The Yellow Rose of Sunnydale
Parts 1-3
 


Written by: VicNoir

Summary: The Bronze hosts a Western Weekend, which brings out the outlaw in Spike. Much smuttiness ensues. Spoilers: season five, around the time of "Checkpoint".
Distribution: Dancing with Death, http://fansites.gamezilla.com/dwd
Disclaimer: The show Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all of it's characters belong to Joss, Mutant Enemy, & Fox Prod.
Feedback: love it, live for it, gimmegimmegimme VVKS326@aol.com




Chapter 1


They could here the twang of a steel guitar from the alley. The Bronze was hosting a Western Weekend, and Friday night found the Scoobies dressed up for a hoe-down.

Xander, in particular, looked spectacular. He wore a scarlet western shirt, complete with heavy white embroidery and a bolo tie. His jeans were held up by belt that sported a silver buckle the size of CD case, and the spurs on his black-and-white pony-hide boots jingle-jangle-jingled when he walked. He wore his twenty-gallon hat-white, of course--on the back of his head in a friendly manner. All in all, he looked not very much like an authentic cowpoke headed into town after a long, lonely week on the range.

The rest of the gang wore only slightly more subdued outfits. Willow and Tara were decked out in early 80's vintage prairie skirts and ruffle-y, high-necked blouses. Anya had chosen a truly hideous pumpkin-orange square-dancing dress, with a skirt and petticoats that flared so large that she had to walk single-file down the alley-way.

Buffy's attire had been inspired by a late-night viewing of an old episode of "Gunsmoke." Taking her cue from Miss Kitty, she wore her hair curled and piled high on her head, with a few strands dangling down to frame her face. A red satin bustier peeked out from beneath a sheer black bed jacket trimmed with marabou feathers, and her skirt was made of black lace. She wore old-fashioned button-up boots and fishnet stockings that flashed below the hem of her skirt when she moved. To finish the look, she had painted a small, black beauty mark high on one cheekbone. She looked very much the part of an expensive courtesan of by gone days--Miss Kitty would have been proud.

It seemed that the Bronze had gone all-out for this special occasion. Swinging saloon doors had been installed, and sawdust covered the floor. Bales of straw were stacked around the perimeter of the room to provide extra seating. As the gang stepped through the doors, the band onstage swung into a rousing version of "The Yellow Rose of Texas."

"And let me be the first to say--YeeHAW." Xander surveyed the room with a grin, his toe already tapping to the down-home beat. They made their way over to a table near the back.

"This isn't as bad as I th-thought it w-would be." Tara looked apprehensive, but she pretty much always did.

"See, Honey, rednecks aren't so bad--I mean, not that everyone here is a redneck, or anything. I'm sure that most of the people here are just pretending to be ignorant and closed-minded and married to their cousins...um...who wants a drink?" She and Xander took refreshment orders from the group and headed for the bar.

Buffy shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I wish I'd worn something else...this corset-thingy is killing me."

"It's not a corset, it's a bustier...and you look great. You make a very convincing prostitute." Anya flashed her a smile of encouragement to go with her words.

"Thanks, but next time I think I'll go more with the 'Queen of the Rodeo,' and less with the 'Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.'"

"Oh. My. God." Willow had returned with several beers tucked beneath her arms.

"What's the matter, Honey?" Tara's brow wrinkled with worry.

"Look over there--at the other end of the bar." They looked.

"That's-it's...is that...?"

"It can't be--no way."

"Yes. That's Spike. I can tell by his defiant slouch and by the way his jeans bulge out there in front--"

"ANYA!" Xander had also returned from the bar. He handed a soda to Buffy.

They all turned to stare at the figure across the room.

He stood with his back to the bar, leaning against it, in what Anya had accurately described as a defiant slouch. In place of his usual black denims, he wore a pair of very faded, very soft-looking blue jeans. Below them was a pair of old and scuffed cowboy boots, and above them was his perennial black tee shirt. He wore his ever-present duster, but on this night it looked different somehow--as if it belonged on a bandit of the old American West. The finishing touch was the black leather hat he wore pitched low over his eyes.

