Wonder why Spike didn't hang out with his bud in season seven? A cautionary tale about walking into unknown con room parties.
He stumbled to the only refuge his troubled brain could find. The one innocent friend he could always count on. And though he knew his former home would reverberate with painful memories, his feet turned towards the marble walls.
He paused outside the door. Cries of pain echoed through the night. With a great burst of strength, he pushed against the wood and the hinges gave. He tumbled into the crypt.
“Bad dog!” The leather clad girl lowered the whip to the demon’s bare back.
“Harder. Harder,” the voice cried, “I’ve got a lot of skin to get through.”
“Um, Clem? Isn’t that your friend from the party?”
The half-mad vampire lay on the crypt floor, struggling to take in the scene. “Clem?” His friend knelt against the sepulchre, the wrinkles of his back reddened by the cat o’ nine tales. Spike couldn’t take his eyes off the leather collar with the leash leading to the young woman’s other hand, the one without the whip. “I’m sorry, I ...”
“Hey, come on in. Great to see you back.” Clem stood up, and stepping towards the young brunette, lay his arm across her shoulders. “You remember Sophie?”
The girl in the black leather bustier and vinyl pants waved meekly at him. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Spike replied, forcing himself to his feet. “Maybe I’ll come back later.”
“Well, we were kinda in the middle of something. But you’re welcome to join us, if you like.” Clem smiled a big, pointy-toothed grin.
“Oh, that’s okay.” Spike started to back out of the room. “I’ll see you later.”
“Sure,” Clem replied. “By the way, that soul thing work out for you?”
“Oh, yeah,” Spike nodded. “Feeling it loud and clear.”