"You got the keys," Spike asked as he checked his pockets making sure he had everything.
"Yes, I’ve got them."
"Where exactly is it?"
"I don't know, exactly. Uh, catty-cornered from a demon bar, not the closest one…maybe second closest?"
"Flashy techno-type or more like Willy's?”
"More like Willy's."
"I know it; ‘bout a forty minute drive." Spike looked at her for a moment then
reached out a hand to smooth Buffy's hair. His hand brushed her cheek and she instinctively leaned toward his touch. His fingers lingered intertwining with
the loose tendrils behind her earlobe.
He slowly pulled his hand back revealing a tiny errant orange cube. "Carrot," he said.
"Argh," she sighed.
"Not as bad as broccoli," Spike said with a chuckle as he deposited the
offending vegetable in the trash. "Come on." They headed for the garage.
____________________________________________________________
It was the Saab that chirped and flashed when he clicked the key.
"Saab? Not what you usually drive." Buffy commented.
"First one I ever had to pay for, Love, usually just nicked 'em." He started the
engine.
"Spike, how did you ever end up here," she asked as soon as they pulled out of the garage.
"Long story, Pet. How much of it do you already know?"
"Just what they told me, the official report…I guess."
"Yeah, ha, right," he scoffed.
"They said…Andrew said, you were working with Angel at Wolfram and Hart. He told me what went down when he came to get Dana…" Buffy looked at Spike to make sure he knew who she was talking about. It was obvious he did.
"Ah, yeah, Miss Psycho Slayerette with the hacksaw, like to forget that one, Love, but the arms still twinge now and again."
"Sorry, bad?"
"Not as bad as burning up or…other things."
"Andrew should have told me then, he shouldn't have waited two years."
"I asked him not to."
"Why," Buffy asked.
"I dunno… champion…sacrificed to save the world, blah, blah… it meant
something, but not…"
"Spike, it means something, it means a lot…and you should have told me."
"I know," he said quietly.
Buffy realized she wasn't going to get any more explanation so she changed the subject.
"You worked with Angel, that's hard to believe, I mean you don't like each other. The only times I've ever really seen the two of you together you were pretty much trying to kill each other."
"Great, you taking his side now," Spike commented.
"No, no…just trying to understand how you got tangled up with Wolfram and
Hart. They told me about the amulet and about the ghost thing, I just didn't expect that you would..."
"I didn't, not right away, got played by this ex-Wolfram and Hart cowboy
lawyer for a few months first. Never really fell in with that fighting evil from the belly of the beast crap. I didn't…join up until Illyria, ‘til Fred."
"Illyria? That's some demon god, one of the 'Old Ones'. It killed Fred," Buffy continued hesitantly, not entirely sure of the facts in that matter.
Spike nodded. "Killed her, hollowed her out. Destroyed her soul and used her body to walk the earth again."
"You killed it, you and Angel," she asked.
"No…" He laughed. "She joined the team."
"Wow, no wonder nobody trusted you guys back then."
"Nobody trusted Angel," he corrected her, "…we didn't either, so smart
move, Love. Cordelia,” he began before she interrupted.
"Cordy was there, I thought she was in a coma or something?"
"Cheerleader’s all dead now." Spike paused, he didn't know if Buffy knew that, and by her face, she did not. "Sorry," he added quietly then went on. "Cordelia came out of it long enough to help us call out cowboy lawyer Doyl…Lindsey, and gave Angel some vision or whatever about taking down the Circle of the Black Thorn, the senior partners' lackeys on this plane."
"And you guys did it, took them all out,"
Spike felt the need to correct her again. "Well, except for one," he said.
"There's one left," she inquired.
"Angel."
"Angel was a member of the Circle?" She was stunned by that revelation. They had left that part out when they recounted the story to her.
"Got himself inducted, all part of the plan, of course," he added more or less sarcastically.
"You gotta be major league bad for the Black Thorn to…" she started to say. Spike just looked at her with his 'I told you so' look.
"Anyway," Buffy said trying to route the conversation away from a place she did not want to go to right now, "…the Senior Partners retaliated."
"Yeah, don't remember much after the battle, falling down and passing out
mostly. I think it was Illyria who brought us to the Mission. They found Gunn…" He noticed from her puzzled look that she did not know who he was talking about and added, "Charles Gunn, a mortal...one of Angel's Avengers. They found him, uh, what was left of him anyway, on the street in front of the Mission; at least they got him to a hospital. He's still alive, sort of. Last I heard he was learning to talk again, but he'll never… They found Angel and me smoldering in the sun by the back retaining wall, where the courtyard is now, three or four days later, it was an empty lot then. There's a month, month and
a half, that I don't remember much of anything, pain…chained down in the
basement of the rectory, brown and black robe-types tendin' us…"
"Obviously, they got you back to health," she said.
"Obviously. Five or six months later Angel left, went after…you know about his mongrel, right," Spike was hoping that she did.
Buffy nodded, "Nina? Yeah."
He went on, "Angel went after his mongrel. I left about a month later."
"And…" she probed.
He sighed. "Bad move…no place to go, no money to get there, and having a soul severely cramps the typical vamp lifeslyle, about six weeks later…you get tired sleepin' in alleys and eating rats. Ended up in all the wrong places at all the wrong times."
She just looked the 'and' at him this time.
"…like in hand cuffs at the county jail and not willingly."
"You coulda got out easily enough."
"Pet, a hundred and thirty plus years of running, angry mobs, slayers, demon hunters, other demons...gets old. It was time to stop running. I had one phone call, I used it, and the Mission was the only number I knew. The rest…well…" he left it at that, "...and you," he began again before she could ask him to go into detail. "The little boy said you went to Europe, rounding up stray Slayerettes, never figured you for the ex-patriot type, Love. Why'd you stay?"
"Ran into Dad in Rome," she said, not elaborating further.
"Big family reunion, yeah," Spike probed.
"Huh, yeah." She answered unconvincingly.
Spike gave her the 'and' look again. She tisked then sighed.
"Mom never told us, when Dad went…incognito, he remarried."
He still had the 'and' look on his face when she looked over.
"Hate her. Dawn hates her, too. At least Dad put a better roof over our heads than I could and he got Dawn back to school. She hated that too, at first, had to repeat tenth grade after she failed the placement test, but she got through it okay, college too," she added.
"What about you?"
"What, school? I tried for a couple semesters, too distracted, so, yeah, still 'too dumb for college' Buffy.''
He laughed a little at the comment. "Too distracted," he asked.
"…with the slaying, and the rounding up, and the long-distance conferencing," she explained.“Jet-setting, er, Metro-ing’s more like it, across Europe after stray wanna-be’s, extremely tiring.
"Ah-huh, Dad doesn't know, does he? Thought you learned that lesson with your Mum."
"Mom at least understood the Slayer thing…well, eventually, sorta…Dad
would never…and Step-Bitch, that's what Dawn and I call her behind her back,
ha…she was constantly getting on our case, especially Dawn's, and not just at
first, she kept at it. They were always fighting." Buffy scoffed then went on, "I really wanted to bring Dawn back here, but…he's our dad." She was starting to get misty-eyed.
Spike decided it was time to change the subject before the water works started. "You said something about issues, Slayer-type issues…pending apocalypse, yeah," he asked hopefully.
"No. I wish."
"Yeah, so what then?"
"It's not that simple."
"So explain it to me, Love."
"Guess we've got the time," she conceded, taking a moment to organize her
thoughts before continuing.
