Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)

Rating: PG-13

Timeline:  Post Smashed (with the assumption that everything after that never happened.  IE, the characters are together, stayed happy with no 'almost weddings', no one was shot with black magic repercussions, and Seeing Red never took place) and during The Silence of the Lambs.  I know this doesn't work chronologically, but I'm going to say it does.  Humor me.

Summary:  Andrew is appointed by the Scoobies to undertake rather disturbing research.

If anyone had noticed the weather, it went wisely unvoiced.  Too archetypical—nearly creepy given the nature of the most recent assignment.  The unsettling air that surrounded them was dry and bland, despite the thunderous storm that roared around them.  Of course, trips to an asylum for the criminally insane were not, by definition, supposed to be hugs and puppies.  And it wasn't as though they hadn't taken on worse.  They had.  Time and time again.

That didn't stop them from taking turns to shiver off personal wiggins.  All except Spike, who lounged comfortably against the rustic stone of the exterior wall, lighting a cigarette despite the weary observance of the weather.  They were currently protected by the stretched outer roof, and he had a suspicion that smoking inside was a no-no.

 Not that he cared a lick.

Casual negligence was a currently enviable state.  The newest annoyance from Sunnydale—well, one of three if he wanted to be fair—was currently pacing back and forth, twitching uncontrollably in stride.  His hands were steepled with near reverence over his lips and nose, nearly dividing his features in half.  The sight was so pathetic that the peroxide Cockney couldn't help but laugh.

"Remind me again why I have to do it?" Andrew all but cried, skin paler than usual.  He could easily rival any vampire to cross his path.  Too many hours spent in Warren's basement concocting ridiculous schemes that always failed while downloading Star Wars Internet porn.  He did have the full appearance of a computer geek, and that effeminate lisp wasn't doing much to heighten his status.

"We've been over this already," Buffy said slowly, as though speaking to a delinquent child.

"But any of you guys would be way better!"  The poor boy truly looked pathetic.  Standing there, shivering in the cold and eying the entrance doors as though they would eat him alive upon attempting to cross the threshold.  Then again—the worst—they wouldn't, and he would have to go through with it.

"If we want answers, we need someone who he will talk to," the Slayer explained.  "That means someone who won't lose their cool."

"Someone who won't lose their cool?!" Andrew all but screamed.  "I'm so without cool!—"

"No argument here," Dawn muttered.  She went wisely unacknowledged.

"—Warren stole my cool and used it to make the Freeze Ray.  I have no cool left!"

The Slayer was unmoved, and looked far from impressed. "Therefore none to lose."

At that, whatever snappy excuse, ready and coiled on his tongue, snapped inward with a vengeance.  Anyone could see that the boy was shaking, and quite possibly the worst candidate for the interview as far as stomaching the process and getting clerical answers from the target.  However, in a strange sense, he was also their best option.  It came down to volunteers.  Buffy was more than certain that she could handle whatever came her way—human monsters not providing much of a challenge with the actual dealing. She had dealt with Faith in a variety of failed attempts and oh let's not go there again's.  When it came down to it, she was pretty bad at eliciting anything further than deepened scars and furrowed hatred.  She was not a good option for the case.

The fact that Andrew was scared shitless had every possibility of working to their advantage.  Monsters liked scaring people.  She knew this for a fact, and was banking on the hope that the monster in question would rise to the challenge.

"I would go," Willow offered helpfully, "but the filleting thing really throws me off.  Creepiness.  I can fillet a number of demons, but a human guy that would do that willingly?  No siree, Mister.  Keep me right out."

"I read an article about him that says he doesn't appreciate rudeness," Anya added.  "Xander thinks that my blunt but highly attractive honesty would not be beneficial to extracting information."

Spike snickered.  "That his fancy way of bein' the big man?"  He appraised the former demon's fiancé with the skeptical once-over.  "'You're good enough to rip the innards out of an unfaithful troll with a hankerin' for large mallets, but any dollybird of mine's gonna stay the bleedin' hell away from a caged sociopath.'  Hypocrisy, Harris.  Look into it."

"So says the Evil Undead Who's In Love With His Would-Be Dinner."

"Slayer," Buffy hissed defensively.  "Not dinner."

The vampire shrugged and tossed her a tantalizing wink.  "Same thing, 'f you ask me.  An' who are you to talk, mate?  She still makes a helluva yummy dinner."

"Ack!" Dawn protested, hands flying to cover her ears.  "TMI!  Minors present!"

"I'll thank you not to corrupt my sister," the Slayer sniggered irately.

Little good it did.  With a snarky grin, Spike flickered his cigarette aside to wrap an arm about her waist, whispering something undoubtedly suggestive in her ear.  Everyone pretended not to notice.  Such had become custom since the two openly proclaimed themselves in a—gulp, still having trouble with this one—re-la-tion-ship.

Xander made what had to be the most exaggerated 'I'm gonna be sick' face, and turned away before he could actually turn green.  It did little good in distracting anyone from the topic at hand, however, and Andrew pivoted desperately to him, oblivious of his discomfort.  "So, why can't you do it?"

"Yeh?" Spike indulged in a long puff of his cigarette, eyes perking reasonably.  "So speak, glorified bricklayer.  Won' let your demon bird, who's seen more of the same than everythin' this bloke can dish out.  Why can't you brave the dungeon?"

That was all the prompt required to get his mind on a non-gutter track.  "Frankly?  'Cause the guy gives me the willies."  Harris offered a shudder for effect.  "Vampires I can deal with…as long as they don't talk about dinners and Slayers and oh GOD, there goes my mind again."  A minute as he composed himself—not aided by Cockney's rich laughter.  Buffy elbowed the peroxide pest, who tossed her an unrepentant grin in return, defiantly brushing a finger over her flushed cheek.  Recovery time was relatively brief.  Within seconds, Xander found his voice.  "Burning-mucus spouting demons are an all-go for me.  But when it comes to someone eating someone else in the not-so-good way—"

"Ahh!" Dawn cried again.

The interruption went unmentioned, though Harris wisely ignored the dirty look Buffy sent him in response.  If she was willing to tolerate Captain Peroxide and his collection of I'm A Walking Innuendo, Ask Me How, then she could surely deal with him.  Besides, it wasn't as though everything that could possibly said had not already been covered by Anya.  "—Gnaaha.  Chalk one for the up-chuck factor."

"A-and I c-c-can't go," Tara Maclay offered weakly, encouraged only by her girlfriend's hand on her shoulder and a squeeze of support.  "It's j-just…creepy."

Andrew was losing from all sides.  The downfall to his argument.  Desperately, he turned to Buffy.  "Why can't you do it?  You're the Slayer, after all!  A-and your boyfriend's killed WAY more people than this guy!  You'd know how to handle him."

"Right.  All 'cause I'm the Slayer.  The Slayer who has a penchant for justice," she muttered.  "I'd last all of three seconds in there before wanting to rip the bastard's head off.  Sure, I know how to handle Spike.  Doesn't take much.  Put him in front of the telly or give him something shiny."  She giggled in spite of herself at the mock-offended look that overwhelmed his features before remembering that her friends did not share her humor, or crazed affection.  "I donot handle random 'I eat people for fun'…" Her eyes caught the vampire's, and she ducked with a sudden blush and Xander coughed loudly.  "Okay, bad example.  Let's just say, this guy had a choice, and it was far from the straight and narrow.  I mean, at least demons have excuses.  Evil thing.  Kinda with the non-optionness."

 "Only took her three years to learn that one," Spike purred, nuzzling her neck.

"Our only other option is Giles," Buffy concluded.  "But he's not here.  Hence, the here-ness of us."  She shook her head with an inkling of very visible distaste.  "And that's all well and good for him.  He might've bothered to try showing up.  His stupid idea, anyway.  He wants to investigate all possible demons that were captured and placed into prisons and loony bins—fine.  But—"

Andrew was whining now.  There was no getting around it.  "If he's a possible demon, then why can't you handle him?!"

"Because I'll say something of the extreme Buffy-variety and piss him off."  The Slayer shuddered.  "I could delude myself into thinking it won't go down like that, but we have reality.  I'm not exactly known for keeping my mouth shut when I'm supposed to."

"But she's not as bad as me," Anya quickly clarified, as though her crown was in jeopardy.

"Not as bad as Anya."

The former vengeance demon nodded, satisfied.  "No one is as bad as me."

"Be proud, honey," Xander said.

"I am."

"OKAY!  Enough!"  Andrew went back to pacing, small body wracked completely with nervous jitters.  The weather really wasn't helping.  A bolt of lightening flashed through the sky, and the boy all but threw himself into Spike's arms when the thunder crashed in response.

He was consequentially dropped with no remorse.  "Get the bleeding hell away from me, stupid git!"

"Why does it have to be me?" he whined, nearly at the verge of tears.  "H-he's gonna…he's gonna eat me the minute I get down there!"

"I'm sure he won't be unrestrained in the same room with you," Willow assured him.  "That'd be breaking a bajillion safety codes.  Besides…okay…not going there.  Giving me the wiggins again."

"Well, I still don't see why I'm the best choice!" Andrew squealed defiantly.  "Anyone here is a better choice than me!  Why not Spike?"

