Yellow Was Desolate Without Stripe
By Chris
Chapter One: Endings
**I love you. You know I do.**
Yeah. Love. Just like every man in her life--ever. The kind of love that says, "Warning: Buffy Summers ahead. Move slowly and carry a big stick. Then move on past." Dad. Angel. Parker. Riley. Giles. Even Xander, now. Check her out, love her and leave her tattooed right there on her forehead. And Spike. God. She thought she'd avoided that rejection by breaking it off when she stopped thinking of him as a thing and started having real feelings for him. At least he couldn't say there was something wrong with her that caused him to move on. Xander hadn't been so kind:
**Well, I guess I know why you haven't staked him yet, don't I? If you don't remember Ms. Calendar, Buffy. . . I do. He's going down, and you're not going to stop me this time.**
Remembering the sheer disgust radiating from Xander's eyes cut Buffy to the core. She'd been so sure this time. Spike wasn't bad; he just didn't quite know how to be good. Her need for him had her so convinced that she'd spent the better part of the day trying to impress Xander with just that. But she was finished now; no more saving of his undead hide. He'd have to deal with Xander on his own.
Buffy stopped pulling clothes out of drawers and sat down on the edge of her bed. Her hands trembled when she picked up the picture of Dawn, Tara, and Willow, and placed it in the suitcase. They would all have been better off without her. Dawn wouldn't be any worse off with Dad in L.A. than here. At least there she would be ignored in luxury. And maybe Willow and Tara had a shot at making up with one another without the constant reminder that what Willow had done sent her careening out of control with dark magic. Everyone Buffy'd ever loved was falling apart. Maybe now something could go right for them. Giles was right. She needed to stand on her own two feet--not on the backs of the people she loved.
Taking a final look around the room, Buffy noticed a tuft of black sticking out of her weapons bag. She walked over and pulled at it: a black T- shirt. His. Without conscious thought, she raised it to her face to drink in the lingering scent of tobacco and whiskey in the soft material. Black lashes closed against the hot tears welling yet again in her eyes. It was time to go.
---
Xander didn't know how long he'd been standing there, staring at the table. He knew that he ought to move, that there was something he had to do. But the urge to action was overpowered by inertia. A flash of shadow caught his attention, and he turned to watch the cars passing by through the window.
Mistake. The movement was enough to trigger the memory of mere hours-- lifetimes--ago, causing his brain to begin processing thought again. His gaze was drawn inexorably to the love of his life, snoring peacefully in a drunken slumber on the table. The grief that lay like a stone in his stomach flip-flopped to the surface, raising bitter bile in his throat.
Dark eyes scanned the room seeking another trap. Any trap other than the golden form in front of him. In desperation, he focused on the blink of the red light on the camera hidden in the bookshelf behind the table. Inanimate witness to the revelation that not one, but two, of the women he'd loved had given themselves in ecstasy--filthy, disgusting, degrading ecstasy--to that. . . that. . .evil, dead. . .thing.
He'd been so sure that when they arrived, he'd find it had been a trick of lighting or magic. Anya would never. . . But she had. With Spike. Was there no escape from the bloodsucking fiend? What had he said? "I never had it so good."
"No, you never did," Xander mumbled to himself. Anger regained dominance over misery and galvanized his leaden feet into action. He threw his jacket over Anya's body and walked out the door, purpose ringing in every step. First, home to take care of a few things, make a phone call, and grab some supplies, then he'd go see to it that no one would fall for Spike again.
---
No doubt about it. It had been one of the stupidest, most idiotic, absolutely bloody brilliant mistakes he'd ever made. Spike stalked around the floor of his crypt running the fingers of one hand over his head while the other lifted a bottle of whiskey to his lips repeatedly.
But what to do about it?
It hadn't seemed like such a bad idea at the time; he was angry and hurt. So was she. Each of them demonic proof of the pain that unconditional love could bring. He'd had no more intention of helping her wreak vengeance than of sleeping with her. Nonetheless, a burning need for a measure of comfort, tinged brown around the edges by sharp abandonment and smouldering rage, led them to drunken sex on the table at the Magic Box.
But for every second he held her, he'd been thinking of someone else. The hair was too coarse. The temperature was all wrong. And the noises she made, just a little like a stuck pig. Probably she thought the same, except for the pig part.
Awful thought that, being compared to Xander Harris and found wanting.
He'd felt the slayer's presence before she appeared, of course, but the whiskey-drowned warning came too late. Brazening it out was the only option. When Buffy stormed into the Magic Box, he'd instantly forgotten the naked woman lying next to him in a drunken stupor. The green fire flashing in those eyes frightened and attracted him at the same time, but the self-righteous judgment he saw in the set of her jaw ticked him right off. Then he caught sight of Harris over her shoulder. The look of thunder in Xander's face was enough to send him to a hasty exit, but not before firing a shot or two:
**"What's that, luv? You look a little peeved - thought we were through. You remember, don't you? 'I'm sorry, William.' Bloody William's bloody dead, Buffy. But I'm not. An undead man's got needs, too, y'know. And 1,000 years of experience? Why should I turn that down? She could teach me a thing or two. Oh, I know. You thought I'd wait forever? Has anyone ever?"**
The look on her face wavered: anger crumpling to hurt, then ice. He'd regret causing that pain for a long time. But it was a revelation. Every time he found himself thinking he knew exactly where that pointy little head was, she threw him for another loop. The encounter at the Magic Box was no exception. Damned crazy, messed up, stupid-haired bint; pretty impressive ability to maintain a constant state of denial, though. No matter how many times she had told him to stay out of her life, that look proved her feelings for him.