"It’s just, it’s too much, we don't have the resources, we don't have the Watchers, we don't have…okay, it’s like there are too many girls, too many
Slayers to…manage…control…guide, keep track of, train…not just physically… the power is too…" Buffy sighed.
"Oh, I get it, Pet," he said, glancing her way while negotiating the turn on to the freeway.
Buffy wondered if he really did or if he was just humoring her.
"Giles can't do it all, I mean, he tries…but even what he's teaching them, the Slayer doctrine, whatever…it was never…entirely right. He's not using the old Watchers Council guidelines, thank God, but…" She glanced at him checking if he was getting it.
"Still right there with you, Love," he nodded.
"Unless we're monitoring their every move, they're going off in their own
directions, following their own rules. It’s like they don't have the judgment to be a Slayer…not without, making it worse, or hurting themselves or the people around them, or getting themselves killed, for the stupidest reasons…and what's left of the Watchers Council, the few that survived and the former Watchers, they…" she trailed off with a scoff.
Spike finished for her, "…they can't really help you, Love, cause they're not onboard either, and some of them are against you."
"Right. I shoulda just asked you," she said.
"Wouldn't hurt once in a while," he added.
"Yeah, I know," she said quietly, then continued, "…and the Power, the
Slayer power… it’s not consistent, it’s fading in some and…"
"Like ebbs and tides," he commented.
She nodded, "and organized evil, here at least, after Wolfram and Hart
pulled out of L.A. …"
"…too busy scrambling for the crumbs, but… crumbs are almost all swept up
now, Love."
"Yeah…and the First: scrunched, but not gone and definitely not the only
source of evil in the world." She let out a long sigh.
"That's the nature of evil…"
"…and the Hellmouth…"
"…put a stopper in it, just blows out somewhere else…"
"That about covers it, and I miss Willow and Xander…and Giles," she
scoffed, "…even though we haven't been…close, in a while…and I missed
you."
"Yeah, right. Is this the place," he asked.
"I think so, uh, looks like it."
"…and I'll wager it's the one with the big orange boot on it," Spike said
nodding at the sedan parked across the street from the space he pulled into.
"Oh, shi…
_________________________________________________________________
1829 words
I said I didn't hold the comics cannon (never read them,) and I guess this section proves it. It is generally recognized that if there were any survivors after ATS:NFA they would have been Angel and Spike (and IIlyria, and Lorne too, if you think about it, I mean he left town before the final battle,) I am keeping Gunn in this world as well, (no good deed should go un-punished,) don't expect him to just pop up and be normal again, in fact, don't expect to see or hear of him for quite a while, but I do have some plans for him in a future story.
Also, I thought I'd add my word count to theses blogs - for some reason the word count is different in Microsoft WPS and Word than when the section is uploaded to either site I post on.
Dawn knew the contents of the trunks well, Buffy didn’t know that she knew, but she did, she knew them extremely well. She had watched Spike pick locks many times back in Sunnydale and being the curious child that she had been, she secretly cultivated the art on her own: neither the trunk locks or the additional padlocks on them proved to be much of a challenge.
Many days after getting home from school or from one of her sessions with the Monsignor, when she was alone in the apartment while Buffy was out slaying or reconnoitering for potentials or was unconsciously trolling for the next in the string of doomed-before-they-even-began relationships, she would lock herself in the utility room and go through the contents of the trunks, always careful to bring the acid-free gloves snatched from the restoration rooms of the Vatican
galleries, so as not to add any further deterioration to their contents, some dated to antiquity, though most of the contents were relatively modern.
It was only the small foot locker that she was intent on today and its contents, while not the newest of the collection, were the most interesting to her.
Dawn was stressed out, first day of classes was on Monday, and she had only gotten her registration confirmation today in the mail, …snail-mail, with a 3:40 pm delivery …what…Stanford’s never heard of e-mail?... That meant not much time for planning. She would even have to stop at the book store between classes, assuming that she could find it, and her classes and assuming the BART and bus schedules were half-way right and she even made it there for class.
She needed some relaxation, some light reading…besides, need to make sure
nothing got broken in shipment, right…
She remembered when Buffy had found them, it was shortly after Andrew had let slip that Spike was alive and well and living in L.A. or at least had been - after his un-ghosting and before the firestorm, the fall of the L.A. branch of Wolfram and Hart. It had been the only time Buffy had ever laid hands on Andrew in anger, not even anger really, more like pure rage.
I don’t believe I jumped in between them that day, dumb me… she mused, giving the hairpin a final twist and popping the latch open. It was scary to see her like that. It was even scarier to see Buffy the way she was for weeks, even
months, afterward.
Dawn understood it though. Buffy really did love him and though she still couldn’t admit it to anyone, at the time, especially to herself. She had seen him burn, disintegrate into a pile of sparkly ashes in the bowels of the Hellmouth, cleansing it with the white light of his… soul. Dawn let out a louder chuckle than she had intended and had to look around to make sure there was no one to hear.
Buffy had refused to talk about it, but Dawn knew. When the pillowcase was still drenched from tears when she made her sister’s bed for her in the morning, she knew. She knew who the tears were for, especially when that stupid Zippo would fall out and she’d have to crawl under Buffy’s bed to get it and put it back. God! Don’t eve rtouch the Zippo!
Dawn had ached for her sister then; she had watched him die for Good, only to be told, accidentally and years later, that he didn’t, but then that he did, again, most likely. They hadn’t heard anything from Angel for over a year after Giles told had gone to L.A. to identify Wesley’s body and then that was only him calling Giles and Willow for information about some ancient Hawaiian lava demon who had resurfaced and was frightening the tourists with bad ‘Tiny Bubbles’ karaoke; he never said anything about Spike.
Buffy had been pretty upset with everybody when she found the trunks.
It had been during one of the seismic upheavals that periodically rocked the Apennine peninsula from time to time, this one had collapsed one of the subterranean TrenItalia tunnels into some hitherto undiscovered catacombs and there had been sightings of unusual beasts, so Buffy went to check it out.
She looked like hell when she’d gotten back to the apartment that day, dirty, bruised, her shirt ripped, cursing at Step-Bitc…Teresa… It was obvious that she and Hank’s latest wife had had it out over Buffy’s wanting to borrow the car again. Plus she had fallen through a catacomb floor into another concealed
chamber. She had told Dawn that she had found some stuff down there, not icky stuff, just some trunks and that they needed to get them before anyone else found them.
Dawn had borrowed their neighbor Giovanni’s old delivery truck, he had a crush on her so it wasn’t difficult to get the keys and she could drive a standard. Buffy had been surprised her little sister could flirt so well in Italian, when she could barely get by even with a phrase book.
The trunks had been with them ever since. Like part of the family… Buffy never allowed her to get in them… as if … allow me… Dawn scoffed to herself. She always said the contents were just research-y stuff for Giles and Willow, but never sent them to them. After Dawn figured out how to work the old tape machine…BetaMax…who knew… Buffy had bought at Giovanni’s pawn shop and stashed in one on the mid-sized steamers, she knew why.
No videos today…she thought as she lifted the lid and began to feel her way through the packing peanuts. Pictures, maybe later…and…she pulled out a bubble wrapped parcel then reached in deeper...there it is! It was old and tattered but still kept its contents safe and secure.
The portfolio still held the receipt from the little shop in Coventry where Lydia
had purchased it over a decade ago. Dawn unzipped it but only pulled its
contents out far enough to carefully leaf through the pages, each one separated by its own protective acid-free cover.
Ahh…the camel, one on my favorites…she pulled it all the way out and began to read.