Buffy gulped, audibly.

"He...he looks kind of like Clint Eastwood in that movie--what's it called?" Willow looked around at her friends for help.

"A Fistful of Dollars?"

"The Good, the Bad and the Ugly?"

"The Outlaw Josie Wales?"

"Yeah...all of those. Except Clint Eastwood isn't blond, and he's always got that stubble on his face, and he smokes a cigar--"

"And he's not an evil, undead, creature of the night." Xander hadn't yet fully recovered from Anya's ability to identify Spike by the bulge in his pants.

Buffy tore her eyes away from the disturbing sight as the band launched into a slow song that was heavy on the weepy fiddle. "Dance with me, Xander." She glanced at Anya. "OK?"

"Yes, he can dance with you. But he won't pay you for sex. He gets that free-of-charge from me, and I won't have him wasting his hard-earned cash--"

"OK, Honey, we get the idea." He planted a kiss on Anya's cheek and escorted Buffy to the center of the dance floor.

Spike had noticed the Slayer and her ever-present group of friends the moment they'd entered the bar, but he made no move to join them. He knew that his presence would not be welcomed during recreation hours, though his fighting ability came in handy enough when the Scoobies were in a tough spot.

He lit a cigarette and watched as Buffy and Xander made slow circles in time to the music. Then his attention was distracted by the spectacle of a very drunken young man, built like a linebacker but dressed like a rodeo star, shoving his way towards the dance floor. He had Willow by the wrist and was dragging her along behind him

"I wanna dance with the lil' lady! "

The over-sized lunk pulled the redhead to edge of the dance floor, wrapped his muscle-bound arms about her and lifted her off her feet, delivering a wet and drooling kiss to her face at the same time. The witch struggled frantically in his arms.

Spike looked over towards the table where Willow and the rest had been seated. It was empty. Then he stretched up to his full height, searching the crowd for Buffy and Xander. He could see them, deep in the throng of dancing couples, but they were too far away to do Willow any good in her present predicament.

Sighing, Spike stubbed out his cigarette and pulled the brim of his hat a bit lower over his eyes. He walked through the crowd, hands in his coat pockets, seeming not to notice the way that others stepped aside before him, automatically giving him the right of way.

When he reached Willow and her loutish dance partner, he stood in front of them for a few seconds, watching in amusement as the witch sputtered the beginnings of a spell in the drunk's face, only to be cut off in the middle by another sloppy kiss.

"Ah, mate? Why don't you put the girl down now--I think she's had enough of your kind attentions for the moment."

The drunk turned toward the sound of Spike's voice and looked down at him, never releasing his hold on Willow. "Who're you s'posed ta be? Fuckin' John fuckin' Wayne?" He laughed loudly at his own joke and squeezed Willow 'til she squeaked.

"Look, mate, you're bruisin' the lady. Why don't we see if we can't find you another partner--someone in your own weight class, perhaps." Spike's voice remained friendly enough, but a fine wire of tension flowed through him.

"Fuck off, you fuckin' faggot. I wanna dance with the girl."

Willow had stilled her struggles and was watching the interaction between the bully and the vampire with growing alarm. Spike took half a step forward and his voice dropped a few notes into a threatening growl.

"Thing is, you bleedin' behemoth, the girl doesn't want to dance with YOU. Put. Her. Down." He paused for emphasis. "Now."

"Oh. All right. I'll put her down--" As the drunk released Willow, he cocked a huge fist and with the force of all his weight behind it, swung directly at Spike's head.

Spike dodged the blow neatly, which completely overbalanced its deliverer, sending him sprawling forward and crashing through a table that was--luckily--unoccupied. There he lay, unconscious. Spike tipped his hat in Willow's direction and was about to make his exit when Buffy appeared on the scene.

"What the hell...leave it to you, Spike, to ruin a perfectly enjoyable evening. And what did you do to that poor guy, anyway? Is your chip malfunctioning or something? 'Cause if it is, we'd better take this outside where I can stake you and not make a mess on the floor."

Spike looked down at the sawdust under his boots and then back up into the Slayer's angry face.