He remembered the lie in her eyes--
**"You just don't get it, do you? Every time you almost. . . how could I think-- It's got nothing to do with us. There's no us. You claim that you know what love is? Xander and Anya love each other. How can you possibly justify this?"**
"Yeah, I get it, pet. I quite get it." Spike stopped his pacing and turned to leave the crypt. "Time to bloody do something about it."
Chapter Two: Beginnings
Random clichés flitted through Buffy's mind as she leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window and stared at the life passing her by. Time to smell the roses. April showers bring May flowers. New beginnings, fresh starts. Silver linings. Desert and life flashed past the slayer's eyes at a tumultuous speed, singing to the clackety-clack rhythm of metal-on-metal generated by wheels on tracks. A fast train to nowhere: anonymity and a new life waited for her at the end of the road. Wherever that was.No vampires or demons.
No Scooby gang.
No watcher.
No sister.
No mother.
No love.
No pain.
The sunlight was suddenly too much to bear. There was no room for joy in her heart at the moment; she needed numbness to cope with the swirling emotions in her head. The sounds, but not the sights, of life passing by. Buffy shifted in her seat and used the T-shirt she held crumpled in her hands as a pillow. The patterned dum-Dum, dum-Dum, dum-Dum of the powerful engine tapped a staccato rhythm through her body. Buffy closed her eyes and let the beat take up the point and counterpoint of her thoughts, a monotonous tune to float through her mind and lull her into an uneasy slumber.
---
"There's no way you're getting away with this, Buffy," Dawn called through the door. "I know you're..." Dawn's words trailed off as she took in the absolute emptiness of the crypt around her. Spike had been 'decorating' his crypt for some time, but now everything was gone. On the sarcophagus lay two beige envelopes. Dawn crossed the room to pick them up. Each had a label scrawled across it in a spidery script: "Slayer" and "Bit".
Dawn sat with the envelopes in her lap, staring at them as if they were snakes that might bite. Something like defeat crept into her red-rimmed eyes as she lifted the one labelled "Slayer" and slid a finger under the wax-sealed flap. Just before she opened the envelope, she heard an angry voice shouting Spike's name. Xander. Quickly, she thrust both envelopes into her jacket pocket.
Xander came barrelling through the open door, stake in hand. "This is it, Spike. Come out here and fight like a m-- demon! You've done your very last evil deed." Xander skidded to a stop when he saw Dawn sitting on the sarcophagus with her head down. "What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You shouldn't *be* here. Ever. And where is Spike?"
Dawn turned her tear-stained face up to face Xander, "Good question." She waved a hand around the empty crypt, "It looks like he's gone for good, Xander. A better question would be 'Where's my sister?' Will you take me to your place? Please?"
Xander's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he took a seat next to Dawn and put his hands on her shoulders. "Are you covering for him? You can't fool me. I know that all of you women are in his thrall. And what do you mean, 'Where's Buffy?'"
Dawn shook his hands loose from her shoulders with a single harsh jerk. "She's gone, Xander," she spat out, venom lacing every syllable. "She's run away - again. When I got home from work, the social worker was waiting for me with plane tickets to Dad in Los Angeles and a note from Buffy. Stupid social worker: she thinks I'm going to go where she tells me, just because Buffy said so. She's wrong. You have to help me, Xander. I thought Spike would help, but he's gone, too."
Xander stared at the angry teenager in front of him, feeling the heat of her anger and resentment roll in waves from her body, matching the rage he had barely managed to leash. "We'll see," he said. "You stay here. I need to check out the rest of this place and be sure he's really gone. We'll decide what else to do later."
Dawn rolled her eyes and watched Xander disappear into the cavern below the crypt. When she was sure he was gone, she walked outside and hid behind a tree so that she could see him when he came out, before she was seen.
She surreptitiously withdrew the envelope marked "Slayer" from her pocket and quickly pulled the heavy sheet of paper from within. No need to worry about the broken seal; there was no one to notice. She rubbed the thick, grainy texture of the paper between shaking fingers, trying to open the folded paper. When it finally gave and her eyes grazed the words, she let out a small "Eep!" and leaned back against the tree to scan the rest of the note:
Dawn,Yes. I knew you'd open hers first. Her letter is in your envelope. I know she'd do the same. You're so alike...
I'm not one for long goodbyes, so this'll have to do. It's time for me to leave Sunnydale. Got something that needs taking care of, and don't know when or if I'll be back. I'll try to keep in touch, but best to keep that between us.
You're probably not in much of a mood to be helpful, I know, but take care of your sister. She needs you more than either of you knows.
Once, she asked me to take care of you. Guess I managed that, at least some of the time. But now that the slayer's back, she can do the job herself. At least, she can if you'll help. Try to remember when she gets your knickers in a twist.
I thought I could help her -- you know I love her. But she won't let me in, either. You're the only person left with a chance to break through. It will take time, lots of patience, and all the love you have to give. I wish I could be here to help, but me being here, it's only made matters worse.