A moment of stillness spread throughout the Scoobies.

Then Anya snorted.

Xander laughed.

Dawn started gagging on her gum.

Tara's eyes widened incredulously, and she shared a look of private humor with Willow before mirth got the better of them.

Buffy just stared at him as though he had grown another head.

Spike blinked as though it were of no matter to him.  He reached for his cigarettes once more with an indifferent shrug, somewhat irritated that he had consigned a perfectly good fag to the wet pavement before finishing it off.  As much as he enjoyed coddling Buffy, those things were bloody expensive, and he wasn't in the position to just knick whatever he pleased anymore.  He had to be respectable and all that, as the Slayer's boyfriend and all.

And did he mention those things were bloody expensive?Probably, but it deserved the emphasis. He had newfound respect for Xander's biweekly paycheck, especially since he benefited from it almost more than the boy did.

So he wasn't openly stealing things anymore.  That didn't mean he would pass up a ten-dollar bill just lying around with no one to claim.  And honestly, if Harris hadn't learned by now to be careful with his money whilst around vampires, he didn't deserve it.

Bugger.  He'd drifted.  Oh well.  Didn't look like he'd missed anything too horribly interesting…

"—absolutely, positively, NO WAY Spike is going into the dungeon!" Buffy was yelling.  God, she could wake the dead with that shrill—bloody awful pun, mate.  Let's forget you ever thought…that.  "He'd be gone faster than you can say Hoover Dust Buster."

Again, not sparkling with originality, he supposed it was the thought that counts.  "'Preciate the sentiment, luv."

The Slayer reeled and blinked at him as though he were a very small child.  "It's not sentiment, Spike.  If you go down there, you're going to end up causing trouble."

At that, he frowned.  It wasn't often she took a tone of such blatant mistrust with him…not since they sat down and worked out the kinks in their relationship.  Oh, and hadn't that been a fun two days.  Between shagging and eating and yelling and laughing and crying and more shagging and—

"What makes you say that, pet?"

"The fact that you're William the Bloody, for one.  Big time on the soulless side with a severe affinity for chaos.  Not to mention the most ill-tempered, rudest vamp on the face of the planet."  There really wasn't much to argue with there.  He was a bad, rude man.  And he reveled every minute of it.  "You'd get no information out of him and totally ruin all chances of Giles completing his…whatever this is.  Field study.  Or you'd get the bright idea that it'd be a really funny gag to spring the dangerous serial killer from jail.  'Cause hey.  Big chaos, hear me roar."

Spike contemplated her argument at that.  There really wasn't much to contest.  The idea of meeting the notorious Dr. Hannibal Lecter was an honor that attracted as much appeal as taking a nice, sunny daytime stroll.  He had heard of the old git, sure, but never really paid much attention to him.   Drusilla had.  Oh, she had followed the case like none other—claiming to know where he hid the bodies and wanting very much to see if he would like to eat her heart.

Right nutter.  That had been a little much, even for Dru.  He was overjoyed when the case was finally put to rest.  There were other obsessions for his Dark Princess to enjoy.  She had on occasion brought the matter up before their ill-fated move to Sunnydale, but not with enough frequency to merit concern.

But now.  The thought was almost delicious.  From what he knew about the doctor—a regretful lot for tolerating with his former's crazed obsession—he understood that Lecter abhorred discourtesy.  And Buffy couldn't be more correct in her assertion of his character.  He was a bad, rude man, and Lecter would either ignore him completely or try to give one of his infamous psychological analyses.  Oh, that would be a laugh.  And if he wanted to make things really interesting, he could cause all sorts of havoc by…

Balls.  He knew that look.  The Slayer was reading his thoughts.  He was in trouble.

Spike cleared his throat self-consciously, even as he was unable to completely rid himself of the delighted smirk that had spread across his lips.  "Right.  Chaos.  That would be bad."

"Very bad," she growled.

"Terrible."

"Awful."

"Wicked an' naughty."

"Stake-worthy."

"What isn't, luv?"

Xander brightened a bit at that.  "What?   Stake-worthy?  Maybe you should send him in…"

"No.  Not sending Spike in."

"She doesn' want me staked," the vampire declared proudly.

"I wouldn't go that far," Buffy murmured.  "Okay, Andrew.  You're here because we caught you.  Because Warren and Jonathon decided to let you take the fall. Considering the massive pain in my ass that you've been lately, I say this is only fair.  No one else is up to giving the interview, so it's going to be you.  Got it?  All more besides, we made the deal and you agreed.  You didn't want jail time and we needed someone to help us with these analytical…things.  For Giles.  Since everyone here is too young, too wigged, or too rude to do it, you're our best shot.  Since you're not a Scooby, you don't get a say.  You're not here because we want you here.  This isn't up for discussion."

Andrew looked about ready to cry.  "Wha…there has to be someone else, Miss Slayer.  What…what about that other vampire you know?  Angel?  Doesn't he run a detective agency?  If so, I think that would be the absolute best option."

There was a moment of stunned silence as the Scoobies regarded each other.

"You know, Buff," Xander said finally.  "That's actually a fairly decent idea. With as much as I'm not advocating a visit from Mr. Likes-To-Brood, he could probably be here by tomorrow."

"Bollocks to that," Spike snarled.  "'S the whelp's turn.  Remember?  Bein' a pain in the Slayer's arse?  I'm not bloody stayin' here 'f you're gonna call Peaches."

"And the reasons to call him just keep piling."

"One more word outta you, Harris, an' I'm gonna rip your head off an' drink from your brainstem."

"That gets less and less intimidating the more you say it."

"Jus' wait, you bloody ponce."

"Ohhh…more threats from Chips Ahoy.  I'm shaking."

"GUYS!  Stop!"  Buffy stomped demonstratively into the pavement and the bickering automatically ceased, even if the dirty looks kept coming.  "We're not calling Angel.  I arranged the meeting with Dr. Chilton for today, and it's likely we're not going to get back in after this.  It took forever to convince him we're not some traveling band of circus folk—"

"Now why would 'e think that?" Spike drawled sarcastically, puffing furiously at his cigarette.  "What?  You got a Slayer, a Key, a vamp, the whelp, two Wicca's, an' a partridge in a pear tree.  Sounds bloody normal to me!"

There was a moment of silent consent.

"Actually," Willow intervened.  "Considering where we come from, that is a bit normal."

"No need to get cute."

Tara shot her an appraising look that clearly stated the joke was appreciated.

"Why can't we wait?" Andrew whined.  "If it'd only take a day, I'm sure Dr. Chilton would—"

"Perhaps you're not listenin' 's well as you could be," Spike snarled.  "No.  Bloody.  Peaches.  Got it, Bright-Boy?"

"Well, doesn't Peac…Angel have—like—associates?"

Xander snorted at that.  "Oh.  Great idea.  Let's get Wesley the Wonder Boy up here.  See how fast he accidentally calls the Council.  Or better yet, Cordelia.  She could give him fashion tips on how to lighten up the cell."

"There was that li'l Irish fellow," the vampire mused.  "Think 'e died, though."

"Oh, maybe the green guy with the nice voice," Willow suggested eagerly.  Then she frowned as the notable flaws in that plan leaked through.  "Oh.  Never mind."

A long sigh coursed through Andrew's frail body.  He hadn't wanted it to come to this; he really hadn't.  But it looked as though the Scoobies were going to leave him with no choice.  And honestly, he couldn't be held responsible for his actions…

"No."

"What?" everyone replied in blunt shock.

"No.  I refuse to go down there.  You guys might be with the toughness and crime fighting and the 'only you can prevent forest-fires,' but I'm not.  I-I'm the bad man.  Bad."  He slapped his own wrist as though to verify his duress.  "I'm a bad bad man!"

Dawn snorted incredulously.  "Man."

"I'm a bad man, a-and you guys can't trust me down there!  What if I wanna set him free, huh?  Y-y-you were all worried about Spike.  Well, he's n-not the Big Bad anymore, is he?  I-I-I'll do it.  Y-yeah, that's right!  Then I'll sic Lecter on you like—"

Willow blinked.  "Okay.  I never thought I'd be quoting vamp me, but definitely bored now.  What about you, Buf.  Bored?"

The Slayer nodded.  If time hadn't been an issue, she might have found the presence of mind to be amused.  "Oh yeah," she snapped.  "Most definitely bored.  Come on, Andrew.  You're just delaying the inevitable.  The sooner you go down there, the sooner you can come back up and we can go home."

"Y-you can't make me."

"Oh, yes I can."

"Y-you an-and what army?  You're the Slayer, not 007.  Y-you don't have some cool license to kill.  A-and I'm human."

"Oh, but Willow and I could turn you into a newt," Tara offered.

"Then you'd be not-so human," Spike added, still a little scathed at the insinuation that he was no longer the Big Bad.  "An' I'd be free to shuffle you loose of the mortal coil, y'got me?  Quit causin' the lady trouble an' get your arse down there."

By this time, Andrew was thoroughly petrified.  There would be no more arguing.  With a small nod, he turned to Dawn and quietly asked for the questionnaire.

