Tango
Part SixTwenty minutes later, when Spike joined Dawn in the kitchen, she was feeling much less sanguine.
"Whaddya’ mean, you don't know where he lives?" Spike snarled in dismay. As he spoke, he tossed his recently recovered duster onto the counter. "He's dating your sister. How could you not know where he bloody well lives?"
"Hey…just because he's going out with Buffy doesn't mean I’m interested in him," Dawn protested. "Besides she keeps secrets. And…and then…even when she does tell me something I don't always listen. Because you know she loves to yap about the Slayer burdens and house rules and how I don’t have any idea…”
“Yeah, she will go on.”
Dawn grimaced in concentration. “But I think I remember...she said he lived on a tree street?"
"A tree street?"
"You know…like Elm or Oak…only not those. Or maybe it was one of those…I can't remember…maybe it was Spruce."
"So you've narrowed it down, have you?" Spike grumbled.
“Well, at least it’s something,” Dawn pointed out.
"Something like thirty-odd streets in this soddin' town named after trees,” Spike said sarcastically. “Can't cover more than say two hundred square blocks. I should find him in no time."
He plopped dejectedly onto one of the kitchen barstools and instantly processed a booze-drenched flashback of cuddling with Buffy on the same spot. He tried to focus on it, wondering if the remembered feel of her in his arms was even remotely accurate. A frown creased his brow. Surely they hadn’t been wet.
"And maybe it was only like a tree," Dawn mumbled, somewhere outside the pleasant recollections in Spike’s head. Leaning her chin into her hands, she stared vacantly out the window for a time. She straightened abruptly. The quick movement caught Spike’s eye and he looked up expectantly. "I bet Willow would know,” she said but quickly deflated, again, "Only we can't call Willow because no phone." She sighed and went back to staring.
“I suppose I could go see Red,” Spike offered. “Even if she doesn’t have the address, she could do a locator spell. Find the Slayer right quick.”
Dawn didn’t even glance at him. “You do know you reek like old wino, right?”
“And your point?”
“Willow might not help Buffy’s drunken stalker-vamp.”
“I’m not drunk,” he squeaked indignantly. “It’s the jeans. Must’ve spilled something on ‘em.”
Dawn turned her head to shoot him a give-me-a-break look and he tipped his chin down so he was smiling softly up at her from beneath thick lashes. He was, judging by appearances, adorably sincere. Dawn had to wonder if he used the same lame manipulation on her sister.
“Right,” she drawled. Spike gave up the puppy dog act but still poured on the charm.
“God’s truth, Bit. Not drunk. Last night is a little fuzzy though,” he admitted under the prod of her steady gaze. “Anyway, I can’t change. No time to go by my place and I don’t keep anything here but a couple extra shirts anymore.” He plucked at the t-shirt he’d taken from Buffy’s closet shelf.
“Whatever,” Dawn sighed, offering a cold shoulder to his cuteness. She settled back into her seat and started counting leaves on the old oak in the front yard. Then she blinked. “Oh, wait!”
"What? You remembered?" Suddenly, Spike was a century older and all business.
“No. But can’t you find Buffy by sniff…smell…super-nose power?”
“Sure, I can.” Spike nodded. But before the nibblet could start gamboling with joy, his mouth twisted and he added, “Long as everyone else has left town and there’s a clear trail. As it is, with a head start and busy streets…”
“Bet Angel could find her.”
“How much do you make in allowance now?”
"Buffy doesn’t believe in allowance. And yet another reason I miss Mom. OH!" Dawn froze. Spike could see the light of some idea spark in her eyes. “The phone log,” she declared and then, with a cape-like swish of silken hair, she was on her feet and heading for the living room.
“The what?” Spike called, after her.
She came skipping back before he even thought to follow.
“The phone log,” she repeated, waving the tall, thin journal she held in one hand. “Mom used to keep it. So we would know if she was at the gallery or out shopping or…doing other mom stuff. Buffy just kind of doodles in it when she’s on the phone.” She settled onto the barstool beside Spike’s and took on a confidential air. “This is how I find out about secret meetings and big time evil.”
