Chapter Text
— October, 1997 —
“Well aren’t you all just adorable!” The elderly lady coos, quickly scooping handfuls of candy into their outstretched baskets. Mom had chosen a pretty sizable wicker basket to go with Dawn’s Red Riding Hood ensemble, but it’s already nearly full.
Buffy definitely doesn’t feel jealous that her little sister got a homemade costume for Halloween. That would be silly. Dawn is ten and her costume isn’t even that complicated. A little white prairie dress, a basket, a cape, and little pigtail braids. Buffy wasn’t even going to go out on Halloween until two days ago when Snyder very forcibly requested that she sign up to escort a group of trick-or-treaters. There was no way her mom would have been able to make a costume within that time, not that she’d offered to. Whatever. Dawn’s the baby, she gets the baby treatment.
Buffy and her little gaggle of kids are at what feels like the hundredth house of the night and Buffy’s feet freaking hurt. She’s been in a full 1700s getup for hours now and these shoes aren't doing her any favors. Plus, the amount of money she spent on this dress is giving her a headache. It had cost a month’s allowance, even at the steep discount that the shop owner had given her. Angel hasn’t even seen it yet, and who knows if he ever will, seeing as he only ever shows up half of the times he promises to.
Buffy groans. She’d so much rather be spending her night off at home with a big bowl of candy and a horror movie or two. Instead, she’s watching as her little sister’s big blue doe eyes get her twice as much candy as the rest of the kids. Dawn, not just the baby of the family, but the baby of the whole of Sunnydale, it seems.
“Alright, we’ll hit one more house, and then I need to get you home to your parents,” Buffy says, crouching to the level of the kids. “Does that sound good?” The kids all nod, but Dawn rolls her eyes. Buffy glares. Her own little sister, the backstabber, is causing dissent among the ranks.
Buffy leads them towards the next house, ready to hear another chorus of homeowners doting on her sister, when chaos erupts. Her head starts to spin like a washing machine and she quickly loses track of where she is, what she’s doing…
By the time her head clears, she’s on the floor, presumably having just fainted. Buffy blinks up at the sky, disoriented. There is a blue-eyed, brown-haired little girl she doesn’t recognize shaking her by the shoulders.
“Buffy?” Calls the girl, “Buffy, wake up! What’s going on?”
Buffy gasps, jumping backwards away from the strange child. “Good heavens,” she says, “who are you?”
–
Dawn clings to her sister’s unwilling hand, finally safe in their house. The sounds of screaming and roaring are muffled at last. Buffy keeps looking at Dawn like she’s gone crazy, which, of course, Dawn has not. If anything, Buffy’s the crazy one. Suddenly talking all funny and acting like girls aren’t allowed to tell people what to do.
At least Buffy’s friends found them, even if they’re acting weird too. Then that Angel guy came in and took Dawn and Buffy by the hand and pulled them into the kitchen when the pounding on the front door started. Dawn thinks that maybe now things will get a little better, until they suddenly get way, way worse.
Some crazy guy jumps out from behind the counter and tackles Angel. Dawn shrieks and runs back over to her sister.
“Buffy! Buffy, what do we do?”
Her sister looks like she might fall over again. “Why, I don’t know little girl! This is all so strange–”
“Stake!” Yells Angel. “Buffy, I need a stake!” Buffy blubbers. He whips his head around and shouts, “a stake!” His face looks different than it did before. Bad different. Like a monster you’re only ever supposed to see in storybooks and movies.
Buffy and Dawn both scream, and Buffy bolts out the back door, dropping Dawn’s hand.
“Buffy!” Dawn rushes after her but she can’t catch up. Even though she’s wearing that huge skirt, Buffy’s too fast. She quickly disappears into the night, leaving Dawn all alone in the middle of the street, surrounded by chaos and kid-size demons.
–
“Buffy! Buffy!” Dawn has her hood up, cape wrapped tight around herself. Her toes feel so cold under her little Mary Janes and frilly socks. She flinches as she hears yet another crash.
“Buffy!” She calls again. It seems hopeless. She’s been wandering for an hour without a sign of her big sister and she doesn’t even know where she is anymore. Is the house that way or is she going in circles?
Dawn starts to cry. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Buffy is supposed to be her big sister. Whenever Dawn is being picked on, Buffy is the one to tell her to talk back. When Dawn doesn’t know her times tables, Buffy is the one who explains them. Sure, Buffy rolls her eyes and yells, 'get out of my room' and tells Dawn that she only eats gross sandwiches, but Buffy’s never really hurt her. She’s never left Dawn all alone before.