One last thing, Bit. Again, needs to be our secret: If you're ever in trouble, find Clem. He'll know how to get word to me.
S.
Dawn was still staring at the letter, fresh tears dripping down her face, when Xander came running out of the crypt a few minutes later roaring "DAWN!""Jeez. Put a sock in it, will you?" she griped at him as she wiped her cheeks. Stepping out from behind the tree, she slipped the letter back into her pocket. "So, are you going to help me?"
Xander gave her a hard look. "Yeah, I'm going to help you alright. This way to the car."
Exiting the cemetery from opposite the end she'd entered, Dawn spotted a pile of debris - including the bedding she knew had been in the crypt. He really was gone.
---
Clem waved through the glass front door of the high-rise apartment building to the lone figure tying a bundle on the back of a motorcycle in the deserted parking lot. Not many folks up and about past midnight in this quiet area near the edge of town. No one other than a loose-skinned demon to bear witness to the lonely vampire setting out with little more than a cooler and the coat on his back as companions on his journey.
Shaking his head in dismay, Clem watched for a moment longer as the platinum blond revved the engine, waved a jaunty goodbye, and roared onto the highway in search of...something. Turning to push the button to the elevator, Clem hoped Spike would find what he needed, even if it wasn't what he thought he wanted. The closest thing to a friend Spike had in Sunnydale stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hall to his apartment. Opening the door, he called out, "He's gone, Sophie."
A small feminine sigh floated from the living room of the small apartment. "Poor thing," she commented to Clem as he sat down on the sofa next to her. "He seemed so sad when we told him that Buffy had gone, too. I really thought there was something there, Clem. But they are too wrapped up in their own misery to see it. Time apart may be just the thing they need to stop wallowing in pain and learn how to be happy."
"You're probably right, Soph, but I still wish he hadn't decided to go. This quest of his isn't going to turn out how he thinks it will," the demon worried. "That's the real deal, down there in Louisiana. Spike's going to get more than he's bargaining for from this priest friend of his. I hope he doesn't live to regret it."
"God, I hope you're wrong about that, sweetheart. Do you think we need to let Buffy know what he's up to? If this thing of Spike's blows wide open, she could be in danger..."
"Let's wait and see, Sophie," Clem advised. "I hate to break a confidence unless we have to. There's something about this we're not seeing. And Spike will keep in touch regardless of how this turns out for him. There's no magic in the world strong enough to kill his protective instincts where Dawn's concerned."
Sophie stood up from the couch, pulling Clem up behind her by the hand, and said, "You're right. There's something so purely innocent about the way he cares for her. All this reminds me of how precious what we have is. It may not be exciting or dangerous, but it's home. Let's go to bed."
---
Spike revelled in the roar of the wind as he travelled at manic speed through the endless stretch of highway before him. Singing at the top of his lungs, he pressed onward into the night, twisting the lyrics to suit his purpose: "In the midnight hour babe, he cried more, more, more...With a rebel yell, he wants more more more. More more more!" That Eighties git knew what he was talking about -- it was high time he remembered what he himself was really all about. A few nights on the road, and he would be where he needed to be: in the dark heart of the South, where Dr. Aloysius M. Drake taught history and religion to students at Loyola University. A slow grin spread across Spike's face as he savoured the knowledge of what was to come.
Freedom.
Chapter Three: These DreamsWorried brown eyes watched as Buffy thrashed in the seat restlessly, no differently than previous nights aboard the train. This girl had been hurt. Maybelle was sure of it. Maybe there was something she could do to help.
---
"Put it all on me...that's my girl"
Torrents of pain and anger stormed through her body, drowning shame and guilt. Blow after blow hailing down, flesh on flesh. Punishing the symptom, if not the cause.
Your girl. Your girl. Your girl.
The shape of humanity mocked her words. Eyes full of love and pain and pride thundered out of the soulless, dead thing. Just another body, absorbing the hurricane of self-loathing that poured itself out of her in waves of violence and hatred.
"You can't understand why this is killing me, can you?"
A British voice of reason, pleading: "Explain it to me..."Forgiveness flashed lightening through swollen blue crystals.
"You always hurt the one you love, pet"
Your girl. Your girl. Never your girl.
"Do you trust me?"
Never. Your girl. Never. Your girl.
---
There was a story lurking in those distant, sorrow-filled green eyes. A lost chickie looking for a Mama to mother her, perhaps. Her hands itched to reach out in compassion to the fragile soul spinning thick words of forgiveness in her dreams:
"Don't forgive me...please don't forgive me."
Not much chance she was planning a stop before the end of the line, but stranger things had happened. Maybelle had a feeling this little girl had no idea where she was going or how she was going to get there. A trip to the backwaters of Tennessee might do her a world of good.
----
"...just don't understand it -- what's this charm he's got that attracts warm-blooded females like flies? Is it the coat? Guaranteed birth control?" Xander babbled on bitterly as Dawn looked on from the passenger side of the car. For two days now Xander had been unloading his bigoted vitriol into Dawn's captive ears. He'd agreed to help her escape social services, LA, and her father on the condition that she help him track down what he so resentfully dubbed, "that evil, dead thing." He meant Spike, of course.
There was one way to shut him up. He wouldn't like it, not after that last little encounter with Anya before they hit LA to pull the wool over her father's eyes...