13 March, 1857
My Dearest Anne,
My deepest apologies if this post reaches you later than expected, horrid weather has forced a diversion of our journey. Our plans to travel by ship from Istanbul have been replaced with an overland sojourn through Turkistan. I admit some disappointment on my part as I had hoped to see the Black Sea again as lovely as when we last saw it together. The delay will still allow us the reach Chowringhee by 1st May barring further delays.
Young William did have opportunity for his promised camel ride earlier than expected. I believe he is presently recounting the event to you in his letter, needless, it will not soon become his favorite transport, his camel spat and was
unruly and I believe he was queasy the entire ride, though he soldiered on right
honorably. We will be traveling by coach through to Lucknow and I am told that the rail is now part done from there.
William’s lessons are proceeding quite well and I must confess that I am not minding the endless hours of recitation of Childe Harold though be assured that I am taking care with my replies to his many requests for clarification of the meanings of the stanzas. Since his father was never one to pay much heed to poetry it is best that we finish all the cantos before we arrive.
His penmanship is much improved, as you have noted, the techniques from the New Orleans charter are indeed far better than trying to force the use of his right hand. We are presently working on reducing it to a more normal size, but I fear he will never have a neat hand.
His French, however, is horrid and I strongly recommend to you to consider King’s on Strand again as the languages are better learned there than at Harrow upon his return. As you have the next two years to decide, please pay company one day to one Maximillian Le Fountaine at King’s, he is head of lingua franca studies there and one conversation will attest that this is so.
In response to the concerns of your last letter, my contacts among my former regiment fellows have wired me that there is some slight trouble among the Sepoys, merely some confusion as to the new munitions. It is nothing to concern yourself with, be assured that I will keep your son safe until he is delivered to his father, indeed until I have delivered him back to you in good stead as well.
With my Love always,
Reginald W. Hartleigh
Capt. 19th Bengal Ret.
This one never failed to make her smile. She was tempted to unwrap the pictures that, more or less, went with the contents of the portfolio…same era anyway. Buffy had wrapped them herself over two months ago for shipment and Dawn didn’t think she could get the tape off the bubble wrap without it ripping it…mangled bubble wrap always a dead give-away. But that dress is to die for...Hell! I have bubble wrap and tape in my room!
She tore into it.
_______________________________________________________________
It felt so right to write Dawn this way, still up to some of her old hijinx and I am going to try really hard to keep her both her old self and more grown-up.
As a product of the American education system, it sometimes amazes me how little we are taught about events that are important in countries other than our own, this section alludes to one that was important to an entire empire and there will be more as I delve deeper into the background I am giving Spike, (and again I am not strictly following the history that fandom has created for him - though I admit to using some of the names.)
We all wondered what William the Bloody's last name was, and I think Joss Whedon has officially came out and said that it was Pratt, fandom has used others, Hartley was among them, and honestly I don't know who first used that one, I would give them a credit if I did, hence I am using Pratt and Hartleigh both as surnames associated with the character. More will develop on this later in the series.
She was so nervous. Brother Duncan had given her a very quick run-down of the process; he had set up the computer on the appropriate windows and stuck post-it’s on all the pertinent pages of the desk guide. He had told her she would do just fine and ushered in the first family in with a smile.
Then he left. How could he leave? She wondered, I can’t do this, I don’t know how to do this., I haven’t done anything like this since I worked for Principal Wood at Sunnydale High, that was years ago. This is important stuff, how could he just leave me all alone to do it. I’m gonna mess it up. She realized that the family was staring at her while she was having her lack-of–confidence-in-herself attack. “ Please, sit down,” She said anxiously, looking at the application card the man handed her, “…Mr. and Mrs... hope I don’t mangle this too much…Ravishankar…God, I really hope that was the last name, not the Ramaling-,ling-,gashar part. She smiled hesitantly as she gestured for them to sit even though there were six of them, counting the children, and only four chairs. “My name is Buffy Summers, how can I help you today?”
“My parents don’t speak English well, but I do.” The girl, who was the oldest of the children spoke, she looked to be about ten or eleven years old with the composure of someone much older, and had stayed standing while the other three children scrambled up on the two remaining chairs left by their parents. “My name is Parvatii, and I usually translate for them.”
“Well, okay, great, Parvatii,” Buffy tried not to wince, it didn’t roll off her tongue quite the same way it did off the girl’s, and she hated messing up people’s names. From the way the little girl smiled back at her, she could tell that she did maul it, but not too badly.
“I’d be very happy if you could translate for me, to them, as well. Would you?”
“Surely,” the girl said back.
Buffy sat down in the chair behind the desk. Well, that’s a start, I guess, she thought.
The scenario repeated itself a total of fourteen times before the line of families waiting in the corridor dwindled to nothing.
“Tired?” Father Francisco asked as he looked over the stack of finished forms and report print outs she handed him.
“Is it like this every day? That was so many.” Buffy commented a little drained by the day’s activities. It had been a few months since she had a ‘day’ job, she had forgotten what it was like and she had also forgotten to take a break which, was sort of on purpose. She didn’t want to keep anybody waiting in the corridor for longer than a quick bathroom trip . So, yeah, I am tired, but a little bit satisfied. She felt like she had done some small bit of good, and without killing any demons – it felt really good.
“School starts in five days, so next week will be just as bad, after that things slowly gets back to normal,” Cisco said, scribbling on a post-it pad and sticking them on a few of the reports.
Buffy thought that‘normal’ was probably pretty hectic too.
“Did I do okay? I hope I didn’t mess them up too badly,” she said craning her neck to see what he was sticking on the reports.
“No, you did well. Missed a few programs here and there on some of them, just supplemental stuff, nothing major. Spike can fix them next week. Overall, you did good.” He tucked the stack into a folder and smiled. “Now, see, it wasn’t that bad was it? You got the hang of it really quick too; we were only expecting you to process about four or five. We can close up shop early and that’s always good on a Friday night. Spike’s got some plans, I think.”
“Really?” She found that idea very pleasing.
_______________________________________________________________
My storyline has Spike as being here at the Mission pretty much since the end of ATS, first both he and Angel recouperated there, having been found by the Monks. Angel left, Spike having no place else to go (again!) stays there. Needless to say, the Monks not wanting an idle vampire on their hands, (scores of trouble, that, especially to the semi-demon oriented Order of Dagon,) put him to work.
Buffy gets a chance to see that she is capable of doing something other than killing and actually feels good about it.
Next up: Trunks, letters, wet pillowcases and bad karaoke.
"Miss Summers..."
She turned to find a monk in brown robes addressing her. He had a pleasant and friendly voice, but she could not help staring at the scar on his cheek.
"I'm sorry," she said when she realized that she was staring at him. "You must be Duncan, uh, Brother Duncan?" She took the hand he extended to her and shook it.
"Yes, I am. You can call me Duncan or even Dunk, if you like, and you are Buffy." It was not a question though it did ask her permission to be on a first name basis.
"Yes," she said.
"Spike has told us a lot about you over the years. I feel that I know you."
"I thought you were a priest," she asked hoping that was not too intrusive a question.
"When Spike and I first met, I was, technically I still am. I'm just not currently...serving in that capacity." He said leaving the subject open.
"I'd like to welcome you to our Mission, please feel at home. Father Sebastian, head of our Order, has asked me to extend his welcome as well. He regrets that his schedule today will not allow him to speak with you personally: he has asked me to schedule some time, tomorrow perhaps, to meet with you. He has some business he would like to discuss with you...Slayer business...nothing of an immediate or pressing nature, of course. Is it safe to assume you will be staying with us that long?"