"'Atta boy!" Anya cheered with forced enthusiasm.

However, Spike wasn't satisfied.  He took one glance at the stationary and rolled his eyes.  "Bloody hell…who typed up this soddin' thing?"

"I did."  Dawn frowned.  "Well, they're Xander's questions but I typed 'em up.  Why?"

The minute she had spoken up, the vampire went soft.  The young Summers girl was the only human on the face of the planet that had a permanent 'get-out-of-jail-free' card when it came to his temper—as long as she wasn't doing something foolish like putting her life on the line.  Even her sister, who he was completely taken with, didn't have that sort of lifeline.  He'd save Buffy every night until the end of time, but he protected Dawn with every breath he didn't breathe.

Wanker, he thought, and not for the first time.  Or the hundredth.

"Did you pick the stationary, Sweet Bit?"

"Nope," Willow interjected with blindingly cheesy smile.  "That was me."

Spike domed a brow and smacked the questionnaire demonstratively.  "How the bleeding hell do you expect a sodding psychiatrist to take the lot of you seriously when you call yourselves Scooby Gang Incorporated?  If the whelp wasn' gonna get laughed out before, 'e sure as hell is now."

A frown marred the Witch's cheery disposition.  "It was that or Slayerettes United."

"It was a very difficult decision.  I think there was a coin toss involved," Tara verified.

"Bloody priceless.  Why don' you jus' title it: 'Tryin' To Find Our If You're A Demon, Mate'?  You'd prolly 'ave more luck that way."

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Andrew announced.

"Oh, no you're not.  Enough talk."  Buffy stepped forward and yanked the questionnaire from Spike's grasp, thrusting it back to the boy.  "We're already late."

He was back to shaking again.  White as a sheet.  It was probably a good thing they had taken that last pit stop on the way.  "Buffy, I'm scared."

"Nothing to be scared of," Anya assured him with her usual point-blank logic.  "He can't hurt you.  He'll likely stare down at you and make some deeply disturbing psychological remarks that strike you as so accurate that you run out screaming, but he can't hurt you."

Everyone blinked slowly.

"Go on," Buffy urged before he could protest again.  "Spike and I will be waiting in Dr. Chilton's office…whether he wants us there or not.  The others will be in the lobby."

Willow frowned.  "You want us to wait in the lobby?"

"We're going to need you unsupervised, in case something happens that requires a reaction of the magical persuasion."  The Slayer grasped Spike's arm.  "We're waiting in Dr. Chilton's office, 'cause I don't trust that weasel.  I know I could take him—easily—but the guy gave me the wiggins.  He sounded very…come-ony on the phone."

"Mmm," the vampire murmured, nuzzling her hair.  "'F the wanker comes on to you, luv, somethin's gonna come off of 'im."

Buffy flushed once more.  He really did have an oddly perverse definition of romance.  "Come on," she said, hoping to distract her friends long enough to change the subject.  "Let's go.  Last I checked, being late is one of those discourtesies that Hannibal the Cannibal doesn't particularly favor."

"Yeh, wouldn't want Andrew to start off on the wrong foot," Spike agreed.  "An' in the meantime, I get to do some macho posin'."

"No posing," Xander pleaded.  "Please say there will be no posing."

The peroxide Cockney draped an arm around Buffy's waist and steered her into the building, indulging Harris with a condescending wink.  "'S not for your eyes, anyway, Junior."

There was nowhere to go but in.  They piled inward in parade-fashion.  Spike holding onto Buffy, holding onto Dawn, who in turn had to drag Andrew across the threshold.  The Wicca's next—hand in hand—leaving Xander and Anya last.

"I've gotta bad feeling about this," Harris told his fiancé.

"You always say that."

"Yeah, and something bad usually happens."

"Big blubbering baby.  It's just a building.  A building that houses numerous psychopathic madmen.  And, yes, the one we're seeing today had a notorious penchant for ingesting those he killed, but if you think about the ancient Sa—"

"Really, honey.  You don't need to go into the details."

"I'm just saying.  Things might be different this time."

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks and turned to gaze upon her in horror.  The reaction was unanimous.

"Anya!"

Spike frowned.  "Wha?  What 'appened?"

"Scooby Law," Buffy said sadly.  "There are some things you never say or else everything goes straight to hell."

"You prattlin' do-gooders an' your bloody superstitions."

"Hey!  It's real!  Happened right before I met you."

"Ha bloody ha, Slayer."  He stopped and frowned as he recalled—in varied detail—every painful memory that year had to offer, thus conceding the unlikely love of his unlife might have a point.  "So, you're sayin' Demon Girl jus' buggered us up?"

"Yep.  Something terrible's gonna happen now."

"Sodding hell."

*~*~*

Dr. Chilton blinked, and it was the most annoying thing on the face of the planet.

“You’re sending him,” he drawled with a discreet nod to the piddling Andrew, “to meet with Dr. Lecter?”

Another long blink.

If she detected any hint of reservation—which she did, because the Slayer was not blind and deaf—she didn’t respond to it.  There had been weasels before and there would be weasels in the future, but none that quite compared to the esteemed Dr. Frederick Chilton.  He sat behind his desk and pretended it was made of inscrutable power, leering at them as though he had every right in the world to judge. 

In retrospect and fairness—two things Spike was not shuffling out in spades—the scenario had to look more than odd.  Three incredibly young (looking) kids who were likely no more than twenty-five asking by appointment to see Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the famous serial killer whose notoriety was surpassed only by legend.  But they were there with cause.  They had identification and credentials (some counterfeit—pesky immortality thing didn’t run well with the government) to prove it. 

Chilton spent several minutes studying Buffy with such severe scrutiny that Spike toyed with the idea of ripping the wanker’s balls off for fun, chip be damned.  No one was allowed to look at her like that.  Even if it was to gauge the full absurdity of her name.  The Slayer had a bloody ridiculous name, but he was the only one who got to think so. 

If Buffy noticed, she remained professional.  More so than he could say for himself.  The vampire paced away and began playing with one of the bands that encircled his wrist.  A fella simply couldn’t wear too much metal.

“Well, out of all of us, I believe that…Andrew has the best chance of getting information from Mist…Doctor Lecter.  I don’t associate well with…that sort of…guy.  And—”

“Oh, piffle,” Spike groaned.  He took two heated steps forward and leered over the little man’s desk, enjoying the way Chilton’s eyes widened as he shrank helplessly into his chair.  “We’re sendin’ the li’l guy in ‘cause ‘e’s a useless git, much like yourself.  ‘ve done my readin’ on this Lecter bloke.  ‘E likes to poke fun at pity cases.  Can you think of anythin’ more pitiful than him.”

Andrew emitted a miserable wail of trepidation in unwitting support of this claim.

Chilton looked up, shaking even as he tried not to, and matched the blaze behind the vampire’s eyes.  It would only take the slightest shift for his bumpies to emerge and give this prat the scare of his life, and he might have gone through with it had Buffy’s hand not gently rocked against his shoulder.  It was not a motion to pull back; rather to keep him grounded.  To maintain the human visage before all was completely buggered.

“Sorry, luv,” he said over his shoulder, eyes not leaving the greasy man for an instant.  Daring him to indulge one of those annoyingly condescending blinks again.  “Din’t mean to lose my temper.”

He felt her wry amusement more than anything and understood that the words to escape her lips in no way reflected her current frame of mind.  The Slayer was particularly talented at such forms of evasion.  “Spike, there’s gonna be a world of hurt if you don’t back off a bit.  Just let the guy talk.”

“Yes, yes,” Andrew agreed enthusiastically.  “Let the guy talk.”

Everyone in the room paused to toss him a curious glance.

“What?” he asked, uncomfortable again.  “I just enjoy sexual tension.”

That did it.  Spike leapt away from Chilton as though the man had encased his body with holy water.  He promptly ignored the amused glance the Slayer delivered and shivered with contemptuous affect.  “So, right,” he grumbled.  “Get on with it.”

The greasy doctor—and questionable one at that—was still a bit flustered.  “What?”

“Give the whelp the run-down.  ‘m assumin’ you ‘ave procedures for takin’ care of this prat?”

Dr. Chilton nodded slowly, clearing his throat and straightening his tie.  “Of course…” He evidently found it easier to look at Andrew and took great comfort in doing so; it wasn’t often that he found himself bullied by those outside prison cells.  No, the would-be-doctor was one for verbal engages with teenagers and the assorted populace whose lack of education rivaled how very far he did not go in college.  Enough to get him where he is today, but nothing further.  To be so blatantly shown up by a punkish Billy Idol wannabe brought him back to the days of private school and the upperclassman’s favorite brands of torture.

The same the most notorious occupant of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane ridiculed him about time and time again.  Not that it bothered him, of course.

Andrew seemed to fall under the heading of those he could easily bully.  It would be better to get him away from his companions.  While pseudo Billy Idol—the girl had called him Spike, horrible nickname—didn’t seem to care a lick about what happened to the boy, he might get possessive about another hound sniffing around his favorite hunting territory.  There was something about him that made Chilton want to lock him up, and not only the way he regarded him.  As though starving and…was he looking at his neck?  I’ve been spending too much time thinking about cannibalism.  “Ummm…yes.”  Time to go into routine.  He had made the following speech enough times to recite it in his sleep.  “If you will, please…in any circumstance, do not forget the following: do not touch the glass, do not approach the glass. Pass him nothing but soft paper. No paperclips or staples, pencils or pens—”

“What if he needs to write something down?” Andrew intervened.