Anya's voice had been shrill, a tone pitched precisely to stand nerves on end and bring shoulders to attention. "Forgive *me*?" She shrieked, laughing wildly at Xander's expectant gaze. "You took my heart and broke it into a thousand tiny pieces. Mine. It was yours to protect. And yet you expect me to ask for forgiveness. May you live your life unhappy and in constant loneliness until you realize how terribly *wrong* you are."
Dawn was grateful to Anya, in a way. Without her little speech, Xander would have cooperated with the social workers without a second thought. But his utter inability to recognize his culpability in driving Anya to more welcoming arms had pushed him to chase the demon he'd assigned responsibility for his pain. And Anya's jibe about loneliness was just enough weaponry for Dawn's arsenal of persuasion.
They were on the hunt now. What Xander didn't know was that they were hunting the wrong trail. He'd assumed without asking that Spike and Buffy had left town together, in spite of the incident with Anya. He also didn't know that Dawn had possession of a letter proving that they were certainly *not* together. Fortunately, Buffy's trail was a bit easier to follow than Spike's, what with train tickets and Aunt Janet in Chicago. For as long as there were clues to her direction, Dawn could at least theoretically keep Xander moving forward and not returning her to Hank. But the letter was like dynamite with a long fuse, burning her pocket, begging to explode its knowledge into the face and heart of her unsuspecting companion.
Was it time?
---
The purr of the motorcycle's engine disrupted the eerie stillness of the desert as Spike sped past a row of tumbleweeds ambling along the dusty stretch of cracked cement. The music of rebellion had long since faded into the background, and his eyes bored into the pale blue-purple glow of pre-dawn on the horizon, judging how far he could go before the harsh light of day threatened. Not much farther, unless he wanted to ride off into the sun, forever.
The thought appealed, momentarily shaking him out of his communion with the hum of the motorcycle and the desert. His chin jerked up, and he noticed signs of life around him. The small green and white sign brought back memories. Some places, time never touched. Tucumcari was still the image of a ghost town: wide brown desert, dotted with short, flat-topped buildings, bound to their surroundings by layers of dust and time. A fitting place for a vampire to hole up for the day.
The neon lights of the Blue Swallow Motel called to him with a flashing red sign: Vacancy. Precisely. Making a snap decision, he pulled up to the glass doors fronting a motel untouched by decades of corporate America. Just inside the window, he could see the top of a blond head lying on a delicate, feminine hand.
Don't fancy another night under the tarp. Time to work the old charm...
Spike stopped the engine and put both boot-shod feet on the ground gingerly. Waiting for his legs to stop humming, he rubbed a hand over the base of his neck and craned his head to shake the stiffness of 500 miles of driving.
He watched for a bit, until he saw the head rise and the hand reach for the glasses lying nearby. Just a bit of a preen, and then a cocky entrance. "Hello, luv," he grinned at the night clerk, summoning his best cockney gentleman airs. "In a bit of a difficulty, y'see. Got a hum in my bike, needs seeing to..."
The woman stared like a magpie mesmerized by a shiny ornament hanging from a branch on a forgotten Christmas tree. Marilyn wasn't accustomed to *anyone* blowing in this time of day, much less a charming, ethereal stranger with the most amazing lilt to his voice.
He tilted his head at her as if waiting for an answer. "What'cha say, luv? Can you look after it for me?"
I'm looking, she thought. I'm looking. Wait -- outside. He wants me to do something outside.
"Wouldn't mind a visit to the 'loo, either, pet. Could you put those cone things up for me while I mind nature? I'm not so much in a hurry, y'know. We could have us a little visit while I'm waiting for Joe Bob or Billy Ray or some such to show up in the morning."
Not in a hurry? Yes. The cones. Somewhere... in the closet. Marilyn moved out from behind the desk and walked past the Mr. Coffee and Nilla Wafers to open the closet and stare in bemusement.
She was still standing at the closet when the vision called from behind her, "Got it all covered, sweets. Looks like I'm all set now. Be seeing you."
Marilyn closed the door and turned to see the perfectly formed stranger zipping away down the road on his motorcycle. Maybe she was still dreaming... knights didn't come riding in on motorcycles just before dawn. He was obviously someone else's angel...
---
Spike finished taping the tarp over the plaid curtains of the small, plain room and sat down on the hard mattress of the twin bed. This place was probably the height of trendy comfort in 1953, all bright colours and round edges. The Spartan texture of the place was enough to offend his rather gaudy sensibilities, but exhaustion and hunger overruled his aesthetic sense, and he drained the blood straight from its bag.
Gah, cold blood -- nothing worse! He flung the plastic substitute for a warm body across the room violently, trying to erase the sense of loss he felt every time he fed: that root-level reminder that he was no longer a monster and could never be a man.
The weariness of travelling more than 1000 miles in two days fell on him suddenly, sand in his eyelids. In a single fluid motion, he stripped his t-shirt off and burrowed under the thin blankets. The patch job he'd done on the lock would keep out prying eyes 'til nightfall. Tomorrow Dallas and then Louisiana. Look out: Big Bad is back.
---
Consciousness ceded primacy to subconscious, images flashing fire against the fuzzy background of the sleep of the dead. The flesh of his body lay curled in its foetal position, motionless, while biological imperatives took control of the chemical reactions that translate thought into dream reality."Electricity lies...."
A bad, bad dog. Bad dog.