"I, uh, don't really have a schedule to keep," she said, "...so yeah, I'm free and I guess I'll be staying here, if that's alright?"
"Yes, certainly." Duncan went on "...Father Sebastian has also asked me to see to your accommodations."
"Accommodations?"
"Uh...you are staying with Spike...if another room would be more suitable
we can certainly make one available."
"No, that's okay,' she said then realized she was talking to a priest...monk? "Oh!" She added quickly, "...Is that okay?"
"Actually, according to staff rules," he paused to mentally review them, "...it should be fine, but officially," he added lightly touching the girdle of his robes "...no."
Buffy thought her face must have dropped when he spoke because the monk's
tone became noticeably lighter with his next words.
"No, it's just...the staff rooms are small and Spike can be..." he trailed off. "Don't get me wrong, I am his friend, but..."
"Yeah, I know how Spike can be," she said, "...No, I'm okay with the accommodations.”
"Good, well...from the friend, not the priest," Brother Duncan said confusingly.
Buffy understood him.
"Father Sebastian doesn't really need to know," he said with an air of conspiracy, "...but, Buffy, if the accommodations do become a bit, um...you will let us know, myself or Father Francisco," he gestured to the priest now manning the main desk by way of introduction.
"I will, thank you," she said. "I was hoping to find Spike, to talk to him, but I can see he's busy." She could see him talking with someone in one of the cubicles that flanked the area behind the desk.
"Yes, it's back-to-school time, very busy for us. We offer a variety of programs within the community, at the moment we are matching children and their families with the specific social service agencies that can help them: subsidized lunches, English as a second language, tutoring, family counseling, backpacks with school supplies, special educational needs, it is a busy time. If it's urgent I
can..."
"No, no, not urgent," Buffy said. "I met Sister Kate in the shower earlier; she said you could use a hand in the kitchen?"
"Ah, yes...corn...yes, hands are welcome in all capacities here. I'll take you to her; perhaps give you a small tour of the Mission along the way."
"Thank you." She was going to ask about the 'corn' but figured it had something to do with the 'peas'...succotash?"
"I'd like that," she said.
"Did Spike tell you about the basement," he asked, as they started toward the kitchens.
_____________________________________________________________
Diced carrots, they were evil, and banana cream pudding, and many, many children, small children, pre-schoolers. By 1:30 in the afternoon the Slayer sat, defeated, in the middle of the pre-school lunchroom wiping pudding off her arms with a napkin. She needed another shower and they had pulled her hair completely out of the hair tie in directions she didn't know were possible and she was sure there was pudding in it and carrots down her top. Defeated, utterly.
Father Francisco rescued her from the cleanup.
"Spike said once that you have some counseling experience," he asked not
seeming to notice her total lack of composure after two hours in the 'war room'
as the other kitchen helpers called it.
"Just high school guidance type stuff. I'm not really qualified..." she answered still wiping the pudding and other foodstuffs off.
"You're good with kids."
She shrugged and looked at the mess in the room around her.
His look conceded that it probably was not as bad as she thought it was. "School aged," he added," and you can use a computer, yes?"
Again, she shrugged and nodded. "A little, I guess."
"And you survived...this, so I think you can handle it. We are short handed up there. Do you think you could pitch in? It's just matching kids with the appropriate social services on the computer, and there is a good desk guide. It's mostly in the interviewing process. We could really use your help." His smile, let alone with the sparkle in his eyes, could convince her.
She had to admit he was very persuasive and sorta cute, for a priest. Buffy could not tell how old he was, he had that ageless look, and there was a look of mystery about him. She wondered, briefly, if he was a vampire or some other type of demon; but no, he was just charismatic. She thought maybe she could help out. It had to be better than this.
"I'll try," she said as she took the arm he offered to help her up off the floor.
"That's all we ask. Thank you. Uh, you might want to..." he pointed to her hair, "...carrot. The next appointment wave doesn't start until two, see Brother Duncan, he'll show you everything."
As he left her to straighten her ponytail and shake the carrots out of her hair and top, Cisco mentally flipped the switch that allowed him the sanity to function in the real world off briefly to allow the facts of his read of the Slayer in to his consciousness.
Spike isn’t far off in his perceptions of her, is he? Cisco thought as he headed up the stairs to the offices, even if they are colored by his love, they are accurate. She’ll do, he thought, she will do.
It was exactly as they were hoping,yet that only made him feel more uneasy.
The shower felt extremely good. It had been four days since her last one and that had been in a seedy motel in East Los Angeles. She had actually been rather wary about being naked long enough to get the soap rinsed off.
The room had been cheap enough, it had to be, she couldn’t afford much; that’s why she was only getting a room every three or four days. The guy in the office had been scarier than any of the demons she had seen in the neighborhood and he was human. The room smelled funny and the air conditioner dripped and rumbled loudly, and while the room had looked clean, it just didn’t feel that way. She had not even turned down the bed that night, but slept on top of the covers. The tub there had been old, yellowed and worn with scratches and rust stains on the bottom and sides, the water hadn’t been hot and did not come out of the showerhead evenly and she could hear the pipes rattle even worse than the AC when the toilet flushed in the room next door.
This might be a community bathroom shared by everybody, but it was clean and bright and shiny, with burnished stainless steel fixtures and creamy ivory and blue tile. It smelled good, clean, piney fresh. The water was hot and came out fast, and the showerhead adjusted to just the right pressure. It made her feel like singing. She restrained herself to a loud, cadenced humming of a song she had heard on the car radio a few days ago as she robustly scrubbed, dancing in the streaming water in time.
She hadn’t found any soap or body wash in the stuff Spike had gotten her, only antiperspirant, shampoo, conditioner and some lotion, so she had raided what was obviously his stash of manly personal care items in a plastic bin on the floor of the wardrobe. Ya just gotta love a man with more toiletries than me, she thought.
In a mesh bag that was still a bit damp she had found a bar of very hard brown soap in a case. She did not recognize the writing stamped into it, as obviously he had used it and it was not as deeply embossed in the bar as it would have been fresh out of the wrapper; it looked foreign, Asian or Arabic-like maybe, but it had smelled simply wonderful when she sniffed it: sorta lemony, spicy vanilla-y with a hint of fresh cut lawn.
She shut off the delightfully hot water and reached for the towels; wrapping her hair in one and herself in the other. A gust of steam billowed out of the enclosure doors when she opened them. She was vigorously rubbing her hair with the towel and absently heading in the direction of the bench where she had left her clean clothes and toiletries,still bouncing with the rhythm of her hum when she unexpectedly tripped over something cold and hard at mid-thigh level. She stumbled but managed to keep her footing, at least until momentum made her take another step. Her foot came down a tad too hard knocking over something that sounded very metallic and slosh-y. The bucket went over, its soapy disinfectant contents spilling across the tile floor. The hair towel was down leaving wet, shampoo tangled hair falling over her eyes, the other one was coming loose as well, and her next step sent her sliding across the slick tiles. Luckily, slender, but strong, female arms caught her before she landed on her ass.
“Whoa there. Are you okay?” The young woman helping her up was unusually tall and very slim, gangly, with dark lank hair, but she had the most astonishing bright green eyes and a pleasant smile.
“I’m fine. Thank you. You caught me before I hit,” Buffy said pushing the hair towel up and securing both it and the other one better when she saw what she had tripped over: A middle-aged woman in a wheelchair holding a mop.