“He has plenty of writing utensils within his cell.”

“But what if his pen has run out of ink and he needs to borrow one from me?”

“He has plenty of writing utensils within his cell.”

“But what if—”

Buffy’s eyes widened in irritation and she turned to Spike, who in turn whispered something that sounded remarkably like, “Newt,” to the trembling interviewer.

Hannibal’s going to have a field day with this one, Chilton reflected bitterly.  “He has all necessary items at his disposal, and you are invited to remind him of that should he make a request. If he attempts to pass you anything, do not accept it—”

“What if he wants to give me his autograph?”

The Slayer made a face.  “Why would you want it?”

Andrew smiled, then—dear God, was he blushing?  “Just…to prove that I was here.  You know?  Jonathon and Warren—”

“Do not accept anything he passes you,” Chilton interjected.

“But what if—”

“No.”

“What if I need to borrow a—”

“FOR GOD’S SAKE, DO NOT ACCEPT ANYTHING!”

Spike blinked slowly, then rumbled a long chuckle.  “Temper, temper.” 

Buffy elbowed him, but there was a conspiratorial grin on her face.  A characteristic one/eighty.  She was suddenly calm and diplomatic—the biting sneer retreating from an otherwise amiably snarky persona. “Andrew,” she said softly.  “It’s best to listen to what Dr. Chilton has to say, wouldn’t you agree?  Especially since he’s being so nice and letting us interview Lecter in the first place.  Even if it was a polite suggestion made by one Quentin Travers.”  Her eyes sparkled when Chilton bristled in recognition of the name.  “We apologize that Mr. Travers could not be here in person, Doctor, but he is a very busy man.  He was hoping Giles—Mr. Giles—could take his place, but things in Sunnydale do tend to get a little hectic.”

Chilton nodded numbly.  “And…Andrew, his name is?  He is the best alternative your people could come up with?”

The peroxide vampire offered a firm snicker.  “What?  You prefer me go in there?  The Slay—erm—Miss Summers doesn’ exactly feel all comfy with the notion ‘f bein’ led down there, an’ knowin’ what sorts’ve loons you keep locked up in ‘ere, I can’t say I’m too thrilled with the idea, either.”

There was a moment of rational thought.

“Well,” Chilton began, “it does seem that you are not as intimidated at the thought of meeting Hannibal Lecter face-to-face.  I don’t see why—”

“’Cause I’m the Big Bad,” Spike snarled.  Buffy elbowed him again.  “Erm…’cause I’m a rude son of a bitch, an’ ‘f I remember right from all the bloody articles, your boy isn’t a fan of people who ‘ave the knack of tellin’ it like it is.  Trust me, mate.  ‘F we ‘ad another option other than Gonna-Shit-His-Pants over there, we’d’ve taken it.”

There really was no disputing that, even as Chilton looked him over with the foresight of having not already considered such an angle.  He knew the excuse provided for Ms. Summers was likely a fluke; their change in temperament was foreseeable, but he had her pegged as the sort of dame who shied from no challenge.  While true, the hospital administrator wasn’t exactly the world’s most apt people-reader; the girl’s disposition was fiery at the wait.   She was a pistol, and a bold one at that.

“Very well…I will escort…Andrew to meet with the doctor, providing he agrees to follow the precautionary restrictions that I established.”  His eyes narrowed at that.  “And a last name might be helpful.”

“I’m Tucker’s brother.”

Buffy and Spike exchanged a look.

“Tucker…he tried to set the hellhounds on—”

“Andrew!”

The boy turned his gaze downward shamefully.

Dr. Chilton blinked again, only this time out of confusion rather than condescension.  “Right,” he said slowly.  “Let’s go.”

That was it; his safety net of the vampire and Slayer was gone.  Andrew watched helplessly as the figures of his hosts were shut into the administrator’s office, unable to do anything but comply with the strong grip that ushered him down a labyrinth of halls. Every step was further pronouncement that he was indeed alone.  Alone.  Going alone to face the doctor.

A big guy named Barney asked something about glass.  Or bars.  Or bars made of glass.  Or glass that protected bars from other glass.  Or…it didn’t matter.  Well, it probably did, but that didn’t mean he was going to ask.  Instead, he nodded numbly and was all but shoved into the main section of the dungeon. 

Andrew’s gaze drifted down the darkened hallway, the full-blown panic that had been threatening him ever since the Scoobies pulled up to the asylum finally taking its toll.  His hands clamped tightly on the questionnaire, eyes closed until he remembered that walking was likely a necessity.  With each step, his legs threatened to cave.  He could imagine the humiliation: lying unconscious at murderer’s row.  He wondered if he would be treated to a raunchy Catherine Zeta-Jones number as he…

The inmates were quiet and depressing…all except one.  Some rambling lunatic that hissed something…ewwww.  He was sure his virgin ears were much too inexperienced to even  begin to know what to do with that suggestion. 

Why him?  Why now?  What on earth was he supposed to say to the man?  “Umm, yes.  Dr. L.  We’re wondering if you’re really a demon.  Can I ask you a few questions?”

Presuming he didn’t pass out. 

Not likely.  Nearer and nearer to the madman’s cell and he was beginning to see stars.  Dizzying stars.

Whoa.  Head rush.  Cool.

Last cell.  There was no more being Mr. Avoidance.  Andrew inhaled deeply and peered inside, emitting a small squeak when he saw Lecter standing at astute attention, as though he had been waiting for him. 

There was that breathless minute as perhaps the most notorious, living serial killer took him under his observation of the utmost scrutiny.  A long, endless beat of irreproachable consequence.  The boy was certain that was the end of him.  He would wither and fall then and there, die a harmless sham of a would-be Big Bad and put the Slayer and her Slayerettes to unimaginable shame.  A fate worse than death.  It was like he standing in the presence of every single comic book baddie he had fantasized and—more importantly—idolized as a child.  Shivering with glee but unable to hide his reservation.  Innate and overwhelming bitterness that did little good soared through his veins.  They expected him to talk to this man?  This guy who put the doings of Norman Oswald to shame?  How?  Why?  How?

Three excellent questions.

“Hi, Mist…Doctor Lecter,” he began nervously.  “I’m Andrew.”

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing behind those eyes. Not an acknowledgment, not annoyance, not even a gleam to hint at incredulity. For whatever reason, that scared him more than the threat of an actual reaction did. The doctor merely watched him, eyes burning with the power of the Red Sea. And there was nothing to be seen behind them.

“Heh…well…I guess...M…Mister Giles…there’s this questionnaire, and he wanted me to ask you a f-few—”

That nothing was really starting to bother him. Even Spike at his scariest had failed to elicit anything more than the occasional tremble. Lecter was staring right through him as though he did not exist.

“There’s…ummm…Mister Giles…he’s apart of this organization th-that’s conducting interviews with…ummm…” With what? What was he supposed to say here? Potential demons? Captured criminals that the Watcher’s Council suspected might not be entirely human? God, why hadn’t they sent Anya in? She would know what to say, and she would have it over with before anyone could blink. Not that the doctor actually blinked. Or…did anything but stare with that nothingness. “They’re asking around t-to see if there’s…ummm…any…” He supposed he could just send the questionnaire through and make a run for it, but something told him that the Slayer wouldn’t be altogether pleased. They needed cooperation with this, even if that was something no one had guaranteed. “I’ll just start asking the questions, okay? If there’s anything…I…”

Something horrible hit the air. Something sharp and metallic—ringing softly like a blade swept across a plane of grass. Just enough to prick the senses but not enough to draw blood. Living in Sunnydale had cultured him to a number of dreadful things, but Andrew was quite certain at that moment that he had met the pinnacle of duress. It was a miracle he didn’t lose control of his more embarrassing functions and piss himself silly.

“Andrew, is it? Are you aware just how long I am scheduled to remain in this box?”

Oh God. He was talking. Damn damn, double damn.

A desperate lunge. Andrew looked away idly and made a radical second-guess. “For life, I guess.”

“You guess.” It sounded like an accusation. The nothingness intensified.

“Well, they didn’t exactly tell me…but this one time, Tucker was watching television and said—”

“Just shy of long enough, and yet I can’t help but think of a thousand other venues that would be a more pleasant distraction than listening you prattle on. I thank you to leave me in peace. Good day.”

And with that, Lecter turned and walked pristinely back to his writing table, sat down, and made like the incompetent interviewer did not exist.

What in the world had just happened?

While continuing to talk was definitely of the Top Ten Things Not To Do, Andrew was beginning to have his doubts. The man was scary, sure, but he was caged. The same could not be said for Buffy. Willow’s lingering threat of newts remained a persistent reminder of what he would face should he return to the Scoobies empty-handed. Besides, he had faced Warren, hadn’t he? If anything, this guy couldn’t be worse than Warren.