An epochal hesitation, then sharp enamel sliding into the seductive heat of the life force draining slowly into his veins. Absolution and challenge, staring out of coal-black eyes, feeding as much on his bare need as her own prize...
"Tell me you love me...".
Love you. Hate you. Love you. Bad dog...
"Tell me you want me..."
Dull, demanding eyes flamed need and desire and something like desperation from a silky, burning bundle. Self-immolation at the temple of raw emotion bringing senses alive. Hands burnishing the blazing nerve endings of every cell of his being -- sucking cold comfort with every touch, every desperate flicker of heat and light pulling with it another bit of dark self-source into a glaring conflagration of need and denial.
"There is nothing good or clean in you."
The psychic vampirism of her breathing, smouldering temptation to suicide a foot and a fathom from him...
"I'm sorry, William."
Dead inside. Bad dog.
"You can't feel anything real."
The tears of frustration and fear streamed unseen down his cheeks as her inferno raged on and on, razing the forest of his reality one blow, one word, one lie at a time. A ripe, wicked plum, laughing in the background, babbling of burning baby fishes, complaining of the ashes left for her to taste...
" ...well, if not wisely."
Blond bleeding into brunette, fire scorched ice. Reverse images seething abandonment and rejection in magnified mirrors. Little bit of ... plastic, spider webbing out nasty blue shocks, searing pain through his body, secrets buried under the carnage of lost self and submerged ego.
"You're not part of my life."
Chapter Four: Near MissesThe music hummed in his head; Tom Petty and a light drizzle his constant companions since dusk swallowed Texas and enabled his escape. Streams of water spilled down his face, washing away the mental dust left by miles driven through dreams and fears. He welcomed the wet layer of clothes plastering itself into a second skin against his body, a cold, familiar shield.
And he rode.
Midnight brought with it the stench and steel of Shreveport. 3:00 am and the sweet smell of Louisiana swamps filled his nostrils with promises. Soon. Very soon.
The farther he drove into the depths of Louisiana's heart, the less he was able to achieve the single-minded focus he'd used as fuel for the mind-numbing hours on the road. Wide gaps in the bog of his plans found themselves filled with murky flashes of smells and sounds, reminding him of another time-- the time he spent laying waste to the dark, dangerous temptations that lurked for those who cared to look in the Vieux Carre; the last time he found himself in search of a cure for heartache, his own personal madness.
With just a little luck, he'd soon be able to revisit *all* of his old haunts...
---
Buffy awoke to the pink-purple glow of a pre-dawn sun seeping through the ranks of trees reflected in the train's windows. Nights of sleeping on the train had taken their toll on her back and neck, and briefly she thought of how welcome an ice pack would be...just like when...No. Not going to think about that. About him.
With determination, she clasped her hands together and raised them in a circle over her head, trying to drain the tension from her muscles, along with the thoughts which inevitably led to another, more dangerous, sort of tension in her mind. As she twisted to the side, releasing the knots along her abdomen, she noticed the woman sitting across the aisle staring curiously. There was something in her manner that encouraged Buffy to flash a tentative smile as she flexed first one foot, then the other.
A sweet drawl drifted across the aisle, "Feel any better, hon? You been giving that seat a real work-out tonight."
Buffy looked at her blankly for a moment, wondering how, or even if, she should answer. Deciding that there was no menace in the woman, she answered tentatively, "A little. Not so used to the sleeping upright thing."
"Oh, I hear ya," the woman smiled. "Can't never sleep too well on these trips, no matter how often I make 'em." She leaned over the aisle and stretched a hand out to Buffy. "Name's Maybelle," she said. "Where y'headed?"
Buffy took the proffered hand and answered, "Nice to meet you, Maybelle. I'm Buffy. And as for where I'm headed..." Her voice trailed off into a mumble, "...as far away as I can get, I guess."
A glint appeared in Maybelle's deep brown eyes as she responded: "I'm off at the next stop, sweetie. Assumin' we ever get there, anyhow. Can't stand Chicago -- so glad we got out of there, finally. I figured you headed for the Big Apple, but here y' are on the Crescent City Express."
A strange tingle worked its way up Buffy's spine when the woman said the words "Crescent City", but she had no idea why the name of a train would spark recognition. "I thought this train went to New Orleans," she muttered. "Figures I wouldn't even be able to pull of something as simple as getting on the right train. Lemonade making time, I guess." Buffy turned conflicted eyes back toward the window, staring at the rising sun.
Tapping an index finger lightly against her lower lip, as if considering a plan she wasn't sure was wise, Maybelle watched the young woman slide back into the trancelike state that had occupied her so much of the endless ride across country. "You know-- if you're not in a hurry to get somewhere, I might just have somethin' you'd be interested in hearing about. Have you ever been to Tennessee before, hon?"
---
"What do you mean they aren't together?!?" Xander's face was so red Dawn thought he might just explode. "Of *course* they're together," he said. "That's why they never went to visit your aunt. She seemed like a very sensible woman -- no way she'd tolerate the evil undead in her home. Buffy must have figured that out in a hurry. It'd be too hard to get her daily helping of ..." At the very last second, Xander seemed to realize that he'd said all of this before, at least a thousand times. Slumping back into his seat as they pulled up to yet another stoplight, he exhaled as if he were a balloon that had suddenly lost its tie.