"Sod off." He pivoted on his heel and stalked back towards the bar.

"Buffy--" Willow had regained her equilibrium and had her hand on the Slayer's arm.

"Oh, God, Willow--tell me again why I don't dust that loser."

"Buffy, Spike didn't do anything. He...he was trying to help me. That guy," gesturing toward the unmoving lump lying amongst the broken table parts and smashed glasses, "was pawing at me and Spike was just trying to get him to let me alone. The jerk took the first swing--I don't think Spike even took his hands out of his pockets."

Buffy's face dropped. "Oh. Well. That's different then. I suppose I should...I mean I guess I ought to apologize--"

"Why? Has the Blond Bloodsucker ever apologized to you for trying to kill you all those times?" Xander had appeared from out of the crowd. "Where did Anya and Tara go?"

"Oh, Anya had to pee, but she needed help with the whole petticoat thing. Tara went with her. Here they come." Anya and Tara had emerged from the ladies' room and made their way over to join the group.

"What happened, Honey?" Tara bit her lower lip and looked at the drunk guy on the floor.

"Nothing...I just got manhandled by a cowpoke. Let's get another drink."

"You coming, Buff?" asked Xander as they turned away.

"Yeah, I'll be right there." She was staring at Spike's back as he hunched over the bar. She watched as the bartender set a shot-glass down in front of him. He didn't move to pick it up.

With a resigned sigh, she walked over to where he was standing and presented herself to be insulted. She figured she deserved it.

"Spike."

He didn't acknowledge her. His profile was a sullen pout.

"I just came over to say...I mean, Willow told me what you did and I...what I mean to say is, I'm sorry."

He glanced at her for a moment. Then he turned back to the bar and stared into his shot glass.

"I shouldn't have gone off on you like that. It's just that I've been so stressed out lately--you know, with the whole Glory thing--but I shouldn't take it out on you and will you please turn around and look at me when I'm talking to you?"

He turned to face her and she saw the corner of his mouth rise in the beginnings of a smile. "S'all right, Slayer. Think nothin' more about it." He turned away again and in one quick motion downed the shot of amber liquid from the glass.

She sighed in frustration. It wasn't any fun when he didn't want to play. "So that's it? That's all you're gonna say to me?"

He glanced at her again in a weary way. "Sorry, Slayer. Bit off my game tonight. Don't feel much like the usual banter."

The band had returned from a break. The strains of some vaguely familiar ballad floated through the air. Spike's head came up. He was listening closely, and a slight smile touched his face. Then he looked down into her eyes and in a voice she'd never heard him use, he asked, "Care to dance?"

She wasn't sure what it was that made her nod her head. Perhaps it was the haunting melody or the strange, quiet way about him that she didn't recognize.

She followed him to the dance floor. The tune was a waltz and the band played it as an instrumental--no vocals to accompany the sweet, sad music. Spike held her very lightly and moved with surprising grace.

His touch on her skin was disturbing and the silence between them was too electric for comfort. She decided to try inane chatter. "I'm surprised to see you here, Spike. This isn't exactly your kind of music--and what's with the hat and boots?"

"Hmm...you think you know me so well, Slayer? I'm a complex character--my soul has many layers."

"Your soul has zero layers." When he didn't respond, she tried again. "What's the name of this song--it sounds familiar, but I can't place it."

"I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry."

"Huh?" She pulled back a bit and stared at him.

"The song's called I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry. By Hank Williams. Hear that melody line? The man was a bloody genius."

"Oh." She racked her brain for something else to say. "He WAS a genius? You mean he's--"

"Dead. Yeah. But don't worry, Slayer, I didn't have a hand or a fang in his demise. Wasn't even in the country then."

"How'd he die?"

"Alcohol poisoning. Back seat of a car, on his way to a concert. Twenty-nine years old."

"Oh." He was behaving so strangely and she was growing more uncomfortable by the moment. Then she heard him begin to sing, very softly, directing his voice down the back of her neck. It vibrated there, causing a sweet shiver to bloom over the surface of her skin.