“Excuse me,” he said, attempting for indignant but coming across as pathetic. “There are only a few questions here. And it would greatly benefit the Sco—erm…us if you would…cooperate.”

Dr. Lecter appeared to be sketching, and did not acknowledge his presence at all.

“Okay. Some of these are yes and no. I g-guess you could just…ummm…all right. First question: When did you first begin to notice that people looked like nummy treats?”

That sounded unprofessional. He wondered if Spike had had any input.

Dr. Lecter went on drawing. He didn’t even bat an eye.

“Do you or have you ever possessed the ability to shoot burning mucus?”

Nothing.

“How would you rate your level of evil? Are you an A) The Borg B) Darth Vader or C) President Bush?” He waited for a moment before continuing nervously. “The difference is simple, really. The Borg wants to assimilate and take over everything to work for the collective whole. They work to make everyone exactly alike so they can get new Borg and…well, it’s all sort of German, if you think about it. Not that the Germans are like that anymore, mind you. It was all very creepy with Captain Picard became…” Oh God. The doctor was looking at him again. Back in that glaring face of nothing. “Okay. Darth Vader is different. He’s practically invulnerable, but his root is good. He was tempted by the Dark Side when he was very young, and that is something that can happen to any impressionable Jedi. And yet, he differs from other villains because he has his link to humanity. Young Luke Skywalker, who redeems him from the path he chose, giving him the chance to make amends with everyone he killed while lost to the heart of darkness. A-and President Bush simply because…well…he’s purely evil.” Andrew looked down again. “You can think it over, if you want.”

There was a long beat of insufferable reproach. Every ion in the room seemed to freeze and direct, drawn irrefutably to the center of the doctor’s heated gaze. As though he could make the child’s head explode simply by staring him down. Andrew was accustomed to various scorns of resentment, and even more familiar with irritated reasoning. Lecter’s scrutiny was off-putting but hardly new. He only lost himself by the intensity.

“Do you know who I am?” the doctor asked rhetorically.

Well, that was a stupid question. Insert big <duh> here.

“Yeah,” Andrew replied sociably. “You’re Hannibal the Cannibal. You killed like…a bunch of people. You eat people for fun…” His eyes widened as he recalled the conversation outside. “Though not the good kind of…not that you couldn’t, but I don’t think they’d lock you up because of it. Unless you became like an…eating-aholic and needed to be rehabilitated into—”

“As we established before you proceeded to so rudely not adhere my request and let me endure my abreaction in peace, answering the inane illogic marring your questionnaire is the very least of my priorities.” His eyes burned. “Now then. As Dr. Chilton was so kind to inform me, I have a prior engagement scheduled to begin very soon. Needless to say—”

A note of panic spurred within Andrew, and his eyes went wide with the fear of what negative results would entail upon his person. There was no doubt in his mind that Willow would hold fast to her threat, and truth be told, he did not want to be a newt. “Dr. Lecter,” he gasped. “This is really, like, super-duper important. They’ll turn me into a fricken newt if I don’t—”

“A what?”

“A newt.”

“A newt.”

“Yep. A newt.”

There was nothing for a long minute—silence filled with uncomfortable shifting and the desperate avoidance of eye contact.

“You test my patience,” the doctor informed him coldly. “And regardless of incapacitation, I must say, that is not something I would encourage.”

Andrew’s gaze remained studiously on his questionnaire. Perhaps if he didn’t look up, this entire experience would remain brief and painless. There weren’t that many questions…

God, who was he kidding? The predominant writer of this stupid thing was Willow, and she was the Scooby Whiz kid. That wasn’t even getting around the assorted points that Giles had made about structure, whatever Xander and Anya had decided to arbitrarily add at last minute, and he knew Spike and Buffy had looked over it before placing it in his possession. That ‘nummy treat’ question was a clear indicator of vampiric influence.

And they hadn’t even gotten around to the really important questions. Well, he could always improvise…

“Ummmm…” he began, unable to keep from trembling as he moved to the next point. “Are you…umm…have you noticed an ability to burn the humanity out of people by initiating a single touch?” No answer. He decided not to glance up. “Were your crimes at all associated with the Order of Taraka?” No answer. “Have you ever possessed the ability to dismember yourself and piece yourself back to…well, I suppose you wouldn’t be in custody if that was the case. Ummm…let’s see…”

“What exactly are you prattling on about?”

Andrew hazarded a glance upward and immediately regretted doing so. He felt like he was shooting a guest spot on Deep Space Nine, slowly being drawn into the endless vortex of Dr. Lecter’s gaze. “Just…if any of these sound familiar…just stop me and—”

“How interesting. I could have sworn my former attempts to ‘stop’ you, as you put it, went not only rudely unanswered, but similarly ignored.” The doctor cocked his head to the side, eyes blazing with fleeting intensity. “If I am to disclose such mindless blather about myself, I shall, of course, expect some in rejoinder. Tell me…Andrew, is it?”

“Yeah. Tucker’s brother. Oh! Which brings me to question number…twelve, I think. Did you ever raise hellhounds for fun?” He paused thoughtfully. “And no, I’m not talking about Chihuahuas. You see, my brother—this one time—wanted to get back at the seniors on prom night, so he—”

“Judging by your continual references to your brother, I must conclude that you are the younger sibling.” Dr. Lecter was sporting a curious little smile now, as though punning the younger man at the end of a joke he intended to leave him out of. “Do you constantly find yourself wallowing in the memory of your brother’s achievements, Andrew? Do you feel the need to over-exert yourself in this rather questioning line of work you have undertaken as your life’s endeavor? Be truthful now…”

Well, there really wasn’t any denying that. Despite everything that had happened recently in Sunnydale, it was Tucker that everyone remembered. Nearly four years had passed since he tried to murder everyone at the high school dance via hellhounds that attacked anyone in formalwear, and that was the great incident that went remembered in his family. No one even bothered to mention the flying monkeys at the school play that were—duh—so much cooler than anything his brother tried to accomplish. Even Jonathon—bless his short little heart—had needed steady reminders once or twice, and everyone in school had labeled him as a social outcast from day one.

Thus, Andrew shrugged coyly, still doing his best to avoid eye contact. “I suppose…” he began. “I mean, no one even mentions the monkeys anymore. But that prom thing was really cool, so I can see why people…” When he met the doctor’s gaze again, he shifted nervously. Lecter was regarding him as though he should be the one locked in the cage. Okay, time to move on. “Have you ever made a deal with the PTB to sell your soul in order to ascend to become a giant snake…thing?” At that, he made a face. “And if you have—ew! Jonathon told me all about the Mayor and stuff…how he had to eat those spider-things. Gross.” More silence. “O-of course, you’ve eaten human flesh, so I guess spiders…not really a big where you’re from…but—”

“And this…Jonathon that you keep referring to. A childhood chum of yours, undoubtedly.”

“Yeah! Jonathon…he’s the cutest thing ever. Really short. Me and Warren used to pick on him all the time, even if he did have the best ideas. But that before Buffy decided to bust a cap on all our asses.” He paused thoughtfully. “Well, not really as much with the cap-busting. She’s been too busy making out with her new boyfriend to really do as much of the ‘busting’ part, though she and Spike do make a helluva patrolling team.” At that, Andrew tilted his head curiously. “Do you think it strange that a vampire slayer would go for vampires? Xander thought it was thrall at first, ‘cause there was that little thing with Dracula, but we’ve pretty much ruled that out. Even if Spike is the coolest guy ever, I don’t think he has a thrall. Well, maybe an itty bitty one. But I don’t think that’s why she digs the bumpies. Maybe she has a thing for the fangs. O-or maybe—”

“Do you feel that perhaps your aggression toward your comrade originated, not because of any sense of hostility, rather for your own inferiority complex?” Dr. Lecter indulged an isolated step forward. “By the reverential awe that encased your reference to Warren, I am left to conclude that he was dubbed the rather inane ‘ring-leader’ of whatever association you and your respected colleagues enjoyed. California, I am guessing. Your accent is very telling, Andrew, though it is notable that you do not wish it to be. You visit family in San Francisco but wish yourself miles away; always following whatever leader assumes the rightful position. Judging by your rather telling slouch and the innate anxiety you betray with every shuffle, I am to conclude that you have never had an original thought in your life. And here you are—sent down into the dungeon without someone to hold your hand and tell you what to do. Therein by, naturally, you refer to your questionnaire, lost in a sea of repetition and redundancy over material that you inherently know is inconsequential. It is guidance you seek, and the same you are lost without. Tell me… Andy…” Another deliberate step forward. He was so close that Andrew nearly forgot that the bars and netting separated them. That he was safe as long as he remained nicely against the wall. “Have I spoken out of line?”

Out of line? There was a line?

Oh.

It was becoming more and more difficult to sustain a grasp on the document he was holding. Andrew shivered notably and shook his head, turning his attention downward once more. “Okay…let’s get out of the demony questions for a while. Ummm, who was your favorite James Bond actor? Warren liked Connery—big dork. Jonathon was more acceptable…like Roger Moore. But everyone knows that Timothy Dalton was the best. He had all that cool edge, got to play a rogue agent in License to Kill. This one time, the three of us got into it while we were trailing Buffy and she was all crazy drunk. I told Warren that Dalton should beat Connery over the head with his Oscar, and I stand by that! Connery couldn’t act his way out of—”

“You indulge in hero worship often, don’t you?”