Dawn jumped at the chance to short-circuit this round of "Why Buffy and the Evil Undead are a Bad, Bad Thing". "No, really, Xander. I tried to tell you before we got to Aunt Janet's house, but you wouldn't listen. Big surprise. Xander's obsessed. Here. Just take it!" She shoved the letter marked "Bit" into his hand smugly. "I've got proof. But you'd better pull over at the Steak 'n Shake before you read it."
---
Already, Buffy doubted her decision to accompany Maybelle to her farmhouse in Fulton, Tennessee. The woman chattered incessantly, but the flow of curved vowels and drawn out syllables was perfectly tuned white noise to accompany the purr of the battered truck's engine. Buffy stared out the window, jaw agape at the green stands of trees lining the highway, waving like people in the wind. And what was *that* on the road? Ewwww. Dead squirrel. Dead Squirrel?? On the road? Don't they break for squirrels in the South?
As they turned onto a dusty gravel road, Buffy looked in disbelief at the sun dancing on acres of green and brown beneath a canopy of immense oak trees. They rode for long minutes through scenery that could have been pulled straight out of "A River Runs Through It." Squirrels leaped about, leaving swirls of motion in their quicksilver dashes from tree to tree. Tiny flashes of colour from wildflowers punctuated the underbrush, and Buffy was utterly mesmerized by the life in front of her until at last they reached a clearing in the trees. Beyond the wilderness, the world opened up to reveal signs of human habitation: something like a driveway circled around to the left, revealing a large yellow house sitting on the edge of a brush-ringed pond.
Maybelle pulled to a sudden halt as they neared the side of the house and threw the driver's side door open as she quipped, "Home again, home again, jiggity jig. Been to the market to buy a fat ..." Seeing Buffy's quickly hidden grimace, she finished simply, "It's home. Come on inside and meet the gang."
Soooo not in Kansas any more.
---
Bracing himself for yet another duel with the potholes of New Orleans, Spike cursed as he bounced through the intersection. It had been years since he'd last visited on his way back to California from Brazil. But the old house on South Robertson Street was surely standing, and as long as the house was there, Spike was certain its owner would still occupy it. Making the final turn off of S. Claiborne Street onto the maze of side streets that wove criss-cross patterns through the stately disrepair of Uptown, Spike felt excitement rising from his stomach and shooting up his spine. Home. At least, for the duration.
Several houses away from his destination, Spike turned off the engine and coasted into the alley behind the houses. The rickety double-shotgun had survived the last several years with a grace sustained through decades of Mardi Gras carousing, more fraternity parties than one could count, and even a few hurricanes. The columns on the porch were covered with chipped and faded white paint, and the house appeared deserted. Spike knew better. Leaving the motorcycle behind, he bounded up the front steps like a little boy called home to his favourite supper. Locks couldn't keep this vampire out, but fond memories prompted him to take the time to gently dislodge the deadbolt rather than break the door down. For old times' sake, of course.
Spike slammed the door open and grabbed the edges of the frame with his hands. Swinging just enough to cause the duster to flap a little, he cocked his head to one side and smiled a huge smile. "Honey, I'm hoooooommme!"
Chapter Five: GhostsA shrill voice poured out of a room about halfway down the hallway of the dark house. "Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here in the middle of the night, waking the dead with your childish games?"
Spike's grin grew even wider, and he released the door frame to step into the kitchen, letting the screen door close behind him with a bang. "Tisha, love. When'd I ever do anything by half measures?" He walked quickly down the hallway and threw open the door to the bedroom, exposing the misty figure of a woman sitting on the edge of a large brass bed. "Come on, sweet. Tell me you missed me?"
Something soft and silky brushed against his leg, weaving in and out between his feet. Spike chuckled and bent over to scratch under the Siamese's chin. "Oscar here obviously did."
Without a word, the female figure floated across the room, hovering a few inches above the uneven wooden floors. She moved in a slow circle around the vampire, hands on hips and lips pursed, looking him up and down appraisingly.
"You." She spat. "Back again, and no different than the last time you tore through this town. What is it you want this time, William? Or are you still going by that ridiculous nickname...what was it? ...Spike?" She snorted in derision as she floated past him and down the hallway to the front parlour. "Have you come to ruin another life in your quest to win a heart that was never yours?"
Spike raised a hand to stroke his chin, and his grin faded just a bit. "Ooooh. Got a bit of a rant on, pet? Well, we'll fix that soon enough." He followed her into the dusty room. Clouds rose where his feet touched the faded red carpet.
"Just need a place to stay for a while, Tish. Can't you forgive a bad, bad man and play nice for a few days?"
Her eyes lost their hardness and a twinkle of humour sparked in them as she considered the cocky blond invader. Her voice held a mocking edge: "What's in it for me, 'luv'?"
"Same's last time. I'm here to bring him to you, if you'll do your part."
The ghostly woman held her head in her hands and sat on the Victorian settee, groaning. "Don't tempt me with the impossible, William. It's useless. He's still alive, and I'm still dead."
Spike sat down next to her and wrapped a gentle hand around the small feline body that bounced into his lap. "Things change, y'know." He rhythmically stroked the fine fur of its underbelly. "When you make them."
He bent his head to whisper secret plans in her ear, as if the cat would overhear and tell someone who cared.