“You got to keep on the no-skids when it’s wet,” The woman in the wheelchair said reaching down to set up the mop bucket and wringer, “…slimier than a Chaos’ antlers when it’s all soaped up, don’t ya know,” she finished. The bucket now righted, she wheeled over to check out the rescued Slayer.
“Can’t have Spike’s Slayer all bruised up in a showering accident. That won’t do, “ she said giving Buffy a once over, satisfied that she was uninjured only startled by the near fall.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. Clumsy. I didn’t hurt you when I tripped over you did I? “ Buffy apologized. Her feet began to slide on the wet tiles again and the lanky woman steered her to the bench by her clothes.
“You’re Buffy, right,” The wheelchair woman did not wait for her to answer, she knew she was, “…I’m Sister Katherine, call me Kate, assistant administrator here.”
“And I’m D’shelle,” the tall woman said handing Buffy an extra towel to dry off with, “I just work here. You are as pretty as he said you were.”
“We probably should have waited until you were done before we started. Our fault. Just wanted to get a jump-start on the chores. We rotate cleaning duties in staff quarters.”
“I didn’t mean to disrupt the schedule,” Buffy began still drying her hair.
“Oh, no, Child, you didn’t, floor probably needed another go over anyway, as long as you’re alright. Like I said, just wouldn’t do for you to get hurt here, from the way he talks about you, Spike would be all bent out of shape if you got so much as a scratch here, outside of the line of duty. Boy’s in love with you, don‘t ya know.”
“So Spike talks about me a lot?” Buffy said drying off her legs.
“Well, not obsessively, no, but he’s been with us for over seven years, get him started on his Slayer and…”
“So you know I’m The Slayer?” She was relieved when she did not have to hide her calling; it always made things so much easier.
That got a chuckle from both women and Buffy blushed, wondering just what
he had told them.
“And that he’s a….”
“Seven years,” Kate cut her off, “…boy talks a lot, don’t ya know. All the staff knows, most of the regular volunteers too, but not the residents.”
“Unless you’ve been here as long as I have,” D’shelle added, “…you find out after a while.”
“God, you are as pretty as he said you were,” Kate blurted out when Buffy had finally finished drying her hair and shook it out, “…but I thought you were a blond?”
“Sometimes,” that actually made her blush more than the fact she was wet and naked beneath the towel, “but not lately.”She had decided not to bother coloring her hair quite a few years ago, about the same time Dawn decided to start bleaching hers and only highlighted occasionally. Suddenly she was acutely aware that it probably needed some brightening up and that she should have done that before she got here …before he saw me.
I must look a sight, she thought… like something the vamps drug in. Definitely not his ‘goldilocks’anymore… Summer’s hair was naturally on the brunette side leaning towards auburn.
“Anyway Child,” Sister Kate said turning her attentions back to the mop, “…we should let you get dressed. D’shelle’s almost got the floor cleaned up and we have work to do elsewhere. Always busy don’t ya know.”
Buffy could see the lanky woman sigh as she wrung out the mop and suddenly felt that she should make up for them having to do the floor twice. “Is there something I could do to help? I mean, I don’t really have anything to do while I‘m here, Spike‘s working and…”
“Sure we could find you something to keep from getting bored. We can always use help in the kitchen, especially this time of year, “ Kate said.
“I really can’t cook very well, “Buffy said. “I usually burn the Jell-O.”
“Nothing so complicated as that Child,” Kate replied.
D’shelle blanched when she understood where Kate was heading, that’s not where they usually start out, she thought, cleaning and making beds were easy, that is a test of fortitude usually reserved for seasoned volunteers.
“Just helping out the little ones in the lunchroom. “ Kate continued helping D’shelle put the mops and bucket in the utility locker. The lanky woman cringed slightly, but Buffy did not see her.
“Oh, I could do that!” Buffy exclaimed, excited at the prospect of being useful.
She might be a demon slayer, D’shelle thought, but she doesn’t know what she is in for.
“Righty then,” Kate added as she wheeled to the door, “…lunch is at twelve and kitchen’s in the basement, just wonder on down, they’ll put you to work.”
The Lanky woman stuck her head around the door on her way out and said, “It’s not too bad, really, just watch the peas.” She let the door close behind her and tried to catch up to Kate’s wheelchair. “They’re evil, “ she continued quietly so Sister Kate would not hear.
“Peas?” Buffy said aloud with a wrinkly nose as she gathered her clothes to get dressed.
"Morning Sunshine," Spike said. He was sitting cross-legged atop the fridge at the foot of the bed pecking away at the laptop's keyboard.
"Huh…oh…morning," Buffy yawned and stretched.
"Ready for breakfast?" He nodded toward the shelf an arm’s length from the pillow without looking up from the keyboard. There sat a breakfast tray with milk, juice, toast and cereal, and a small vase with three sunny little flowers. "Got eggs and sausages in the microwave."
"Yum," she yawned again. "What time is it?"
"Ten-thirty," he was still typing intently.
"Good sleep," she stretched, "…you said there were eggs?"
He shut the microwave door with an elbow and it started to hum.
Buffy looked at the tray. She picked up a flower and sniffed it. "You're going to make me fat," she said, putting the flower back in the vase. "Smells good," she added quietly.
The microwave dinged.
"You could stand a few, Love, and besides…" he said, finally looking up
from the laptop. He opened the microwave and handed the plate across the bed to her. "…there weren't many leftovers from last night."
"Yeah, I was hungry. What cha working on?"
"Oh, uh…dissertation…final….it's late."
"Dissertation?"
"Bachelors'."
"Wow…in what?"
"Uh…ha…behavioral sciences…….need it for here. Uh, got you some stuff," he said as he went back to pecking at the keyboard. "…shower stuff, and some
clothes."
"Sorry, ripe," she asked, pouring milk over the cereal, the eggs and sausages already gone.
"No…not too…just thought you might like…."
"Yeah, pretty grungy."
"Done," Spike said, pushing the send button. He closed the laptop and slid off the fridge.
"I gotta go back to work," he said, plugging the charger into the laptop and depositing it on the shelf. "There's clean towels in the wardrobe and, uh…you'll need the badge to get back in if you leave staff quarters. We'll go get your car and stuff tonight."
"It's a rental…not mine…have to turn it in soon."
"We can do that too. Come out when you want. I'll be in the offices…uh…they're back the hall behind the main desk."
"Kay," she said and he was out the door.
Maybe I should make an appointment,she thought.
Father Sebastian sat at the desk in the study adjoining his cell. He stared out the open window that overlooked the courtyard below and Mission beyond, fascinated with the glow from the lights of Reseda and the way it silhouetted the rooftop of the Mission with a pinkish mauve halo against the sparkling black and starlit backdrop of the night sky.
The candles fluttered faintly, blossoming in luminescence with the gentle breeze from the window. They were an indulgence in nostalgia, one that he allowed himself frequently, as was the mid-nineteenth century copy of the volume laying open on the desk in the glow of the computer, which displayed a corresponding scan of the original ancient text.
Despite the time and efficiency constraints his office demanded, he was still a sensualist, preferring the subtle smell of wax and wick and the touch of the page to the professed convenience of vernacular technology.
He could hear the chanting of the monks and novitiates, late as usual, he
noted, in completion of their evening devotionals, gently echoing up the hallway of the priory and the after curfew conclusion of a game of pick-up by the residents of the Mission, along with all the normal nocturnal sounds of the streets and neighborhoods outside the courtyard walls.