Through her tears, she calls one last time, “BUFFY!” And, at last, someone responds.
“Looking for someone, are we?”
Dawn turns around to see a whole group of grown-ups just on the other side of the street. She can’t make out their faces in the dark, except for the one who just spoke. He has stepped forward to stand in front of her. He looks like a man her mom would tell her to stay away from. He’s dressed in all black with a leather coat that goes down to the floor and he has very, very pale skin and hair. He gestures to the others to stay back.
“You’re looking for Buffy, yeah?” He smiles, charming and gentle. “We’re her friends. We’re trying to find her too.”
Dawn takes him in. He doesn’t look like someone Buffy would be friends with, in fact he looks like the inventor of stranger danger. He looks like a bad man. So Dawn starts to back away.
“Hey hey,” he says, “none of that. We’re just trying to find Buffy. Think she might be in danger. Trying to help.”
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“Oh, bit, we don’t have to be strangers,” he says. He holds a hand up to his chest. “I’m William. What’s your name?”
“I’m not telling you.”
Surprised, the man starts to smile. “Hell, kid, you’ve really got a pair on you.”
“A pair of what?”
“Oh, erm, nothing. Just an expression.” He crouches down. “Look, kid, seems to me you’re the bitty Buffy. That true? She your sister?”
Dawn doesn’t answer, but the look in her eyes must be enough to tell him he's right.
“See?” He says. “How would I know that if I wasn’t friends with your sis?”
One of the other people groans. “She’s not gonna tell us shit, boss. Let’s just kill her and keep looking.”
The man snarls and his face changes for a brief moment into a monster’s, just like Angel’s did. “Shut it,” he barks.
Another one says, “he’s got a point. I’m pretty hungry. If we’re gonna be out all night–”
“I said shut it!” The man whirls around to look at the group. “Who’s in charge here, huh? If any of you lot want to step up to the bloody plate, be my guest. You’ll be dust before you wind up your first swing.”
The rest of the group goes silent.
“God, nobody has any respect for evil anymore,” he yells, “no sense of bloody tact! Taking the easy route to bad is what you’re doing. ‘Oh look at me, I’m so evil, I find all the helpless little creatures and turn them into bitty little piles of guts.’” He scoffs. “It’s tacky. Angelus stuff, that is. Killing kids and whatnot. Look where that got him, all souled-up and muzzled.”
The other people are all just staring at him, not understanding his point. He groans. “We leave the nibblet be. We’re not gonna doff up some kid, that’s just pathetic, even for you all.” He turns and looks at Dawn, a small, amused smile on his face. “Besides, if the bit really is the Slayer’s kid sister, it’d just brass her off to kill the girl. Goody types tend to get all determined about revenge. Once you get a Slayer feeling righteous, you’re playing on their turf. That’ll put us in a world of trouble. Not worth it for a little to-go snack.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
“Right you are!” He yells, his face changing once again. “What I say goes, and I say we’re burning midnight here! You all, split up, see if you can catch a trace of that Slayer. And you,” he turns to crouch in front of Dawn again, and his face returns to normal. “You can tell big sis that I say hello. If we don’t find her first, that is.”
Dawn glares. “You’re mean.”
“Hey now, I just showed remarkable restraint there! Meet any other vamp and you’d have been a juice box by now.”
“Buffy’s gonna beat you up,” Dawn insists.
The man chuckles and stands to walk away. “Maybe so, bit. We’ll see.”
Dawn runs up and sends a kick towards his shins. He sidesteps it easily and whistles. “Ooh, you’ve got some bite, nibblet! You’d best run along though, before one of my boys here gets a little too peckish.” He laughs, smiles, and puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket, strolling off. “Ta-ta now!” He calls as he goes, “and Happy Hallo-bloody-ween!”
–
By the end of the night, Dawn is wrapped up in a blanket, safe at home with Buffy, Willow, and Xander crowded onto the couch around her. Buffy hasn’t let Dawn out of her sight since she found her crying on the curb a few blocks away from their house. Buffy is holding her, stroking her hair as they watch ‘The Great Pumpkin’ and nurse cups of sleepytime tea.
“Buffy, are monsters real?”
Buffy freezes. “Why would you think that?”