"Hear that lonesome whippoorwill
He sounds too blue to fly
The midnight train is whining low
I'm so lonesome I could cry

I've never seen a night so long
When time goes crawlin' by
The moon just went behind a cloud
To hide its face and cry."

His voice was husky, with a rich, throbbing quality that made her breath catch in her throat. She inhaled deeply and steadied herself.

"What's wrong with you tonight? You're all...weird." Geez Buffy, articulate much? OK, the song's almost over. Get a grip. She pulled away slightly for a better view of his face.

"You're concern is right touchin', pet. It so happens that tonight is an anniversary of sorts for me."

"Yeah? What are you celebrating?"

"Mmmm...not sure celebratin' is the right word...although I used to celebrate it. Dru an' I used to have us a time." He paused and stared over her head at something very far away. "It's the one hundred and twenty-first anniversary of the night I was turned. An' here I stand, dressed up like Roy Rogers, dancing with a Slayer. How the mighty have fallen."

She wasn't quite sure how to respond to his revelation. She chose silence. He dropped his head low over the back of her neck and began to sing again.

"The silence of a falling star
Lights up a purple sky
And as I wonder where you are
I'm so lonesome I could cry."

The music ran down and the band began another slow tune.

"You still miss her a lot?"

"Who? Dru? Well, we WERE together for-bleedin'-ever-but I guess it's not her I miss so much as..."

"So much as what?"

He sighed. "You wouldn't understand, Slayer. No reason to worry your pretty little head over it, either. Although, as I said, I'm charmed by your show of concern."

"Don't patronize me, Spike. So you're lonely. You think I don't know what that feels like? You think you're the only one who stands apart, different from every other creature on the planet? So, you're a chipped-up vampire, and that makes you a lonely vampire. I'm a Slayer, and there's only one of me--unless you count that lunatic in the L.A. County Jail--so I think maybe I can relate."

She was surprised by the heat of her emotion on this topic. His expression mirrored her surprise, and she felt him tense. Then pulled away from her.

"Where are you going?"

"Out for a smoke."

"Spike, you smoke in here all the time."

He ignored her and kept moving towards the exit.



*~*~*~*~*~*



Chapter 2


She watched as he moved through the crowd and out the swinging doors without so much as glance back. She looked over her shoulder at her friends, who didn't appear to be missing her too much, and then followed him out of the bar.

She wasn't sure why she followed him. Her foremost emotion in his presence was irritation, so it was hard to say why she felt compelled to pursue him at that moment. It was only in the space between heartbeats, in that tiny place she reserved for the absolute rock-bottom truth, that she ever admitted how much he affected her. **But it's so wrong,** whined her conscience. **Yeah, it's wrong. But it's true,** answered something else much more basic and primitive inside her.

The narrow street and alleyway entrance were deserted. It had rained a bit, and the glow from the streetlight was reflected in the slick, black asphalt. She stepped into the alley, expecting to see him leaning against the wall, lighting up a cigarette. He wasn't there.

Instead, she encountered three guys, wearing what appeared to be matching Lone Ranger costumes, complete with masks and toy six-guns on their hips. They were huddled together around something that she couldn't quite make out in the dim light. They broke apart suddenly at her approach, and she could see that they had been taking turns with a small straw and white powder on a mirror. She stopped, uncertain of what her responsibility was in this situation-after all, she was the Slayer, not the Sheriff.

"Hey, baby--com'ere--wanna a little taste?" One of the Rangers beckoned, his eyes bright behind the mask.

"Umm--no thanks, just passing through." She tried to squeeze around them, but they blocked her path.

"Aw, come on, that's not very polite--and you look like such a FRIENDLY girl." The same guy, so obviously the leader of the group, grabbed her elbow and pushed her back against the wall.

**Damn it! Why did I follow him out here? Now somebody's gonna get hurt, and it's all Spike's fault.**

She decided to try charm before violence. "Look, guys, I appreciate your generosity, but I really just want to get by. Be nice and let me go, OK?"

"But don't you want a little taste first? Make you feel really good--make you wanna party all night!" A second Ranger had her by the other arm and was staring down the front of her bustier.

"Nice outfit." He looked up to meet her eyes and leered. "How much?"