“N-not all the…oh, look! Here’s a question that Spike wrote. He’s the coolest. Who would you rather shag: Marilyn Monroe, Rita Hayworth, or Kathryn Hepburn? I-I’m sure that he had a reason to put them…bah! He should’ve listed Rock Hudson…granted he’s a guy and you’re a…but still. Did you see Pillow Talk? Cutest movie ever.”

Dr. Lecter’s head titled a degree further, eyes narrowing speculatively. “I must say,” he said a quiet minute later, “that my interest has been piqued. To what organization does this questionnaire benefit? You look very much to me like a poverty-stricken student, sent down by an assortment of friends as some fraternity prank. And though I would like to credit Dr. Chilton with the eye for the casual observer, knowing his credentials, I believe he is keen to let anyone into his good graces…as long as proper accommodations are supplied, of course.”

Andrew shuffled uncomfortably. “I-I’m not enrolled in college. I just graduated last year, and I was gonna wait to…well, you get it. And we’re—they—the Scoobies are legitimate in their concerns, I’ll have you know! I mean, they hafta be after Warren, Jonathon, and I nearly wiped them out with our super cool Freeze Ray. Or the Inviso-Gun. That would’ve been big.”

“These ‘larger-than-life’ aspirations are really going to get you nowhere. You, a tomfoolery high school graduate with no current intention of furthering his education? You, a mindless, wandering oaf that cannot help but follow whatever shining star currently twinkles the hindsight of your spectrum?” At last, the doctor had his rewarding shudder. The same that he craved from every would-be psychologist and reporter and what-have-you that ventured through a line of criminals to get to him. While true, he had a reputation for ignoring most, it was the pain he loved. And Andrew was emanating such in spades. “You will always be a follower,” he concluded softly. “You cannot manage the footing to go where none have treaded before. So go on now, Andrew. Follow the path that many have indulged before and leave before life gets too real for you. For such a small boy of such small consequence, you have seemingly managed to squander entirely too much of my day, and I thank you to be left in peace. Ta, ta.”

Growing up on the Hellmouth, there wasn’t much that Andrew could say rightly surprised him nowadays. While he was content, even in agreement with the longstanding notion that he was a wanker, it surprisingly took a lot to get him to cower in fear. Especially if the object of said fear could do nothing but bark insults through bars and netting. Spike had scared the crap out of him half a dozen times, and Buffy wasn’t any better. Her soft spot for humanity seemed to be at an all-out low ever since her friends dragged her from Heaven. And Willow—talk about a power no one wanted to mess with. While she was still in the recuperation from her brief stint down the pathway laced with the Dark Side, she had the authority to properly get his knees knocking.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was one of the most notorious serial killers in American history. And now he knew why.

Not for the body count.

Not for the nature of the crimes.

For the man himself.

And it scared the shit out him.

What was worse, the doctor knew. He knew what affect his wording had, and he was taking every liberty out of it. Sipping at pained insecurities like so much fine wine. As though the exploited shortcomings of others was all he needed to survive.

“Pack it up, Small Bread,” a familiar but oddly off-standish voice called down the narrow hallway. “The lover Wicca’s are all finished. We got what we came for. Bloke’s as bloody normal as they come.” A moment of delayed hilarity as Spike paused unhurriedly in front of Dr. Lecter’s cell, tossed the infamous man an uninterested glance that was accompanied with a brief jest his chin and the acknowledgement, “Oi, mate,” before he turned back to Andrew. “Though I gotta say, ‘m mightily impressed that you held your stones down here. ‘S place is wonky enough to give yours truly a very minor case of the willies.”

Immediately, Andrew jumped to attention, never more thankful for the peroxide vampire’s existence in all his life. “Spike, he’s making fun of me.” He pointed at the doctor like an insolent child.

The platinum blonde snickered, eyes giving him the once-over. “Allow me to bask in my astonishment.”

The boy’s tone took a turn for the pitiful, and he began complaining in earnest. “Spiiiiike!”

“Hold up, mate. ‘Aven’t finished baskin’.”

“Ah, the curious incentives of your current leash-holder,” the doctor mused, eliciting a quizzical glance from the vampire in question, as well as the furthered horror of the student he had traumatized. “Mister…Spike, is it? I do not believe that I have had the pleasure.”

Again, the Cockney’s eyes gave him the once-over, brightening a bit as though he had only then realized he was there. “Right,” he drawled in conclusion, “isn’t this the prime principal sod? Don’ waste your time tryin’ to get my knees tremblin’. ‘S not worth the effort…though the pay off might be good for a grin.”

Dr. Lecter’s expression almost dimmed at the prospect. It wasn’t often that someone reacted to him with such blatant indifference. Even in the years before his incarceration, his voice and attitude was not often regarded with such little reverence. And while it might have been simple to discount the man’s apathy as another token of today’s society and the lack of morality it played upon the youth, there was something else about him…something…of the older breeding.

However, like all others to frequent the popular space outside his concrete box, the peroxide fool had a weakness. A weakness to be exploited. It was merely an exercise of locating it.

“…’s all Buffy’s idea,” the Cockney was saying. “Li’l minx. ‘Course, I mighta nudged her along the way. ‘S bloody fittin’, ‘f you think ‘bout it. An’ ‘f your li’l wankerish chums ‘ad been caught along with you, we woulda sent ‘em down here, too.”

“So…he’s not…”

“Not a demon. Regular chap jus’ the same as you or any of the soddin’ Scoobies.” Spike spared another glance in Lecter’s direction. Brief and again indifferent. “Slayer’s a softie at heart, really. Keep tellin’ her that every bad deed can’t rightly be attributed to demons. Some blokes are jus’ nasty when you get under their skin. Hitler wasn’ a demon. Neither was Dahmer or Gacy or Gein. Don’ know why she reckoned this prat’d be any different.”

Andrew was still stuck on the ‘not-a-demon’ part. And the means they had taken in order to arrive at such a conclusion. “You…you mean…” he began slowly. “That sending me down here was…it wasn’t going to…”

Spike sighed in irritation. Again. “For the last time,” he growled. “The Slayer wagered you’d done your bloody lot of lookin’ up to muck-ups like this one.” He waved airily in the aforementioned doctor’s direction. “Seein’ as you don’ shut your yap ‘bout bein’ the Big Bad, she thought it’d be a cute dose of your own to see where the path of wonkiness leads you. Anyone could tell ‘e’s as human as they come.”

The casual brandishing of his questionable association with other members of the human race was beginning to egg on the doctor’s nerve. While he stood motionless in the middle of his cell, eyes fixated on the exchange, bemused that Dr. Chilton had allowed such an oaf into the dungeon in the first place, he could not help the furrow of anger that began to gnaw at his patience. While this tomfoolery about demons and the like was of equal annoyance, the notion that he could be so casually tossed aside with the lot of others that did their best to make life difficult for the more civilized commons of society was nothing he would willfully abide.

The Cockney radiated many things on first glance. A somewhat broadened vocabulary that had been weakened over time with the likely forced need to forget. An accent that was forced from the upper-crests of forgotten society. Interesting. The scent of cigarettes that wafted intrusively off his leather coat. The coat itself; an old model. More for the look than for style. He remembered several being sported in the 1970s, though usually those who adorned such nowadays were the same to frequent smutty vampire cults and believed in such idiosyncrasies as the Matrix and all that hubbub. The leather was worn and on the verge of pleated, and gave off the telling whiff of bar-poured alcohol as well as another substance he’d rather not place. The hair was a cry for help. The blatant cry for attention—wordlessly demanding all with a look for everyone to look at him. The gaudy jewelry he adorned emanated much of the same: several deaths’ head rings and a chain or two around his neck. He did not even attempt to mask his aggravation with the boy; rather kept mention of the ‘Slayer’, indicating she was the same as this ‘Buffy’ he spoke of just as frequently, and looking all but two seconds from ripping Andrew’s head clean off his shoulders.

Close but no cigar. While violence was practically screamed with every move Spike took, there was something else. That innate knowledge that he wouldn’t do whatever his more primitive urges called him to fulfill.

Dr. Lecter grinned.

“Slayer was right in her reasonin’,” Spike was saying. “’m a bad, rude man. Do I really need to reiterate? An’ yeh—one whiff woulda done it.” He paused to grin cheekily. “But it was a lot more fun this way. Come on, now. She’s a-waitin’, an’ I don’ know ‘bout you, but this town makes me kinda homesick for the ole Hellmouth.”

“Curious,” Lecter said softly, drawing the two blondes’ attention from each other and back to him, as though remembering he was there at all. As though they had fleetingly forgotten their surroundings in the midst of discussing the true nature of this visit. “You seem to be more assured of yourself than your respected counterpart, and yet your mannerisms lead me to conclude that you are no more a leader than he is. Your demeanor is misleading, granted; you seem to simply scream all the markings of a womanizer. And I suspect that is true on a level. You cannot abide to be controlled or commanded, can you? Such a notion strives as the thorn in your side…however, your repeated references to this…Buffy…betray your stamina. She controls you, doesn’t she? And she is not the first, or the only woman to have assumed such a bold position.”

