Cut to Buffy slamming Spike up against a column in his lair. He teases that her beating isn't as painful as usual and demands to know why she's there. "Slayers. You killed two of them. You're gonna show me how."
At the Bronze, Spike drains his beer and makes chitchat. Buffy snaps that they're not there "to discuss the choice of hops," and, ignoring Spike's sulky face, reminds him that he's there to tell her how he killed two Slayers, one in China and one in New York. She flashes a wad of bills at him and says he'll get it after he "tells the tale." Spike, all cranked off by Buffy's attitude, growls, "Right then. We fought. I won. Pay up!" Buffy protests, but Spike tells her that his winning those fights wasn't "about the moves." He continues, "We're going to do this my way. Wings." Buffy is as confused as the viewing audience, and Spike, trying to assert his dominance in the situation, tells her, "Spicy buffalo wings. Order me up a plate. I'm feeling peckish." Buffy rolls her eyes and turns to flag down a waitress, but grimaces in pain and grabs her stomach. Spike needles her about getting injured, Buffy tells him to get on with the narration, and he insists he's not saying anything on an empty stomach. Buffy grouses, "Were you born this big a pain in the ass?" and in reply, Spike leers, "What can I tell you, baby? I've always been baaaad."
Cut to a prissy-voiced young man, working on poetry in a corner. He's dressed nineteenth century-style, with floppy blonde curls and smallish glasses. Good lord! After a moment I realize that this is Spike, pre-vamping. I giggle, shocked at how different he looks and also at the obvious fact that he hasn't always "been bad." William fusses at a confused butler about finding another word for "gleaming" and chews the end of his pen. I don't know why, perhaps it's the floppy hair and something around the lips, but James Marsters really resembles David Duchovny in this get-up. Just my opinion. William looks across the room, which is crowded with people; he's all the wallflower sitting in a corner at a lively party. He sees a woman comes down the stairs and breathes, "Cecily," before returning to his poetry. "London, 1880" flashes across the bottom of the screen. William rises from his chair and hovers around the outside of a conversation some swells are having about a "rash of disappearances" in London. William primly replies that he doesn't like to think about such dark things. Flashing a glance at Cecily, he continues that he prefers to put his energies into "creating things of beauty." One of the mustachioed toffs grabs the poem from William's hand, and, over his ineffectual protests, reads out loud: "My heart expands/'Tis grown a bulge in't/Inspired by/Your beauty effulgent." The group titters, and William dons a shit-eating grin until he sees Cecily look embarrassed and leave the room. William grabs his poem back and follows her, but not before hearing someone comment that they call him William the Bloody because "of his bloody awful poetry." "I'd rather have a railroad spike through my head than listen to that awful stuff!" exclaims another.