“By spying,” Spike said, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, like you’re against that,” Dawn huffed, turning her attention back to her prize.
The book’s denim cover was decorated with hand-written names and numbers and flowers and squiggles. Spike recognized Buffy’s looped hand in some of the more elaborate designs. Placing the log on the kitchen counter between them, Dawn flipped it open to a random page. Spike read off the memos penned in Joyce’s neat hand.
3/9 Willow Called– Buffy Library 888-1717 10:30ish
3/9 Grace McCue 1623 Mercer St. - 555-8128 – pizza and movie – Dawn
3/12 Public Exhibit – Gallery – 555-6733 – JoyceDawn touched a fingertip to the page over her mother’s name, tracing the letters. Her breathing grew a little ragged. Spike dropped a comforting arm around her shoulders. Moved by his reassuring touch, Dawn looked up into his face. Her eyes were brimming with tears. Spike's expression softened. He gave her a gentle squeeze.
“I miss her too, nibblet.”
Dawn gave a curt nod. She decided she was too mature to cry. Sniffling, she rubbed an impatient knuckle across her cheek. This wasn’t helping find her sister. But before she moved away, she couldn’t resist resting the side of her head against Spike’s chest for a moment. The almost forgotten balm of masculine tenderness enveloped her. It made her feel safe.
With a tug of real regret, she let it go and resolutely focused. She fluttered the log pages ahead to the latest entries. The more current pages were less organized. Instead of neatly penned lines, they were filled with random doodles.
Spike was surprised to see his own name repeated in the margins. Once or twice it was highlighted by a lacy outline. ‘She thinks on me’, he thought, the burden on his heart lifting. He steadfastly ignored the repeated arrows and stakes also featured in his name scribbles.
Tilting the book this way and that, Dawn was reading aloud.
“Willow and Tara, St. Jude’s Bake Sale. What were wiccans doing at…? Oh, that’s right…the miter whosit. Some kind of cross looking thingee. Child Welfare, Mrs. Broom, ick, witch and not the good kind either. I swear she rides a broom too. Grogsoaru…Growahgaser…”
“Grougsoruscku,” Spike translated. “Demon.”
“Hmmm,” Dawn hummed. She turned the page and read on. “Angel Investigations, no help there. Dry cleaning Thursday. Principal Zucker…Aha!” She stabbed her finger down on the bottom of the second to last, filled-in page. “Pineapple Terrace. Number 1181, Apartment 2-B.”
“Pineapple?” Spike pulled away from her, frowning. “How is that like a tree?”
“Pine and Apple are both trees, right?”
Spike simply stared at her for a speechless moment then his mouth dropped open and he rolled his eyes heavenward.
“Fruit!” He growled at the ceiling before leaning past her to snatch up his duster. “Pine is like a tree. Pineapple is like a fruit!”
Turning on his heel he stalked toward the foyer. Dawn was two steps behind him when he reached the front door. It took a moment to register when she followed him out onto the porch. He halted abruptly, whirling to confront her.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“With you,” she chirped, beaming up at him with bright innocence. Spike wondered if she used the same lame manipulation on Buffy. As he continued to glare, her smile faded and she added feebly, “Safety in numbers?”
“Also indoors with the latch locked,” he countered. Taking her firmly by an upper arm, he hustled her back over the threshold.
“But…but…” she putted, shiny hair flipping about as she resisted his herding.
“I need you to stay here in case Buffy comes home,” Spike said. Dawn stopped fighting. When he was sure of her compliance, he released her. “This isn’t up for discussion.” They stared at one another for a minute, each assessing their relative positions in the pecking order. Finally, Spike eased off on the father-figure glare. “Will you be alright alone?”
“Hello? Fifteen? Not a child.”