---
Buffy followed Maybelle through the rickety screen door into the immense farmhouse kitchen with trepidation. The gang, huh? She didn't know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't the shrill whistle that rang loudly enough to be heard in the next county.
"Tweeeeee--eeeet!" Maybelle cupped her hands around pursed lips as she called out, "Y'all come on down! We got company!" Turning to Buffy, she said, "Come on in, now. Alice'll be here any --" Buffy's eyes grew huge and she took several steps back toward the door when she saw an immense, drooling dog rushing the length of the room. Cujo was part of the gang? She was starting to feel like she'd walked into some B-grade horror flick.
The dog skidded to a halt and straight into Maybelle, knocking her back several feet with a solid "Slurp!" Laughing now, Maybelle said, "Buffy -- this is Alice." She reached a hand out to scratch the St. Bernard's ears. "I've been gone a while -- guess she's glad to see me. I missed you, too, girl." Looking the giant dog straight in the eyes, she grabbed both ears and asked, "Where's Ralph? You didn't lock him in the basement again, did you?"
Shaking her head to jolt the Twilight Zone music from between her ears, Buffy jumped a foot into the air when a yowl that sounded exactly like a hungry, human baby pierced the air. She looked around, expecting to see someone holding a baby enter the room. Instead, she did a double take at what leapt onto the round kitchen table. More with the creature feature...
"There you are!" Maybelle smiled at the monstrosity sitting on its haunches, staring straight at Buffy with glowing yellow eyes as large as saucers--maybe larger. Extracting herself from the slobbery embrace of the horse-sized dog, Maybelle walked over to the table and laid a hand on the flat top of its head, scratching two tufted ears. "The rest of the gang, sweetheart. Meet Ralph. And don't let the howl put you off. He's a lap-monster, for sure."
Buffy stared at the... cat?... as it began to rub its body against Maybelle, participating wholeheartedly in the attention she was lavishing on it. The cat stared back, seeming to see straight into her soul. Shaking off the strange notion, Buffy's eyes bounced from woman to cat to dog and back again. Not so sure I want to be all Wild Kingdom Girl for a week...the hat won't suit me at all! Time for this little Bo Peep to take a hike before the sheep wander in...
"Well don't grow roots, honey. Take your coat off -- stay a while...Wait! No, Ralph, don't..."
The huge cat wiggled its furry behind and crouched down, then launched itself lickety-split off the table, a streaking mass of black, grey, and white fur flying through the air to land smack in the middle of Buffy's chest, knocking her flat on her back in the middle of the kitchen floor. The jolt of adrenaline that ran through her as the animal connected with her disappeared into gales of laughter that erupted from the pit of her stomach. The purring from the cat was loud enough to vibrate through her entire body while it kneaded a comfortable spot into the cloth of her coat, then circled around to settle into a comfortable, if leaden, ball of purring feline contentment. Still laughing, Buffy raised up as far as she could on both elbows, and said to Maybelle, "I don't think the coat is going anywhere just now. So, this is me -- staying!"
Maybelle eyed the cat and the girl on her kitchen floor, grinning at the joy that seemed to radiate from the young woman. Good old Ralph. He always knows just the thing. Wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, she said, "I guess you're in like Flynn, Buffy. If Ralph takes a likin' to ya, you're good people. Welcome to the funny farm! I can see these two beasts are hungry. How 'bout you? Want some breakfast?"
Buffy giggled as the cat snuggled in even closer. "As long as *I'm* not breakfast..."
---
Xander slammed the door of the car behind him and leaned on the hot metal of the hood as his shaking hand held the letter up to read for the fourth time.
Slayer,Hard to know what to say. Guess you'll never even find this letter after the little incident at the Magic Box. But maybe Nibblet'll bring it to you anyway.
I suppose I owe you some kind of an explanation. No, I didn't say apology. I was only doing exactly what you told me to do -- moving on. I do far too much of that. Whatever you tell me to do, no matter what I want. She was hurt and sad. And whether you want to admit it or not, so was I.
Got a bit of self-righteousness going on there, don't you? I can hear it now: "Evil, soulless fiend. How could he do this to me?" I've been called much worse, and been proud of it. This time, though, you're wrong. After what you so-called loving human beings did to us, we had a perfect right to a bit of solace. You claim I don't know what love is, but I think you've got it backwards, pet. I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it. Seems there's only one way to prove it to you.
So I'm out of here. But I'll be back, and then you'll see. Have a nice, safe life in that sad little world of yours, Joan. Maybe Sir Hadalot 'n' Lostit can keep you company while I take care of business.
S.
Dawn watched Xander through the car window. She'd given the letter to him in a fit of frustration over his constant haranguing, but she was beginning to regret it. He hung his dark head low over the letter and just *stood* there. Defeated. Despite herself, Dawn began to feel sorry for him. She fidgeted in her seat, trying to decide what she could do to make it all right again. He irritated her, but she still loved him. He would always be her hero, no matter how ridiculous his behaviour. Dawn, at least, knew that at his core he was a loving, giving man. So many things had happened this year to twist that.It was time for another change, then. Resolve straightened her backbone, and Dawn got out of the car and scooted up onto the hood so that she could lean her head on Xander's shoulder. "He loves her, Xander. And I think she loves him, too. She's just too much of a coward to admit it. Why does it make you hate him so much?"