“One of them found me. He made his face go all weird when we were talking.”
“One of them found you?” Buffy says, horrified. “Oh Dawnie…” She gets Dawn up and starts pulling her hair back to look at her neck. “Thank God, no bites.” Xander and Willow sigh in relief.
“Dawnie,” Willow says, “what happened? Did they try to hurt you?”
“No, he just talked to me.”
Buffy frowns. “Talked? What did he say?”
“He was mostly talking about you. He wanted to know where you’d gone.” Dawn puffs up, “I didn’t tell him, of course. No talking to strangers.”
Buffy smiles and pulls her into another hug. “That’s right, Dawnie, you did so good.”
“What’s a Slayer?”
Buffy’s eyes bug out, “what?”
“He said he wanted to find a Slayer.”
“Wait,” Buffy says, “this man, what did he look like?”
“He had a big black jacket and–”
“Stupid white hair?” Xander interjects.
Dawn nods. “Spike,” Buffy says, under her breath. “And you’re sure he didn’t hurt you? Or say he was gonna do something?”
“No. He talked funny though.” Dawn wrings her hands. “Why, is he gonna hurt me?”
“No, absolutely he won’t,” Buffy insists. “I won’t let him do that. But if he ever comes near you, you run the other way, okay? Pinkie promise?”
Dawn links their pinkies together. “Okay, I promise.”
“And one more thing,” Buffy says, “you can’t tell mom. This has to be our little secret, okay?”
“I won’t tell mom if you tell me what a Slayer is.”
Buffy groans.
— May, 1998 (seven months later) —
For an alleged ally, Spike certainly has an affinity for pissing Buffy off. Buffy makes her way up to the front door of her house with the bleach-blonde menace following close behind. If one bad breakup can turn her into a fugitive that works with evil vampires, maybe Buffy should just stay single forever.
“Buffy!” She turns at the sound of her mom’s voice to see Joyce running up from the driveway. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Dawn is following behind her. She must have gone along on mom’s little impromptu manhunt. Buffy watches as her sister freezes, immediately recognizing Spike.
Please don’t say anything, please don’t say anything…
“Who is this man?” Her mom asks, suddenly turning to Spike. “Who are you?”
“Mom! I’m– I’m okay,” Buffy says. She looks at Dawn, who has set her mind to glaring so hard at Spike that her eyes start watering. Spike, meanwhile, looks wildly entertained.
“You have to tell the police what happened! What were you doing?”
“What, your mum doesn’t know?” Spike says. “Seriously? Even the kid knows.”
“Knows what? Buffy, what is going on here?”
Dawn steps forward and takes her mother’s hand. She turns to Spike. “You should go away,” she says, “you’re not allowed to be here.”
Spike grins, looking positively chuffed to be on the receiving end of Dawn’s ‘scary’ voice.
Incredulous, Joyce looks at her youngest. “Dawn? You know this man?” She turns back to Buffy. “I demand that you tell me what–”
Joyce is suddenly cut off when a growl sounds from behind her. Buffy watches as a vampire runs towards them, diving straight for her sister. “Dawn!” She cries. Spike lunges forward and pulls Dawn out of the way just in time and the vamp falls face-forward onto the concrete path. Buffy flips the vampire over, pinning him down and pulling a stake from her jacket pocket. Within seconds, he’s dust.
She looks up to see her mother breathing fast and Dawn trembling, her fingers clenched in the sleeve of Spike’s duster. “Oh my God,” Joyce cries. She runs over to Dawn and pulls her into a tight hug. “Thank God you’re okay!” She lets Dawn go and stands, regarding Spike. She has moved from furious to wary thanks to his whole yanking her eleven-year-old out of the way of a charging vampire thing. She looks back to Buffy. Slowly, on the verge of tears, she says, “Buffy, what on Earth is going on here?”
Looks like it’s time for the big reveal.
–
“And you’re sure you’re a Slayer?”
It’s been almost ten minutes of this waffling now and Spike’s starting to get impatient. How long is the Slayer’s mum going to flog this dead horse? Some humans get so bloody jumpy when they find out about the supernatural. Spike, on the other hand, only found out when there were already fangs in his neck and he came to terms with it pretty quickly, all things considered.
He busies himself poking around the Summers’ house. It’s rather posh, not exactly what he’d expect from a single mother, but who is he to judge? Two stories, nice furniture, a good-looking telly, what more could a teenage Slayer want? Well, a teenage Slayer and her kid sister. A kid sister who is currently peeking through the slats of the banister to glare daggers at him.