She realized instantly that he wasn't asking the price of the costume. Her temper flared, and then it was knees to groins all around, with a couple gut-punches for good measure. When all three were down and groaning on the ground, she made sure to smash the mirror and sprinkle the pretty white powder in the dirt for good measure.

Then an eerie sensation of been-here, done-this came to her, as she heard someone clapping from the end of the alleyway. His face was in shadow, but she could see the red end of a lit cigarette and the outline of his duster as he slouched against the bricks.

She stalked over to him. "A little assistance would have been nice."

He snorted. "Since when do you need help takin' out mortals? Besides, you know I couldn't touch 'em without a firestorm startin' in my skull."

"Still, you could have a least--oh, forget it. Just...get away from me." She turned to go and his hand shot out, gripping her wrist.

"What's wrong, Slayer? Not havin' a good time at the hoe-down?"

She sighed. "I was having a fine time until those coked-up frat-boys decided to make with the mauling. What is it with you males, anyway? What does it take to get you to keep your hands to yourselves?" She looked pointedly at where he was still holding on to her.

He dropped her wrist and shrugged. "What did you expect, pet? Go about lookin' like a whore, men will treat you like one." He stubbed his cigarette out beneath his boot and crossed his arms, waiting for her stinging retort.

"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Spike, where a woman should be able to walk around dressed any way she wants without getting assaulted."

"SHOULD bein' the operative word here, ducks." He shrugged again. "Not sayin' it's right. Just sayin' it's true."

His words were the echo of her earlier thoughts, albeit on a different subject. But the way he was looking at her made her think that perhaps he meant something else as well. She stared at him until she realized that she was staring at him, then she stared at the ground instead.

"Where are all your little friends, Slayer? Gone home to bed?"

"No, they're still inside." He tilted his head and gave her a quizzical look. She stammered, "I...just came out for some air...guess I ought to go back...they'll wonder what happened..."

"Right. Well, off with you then. Mustn't let a good party go to waste."

"I...you're not...?"

"Me? No. Had enough of the down-home fun an' frolic for one evenin,' 'though it was divertin' enough." He searched his pockets for his cigarettes and came up with an empty pack. Grimacing, he crumpled it and tossed away into the shadows.

She frowned and was about to rebuke him for littering when he continued in an almost dreamy tone. "Always wished I'd traveled to the Americas sooner. I'd have made one hell of an outlaw, don't you think, luv? The scourge of the Old West--Jesse James, Billy the Kid-all a bunch of poofters compared to the Big Bad." He quirked a smile at her.

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help the answering grin that split her face.

"Must say, pet, I do like your outfit. Bit of Miss Kitty?"

"How did you know that?"

"Ah, well, since I've been cursed with this soddin' chip, I've watched quite a lot of that Nick at Nite. Most of it's rot, but a good episode of Gunsmoke is hard to beat."

She realized that they had begun to walk--to stroll, really--down the street and away from the loud tinkle and twang and the bright lights emanating from the Bronze. It felt strange to be having a real conversation with him, as if he were a friend.

"I always thought I should have lived in another time, too. But I'd like to go back to the roaring twenties--you know, flappers and bathtub gin and the Charleston."

He pushed the hat that covered his brow back a bit and surveyed her. "Yes, Slayer, I could most definitely feature you as a jazz baby." His smile made her drop her eyes. "Although you want to be glad you missed the thirties. Starvin' babies and the rise of facism--not my favorite decade."

They had reached a corner convenience store and stopped beneath the bright fluorescent lights. He had intended to buy cigarettes and maybe some beer. He had the beginnings of a plan in the back of his head--a plan that didn't have much chance of success--but a bloke had to try, didn't he?

Then the door flew open and three vampires charged out into the street, blood dripping from their faces and fangs.

Buffy had been lulled into a relaxed state by the gentle meander of their conversation, and by Spike's mellow demeanor--so different from his usual edginess and sarcasm. At the sight of the vamps she snapped into attack-mode, reaching for the stake she had tucked into her garter belt before she left her house that evening.

