bloodandnicotine

The one nice thing about being back in the U fucking K is that sunshine is rarely an issue. And since this is Scotland, Mecca to every golfing tourist with more money than taste, exceedingly large souvenir umbrellas are widely available. Handy, that, because Spike's packing had consisted of a wad of cash in one pocket and a fake ID in the other.

Other things Scotland isn't short of include decent whiskey, like the fifth of Laphroig currently making his day bearable, and a packet of proper Silk Cuts.

Unfortunately Scotland also seems to have a really unreasonable amount of plants that bite back. He is in what passes for cover around these parts, less a tree and more a collection of pokey bits, watching a castle which isn't doing much of anything, as castles often don't. He lights one cigarette from the coal of the last and pinches it out, lest he ignite the sodding gorse, or heather, or whatever it is called. Spike likes cities, where stakeouts generally feature a roof.

But Scotland also has one Slayer surplus to requirements at the moment. Until Beth walks out of those gates, Spike is stuck.

Spike's talked to Andrew loads of times, but he can't remember ever thinking about talking to Andrew before. But tonight he's clocked seven actual minutes trying to find a better opening line than "we have to talk," and still come up with bugger all. He's brought a bottle of Scotch, as much for himself as to get the boy talking -- a few days ago he'd have said the only trouble was to make him stop.

At least Andrew should be alone, if he hasn't imported company from Milliways. Spike knows Jonathan is out on a mission because he made it up himself.

He knocks.