There was a hefty pause as Spike’s brows perked, blue eyes blazing for a brief second before he caught himself with a rich chuckle. “Oh, right,” he drawled disinterestedly. “I s’pose this is the part where you try to get me to lay down on your couch an’ gripe ‘bout the big bad world? Trust me, mate. This is one cranium you couldn’t crack.”

“You think yourself that ambiguous?”

Spike grinned proudly and gestured to himself. “Infinite onion. Tha’s me all over.”

“Imagine peeling back all those layers,” Andrew agreed, a dreamy look overwhelming his features. Briefly.

Both men caught his digression. Both men didn’t care.

“Your accent is not authentic, is it?” Lecter pressed, head tilting curiously. “Oh no, your roots are definitely buried somewhere in Europe, but you have deliberately altered your intonation to degrade your notable status. A willful disgrace of the family? Tsk tsk. Did you have a fallout with your mommy and daddy?”

Spike snickered incredulously. “No. My pap kicked it when I was five, an’ I killed my mum, thanks ever so.”

Andrew blinked at him in surprise. “You did?”

He shrugged. “’Ad to. She was about to kill me.” He paused thoughtfully. “Actually, come to think of it, I did her in twice. Once to save ‘er, an’ the next to save myself. How’s that for irony?” There was a long bout of silence as he realized he had shared more than he intended. “Right then. Let’s off, shall we?”

Dr. Lecter’s interest was entirely piqued at this new vat of information. There was casual negligence that could either be taken as a deliberate and quickly laid-out lie, and the same could credit for truthfulness. This was a cunning one. Perhaps he had underestimated him. If that was the case, the possibilities were endless…

“You say you killed your mother?”

Spike stopped in his tracks, eyes narrowing. “No, I don’ say. I did. She spoke an ugly piece to me an’ I drove an improvised stake through her chest. Wha’s that now, Doc? Gonna diagnose me?” He pivoted fully and spread his arms invitingly. “Go right ahead. Do your sodding worst.”

“Simple prognostics,” he replied. “Your accent is forced and betrays you as upper class. Skin you have yet to grow out of, and likely never will. The so-called ‘bad boy’ persona you have tried so desperately to adapt cannot feasibly conceal the true façade of your calling: you are lost, alone, and frightened. All in an effort to return to your Mama. The very same you claim to have killed. Your softening exterior is rather telling. Were you jealous of her social acquaintances? Spawned onward by the latent tugging of your own Oedipus complex. You compete fiercely for the attention of any woman that deems you acceptable to tag along at her side, though all are measured infinitely against the one you left behind. Your drawers at home are likely full with sloppy loose-leaf notebooks, each compiled with gobs and gobs of teenage angst poetry that, even in your progression to adulthood, you can’t seem to part with. And this shames you—you tried so desperately to shed the outer layers of your boyhood uselessness, and instead assumed a persona you cannot truly keep up with. To rectify your shortcomings, you select various victims that remind you of the picture you once were. Andrew, for instance. Those barbs and insults that come so willingly from your mouth aren’t directed at him at all, are they? You wish to harm yourself for the image that you try so hard to protect. The likely self-proclaimed moniker of ‘Spike’ completes your cry for notice. A sort of last call to wan away whatever imaged your given name brandished from birth. And you try so hard, don’t you? To make others believe you relish the violence. Take pride in the kill, all the while working feverishly to conceal the truth. Should you ever encounter true brutality, the astonishment would likely send you fleeing right back into your mother’s womb, which is exactly where you want to be.”

There had been more truth in the doctor’s analysis than Spike would ever disclose, granted except for the rather ridiculous notion that he suffered from an Oedipus complex and the laughable notion that violence would ever intimidate him. Admittedly, his resentment toward the wanker of a pillock he had been before he was sired raged true within his system, and more so for the knowledge that William was still there somewhere. Buried under more than a century of rustic antipathy. The same git who allowed Cecily to rip his heart out. The same that had surfaced last year and forced him to discover his feelings for the Slayer. Granted without William, he wouldn’t be where he was right now.

In that regard, Spike suspected he should be grateful.

And again with the notion that he couldn’t stomach violence. Hah! Who did this clown think he was talking to? The Scourge of Europe. The very same that had hunted out little girls in coal bins and thought it was absolutely hilarious that the old man he and Drusilla had killed had begged for mercy, which only made her bite harder. The very same who was a ‘veal’ kind of guy, and thought that ponce at Parent Teacher Night had been too old to eat…but not to kill. A hundred years of reining bloodshed, of shagging in red-stained snow, of hunting out Slayers because they were the crème de la crème…and Lecter thought he couldn’t stomach violence.

Hundred plus years and he had seen more violence, caused more violence, than this pillock would ever understand.

“You are a right presumptuous git,” the peroxide Cockney informed him lowly.

“Is that so?”

“’S right. Lookit you. Strained behind the bars, tryin’ to get your ya-ya’s off by drawin’ out a li’l blood wherever you can. Know what it feels like, mate.” He gestured emphatically to his head. “Two years ago, these government blokes decided to shove a chip in my noggin. Made it impossible for me to hurt the livin’, so to speak. But—”

Dr. Lecter chuckled his amusement. “You are lost to the same realm of fantasy as your protégé,” he said, indicating Andrew without breaking eye contact. “You want others to believe you so desperately and yet you have managed to find a loophole to keep yourself on the outs from performing any of these so-called acts you claim to have—”

“You think ‘s a claim?” Spike snapped. “Watch this.” Without warning, he snapped to Andrew and delivered a punch that sent the poor boy crashing against the hallway wall. Immediately upon contact, his own head jerked back and a cry of pain roared from his throat, hand instinctively going to caress his brow. The act itself was performed convincingly, but on the surface, wholly ridiculous.

“Bloody buggering lousy waste of government sods,” the peroxide Cockney was grumbling under his breath. He thoughtlessly helped Andrew to his feet with his free hand before both arms fell to his side. “Y’think I’d get used to it after a thousand or so tries. Not so.”

Then his eyes traveled back to Lecter.

“There. See enough?”

“Oh yes. A rather effective floorshow.”

A chuckle rumbled through the vampire’s throat and he shook his head incredulously. “Y’still don’ get it, do you? Prolly can’t sing any number to the tune of ‘I’m wrong’ even when the evidence is pilin’ up right in front of your cell. Stupid git. That should be the firs’ clue that I’m sproutin’ no fib. ‘m not sodding incarcerated. Well, unless you count the chip, but I can still get my rocks off fightin’ demons…” Or shagging the Slayer. He felt it was best to leave that part out. “But yeh see. You human types are all the same. Wagerin’ you can pull it like us. Wishin’ you were more like us. Doesn’ matter, though. Y’can’t dally the grunt-work so you get caught. An’ yeh—you do your part to scare the locals. Hell, you’ve done things that had my former all but worshipping you from afar. Wanted to make you one of us, like Elvis.” He turned to Andrew. “An’ that was a bloody bad idea. Stupid prat can’t stay outta the limelight. ‘S’off in Vegas doin’ impersonations of himself.” Another pivot and he faced Lecter again. “But tha’s all it amounts to. Scarin’ the locals. Slowly makin’ your mark in history but knowin’ people won’ remember your name when you’ve keeled over an’ become one of the not so-dearly departed. Cor, Angelus was scarier than you, or better yet, Harmony.” He took a minute to shudder before finding his footing once again. “An’ for the record, mate, ‘ve done things you can’t imagine. Stuff dark enough to even ‘ave a blighter like you shakin’ in his skivvies when the lights go out. So don’ go runnin’ your mouth to every would-be that prances in ‘ere. Y’never know who you might be talkin’ to.”

A curious brow quirked at that. The doctor remained infinitely unmoved. “Is that so?”

Spike grinned. “No bars between us? You wouldn’t last two minutes, mate. Chip or no chip. I’d rip your still-beatin’ heart out of your chest an’ let you get a good long look at it before you kicked it. An’ yeah…it’d give me a bleedin’ headache for the better of two hours. Somethin’ tells me you’d be dead a li’l longer than that.”

A corresponding chuckle rumbled through the doctor’s throat, and he fought the instinctive urge to shake his head at the ridiculousness of it all. “Your defense mechanism is really quite telling. Idle threats are so droll. For one who seems to consider himself above the normal call of societal expectations, you aren’t entirely inventive.”

“Inventive?” the vampire repeated skeptically. “Do you have any idea what I’m capable of?”

“I suppose you are going to tell me.”

Indeed, Spike did seem rather apt and eager to list every single deed he had performed over the spans of the past century and a half, but he was experienced enough to recognize the lining for a verbal trap when he spied on. He therefore closed his mouth reverently and shook his head as though it was all of consequence. “No,” he decided. “’m not at that. Let’s jus’ say ‘s enough not to let some washed-out has-been who’s tryin’ to get his rocks off behind his plastic prison chafe my willy. ‘m not ‘bout to get caught up in some ruddy pissin’ contest ‘cause you’re bored. ‘ve already tickled your penchant for the big bad brawl enough to last you till your next so-called victim trolls down ‘ere. I think it much more fittin’ that you rot away back there, knowin’ you’re stuck ‘cause you got sloppy. Jus’ rest assured, mate, ‘f I wanted to, I could make you beg me not to kill you.”