Foolish enough to devour a convenience-store clerk and two customers in a heavily populated area, but not foolish enough to stand around and let the Slayer and a known murderer of his own kind finish them off, the vamps made a run for the cemetery--Spike's cemetery.

Torn between giving chase and checking for survivors, Buffy finally went with her humanitarian instincts. She needn't have bothered, as the three within the store were no longer among the living. The alarm behind the counter had been activated and they could hear sirens in the distance. Spike paused long enough to nick a pack of Lucky Strikes on his way out the door.

As they sprinted toward the cemetery, Buffy wished she'd worn something a bit more...supportive. She could feel herself bouncing all over the place, and she could sense that Spike noticed it as well. She steeled herself for the inevitable snide comment--that never came.

They hit the gates at top speed. Without bothering to actually speak to one another, they instinctively split up and began circling the perimeter in opposite directions. Twenty minutes later found them face-to-face in the center of the cemetery, no vamps in sight.

"Well, pet, it seems we've lost them--or they've lost us, lucky sods."

"Hmm...I found where they rose from. Three fresh graves near the back. We'd better separate. You take the north side of town, I'll take the south--let's meet in front--"

"Half a mo', luv. Do you really fancy scamperin' all about town lookin' for these blokes? They've already fed--now they'll be lookin' to meet up with whoever turned 'em an' party a bit, if I know the newly risen. An' I do." He tore open his new pack of cigarettes and slipped one between his lips. "They'll be back here before sunrise, lookin' for shelter. We can take 'em then."

"What do you mean, WE can take them? You'll be sound asleep in your crypt by then, if I know you. And I do."

"I'm hurt, Slayer. What kind of gentleman would leave a bird...I mean, a lady such as yourself all alone and at the mercy of whatever beasties might wander by?"

"Oh, I don't know, Spike...the same gentleman that threatened to rip my heart out and feed it to me only a few months ago?" She said it sweetly, but it stung.

"Fine, Slayer. Have it your way. Be a silly bint...an' a dead one for all I care." He swung away from her in annoyance, and was stopped by her voice.

"Hey! Where's your hat?"

He turned back and ran his hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles. "Must have dropped it somewhere." He shrugged.

She took a step nearer. "That's too bad. I liked it. Made you look dangerous."

He favored her with a tight smile. "I AM dangerous, Slayer. You'd do well to remember it."

"Oh, yeah, I'm trembling in my vintage boots."

Then he was next to her, bending over her, and tracing the tip of his finger over the outline of her lips. It tickled. "Would you like me to make you tremble, pet?"

Whoa, where did that come from? "Um, let's just stick to business here, Spike." She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat and backed away.

He took a long drag off his cigarette and crossed his arms over his chest as she sat down with her back against a tombstone.

"So...um...what d'you want to do while we wait?" She watched as a slow smile spread over his face. Right. Walked straight into that one, didn't you, Buff?

"Mmm--what do you say to a friendly game...of cards?" He produced a deck from the pocket of his coat with the grace of a magician.

She rolled her eyes and laughed at him. "I'm not huge with the strip poker thing, Spike, but nice try."

"No? Well, luv, there are other games that are nearly as divertin'--an' they don't involve the loss of clothing."

"Yeah? Enlighten me."

He paused for a moment and looked at her speculatively. "How 'bout this? We play a hand and winner gets to tell the loser a story. Loser has to sit still an' listen."

**How bad can that be? A story--sure I could listen to a story. Probably another tale of the exploits of William the Bloody, but what the hell? It'll pass the time.**

"OK, Spike. I haven't played poker in a long time, so I hope you're prepared to do most of the talking--oh, do we need a theme?"

He stepped back and spread his hands apart, gesturing toward them both. "Do you fancy the obvious?"

"What? Cowboys and Indians...I mean, Native Americans?" She looked around guiltily, half-expecting to see Willow pop up and give her a disapproving glare. "Sounds good--but no scalp-age, please."

"Right then." He settled down at the opposite end of the grave and expertly shuffled the deck. Neither of them gave any thought to the impropriety of playing games atop someone's eternal place of rest. "Cut the cards." She did so and he began to deal.