Spike wiggles his fingers to say hello. The bit just glares harder. Almost makes him feel like he’s done something wrong.
He hasn’t, of course. He’s just been a vampire. Dru and Angelus had drilled that into him thoroughly in the first few years of his fledgehood. Evil was in his system now, they’d told him. It was only natural. It would be wrong, in fact, to resist it. He’d caught on after a decade or so. Death was his art. To fight that would be to go against everything he is. Then he’d learned about the Slayer.
There was something so appealing to Spike, both then and now, about an enemy that is actually his equal. Angelus was always content with the torment of humans but, despite his best efforts, it always felt unfair to Spike. No, not unfair. Vampires don’t care about ‘fair’. It felt unsatisfying.
Now a Slayer, that is a worthy opponent. The one girl in the entire world who he is well matched with. Against, that is. Matched against.
Spike had always thought that fighting a Slayer would be the best moment of his life. He was right, both times. Xin Rong had been the most graceful, quick, lethal opponent he’d ever faced. She was like a razor, deadly precise and ruthlessly efficient. When he’d killed her, for once it didn’t feel even just a little bit unfortunate. He’d played a game that had been set by destiny, he’d played it fair and square, and he’d won.
The only opponent he’d faced that was better than Xin Rong was Nikki. She’d had the same joy while fighting as him. Glee in bloodshed for blood’s sake. It was intoxicating. She’d swept him up with the vibrancy of her wrath. He almost regretted killing her, but the look on Dru’s face when he walked in wearing the Slayer’s coat had been worth it.
And now there’s Buffy. The Slayer with family and friends. It’s almost annoying how often she is guarded by nearly powerless humans. There’s no fun in fighting a Slayer if you’re spending half of the time swatting away her sidekicks.
Even Joyce, who is currently pacing as she tries to recontextualize her daughter’s delinquency, has attempted to fend Spike off before. That axe to the noggin was no worse than any other blow Spike had endured, but it was certainly aggravating. He’d had the Slayer in his sights! He was ready for another glorious one-on-one match with the only brawler worth his time when someone had gone and changed the rules.
Even the Slayer’s bloody kid sister was in the fray, even if it was only from a distance. She’d given him such lip on Halloween, as if he was a schoolyard bully rather than a master vampire. Of course, he knew just how scared she really had been. Any ninny could have seen how her hands trembled, but Spike could hear her heart racing and smell her fear. Yet still the nibblet had still stared him down. Frankly, if the powers that be were taking recommendations for the next Slayer, Spike would suggest the bit. She certainly had the courage for it.
Here though, in her sweet, suburban, craftsman house with her sister standing guard, the nibblet looks like she might launch herself at Spike and choke him out herself, super strength be damned. Spike knows she’s not even supposed to be there. He’d heard Buffy send her upstairs.
Spike makes a face at her, the kind that would normally crack a kid up. This one just sneers, flashes a middle finger, and runs back up the stairs.
Spike chuckles, shaking his head. Where’d she learn that? Big sis not such a good influence, eh?
“Spike.”
At the sound of his name, the vampire in question looks up.
“We’re going,” Buffy says, voice as tough as teflon.
He nods. Spike looks back to Joyce. She’s been crying and she won’t look at her daughter. “Thanks, erm, for having me,” he says. She can’t even look at him, she just nods slightly and retreats into the kitchen.
When he turns back to Buffy he sees that she’s fixed him with an incredulous, borderline disgusted glare. He returns the expression with just as much venom. She rolls her eyes and makes her way to the front door. Now he knows where the nibblet gets it from.
— November, 1998 (six months later) —
“The Slayer… covered in the Slayer… yeah right,” Spike slurs. “You’re thinking of Peaches, love. Big, bleeding puppy dog that he is. Mooning over some blonde chit. One of her sodding backup dancers now…”
He stumbles over a wooden step, sloshing the rest of his whiskey onto the grass. “Bollocks,” he mumbles. Spike lets the momentum finish pulling him down to the floor. There’s a thud as he hits the porch. Porch? Why is he on a porch?
