheel."

Spike took a long drink from his own beer and grinned. "You forget: vampire here. Preternatural reflexes. You're safe as houses with me at the wheel, mate."

He looked away from Wesley then, discussion obviously closed. Wesley took another drink of beer and watched his companion make flirty eyes at a pretty dark-haired young woman sitting at the bar. Setting his bottle down on the table, Wesley cleared his throat. "So tell me, Spike. How many demon languages do you know?"

Spike turned back to him and raised an eyebrow and ticked off on his fingers, "Renten, Lister, P'anthanian, and Fyarl. Well, I only speak Fyarl, but that's because they're too sodding stupid to have a written language. Oh, and Parseltongue."

Wesley wracked his brain but finally had to admit, "I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the last, Spike. What species of demon speaks Parseltongue?"

Spike broke into delighted laughter. "God, you brainy types really are out of touch. You need to read something besides demon pornography, mate."

Wesley sighed, realizing that he'd just been the butt of a joke he had no hope of understanding. Spike's attention once more turned to drinking his beer and flirting with the woman at the bar. The silence dragged out until Wesley said, "How did you know about this place?"

Spike took another drink of his beer before looking back at Wesley. "Found it when Dru and I first came to California. I'd heard there was a demon bar around here, and that I could get some information from the demon that ran it on how I could find a way to cure her. Thought this was it. Stayed around long enough to figure out no one here could help."

"And they never learned they had a vampire in their midst?"

A look passed over Spike's face, and he said softly, "Oh, they learned, all right." He tilted his beer back and drained the bottle. Wesley felt a slight chill when he realized that the patrons of the bar on Spike's first visit weren't as fortunate as these were. When Spike put the bottle back down, it was clear to Wesley that the memory of that night was causing Spike distress.

"Why did we come here, Spike?" he asked, not unkindly.

Spike's gaze swept over the people at the bar. "Don't know really. Maybe to see that life really does go on."

As if to prove his point, several of the men watching the game gave a loud cheer at some action taking place on the court.

Spike's eyes lowered to the empty bottle he had clasped in his hands and his thumbnail flicked against the paper label tearing small strips from it. As Wesley watched him, he realized that they'd never really talked about Spike's soul, and his Watcher's curiosity got the better of him.

"How did you get your soul, Spike?" he asked gently. "Did Willow curse you with it?"

Spike abruptly stood up. "Give me some money."

"What?"

"Money. For another round," he answered holding out his hand.

"Oh, yes, of course," Wesley said, digging out his wallet and handing Spike a twenty. Spike snatched it out of Wesley's hand and turned to walk to the bar. Stopping, he glanced over his shoulder and said, "Not cursed, by the way. I earned it."

Wesley sat there flummoxed. Earned it? How was that even possible?"

When Spike returned with two more bottles and slid back into his seat, Wesley asked, "What do you mean, you earned it?"

"Just what I said," Spike answered, his eyes fixed firmly on his beer bottle. "Knew a man who knew a demon who'd grant your deepest desire. I desired a soul so I went to see him. Passed his tests and got the soul."

"But, why? Why would you want a soul? Was it for Buffy?"

"Yeah," Spike said, and then he got a faraway look in his eyes and slowly shook his head. "No. I got it for me."

Spike was silent for a long time, drinking his beer and watching the girl who was now flirting with a man who'd been playing pool when they'd come in. Wesley was beginning to think that Spike wasn't going to elaborate, when Spike sighed and turned his attention back to Wesley.

"After I got that sodding chip in my head, I started to change. I didn't have a conscience, but I knew when I was hurting someone, and I started to care. Not much, but some - at least about certain people. Thing was, it wasn't enough to keep me from hurting... someone I didn't think I'd ever hurt again. So it was my brilliant plan to get a soul, make me right." He snorted a bitter little laugh. "Didn't know how much it'd burn."

"Burn?"

"The spark. The soul. Didn't expect them to scream all the bloody time either."

"Who?"

Spike nodded toward the bar. "Them. Others." He smirked, though it was more self-mocking than sarcastic. "I finally realized why Angel became such a bloody brooding bore."

"Are you sorry now that you got the soul?"

Spike thought about it for a minute. "It's not easy living with what I've done." He shrugged. "But no, I'm not sorry." He grinned devilishly. "Kind of like the idea of being a hero and a champion. Gives me another opportunity to tweak the old man's nose, doesn't it?"

Wesley smiled, but sobered quickly. "Is it permanent? Your soul."

"Far as I know." This time the smirk was at full power. "Leastways if I get a happy, I'm fairly certain it won't go walkabout."

Wesley smiled back at him. "Well, that's comforting."

Spike slid out of the booth again. "Come on, Percy. Let's give the pool table a go. Maybe I can fleece some of the locals out of their hard-earned cash. I'll buy a round if I do."

Wesley grabbed up his beer and followed Spike back to the pool table. There was so much more to Spike than Wesley had ever realized, and he was looking forward to plumbing the depths of the man. He had a sneaking suspicion that when all was said and done, Spike would be someone you could depend on with your life, someone who would be a loyal and true friend.

And as Wesley was well aware, in this life, true friends were rare indeed.

The End