“O’ course,” he conceded with a dip of his chin. He started to leave and then turned back, pointing a stern parental finger. “Mind you don’t let anyone in though, ‘specially not this Roscoe twonk.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said, accepting his authority.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Buffy poked at the mound of meat and veggies on her deli wrapper. In the last hour, as her friends conspired to murder the man she was dating, she had haphazardly dismantled her turkey on rye. Now, she picked at the sandwich like a C.S.I. specialist looking for clues, spreading the remains over an even larger area of waxed paper. She hadn’t eaten much. Plotting, she rationalized, was hard on the digestion. Doubts plagued her.
Her Slayer senses were quivering, she couldn’t deny it. But there might be a simpler explanation for the quiver than ‘I Married an Inbcubrick’ or whatever. Roscoe looked like Spike. That was the extent of his sin. He hadn’t done anything demon-y. All he’d done was make her feel special. What if the pricking of her thumbs, and other parts, was because of Spike? Buffy could see how wanting a soulless fiend in the worst possible way might trigger some extrasensory tingle. Maybe she should mention that alternative before they actually killed Roscoe. Maybe she should stand up and say, “I want to get horizontal with my former mortal enemy. Does that seem relevant to anyone?”
Buffy was afraid Rocko might be an innocent bystander. Just another man swept up in her misguided obsession with Spike. Welcome to the jungle, Riley Finn.
Yeah, she was pretty darned obsessed.
Hello. My name is Buffy S. and I’m a vampaholic. I admit I am powerless in the face of…his face…chiseled perfection with those full lips and killer blue eyes…and working down…there’s his throat…and chest and…those rock hard abs…skilled hands doing naughty things….
“I think we should go with Fire,” Tara said, jerking Buffy out of her preoccupation with demon parts. “If we tie him up first…”
“Right,” Willow agreed. “Easy to arrange, less chance of a slip up, no questions after.”
“If nobody sees us setting up the stake and woodpile,” Anya said. Before taking another bite of her chicken salad she added, “And then there’s the smoke. There are ordinances inside the city limits, you know?”
“We’ll be careful,” Willow insisted.
“Anyone else get the wiggins from the witches suggesting we burn someone at the stake?” Xander said, holding up a hand.
“It’s better than burying him alive,” Buffy croaked. She glanced around the table. Nobody could meet her eye. Feet shuffled on the floor. Xander’s fingers drummed nervously. After an uncomfortable pause, Giles cleared his throat.
“Yes…well…” he said. “It would seem to me that drowning is the next safest option. Should something go wrong we could always say it was an accident.”
“Not a big fan of the drowning either,” Buffy grumbled. She could vividly recall the icy stab of water in her lungs. She shuddered at the notion of forcing someone to breathe in liquid.
“Besides,” Willow said. “We would have to get him to the docks.”
“Buffy could ask him to meet her,” Giles argued.
“And then into the water,” Willow continued.
“One of us could give him a decisive push.”
“W-what i-if he fi-fights us?” Tara asked. “W-won’t we have to hold him under.”
“Buffy could…”
“Buff still has to breathe,” Xander countered. “Once they go in the drink, he could get the upper hand or tentacle. I say we all go in there and overpower him. Tie him up. Toss him in.”
“We could be seen at the river,” Buffy said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Even if Rocko isn’t trussed up like a turkey, someone might get suspicious, especially if they try to help with the,” she air quoted the phrase, “‘rescue effort’.”
“And this is assuming he can’t breathe underwater,” Anya remarked. Argument ceased. Heads swiveled in her direction. The rest of the gang stared at her open-mouthed. As the ex-demon took a nonchalant sip of soda, Willow darted a quizzical glance at Xander. His dark eyes flashed.
“Anya,” he rumbled, “What do you know about Octo-boy?”
“Nothing useful,” she shrugged, setting her can of pop down. “But I do know lots of demons don’t need air. We would all look pretty silly flailing around trying to drown someone who doesn’t need to breathe.”