Oh yeah, the Slayer’s house. He’s supposed to be getting a book for the little copper-topped witchlet. Too bad getting to the book required getting in his car, which required seeing the bottle of Jack in the backseat, which required that he get drunk once again. Now Spike’s sloshed at the Slayer’s kitchen door. Positively pie-eyed on her back porch, lunched out on the lassie’s lawn, wankered and whipped while waiting by the woman’s wilted begonias.
Spike tells the poet shacked up in his head to stuff it.
Well, he’d always known a Slayer would be the one to do him in at the end. He’d just hoped it would be a blaze of glory, not a pathetic, two-bit dusting with a heavy assist from heartbreak and alcohol.
Grumbling to himself, Spike sits up. The now empty bottle of Jack has rolled a few feet away onto the lawn. He hasn’t got the energy to go after it.
Bloody hell, everything’s leaving him these days. Dru, his liquor, his dignity. It’s times like these that he wishes that he could still do some of the human things that he’d given up after he’d turned. Like talk to his mom.
Spike slaps himself across the face. That kind of thinking’s a good way to get him blubbering like an idiot again. He’s got a spellbook to fetch and a lover to win back. No more time for wallowing. That’s the sort of thing that William would do.
He leans against the porch railing. Just a couple of minutes and he’ll be able to walk straight enough again. Vampire constitution is like that, sobers you up faster than you can call for another shot. Makes for some bloody expensive nights at the bar. Good thing Spike just takes what he wants now. Easy enough to walk into a liquor shop, manhandle a few bottles out of the back cabinet, flash a little fang, and make his escape.
The best thing about Sunnydale is that the liquor store owners don’t even bother trying to stop him anymore. They take one look at his complexion and let him have at the stash.
Spike laughs to himself. What has he become? Some fucking fool who can’t even bring himself to bite a witchlet? That had been William. He had been the lovesick sod who couldn’t do anything right, wrote bloody awful poetry, and drove off every woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Spike is a man, a real one, as much as a vampire can be. He’s a victor, a killer. He’s loved and respected. And yet Dru…the laughs become sobs, and Spike lets it happen.
He hears the creak of the door opening. Swiftly, he wipes his face on the collar of his shirt. “Oh, it’s you again,” says a woman’s voice. “Is Buffy in trouble?”
Spike looks up. It’s the Slayer’s mum looking down at him. He watches as her face goes from impassive to concerned. God, it feels so good to have someone be concerned about him. He almost starts crying again.
“Oh no,” she says, “what’s wrong? Are you alright?” She’s so genuine, so sympathetic that Spike can’t help but tell the truth.
All he manages to say is, “she left me.”
“Who?”
“My Dru.”
“Was she… your vampire girlfriend?”
Spike nods. She was his queen, his life, his goddess.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, that must be very hard.” Joyce opens the door a little wider. “You know what, why don’t you come in? I’ll make you something warm.”
Spike looks up at her. He hopes that his face doesn’t look nearly as grateful as he feels. “Really?”
“Yes, yes. Any friend of Buffy’s is a friend of the family.” Spike doesn’t bother correcting her. “I’m sorry, but what was your name again?” She asks.
He opens his mouth to speak and is horrified as he almost says ‘William’. “Spike,” he says, “my name is Spike. I’m Spike. That’s my name.”
“Um, alright. Well…Spike, how would you feel about some hot cocoa?”
–
“Well she sounds very unreasonable.”
“Yeah, she was off her rocker. That’s what I miss most about her,” Spike smiles wistfully, briefly caught in a memory of Drusilla spinning in circles around the abandoned factory, naming constellations only she could see. He shakes himself from it, determined to focus on something else. “Do you have any of those little marshmallows?”
“Let me check,” Joyce says. She makes her way to the pantry.
“Mom, I was wondering if–” The nibblet has emerged from the living room and then presumably spots Spike. “What is he doing here?” She hisses.
“Oh Dawn, honey, Spike is just telling me a little bit about how he’s been doing. Did you need some help with your homework?”
“Mom, you shouldn’t be talking to him! Buffy says he’s bad!” Dawn insists.
“Oh yes, and we know the Slayer is always the authority on which are the good vampires and which are the bad ones,” Spike warbles.
“Mom–”
Joyce turns and gives Dawn a stern look. “Dawn, he is my guest and I would like it very much if you were nice to him.”
The kid pouts, but she stops arguing.
“Now, where were we…” Joyce perks up. “Aha! Marshmallows! Right here.” She produces a bag of miniature marshmallows and hands it to Spike.
