Four bottles of whisky down, lights well haloed. Sleep eludes him. Europe beckons.
Spike still stays. Not for promises. Not even for "please." But for doubts that tunnel through his bones. Not of his welcome. But of his place.
He's clawed out a home for himself, more than once. There can't be one here. There won't be one there. Of course he could make one. Yet even a castle's crenulated walls are no guarantee of permanence. Of destiny.
Palms still burning, he orders another. Pushes away thoughts of payment, of bearing crosses without pain, of lovers' choices, and lost deviance.