“But the book said the elements,” Willow protested, pointing at the tome in front of Tara.
“Water,” Tara agreed, nodding.
Anya heaved a huge sigh. “Just because water can kill it doesn’t mean it will die like a human.” She caught Giles eye and the corner of his mouth twitched up. “We need to make sure. And consecrated burial is usually reliable.”
Buffy was shaking her head. “I don’t,” she began but Giles interrupted her.
“Anya’s right,” he conceded. “I’m sorry Buffy. It will have to be Earth.” Seeing the distaste on her face he capitulated slightly. “Unless something better comes to light in the next few hours. I will, of course, continue researching. The rest of you should start digging a pit in the woods.”
“Consecrated,” Anya reminded but Willow was already out of her chair and searching for holy water. Tara went to the shelves behind the cash register and lifted down the rosewood box of assorted religious talismans.
“I should go check on Dawn,” Buffy said, rising. “Meet you in Miller’s Grove?”
“You bring the piñata,” Xander joked, helping the Slayer into her light jacket.
Buffy didn’t even smile. Something about all of this felt wrong. She was still wrestling with what could only be guilt as she started the walk home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Frowning over the dank aroma in the stairwell, Spike made his way to the second floor of the brownstone apartment at 1181 Pineapple Terrace. He paused outside the door of 2-B, listening for any movement behind the wood panel. The apartment was quiet. Though he had no hope of entering, Spike tried the latch.
The knob turned easily under his hand and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. It was a heavy door, solid oak. The weight of it carried Spike a step or two over the threshold. He stumbled slightly, expecting a barrier and meeting no resistance.
‘He’s dead,’ Spike thought. The burgeoning jubilant smirk vanished from his lips when he noticed the too familiar figure seated on the far side of the room.
“Hello,” Roscoe said, politely.
Bewildered, Spike turned to look over his shoulder into the hallway. He assessed his position relative to the threshold. It wasn’t his imagination. He was definitely inside the git’s home. Slowly, his head twisted back around until he was once again staring at Buffy’s dream man.
The wanker was dressed conservatively in a dark blue turtleneck shirt and jeans. Slouching on the sofa, he looked the picture of relaxation. He had a book of poetry in one hand and a glass of sparkling cider in the other. Unlike Spike, he didn’t seem the least bit ruffled by the impromptu visit. Moving with exaggerated care, he sat up straight, placed his drink on a coaster and then rose with fluid grace.
Spike started to make the accusation even as it occurred to him. “You’re not…”
“Human?” Roscoe finished. He chuckled in easy amusement. “Alas, no.” After marking his place in the volume of poetry with a pink silk ribbon, he set the book on the coffee table. “But then…neither are you, Cousin William.”
“Spike,” the vampire corrected, eyes narrowing. He felt off balance and bristled, growling a warning as the other demon began to close the distance between them in slow languid strides.
“Of course,” Roscoe said, wafting his hand affably. “There’s no reason for the two of us to stand on ceremony. You may call me Rocko.”
‘Or the late Rocko,’ Spike thought. A slow deadly smile lifted the corners of his mouth. His rival was a demon. It made things much simpler. “You haven’t heard of me then?” He asked softly, steely gaze fixed on Roscoe’s jugular.
“No,” Roscoe purred from only a few feet away. “Should I have?”
“Got a bit of a reputation in these parts,” Spike bragged. “Demon killer.”
“Oh, do you?”
The prey appeared mildly impressed. He didn’t, however, seem overly concerned. It was as if they were making cocktail party small talk and Spike had just confessed to being something of a big game hunter.
“You help the Slayer then?” Roscoe went on. “And here I was thinking you planned to kill her.” He made a little moue.
“We work together, me and Buffy. Side by side.”
“Ah,” Rocko sighed out the syllable. He shifted a bit to the left to catch a glimpse of his own reflection in a decorative mirror. What he saw engendered a tight-lipped smile and an enigmatic nod. “But, of course.” Straightening, he tilted his head and ran a keen eye over Spike’s profile. “I can see the resemblance, now. You’re her ideal.”