“Is that so?”

A conspiratorial little grin sprouted across the vampire’s lips and he jested for Andrew to start up the hallway, not reacting to the awe-inspiring look flashing reverently across the boy’s face. “They don’ call me William the Bloody for kicks,” he said with a shrug. “Oh, an’ for the record, ‘Spike’ is a nickname that was given, not assumed. Li’l perk to torturin’ blokes with railroad spikes. Load o’fun. You should try it some…oh wait. Y’can’t.” His grin broadened. “You are a right piece of work, though. Can see why you scare the li’l kiddies. I like you. Point of fact—”

“SPIKE!”

The cry was so abrupt that it took all three men a minute to note the sudden presence of an irritated Slayer. The look she delivered was not at all happy; her arms crossed and eyes glaring.

“Uh oh,” Andrew whimpered. “She looks angry.”

“Indeed,” Lecter agreed. “Somebody is in trouble.”

Spike glared at him, but the effect was lost as his lady neared. She promptly ignored all commentary made on her behalf and marched up to the gathering. “I agreed to let you come down here and get Andrew on the note that you wouldn’t start socializing.”

“So sorry, luv,” the vampire retorted in a tone that indicated he was anything but. “Got distracted.” He waved generally at the doctor. “Bloke thinks he’s scary an’ what all. Jus’ wanted to set ‘im straight.”

She didn’t even spare the aforementioned madman a glance. “Well, while you’ve been down here comparing notes on how to be the better sociopath, I’ve had to deal with that little weasel Chilton upstairs. And GOD, if he propositioned me one more time—”

Spike’s eyes widened comically. “That wanker hit on you? Right, luv. Let’s go. I’ll—”

“I told you he sounded ‘come-ony’ on the phone,” she reminded him, eyes narrowing. “And no, we’re not going to do the slayage thing. He’s—regrettably—human, and it’s your own damn fault for spending a half hour down here in the first place. I had to go get Anya to keep him distracted. And hey—you know they don’t typically like having so many people down here at once. It tends to get the prisoners riled up.”

As if to support this claim, the inmate next to Lecter’s cell suddenly emitted a longstanding wail.

Spike chuckled in spite of himself. “So Demon Girl’s keepin’ the prat company? Wish we brought a camera. Cor, that chit knows how to make yours truly blush. Chilton prolly wouldn’t know where to begin takin’ her up on her numerous suggestions.”

“Buffy!” Andrew complained from behind the vampire, waddling forward so that she could see him. He looked very much like an insolent child. “Spike said that you didn’t need me to come down here in the first place. That Willow—”

“Did a demon sweep and everything came up as of the neg. Well, except for Spike, of course,” the Slayer confirmed, deliberately ignoring the shit-eating grin he flashed in the doctor’s direction. “But the Scoobies all agreed that it was better if you got a taste of what it is you worship so adamantly. Our having to investigate this creep was just a fortunate turn of events.”

“I must admit that I am rather enthralled by this constant furrow of demonology,” Dr. Lecter said softly, reminding everyone of his presence. The continuous flow of people who stood in front of his cell, talking quietly to themselves and ignoring him at all costs was more than vexing. “And though I would not discredit Dr. Chilton’s liking for any sort of attention, not to mention publicity, the subject tires.”

Spike immediately glanced back to Buffy and began fidgeting like an anxious child. His eyes were alight with unspoken question. “Can I?” he begged. “Please?”

“Spike…”

“Come on, Slayer. Where’s your sense of fun? Stuck up your arse like that stake the size of bleedin’—”

“SPIKE!”

He grinned devilishly, and everyone could see her resolve wavering.

“Oh, fine,” she grumbled airily, moving away as to give him room for something that required no movement at all. “But make it quick. I don’t want to leave them alone too long.”

“For Chilton’s sake or Anya’s?”

She paused and thought about it for a minute. “Both.”

The peroxide Cockney turned back to Lecter, eyes dancing merrily. “Buckle up, mate,” he snarled. “Wanna see what a real demon looks like?” He left little room for consideration before allowing his face to shift easily, bumpies emerging with such ease that it amazed him at times how much he took for granted. The animalesque roar that perturbed the empty hall—all for the other inmates who stirred at the first sign of real activity—was more for effect than need, but he savored it all the same.

Dr. Lecter’s expression did not change, but to the sight laid out before him, he had absolutely no words, and the notion was something he thoroughly abhorred. There was simply nothing to say.

“Right,” Spike drawled gleefully. “Might wanna know who you’re talkin’ to before you start sproutin’ off bunch of buggering theories. An’ as a bloke who’s at least seventy-five years your senior, I gotta say…you should really pay more respect to your elders.”

“‘I find your lack of faith disturbing,’” Andrew quipped.

“All right, all right.” Buffy grasped her boyfriend by the elbow and tugged him after her—his features melting back to human at her touch. “Spike, you’ve made your point. I think Dr. Lecter’s other appointment arrived about ten minutes ago, so we better make ourselves of the gone.”

“Right,” the vampire agreed. “My work ‘ere is done.”

The three made it as far as the next cell when the previously docile inmate suddenly reeled to life, insisting that he could smell the Slayer’s cunt. Immediately, Spike snarled to life and made a bold move to defend his lady’s honor.

“You wanna make somethin’ of it, mate?” he growled. “Keep your nose pointed in someone else’s direction an’ leave the bird out of this.”

“Spike, chill.” Buffy said disarmingly, again bringing him back to himself. “Crazy guy, remember? Probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing.”

“Right…” the vampire said with an unconvincing nod. “So sorry.” He turned back to the rambling lunatic, a predatory grin crossing his lips. “’F you think smellin’ it’s so great, ‘s too bad you’ll never get a chance to taste it.”

“SPIKE!”

He chuckled unworriedly and sprinted up the hallway, followed by an irate Slayer and a furiously blushing Andrew, leaving Dr. Lecter without so much as a farewell to prepare for his next endeavor.

Hopefully, the aforementioned Clarice Starling would show a tad more class than the act she had to follow. For whatever reason, Dr. Lecter found the prospect to be not at all challenging.

*~*~*

Several weeks later…

“Oi!  Slayer!  Get a load of this!”

There was a pause, a grumble, and a two-second beat of hesitation before she ultimately concluded that it was better to humor him than have him pester her about it endlessly until she complied.  No matter that she was getting ready for that night’s patrol-so-we-can-dance-the-night-away-with-friends extravaganza.  Buffy hopped diligently into the living room as she tried to fit her heels onto her feet.  Unsurprisingly, Spike was camped out in front of the television.  “What is it?”

“Jus’ made national news.  That Lecter prat we had to interview…’e jus’ escaped from custody.”

Her eyes widened comically.  “He what?”

“Yeh.  It appears ‘e picked ‘imself up some tarty FBI dish who’s tryin’ to nab that Buffalo Bill bloke.”  He shook his head.  “Get this.  ‘E tore off some inept security guard’s face an’ decided to play it Halloween style till the coast was clear.  Gotta say…the pillock’s got stones where it counts.  Kudos to effort an’…” He trailed off when he saw the familiar look of disgust filtering over his ladylove’s face.  “’Course, ‘s bad.”

“Very bad.”  

“Terrible.”

“Awful.”

“Wicked an’ naughty.”

“Stake-worthy.”

“Stake-worthy…oi, it wasn’ me who—”

Buffy smiled kindly and shook her head.  “Yeah, yeah.  But don’t go around getting any funny ideas.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, pet.”  They shared a moment of private introspection before he turned his attention back to CNN.  “Y’think the ponce’ll come after us?  Says ‘e doesn’ particularly fancy the rude, an’ as you’re so keen on remindin’ me, ‘m a—”

“Bad, rude man.”  The Slayer grinned but shook her head all the same.  “I doubt it.  Besides, if he does, we’ll deal.  Can’t be any worse than everything else we’ve faced.”

“Apocalypse,” he agreed.

“Right.” 

“You ready?” she asked, attentions going to her earrings now that she was satisfied that her shoes were on properly.

Spike couldn’t help but grin at her get-up.  Only the Slayer could dress aptly for both fighting and partying without needing to immediately run to her wardrobe for reassurance.  “Right.  Jus’ waitin’ for the Bit an’ our chums.”

“Then we’re off.”

“To fight that evil.  For the safety of puppies an’ Christmas.”

“Truth, justice, and the American way?”

He gestured emphatically to himself.  “Not American here, thank bloody God.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry, luv.  Any country that elects the soddin’ Terminator for governor is not one I’d bloody well brag about bein’ affiliated with.”

“That wasn’t our fault…”

“Yeah, yeah…”

They shared another private grin.  The same that was needed for privacy, even in a vacant house.  A clockwork of instinct manicured inevitably into a stratagem of dancing around routine. 

Life continued, inevitably.  It always did.

And it was good.

FIN