He knew the perpetrator of the knock as much by its timing as by the timbre of hand on wood, confident and firm and at the end of the Mission's day.
"Enter," he said.
It was Francisco as expected.
He came in and stood awaiting, with the respect due his senior and elder, the motion to sit and proceed with the nightly report.
Sebastian motioned for him to sit and turned his attentions briefly to the computer and text on his desk advancing the pages on both before addressing
his adjunct.
"She has arrived." The elder said. It was not a question, merely a statement of fact requiring little confirmation.
Cisco long ago ceased wondering if Sebastian possessed vestiges of his own gift, reasoning that he had no more or less than any other of his years and experience.
"Yes," he replied, "...as you said she would."
"Not as I have said," Sebastian countered with mild chastisement in his tone, "...as these say." He gestured to the tomes displayed on the desk. Francisco handed him the clipboard that listed all the pertinent facts and statistics, detailing the Mission’s day: beds filled, expected to be filled, meals served, issues pending, staff on duty, etc. Sebastian glanced at it and laid it on the desk. "And..." was all he said.
Francisco looked at him with feigned confusion as he unceremoniously plopped into the chair.
"They haven't killed each other yet, if that's what you mean," Cisco answered.
Sebastian chuckled lightly, "…you knew the day would come when The Slayer would show up on our doorstep for one reason or another; it was inevitable."
"I knew, maybe not for the same reasons you did, but I knew she’d come. What I don't know is under what circumstances she will be leaving."
"You weren't able to read her," Sebastian asked with some concern. He felt it crucial to their success that they have at least some understanding of what was going on in the minds of the major participants.
"I haven't met her yet, haven‘t even seen her. Duncan has been keeping me informed of their…"
"Do I need to add the units on eavesdropping and gossiping to the daily studies again," Sebastian asked.
"No, no, it's not an issue that needs addr..." Cisco began, "… you are joking...aren't you?"
Sebastian raised an eyebrow then turning somber he spoke, "...you will meet her; examine her to ensure her intentions, in all the areas we discussed, are suited to our needs."
"I will… as the opportunity arises."
"Soon," he asked. It was more of an order than a question.
"Tomorrow actually, I’m curious to see what she's like."
"She seems very much as he said." Sebastian continued, "…I could see them from the window," he added in response to Francisco's unvoiced query of how he knew.
"Eavesdropping," Cisco asked rhetorically. "Then you know their…reunion, wasn't completely without incident."
"To be expected, given what he has told us of their history."
"That's what bothers me."
Sebastian looked puzzled at Cisco's last words.
"Their history," he began to clarify, "…it wasn't exactly stellar."
"Such things never are. You know that."
"There just seem to be too many…variables."
Sebastian's tone turned a little more serious, "whether he goes with her, or he goes after her, it does not matter, just that he goes."
"I know, but," Cisco sighed, "…can't I hope that this proceeds as amicably as possible, for Spike's sake, at least?"
"The fates don't care if it is amicable, does not their ‘history’ prove that already," the elder priest added, knowing it to be true even though it would not ease the younger's concerns.
"Either way it will cause them both pain," Cisco said.
"Pain is part of the vampire's nature, and it is said, a Slayer's strength is forged of pain.” The elder priest inhaled sharply before he began again. “I am fond of him as well," Sebastian reassured, "…but you have read them all…" he gestured toward the books that littered his desk and the rest of the study, "… nearly as much as I have. Do not interfere, Cisco," he added gravely, "… allow the fates to run their course."
"I will," he said. Cisco had personal experience with challenging the fates, he knew the consequences well. "It's just…things seem to be falling…too…neatly into place."
"Did you doubt that they would," he asked knowing the answer was yes. "You are forever the skeptic. The prophecies are in convergence and right on schedule"
"We will be visiting the Watcher, then?"
"Yes, we leave after vespers Sunday. Is that sufficient time?"
Cisco nodded as he rose, he stopped at the door and turned for permission to exit.
"You may proceed."
"Thank you, Father."
Cisco closed the door as he exited the study.
"You were listening," Sebastian asked as soon as he was certain Francisco was well out of hearing range.
"It is all as it should be," came the answer from outside the open window.
The wake of wings guttered out the candles leaving Sebastian in the dim computer glow.
Spike relieved Brother Duncan at the desk and after many questions and much profuse thanking, he was ready to start.
He checked the status boards, both the Mission’s staff and the residents, it was a full plus house tonight. He checked the log on the desk computer and the phone for messages. All was well; all he had to do was man the phones and attend to any emergencies that might occur.
He opened the netbook and started to type but could not keep his mind on the text. He could not stop thinking of her. He was still drowning in her. Yeah, he was going under and he was fairly sure it was for the full count this time.
He'd felt her probably even before the plane had landed over a month ago and now she was here, in his room, in his bed.
He took a long, deep breath, though, for a vampire, that was hard to do. He looked up at the ceiling of the Mission's lobby as he slowly exhaled it. It was something that he often did, at least briefly, almost every night that he sat alone at the desk.
It was high, arched, and painted by some unknown, but not completely untalented artist. It hadn't been cleaned in over a hundred years. Cracked and chunked from earthquakes and with paint peeling and flaking, here and there, the center of it always struck him as a bad copy of a Michelangelo masterpiece. Saints and stags, demons and dragons surrounded it, and warriors and fiery things crept out from its edges. In the clouds, he could see vestiges of Drusilla's burning cherubim and naughty precocious seraphim, looking hard and jaded, sensuous and seductive, peeking out from layers of grease from the kitchens and dust from a century of feet beneath; but he still liked it. The sky was just that particular shade of smoky teal, the exact color of Buffy's eyes.
The last of the residents had turned off the TV in the lounge and were heading up the stairs. It was time to make a round.
The ground floor was quiet, Spike turned out most of the lights as he checked the doors.
The basement was quiet as well, kitchen and dining areas in order, the small dormitory marked 'keep out' was quiet also, all of its residents out for the night except for the Navoxnova who was pupating in the corner. The room's outside door was ajar, propped open with a brick, as usual. He locked the inside door
and slid the steel bar in to place on his way back up to the main floor.
Two and a half stories of rooms and dormitories and two minor incidents among the residents later, he was back in the lobby. He was not ready to work on the dissertation.
Normally, he did not check the staff quarters at all, but tonight he would . Stopping in front of his door, he closed his eyes for a moment. He did not open the door; just put his hands on it to feel her sleep. After a few minutes, he went back out to the main desk.
Spike motioned for her to follow and they headed down one of the corridors spurring off the main lobby. They passed what looked to Buffy to be mostly utility and storage areas stopping in front of a door marked 'Staff Quarters'. He pulled an ID card wrapped in a lanyard out of his back pocket.
"Wow, a name tag and a badge." She said.
"Yeah, not sure if it still works," he swiped it once through the mechanism, it did not. He wiped the magnetic strip on the leg of his jeans and tried it again, this time it worked. The door clicked and Spike cracked it open, then shut it and tried it again to make sure it would continue to work then handed the badge to her. "I usually just key it in. Use the badge if you want to leave staff quarters or the Mission tonight, the outside doors lock in about an hour."
Buffy looked at the badge as she took it. "Good picture," she said, it never ceased to amaze her that for creatures that didn't have a reflection, vampires were very photogenic.
There was a very brightly lit common area just inside the door that unexpectedly narrowed into a darker corridor, beyond that it appeared to be lit only with emergency lights, or possibly candles, Buffy could not tell which.
"Come on, then, it's easy to find, last one on the right, only one without a crucifix, or other…thingy, above the door."