“Her what?” Spike asked, absently. He wasn't really listening, only waiting on opportunity. His fingers had curled into fists at his side. One more step and the git would be in range. Spike planned to rip his soddin’ head off and sort it out with Buffy later. Sorry ‘bout your squeeze, luv. Demon, you know?
“Her ideal,” Roscoe repeated, taking the crucial step. “The man of her dreams. Her sexual soul-mate.”
Spike didn’t throw the punch. Instead he gulped. “Her sexual…?”
“Soul-mate,” Roscoe breathed the word. He was standing too close, violating personal space. Spike could feel the warm stir of exhaled air against his cheek. “Her true love. The one most likely to…have his way…or…let’s see…how would you put it? Get a leg over?”
“I think you’ve got the wrong vampire, mate.”
“Oh, no,” Rocko chuckled sensually. “There can’t be three of us. Or am I slipping?” He checked the mirror again. “Surely you see the likeness.”
Expression stormy with confusion, muscles coiled to spring, Spike hesitated. He felt like an attack dog pulled up short on a tight leash. He couldn’t quite sink his teeth into the situation. There was something he was missing, some vital piece of the puzzle.
“You look like me…so…?”
Incubus!
The image flashed in Spike’s brain. He tried to stop the insight from reaching his eyes and failed. His failure bloomed into ropey-tentacled horror. Roscoe’s maw stretched wide even as Spike launched his body sideways in a desperate bid for escape. There wasn’t even the suggestion of a fight. There was only blinding pain and darkness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The night was getting colder. Buffy barely registered the change as she raced along nearly empty streets. She had the hilt of a slender scimitar clenched in one hand. Her booted heels beat out a frantic rhythm. Fire, Water, Earth, Air!
What was he thinking? If he hurt Roscoe…If Roscoe hurt him…She heard Giles intoning in her head. ‘An incubus can only be killed by its intended victim…’ Ooohhh…why is he always such a bonehead?
“I’m the Slayer, Spike,” she panted, as she made the corner at Pineapple Terrace. “I can take care of myself.”
When she reached Roscoe’s building, she didn’t hesitate. She punched open the after hours security lock. Thankfully, there was no alarm. The electric was on at last and the way was well lit. She took the stairs three at a time, bounding up them. Her mind kept repeating the elemental forces. Fire, water, earth, air…fire, water, earth…air? How the hell do you kill something with air?
The door to 2-B was ajar. Buffy caught sight of it and braked sharply. There was a busy crashing coming from inside the apartment. It sounded like someone was trashing the place. Buffy crept forward, sword pointing the way. She used the tip of the blade to nudge the door wide open. As it swung in, she drew back her weapon to strike. A swirl of black leather near the fireplace stayed her hand. A brass horse head bookend and several volumes cascaded from the mantel to the floor with a rustle and thud.
“Oh, for the love of…” The Slayer’s voice was harsh with pent up emotion. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Spike started. He whirled to face her, ready for a fight, but immediately dropped his guard.
“Bloody hell, Slayer,” he pouted. “Are you trying to scare the afterlife out of me?”
Ignoring his question, Buffy did a quick visual sweep of the premises. What she could see of the apartment was a wreck. There was broken glass, books and papers on the floor. The stuffing had been ripped from the sofa and scattered all the way to the kitchen. The coffee table was in splinters. There was no sign of Roscoe. Buffy felt the tension bleed out of her shoulders. Her sword arm relaxed to a neutral position.
“Where is he?”
Indicating a bluish lump on his forehead with one hand, Spike gave a fluidly dramatic shrug. “Scarpered off while I was out cold.” He arched his uninjured brow at her and confided smugly, “He’s a demon, you know?”
“Yeah,” Buffy sighed. “I got that.” She let her sword point dip to the ground as she stepped into the apartment and closed the door. “And now, thanks to you, he knows I know.”
