Home from the wars.

[flaming-muse.livejournal.com]

Continued from here.

Spike trudged up the front steps of Wesley's building and winced as he dug his hand into his pocket for the key and scraped off the scab forming on his knuckles. It was just after sunset, and he hoped that he had arrived early enough to be able to clean off the worst of the blood and change into some clean clothes before Wesley got home. He had considered not going back to the flat at all, since he wasn't exactly proud of how poorly his reintegration into the demon community was going, but Wesley had shown enough concern that Spike thought that he might go looking for him if he didn't appear... or, worse, he might set some of his employees on the task. The last thing Spike wanted was for Angel, comfortable in his big office and posh penthouse, to get wind of how badly things were going for him.

Holding the crumpled paper bag carefully so as not to jostle his aching ribs, Spike fumbled with the key and managed to get the door open. Now that refuge was in sight, he was suddenly very tired. He could feel every bruise, every stinging wound, every drop of blood trickling down his skin, and he longed for a hot shower followed by a lot of uninterrupted rest. The shower was probably a good idea, but the sleep would have to wait. He wasn't going to let on how hurt he was.

Spike unlocked the door to Wesley's flat and went inside. He had started toward the kitchen to put the one container of blood that he had been able to salvage into the refrigerator when he realized that he wasn't alone. He immediately straightened up, ignoring the sharp pain in his side as he did so.