She noticed as they walked down the corridor that the décor changed abruptly once past the common area, moving from postmodern to post monastery. The doors to the rooms were very close together and each seemed to have some kind of religious symbol or emblem above the mantle, apparently the Mission was highly multi-denominational. What she had thought were candles earlier turned out to be those flickery electric candelabra type things masking industrial style emergency lights beneath, the effect was very convincing.
These are cells, she realized,like…monk's cells.
"Don't get spooked, Pet," Spike said, as if sensing her thoughts, "…it doesn't… no, actually it does look this dreary in the daylight."
They stopped at the last door at the end of the corridor; it too had a nametag: 'Spike'.
"The doors don't lock, but the neighbors do respect privacy and sorry Love, the room's a mess." He opened the door and got the lights. "Bit of a cramped coffin, but its home."
It was just as narrow as she had imagined, but longer with higher ceilings and not at all as plain as she was expecting. The brick walls were painted a lush mossy green and most of the furniture had that look of old polished wood except where functionality dictated something more modern; not much floor space but lots of shelves and drawers.
Spike quickly dumped the ashtray and opened the window by the bed for a
little more airflow, then got out of her way.
"There's…really nothing in the fridge… blood and beer… you're welcome to
the beer," he said checking the refrigerator at the foot of the bed.
"Any water," she asked.
"I got that." He handed her a cold bottle. "You, uh, need to call the Niblet?"
"Yeah," she smiled at his use of Dawn's old nickname, she hadn't heard it in years and didn't realize how much she'd missed it, "…probably should"
He handed her the phone. "I'll, uh, go get some food…stock the fridge." He left the door ajar.
Buffy looked around the room for a moment noting the three transom windows high up along the outer wall; they had been painted over to keep out the light and the one by the bed had a low awning outside for the same purpose. They were all open; the high ones just a little, to let the air in. She could faintly hear street sounds in the distance.
She saw the paintings, also high up, above the shelves and wardrobe that flanked the door. Two were groupings, one of her, Joyce and Dawn; the other, of Dru, Angel and Darla, the likenesses were very good. The third, in the center above the door, was a portrait of a woman she did not recognize. Wow, she thought, that must be his mom. It was still hard for her to imagine that vampires had mothers even though she knew that they had too, once. She looks like the woman in the pictures…only older.
The bed was unmade and tussled. It smelled good, like Spike, only…coconut-tier. She snuffled a little as she flipped open the phone and entered the number.
She continued looking around the room as the phone began to ring. There was a stack of magazines on the shelf across from the bed. She riffled through them, strangely comforted by the small stash of porn in the center of the stack, mild stuff she noted.
She thought the call was going to go to voicemail when it finally connected.
"Dawn, it’s me…no, I'm okay…I'm sorry…I know, I know, I should have
called sooner…I'm in Reseda, I think…yeah, I found him…I'm sitting on his
bed…no!…he's not here now…out getting me some food, then he has to go to
work…yeah…I don't know, exactly...here, it’s some kind of a Mission, like a
shelter, maybe…a few hours ago…no, mostly we just fought…no, just with
words…huh, everything…so hot I can't stand it…his hair's different…still blonde, but…it’s in dreds…I don't know, yeah…very…hope so…how is everybody…she's there? Is she okay… yeah…no word on school yet…no, no I don't know when I'll get there, I'm not leaving here yet…I know…I will…yeah…I'll call…I don't know, in a few days… love you too…bye."
She lay part way down on the bed. The pillow smelled so good.
"Hey, Pet, room service," Spike only peaked in the door a little warily.
"Spike, it's your room, you don't have to knock," she said sitting up on the bed.
He came in carrying a tray. "Uh, food," he announced, "…in hot, well lukewarm…we've got roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy…and something green, supposed to be that way though, and in cold…sandwich, also roast beef…sorry," he apologized, "…it's a bit late for variety… also various condiments, a prepackaged salad…," he checked the container, "…ranch…uh, some fruit and some cheese, the plastic wrapped kind, not the chunk, sorry," he added again. "…and, we have …more water, milk, assorted juice, and …Tab."
"Wow, hard to find," she said, impressed with the selection.
"No trouble, Love. What's your poison?"
"Uh, warm and milk, please."
Spike brought them over and set them on the shelf across from where she sat then went back to the fridge and unpacked the rest.
"Oh," he added, "…and assorted snacky stuff, chips, Cheetos."
"Well stocked," she commented already opening and arranging the containers.
"Is that warm enough, got a microwave, can heat it up?"
"It's fine."
"Bon appetite …uh, you want coffee? I can go get some," he offered.
"No, not this late. Thanks, and thanks," she handed him the phone.
"Chargers, uh," he gestured past her elbow, "…if you would." Buffy found it and plugged the phone in.
"I gotta get some stuff and get out there; Duncan will be falling out of the chair asleep." He opened a drawer and rummaged through it pulling out a pager. He checked it and put it in a back pocket.
"It's good," Buffy said after the first bite of roast beef.
"Yeah, kitchen here is not bad; you should taste it when it's not day old." He opened another drawer and swapped out his pack of cigarettes for a fresh one then he opened the laptop on the counter and opened a file. He pulled the netbook off the shelf above it and quickly keyed a few things into it. The laptop beeped and the netbook beeped and with some satisfaction, he closed them both and set the netbook on the end of the shelf by the door. He was
ready.
"Buffy, so it won't be a surprise when you find out," he began as he turned to the door, "…the monks that run this place, they're from the Order of Dagon."
"The ones that…" she started to ask.
"…made Dawn," he finished, "…yes. It's okay…they're okay, and Duncan has had some… experiences with our old friend preacher man."
"Caleb," she said with some alarm.
"Yeah. He was at Gilroy when Andrew and I went up there."
"Alright,” she said, "…anything else?"
"Cellar dwellers in the basement, no big."
"Okay."
"I'll be out at the main desk if you…" he trailed off, "… finish dinner and get some rest." He grabbed the netbook and started out the door.
"Spike, about the Immortal…"she began.
He stopped, hand on the door handle, and turned around.
"…building didn't fall down," she finished softly.
He chuckled quietly, almost to himself, shaking his head and said, "…get
some sleep, I'll see you in the morning."
Two puffs later, the vaccuumy swoosh of Buffy's soda bottle opening punctuated the evening air. The bottle was wet and its contents all too fizzy in her mouth.
"So...what we gonna do about this," Spike asked, just as she started to drink.
"Can we..." she had to stop talking, finish swallowing, and get the fizziness out of her mouth before she could go on, "...start over? I mean, not 'Hello, my name is Buffy' over, but maybe just start fresh?"
"No..." he started to say.
"No? What," she asked in amazement. "What do you mean no?"
"I mean...no," he said.
"Oh! Now you learn the meaning of the word?"
"Hgmh," he scoffed, "we're not going to go there, yet!"
"Huh, if you think..." if looks could stake, hers would.
"Oh, no...no, no…Love, we are gonna go there," Spike said,"…just not yet...and that's what I mean..." he scoffed and shook his head. "God…so much easier when I just wanted to kill her," he said quietly through gritted teeth.
"No! Really can't just start fresh, Pet."
"Argh! Knew I shoulda brought a stake!" she countered back at him.
Spike reached into his boot, scoffing at her, and pulled one out. He handed it to her with a glare. "Comfy now, Slayer?"
Buffy grabbed it, rotated it into the proper position in her hand, and held on to it tightly; she started to speak, but Spike stopped her.