The first hand reminded her why she avoided card games in general and poker in specific--she sucked at it. He beat her with three of a kind.

"All right, luv. Guess I'm up to bat, so to speak. Comfy?"

She leaned her head back against the tombstone and shut her eyes. "Yup. Entertain me."

If her eyes had been open, she would have seen the mischievous glint in his, and the hungry angle of his smile as he considered her. Drawing on all his powers of creation, he lit yet another cigarette, and began his tale.

"Well, you see, there was this town, deep in the heart of Texas. Folks called it Sunnydale."

She peeped at him and grinned. "How stunningly original."

"Hush, pet. Anyway, in this town there lived a girl--a woman really--a...a lady of the evening. Name of Buffy. And she was famous, for in all of Texas, there was no one who had ever..."

His voice wrapped itself around her mind and she began to see a picture of the dusty little town of Sunnydale, and a picture of herself as she would have looked if she had lived there. She settled herself more comfortably against the hard stone and let his story take her far away.



*~*~*~*~*~*



Chapter 3


"Anyway, in this town there lived a girl--a woman really--a...a lady of the evening. Name of Buffy. And she was famous, for in all of Texas, there was no one who had ever..."

His voice wrapped itself around her mind and she began to see a picture of the dusty little town of Sunnydale, and a picture of herself as she would have looked if she had lived there. She settled herself more comfortably against the hard stone and let his story take her far away.

Then the meaning of his words sunk in and her eyes flew open.

"A lady of the evening? A whore? I'm a whore in this story?"

"Now, Slayer, the deal was that the loser had to sit upon her pretty arse an' listen-or are you wrigglin' out of it now you know it won't be a fairytale?"
His eyes challenged her. Biting back a rude retort, she settled back against the stone with a resigned grimace.

"Right. Anyway, as I was sayin', this Buffy bird was famous 'round those parts for two things: bein' an accomplished...er...courtesan, an' a dead shot with a pistol. Kept her town tidy of bandits an' black--hats, an' ran the finest brothel in the state."

"She was a young chit--just a bit older than you, Slayer, an' looked rather like you too-all big, sad eyes an' pretty gold hair--"

"I thought you said I had stupid hair?" She couldn't resist taunting him.

"Mmmm...it's grown on me some."

"Oh." She wasn't sure how to respond to that.

"So this other Buffy--who didn't prattle on near as much as you do--owned an' ran a whorehouse-fine, big house, it was, all red velvet draperies an' satin sheets..." His voice had taken on that dreamy quality again, and she peeked at him through half-closed eyes. He was staring over her head into the distance.

"But she'd retired from the actual servicin' of payin' customers--she'd been at it from her early teens, you know, an' didn't much fancy the male gender anymore. In fact, she'd grown just a bit cold in her mind an' heart, what with havin' to be the law in such a wild country-always lookin' for the evil in those around her. The black-hats all knew good an' well to steer clear of Sunnydale-lest they wanted a bullet between the eyes or in the heart."

"An' life went on fine like that for a bit--the brothel makin' good money an' the streets quiet an' safe for all the nice families about--'course most of the church-goin' prigs didn't care too much for the local Madam-slash-gunslinger, but they liked how she kept the town from bein' overrun by bandits an' such, so mostly they let her be."

"But, the thing was, Miss Buffy had a secret. An' she knew, in her heart, that someday it would be her undoin'."

"Seems that a few years previous to the time she came to Sunnydale, our Miss Buffy had herself a run-in with a real black-hearted rogue-took her body an' her love an' then left her broken. He was an outlaw an' a murderer, but she loved him. In the end, she forced herself to hunt him down an' send him to hell--but it twisted her spirit to do it."

**Angel--he's talking about Angel.** Buffy felt a small, searing pain in her gut and silently cursed Spike for bringing such a hurtful memory into the tale. But she didn't protest--didn't ask him to stop. Some part of her wanted to hear his perspective on the mess that was her love life.

Spike had sensed the change in her and ceased talking. She felt rather than saw him move closer.

"Go on, Spike."

He paused for a moment longer, then continued.