“Are you saying this is my fault?” Spike asked indignantly.
“Well, let’s see,” Buffy said, making a show of thinking it over. “Who else could have warned him to skip out?”
“Maybe he was just following the Buffy Boyfriend pattern,” Spike sneered. He pointed an arm toward the window. “They do seem to head for the horizon with alarming regularity.”
“And yet you linger,” Buffy returned, but her tone was more preoccupied than angry.
Her attention was focused on the darkened doorway to the bedroom. Slowly, she padded over to it, cautious as a cat. She paused just short of the opening. Her free hand darted out to flip the light switch and she pulled back fast. The sudden retreat brought her into painful contact with Spike. He was shadowing her. Buffy puffed out an impatient snort and shoved at him with her elbow. Spike gave little ground. They peered around the doorframe together.
The room was empty and, as yet, unscathed by Spike’s wrath. Buffy took in the swanky décor. Roscoe had upscale tastes. He’d chosen tasteful tribal carvings and abstract art for the walls. His king sized bed was swathed in dark green satin. Exquisitely crafted lamps flanked the upholstered headboard. A sweating ice bucket on the bedside table held an equally water-beaded bottle of wine. He had apparently been expecting company. Buffy tried not to think about the night she might have had.
“Check in there,” she said, waving Spike toward the closed bathroom door on the far side of the room even as she edged around the bed to inspect the closets.
“He’s not here,” Spike said. “I’ve been through the place.”
“I want to make sure,” Buffy growled.
She watched distractedly from the corner of her eye as Spike crossed to the bathroom. He paused, glancing back at her when he reached the closed door. Buffy tried to concentrate on the smooth slide of the closet shutters in response to her tug on the handle. A flicker of movement near knee level grabbed her entire attention. There was something alive amid the clothes.
Gargling in surprise, Buffy backpedaled to the center of the room. The low scurrying in the closet seemed to mimic her. It stilled when she did. After waiting a heartbeat or two, she inched forward again all senses on alert. She used the flat blade of her scimitar to push aside folded pants and suit coats until she could see more clearly. There was a large mirror leaning against the back of the closet. Her own reflection had startled her.
“Still nothing,” Spike said from the other side of the room as he shut the bathroom door firmly. “What have you got?”
“The mirror has one face,” Buffy said, letting the curtain of clothing swing back to cover the looking glass. “And it’s mine.”
“It’s a beautiful face,” Spike said softly. He was standing near the bedside table. Reaching under the lamp, he hefted the wine bottle out of its melted ice bath. “Someone else thought so too, judging by this. Good year and all.”
“You know from wine?” Buffy said, coming around to face him. She sounded grudgingly impressed.
“A bit,” Spike admitted. He pulled the cork of the bottle with his teeth and spit it across the room, losing all of his wine expert points in one gesture. “Do we need glasses?” he asked.
Buffy shook her head. She took the offered bottle and toasted him with it before guzzling. Flipping the tail of his duster aside, Spike settled on the edge of the bed. He tilted his head, smiling up at his girl as she drank. She was a beautiful creature. He considered the pulse of her throat as she swallowed.
‘So perfect,’ he thought. ‘So powerful. And she’s mine.’
In a choking ashy silence, dark as the pit, he waited. He could hear them talking, moving about. They were close. Just behind the wall in the bedroom. Their voices came to him clearly. Other sounds came as well. The bounce of a cork. The creak of the bed. The liquid swish of wine in her mouth.
Over the bitter stench of old charcoal, he caught the stinging hint of alcohol and the lemony sea breeze scent of her desire so strong, so compelling.
Any second now she will tumble to it…any second she will know.
But the seconds dragged into minutes and still there was no scream. No thump or bump of struggle. There were only soft contented sighs and the gentle repetitive squeak of bedsprings. Spike tried to move, to twist free of his bonds, knowing by now it was useless. He was stuffed halfway up the chimney, gagged and wedged tight. And Buffy was about to die.