“Thank you ma’am, very kind of you.” His words are coming out a little less muddled now that the cocoa has diluted the liquor in his stomach.
“Of course,” Joyce replies. “Now Dawn, did you need some help?” She gestures to the papers in Dawn’s hand.
Dawn huffs. “I just wanted you to read over my report. You can do it later.” She turns to leave.
“Dawn, honey,” Joyce says, “come back. I’ll take a look at it.”
“It’s not even really that good.”
“Oh sweetie, I’m sure it’s better than you think it is.” Joyce takes the paper and starts to read it. Curious, Spike peeks over her shoulder and reads as well.
“A report on ol’ Vicky, eh? Well I’m sure she’d be pleased to see that people are still writing about her nowadays. I mean, she was the only monarch in a century who wasn’t bent as a nine bob note. The darling of the whole bleeding country. Then again, I was your age at the time and she was still alive. I’m sure some of her actions haven’t aged as well in the modern day, what with all the ill-gotten gains in the British Museum.”
Dawn stares Spike down, half glaring and half curious. “You knew Queen Victoria?”
“Knew? Oh no, I wasn’t noble. Had a little dosh, but nothing like that.”
“I can’t even tell what you’re saying half the time,” Dawn says, accusatory.
“Probably for the best, that is.” Spike finishes skimming the short report. “Not bad, nibblet. You’ve got a good grasp on language. Grammar’s all good, far as I can tell.”
“Oh yeah, and you’re the authority on good grammar,” Dawn replies.
“Dawn!” Joyce exclaims.
“Well, yeah,” Spike says, “I’d like to think I know a little something about the English language, seeing as, one, I’m English, and two, I’ve been speaking it for a century!”
“And yet you sound like a cartoon.”
“Hey now! I’ll have you know that I went to secondary school, hell, I went to bloody university! I was literate at ten years old!”
“I was literate at seven!”
“Dawn!” Joyce yells, “stop that! This is our guest!”
“Whatever.” Dawn snatches back her report.
Spike grins. “You really are a bitty little firecracker, huh?”
“I’m not little,” is Dawn’s reply. Then, suddenly, she gasps and jumps back, looking at the open back door.
Spike turns. It’s Angelus, the wanker, hands pressed against the threshold barrier with a look of fury on his face. Spike relaxes when he sees it's just the puppy dog, but then he belatedly realizes that he had jumped in front of Dawn, one arm out like some sort of protective white hat. Spike drops his arm and adopts a casual stance, trying to play it off.
“Spike,” hisses Angel.
Before Spike has a chance to respond, Joyce is in front of him in a flash, facing Angel down. “You stay away from us,” she demands. Bloody hell, do all the Summers women have such brass balls?
“Joyce, he’s dangerous, you have to let me in,” Angel insists.
Spike can’t resist playing with him a little. He makes claws from his hands and pretends to cartoonishly bite Joyce’s neck, just to see the look on Angel’s face.
“Spike, I swear, if you touch her I’ll kill you.”
It’s frankly hilarious to see Angel so incredibly brassed off and red in the face. Spike can’t resist another jibe. “Oh yeah?” He says, “you and what army?”
“That would be me.” Within seconds, Spike is splayed out on the kitchen counter, a hand at his throat, once more at the mercy of the Slayer. “Angel, why don’t you come in?” Buffy says, her voice pure steel.
As Angel enters, Dawn yelps a little and it makes a part of Spike’s gut twinge. What’d Angelus do to the nibblet to get her so bloody frightened? Always going after kids, the great big puffed-up, willy-waving bastard.
The Slayer tightens her grip on his throat. Of course, he doesn’t need to breathe or pump blood to his brain, so it’s entirely ineffective, but it's still bleeding uncomfortable! She could ease up a bit, at least until he tells her…
“Tell me where you took Willow.” She demands.
“You took Willow?” Dawn exclaims.
“Yeah,” Spike says, “I’m evil?”
“Where did you take her,” Buffy repeats, punctuating her question with another squeeze to his obsolete trachea.
Spike manages to eke out, “kill me now and you’ll never find out.”
Buffy releases her hold on him. “What do you want?”
“The witch is just gonna do a little love spell for me, and then she can be on her merry way. Give me what I want, and no one gets roughed up, yeah?”
“A love spell?” Buffy asks, “what, did Drusilla dump you?”
Spike’s face burns and Buffy laughs. “Oh my God,” she says, turning to Angelus like they’re both in on some marvelous joke.