"Not giving up the podium yet, Lamb," he said. "What was this," he gestured between the two of them, "...to you?" He scoffed. "What was it ever to you? Chalk on a slate, just wipe it clean and start over? Maybe you can, I can't." He scoffed again quietly, "you still don't get that, do you? No, Love, can't 'start fresh', there's a lot we got to chat out!”
"Oh! Okay, lets chat!" she said sarcastically.
"Yeah, let’s. You gonna be all...all chosen and alone and un-talky about it or what?"
"Oh, I'll be...talky," she said angrily, "...it's just...I'm not good at it," she continued half under her breath.
"Never noticed," it was his turn to be sarcastic. "Need to be straight up too!"
"Yeah...agreed," she said, loosening her grip on the stake, "...you too," she added.
"Yeah," he nodded. He looked at the filter of the cigarette he was holding, it had burned out. He stared at it for a moment before he tossed it into the grate, then he turned his gaze to her. "So, am I gonna be rebound boy or just... convenient?"
Okay...ow...that stings. "You're being pretty inconvenient right now, Spike, but...I'll admit it. I deserve that one...and more," she sighed with a little anger and a fair amount of hurt.
Spike couldn't help it, but his stare wavered momentarily. Exposed nerves, all around, were getting all achy and throbby.
"Okay, look…I'm sorry, it was just… convenient …for you to be convenient …and you weren't exactly protesting at the time as I recall, so, okay, my bad, but I wasn't completely the one at fault there…and no, no rebound boy. Definitely no rebound boy, I haven't…" Buffy let out a long scoffing sigh. "Why am I doing this? I don't know why I’m doing this…I just want…"
"Now that's the crux of it, in' it, Love…it's not always entirely about what you want," Spike truly wished he hadn't said it before it even came out, but it just kept coming, "…you still don't even know what it is you do want." He sighed deeply, "… and that's really not…how…I…wanted…to say that…bad move." He shifted his stare from her to the sky, shaking his head. "I can't do this." He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again to the heavens, "….you found my perfect damnation," he whispered, "…kudos."
"And who are you whispering to? You're not..." she scoffed, "God! Spike!"
"…doesn't listen anyway," he continued quietly. By the time he looked back down, she had slid off the hood and came around to stand facing him alongside the station wagon. "…and," he had to find her, "…and you, Love, you are my perfect damnation."
"I'm a damnation…I'm a damnation now. You're impossible, Spike, incorrigible…"
"Well, yes…I am, still. Why are you here, Pet.? What, you just come to see how big a masochist Spike is. I don't mind a little pain, but I don't want the hurt, had enough of it. It's bad enough that you are the one thing that…"
"I'm the one thing that what?"
"Drives me stark raving…" Spike leapt off the station wagon to face her directly. "…turns me into a soddin' cormorant, no, no a bleeding lemming, a moth to the flame, might as well throw my own toasties in the fire."
"I just thought we…"
"Right,” he scoffed, “…'we', and this from the person who said 'there is no we'."
"That was before…"
"Before? Before what, Love, before the soul? I fell in love with you before the soul, and in all honesty, Pet, it didn't make one bit of difference, did it?" Spike put one hand on the roof of the station wagon just above her shoulder, it landed with a thud putting a dent in the old metal.
Buffy looked at his hand and the dent as she spoke. "You angry much?"
She turned to slide out from between Spike and the station wagon when the other hand landed on the roof.
"Much," he said with that look that always both frightened and excited her.
"Let me go," she said, pushing against his chest with both hands. He wasn't budging without full Slayer strength and she was not ready to use it. Her eyes narrowed at him in determination. They stood staring; eyes locked in combat, until Spike released his hold on the roof with a scoff and stepped back from her, turning to avoid her steely gaze.
"Go," he said half under his breath.
"I should leave. I don't know why I came here," she said regaining her composure.
"I said 'go'," he shouted, "...leave...move on." He whirled around to face her livid.
She scoffed, turned, and started to storm away abruptly stopping a few yards away. She took a few deep breaths then turned and stormed back.
"No,” she said with conviction. “I’m not going anywhere. I told you I wasn't ready for you not to be there, I'm still not...and I’m not going anywhere until this is settled between us.
They both stood, arms crossed, leaning on the station wagon in silence for some time.
"It's your fault," she finally said after the anger had time to dissipate in them
both.
"What," he said in disbelief. "What's my fault?"
"You said it once; I'd crave you like you crave blood."
He remembered.
"You were right," she said calmly, "took a while, but you were right."
He did not reply. He shuffled still pensive.
She smiled, a little, when she looked at him and chuckled. "When I thought you…" she shook her head, "...I didn’t think I ..." she laughed again, "even that ..."
"Oh, right," he scoffed half-heartedly, "...when I saw you in Italy, snoggin it up with that bleeding Immortal, sorry to say Pet, but it didn't exactly look like you were mournin' the fallen champion."
"You saw me in Italy," she began, "...when were you in Ita... you were with Angel, that... family...hat...head...thing. I am gonna kill Andrew, the little..."
“It’s not about Andrew,” he said quietly. “Buffy, it’s about you and it’s about me,” he looked away and scoffed. “Don’t my feelings count in this at all?”
He’d hit a nerve, again, she hated that, it was one of those think nerves too.
…my fault...Buffy thought , I’m the one standing here with every last one of them all exposed….and what, I didn’t expect a few of them to get wailed on…. She scuffed at her own stupidity sometimes, usually the wrong times …like right now…
Spike chose that exact moment to turn and look at her, and...of course…she thought, he took the scoff personally.
“Oh, oh, I get it…” he began, actually faking a deep wrenching breathe for added effect, “…cause I don’t feel, do I?”
Where the hell did he learn to be such a drama queen, Juilliard?
“Sorry Pet, I forgot,” he scoffed exaggeratedly, “… my feelings aren’t real to you.”
She had to choke back a laugh at his performance…Oscar material for sure…Buffy Anne Summers, she chided herself silently …you should not be so harsh! He deserves this tirade and you know it …
“Dead things don’t feel,” he then said absently to himself. He was silent for a moment, “...but you still don’t get that do you? God, Buffy,” he said exasperated, “...am I still just dead to you? I thought we’d worked past that, and what the bleedin' hell is with Angel and this damn 'cookie dough' thing anyway? He gets cookies and what about me, I’m stuck lickin’ up crumbs.” He suddenly got a mental picture of that metaphor and his face showed it.
She had to laugh, she couldn’t resist.“Well, “ she managed to get out between the barely stifled giggles that threatened to become howls, nearly doubling her over, “… you once asked me to throw you a few…can’t help it if you catch like a…gurr…vampire.” What little composure she had maintained broke; she laughed uncontrollably, hard and until it hurt. Spike just looked at her not knowing what to do until he had to start laughing too.
"Are we done venting yet," she asked when she could talk again.
"Doubt it," he replied.
"This isn't going to be easy, is it?"
"No, no, Love, it's not…but I think it'll be worth it."
"Ya think?"
"Yeah. You got a place to stay tonight?"
She shook her head.
"Got stuff?"
"Yeah, in the car."
"Where's that at?"
"Uh, about…two and a half hours that way, no, maybe that way."
"Uh huh, we'll worry about it later them. Come on." Spike jumped down from the hood of the station wagon.
"Spike? Can I touch the hair?"
He smiled, "…touch anything you like, Love." They walked over to the steps of the Mission.
"Hungry?"
"A little."
"I'll get you something once we get you settled. I've…uh, got the desk til morning, you can stay in my room."
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