Xander bent his head to touch hers. His voice was shaking, almost inaudible in its answer: "It's not Spike I hate..."
---
Tired. That was the word that Maybelle kept coming back to as she stood in the doorway, watching the small-boned woman entangled in threadbare quilts in the bed that had once belonged to another small blond girl. She'd been sleeping in that bed since breakfast late yesterday -- if the thrashing she saw constituted sleeping, anyway. Buffy was bound to wake up soon, despite the early hour. Better get downstairs and start breakfast going. It felt good to have someone to take care of again, even if it was only for a while. Seeming to hear Maybelle's thoughts, the big cat sleeping on the bed uncurled and leapt off to follow her down the stairs.
Half an hour later, Buffy jerked upright out of her fitful sleep. Too many times she'd awakened like this, struggling against a blind urge to weep. But she could never remember the dreams that put her in this state. She rubbed her eyes and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Had to be a hold over from waking in a grave. She dragged herself out of bed and over to the big, open window to draw the blinds, blocking out the unrelenting sunshine that used to be the first pleasure of her days.
The smell of coffee brewing and something delicious in the oven beckoned her down the stairs. The linoleum floor of the huge kitchen was cold against her bare feet. Maybelle reigned over frying pans, batting Ralph away from the stove with a spatula. Her eyes met Buffy's as she asked, "How'd ya sleep, darlin? You musta been awful tired -- it's tomorrow now."
Buffy stifled a yawn as she answered. "I guess I was kind of tired. The whole not sleeping in a bed thing kinda wears you out." Her nose began to twitch at the aromas wafting through the kitchen, "Something smells *good*. Do you do this every day?" she asked with a wistful note in her voice as Maybelle loaded the table with bacon, eggs, juice, and a platter full of biscuits straight from the oven.
"Naw, not every day. At least, not any more." The brisk tone of Maybelle's voice held a hidden note of sorrow. "Eat up, now! Ralph and Alice will get fat if there's too much in the way of leftovers." Taking a seat at the table, Maybelle waved Buffy toward a chair. "I've got some things to take care of in town today, but you're welcome to piddle around here doing whatever strikes your fancy."
The sheer normalcy of Maybelle's conversation struck Buffy as absolutely right and utterly wrong all at the same time. She wanted to say it reminded her of home and childhood, but it didn't. Not really. It was more that it reminded her of the home and childhood she wished she'd had. And it made her miss her mom, with a sharp edge that came from deep inside some long-locked compartment in her mind. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she bent her head to hide them. Muffling her words in a mouthful of biscuit, she asked the question that had been simmering beneath the surface since Maybelle had first offered to take her in. "Why did you invite me here, 'Belle?"
---
There was a bounce in his step as he walked down the uneven, cracked pavement of New Orleans, making his way through the steamy miasma that was the very essence of night in the city that care forgot. Bearded live oaks framed a full moon, lighting up the dark corners of St. Charles Avenue as Spike crossed the street, whistling a cheerful tune on his way to the hidden cacophony of Magazine Street on a Thursday night. Almost to Tchopitoulas, he grabbed hold of a wrought-iron post and did a little jig. This was it, then. Time for action, at last. A predatory gleam entered his eye as he ducked his head and opened the barred door to a hole-in-the-wall club where he'd find his quarry.
Father A, as the students called him, always headed for this club when finals were over for the year, celebrating his freedom and drowning his sorrows with good whiskey and great jazz in a smoky little place few students even knew existed. The good professor managed to keep a grip on his overwhelming sorrow through most of the school year, but each year at finals time the reminder of his loss was more than he could stand without the fortification of the Irish. Eyes which held years of pain beyond his age were trained on the beautiful singer curled around the microphone in the centre of the tiny stage. The slow music of ordinary anguish made him feel less alone in his misery, gave him an external place to focus his attention. The flash of too-white light from the opening door drew his attention, and he swivelled on his stool to see who'd invaded this unmarked den.
Spike's bright, hard stare held the professor's gaze in a vice grip. Letting the door slam closed behind him, the blond menace glided across the floor and slid onto an unoccupied bar stool nearby. He ordered a whiskey from the bartender and pulled the ashtray closer in. Lighting up, he turned his attention back to the man beside him. "Don't mind if I smoke, do you, mate?"
Father Aloysius crossed himself quickly, then turned his stool so that his entire body was open to his companion. This was going to be a much, much more interesting evening than he'd planned. His lips formed a tight little smile as he glanced in the mirror behind the bar to verify his assessment of the creature who had invaded his private retreat. His voice sliced the air between them with even, hard tones, "I know what you are. You can see what I am. Leave this place."
Spike cocked his head at the professor like a wild jungle bird, then dove for the leather band holding the cross against the man's chest, ripping it free and flinging it across the bar. "Don't think so," he chirped brightly, swallowing his whiskey in a single gulp. A quicksilver hand reached out to grasp the priest by the shoulder, stroking a thumb over the beating pulse in his neck. "We're going to take a walk, big Al. Come quietly, and you'll end the night still alive," he hissed. Aloud, he boomed in a friendly tone, "Let's get going, then, mate," while forcibly pulling the man off of the stool and spinning him towards the door. Meeting resistance already, Spike bent his head to the man's ear, whispering something guaranteed to gain his cooperation: "Tisha's waiting for you, but there's a little something I need you to help me with, first."