"She tried an' failed to love another--a soldier with the U. S. Cavalry. But the bloke couldn't stomach her chosen professions--had more of a problem with the gunfightin' than the whorin', in fact--an' left her to go massacre natives in another territory."

"So there the poor bird was--alone an' lonesome in a dusty little town just north of the border--wonderin' if she'd ever feel love again. She knew in her heart of hearts that what she needed was a bit of...outlaw in her man, but she couldn't reconcile that need with what she considered to be her duty, so...Got so she resented the sounds of merrymakin' all around her in her own home--"

"What was it called?" She opened her eyes and looked at him.

"What was what called, ducks?"

"The brothel--it had a name, right?"

He stared at her, his eyes drawn to the way the dim light, as it shifted and slipped between the breeze-tossed leaves above, caught the few strands of hair around her face and made them glow.

"The Yellow Rose. It was called the Yellow Rose."

She gave a little smile of satisfaction and closed her eyes again.

He cleared his throat and squeezed his hands into fists of frustration. The scent of her flesh and the blood pumping beneath it was having a singularly potent effect on him this night.

"So...anyway...there came word one day that a fearsome bandit was on his way in from the hinterlands. He was known far an' wide for his cruelty an' murderous heart--an' he'd heard of Sunnydale, an' the Yellow Rose, an' he'd heard of Miss Buffy, an' he wanted to see for himself this little chit who had vanquished so many of his kind."

"What was his name?"

Her unexpected query startled him. "Er...you're just brimful of questions tonight, aren't you, luv?"

"His name?"

She stared into his face and read his discomfort. She knew the name of the outlaw-she had a strong sense of the direction of the story in general--but she wanted to hear him say it.

He waited a beat, and then lifted his face as it creased into the sardonic grin that he used to hide real emotion. "His name was Will Blood."

She smiled again and nodded. "The Big Bad."

"You've no idea, pet."

She laughed low, under her breath. The sound of it started a shudder that enveloped him, making it difficult for him to continue.

"Go on."

Taking a deep, unneeded breath to steady himself, he turned to her. "I think it's time for another hand, don't you, Slayer?"

She made a small pout of disappointment, but accepted the cards after he cut them and began to deal. This time her hand was better--three of a kind and a pair. She took no further cards and watched as he studied his own with a scowl.

"Time to raise the stakes a bit, pet. What d'you say?"

A wave of something--uncertainty? fear?--washed over her. "I told you, Spike, Buffy doesn't do strip games."

"You insult my creativity, luv. I was thinking more along the lines of a little...role-playin'."

"Huh?"

"You know--act out the story a bit. You like my story, don't you?" He had leaned closer, and she caught the scent of cigarettes, leather and danger.

"It's...it's very...unique."

"Good. So if I win this hand, then I get to continue. An' I get to...simulate a bit of the action, so to speak." He saw the alarm on her face. "No worries, pet. You want me to stop at any point, you just say the word."

She paused to consider this. "What if I win this hand?"

"Then you get to continue the story--an' perform it, if you fancy that."

She glanced down at her cards and wondered...

"Scared, Slayer?"

"Of what? You? In your dreams, Blondie."

"Then let's have at it. I call."

They threw down their cards simultaneously, and Buffy gasped. He had a straight flush, ace high. He must have known...

His eyes sparked at her and she felt that fear again. Some part of her knew that it wasn't him she was afraid of, but herself. She watched as he gathered up the cards and then reached into his coat, pulling out a flask and drinking deeply.

"Storytellin' is thirsty work." He offered her flask and she almost took it, then shook her head.

He began again, and she tried to settle herself against the tombstone but was unable to find a comfortable position.

"Hmm...where was I? Ah, yes, the outlaw Will Blood, ridin' into town to find Miss Buffy an' test the legend, so to speak.

"It was a hot day, like a lot of other hot days, when word came that Blood was closin' in. Folks deserted the streets an' shops in droves, leavin' the place wide open for the battle they knew was comin'..."

Buffy took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. The louder voice in her head told her that she was still completely in control of the situation. The quieter voice, from somewhere else inside her, just laughed.


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