“Hey! None of that!” Spike insists. “If you wanna see Red again, you’ll do what I say.”
“And what is that?” Buffy asks.
“Couple of errands. Thought you two might fancy tagging along.”
–
Angelus and the Slayer are a real bloody joy to stroll with, all silent glares and whispered schemes as they follow a few feet behind Spike. Whatever, they deserve each other. The only girl fit to deal with the absolute pathetic wanker that is a souled-up, muzzled Angelus is the sodding Slayer, with her holier-than-thou attitude and her stupid shampoo-commercial hair. Ugh, these days people think they're God’s favorite just because they aren’t an evil, bloodthirsty, murderous demon. What a laugh.
And the Slayer, despite shagging the soul out of one, seems to not remember that vampires have ears because she’s whispering all sorts of nasties at Angel as if Spike isn't five bloody feet away.
“Honestly,” she says, “I almost feel bad for the guy. I mean, the last time I got broken up with it was because you lost your soul and started killing people. Even I was handling it better than this.”
Spike whirls around. “Shut it! You don’t know anything!”
Buffy smirks, “oh no, did I piss off big bad Spike? What’s he gonna do, throw up on my shoes?”
Spike glares at her as if he could fry her stupid grin with his mind.
Angel laughs a little and shakes his head. “He’s kind of soft, Buffy. Always has been.”
“Am not! I’m evil! Very, very evil!”
“Spike,” Angel says, “you were never even close to being as evil as Drusilla. She was running laps around you.”
Spike huffs, “I murder! I kill! What more do you people want from me?”
Angel turns back to Buffy, speaking conspiratorially, “the first person he killed after he turned, he couldn’t even keep the blood down. Threw up all over his breeches.”
“Shut up! Did not!”
“I’m just saying,” Angel continues, “you were never evil enough for Dru. I’m surprised it took this long for her to leave you.”
Spike is on the verge of jumping Angel right at this moment. He knows he’d never win though. Two against one with Angel’s second being the sodding Slayer? There’s no chance that Spike would come out on top, even at full strength, much less while nursing a month-coming hangover. However, he can use weapons other than fists to get his vengeance. Angel might be immune to flat-out insults, but Spike knows his soft spots.
“Oh yeah, I wasn’t evil enough for Dru. And who was? You?” Spike turns to Buffy. “How do you feel knowing the sod you’re shacking up with is evil enough for the likes of Dru?”
Buffy glares, but she looks uncomfortable, a little guilty even, like she’s mad at herself for loving the bloke. “He has a soul,” she says.
“Oh yeah, a bloody soul. The bugger feels bad about all the snacks he’s ever had. Real good person that makes him.”
“Shut up Spike,” Angel spits, “You don’t know anything about me.”
Spike grins. Oh, he’s got him. “I don’t? Really? Only known you for a couple dozen decades or so. What, this bird’s got a better grip on you in the last year? Though, I suppose she hasn’t gotten a grip on you lately, seeing as you’ve still got that soul of yours–”
Angel rushes forward, held back only by Buffy. “Angel,” she says, “we still need him.”
“Yes, Angelus, I’m needed,” Spike says smugly.
“Spike,” Buffy says, “you’re a pig. If I ever see you in this town again after this, you’re dust. Got it?”
“Yeah, sure Slayer,” he says, “just don’t come calling the next time the nibblet needs a history report checked over.”
Puzzled, Buffy asks, “are you talking about Dawn?”
“What, you got another kid sister I don't know about?”
“No, I just– You read Dawn’s report?”
Suddenly ashamed, Spike shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, trying to regain some of his swagger. “No. Just messing.”
Buffy doesn’t look convinced. Luckily, she doesn’t have time to grill him more because a dozen vampires have appeared out of the alleyways to surround them.
“Spike,” says one of them.
Oh wonderful, that’s the voice of someone who wants to punch his lights out! A fight is just what he needs, a spot of violence to wash out the bad taste in his mouth. Spike grins. And with the Slayer and Angelus at his side? What a way to get his cold blood boiling again.
Spike cracks his knuckles. A vamp can always count on Sunnydale for a good time. He’ll knock some heads, break some bones, and then they’ll see how ‘soft’ Spike is.
And if Joyce wakes up tomorrow to find a new tin of hot cocoa mix on her back porch, well, there will never be enough evidence to prove that Spike’s the one who put it there.