Promise to a LadyBy Mary
Chapter Twelve
Tuck kept a wary eye on him.
He'd been sitting there for a good three hours now. He'd come in shortly after dusk, a time Tuck found he often had a minor wave of vamps drop in. Most of them had a drink or two, tried to pick a fight if they were in the mood, and left again, presumably to hunt. Not many of them hung out. The second wave showed up closer to closing time, after they'd fed. That crowd tended to be a bit more unpredictable. His bouncer, who didn't start until 11:00, could usually manage an unruly crowd. It was the type of work Fyarl demons were best suited to, if you could train them not to just crush everyone who came in. They worked cheap, too.
He'd owned this bar for five years now, and Tuck figured the guy must be relatively new to Sunnydale, because he hadn't seen him in here before. Of course that didn't always mean anything. He could sense that the blond was older, a master, he'd guess, and they sometimes tended to keep more to themselves than their younger counterparts. Younger vamps didn't exude the same power and mystique as the masters. And they rarely had that seemingly effortless swagger. Instead, they were better known for mouthing off to other demons. This guy stayed to himself. He'd ordered a beer, and a pint of human blood. Picky about it too. Fresh, A-Negative, he'd stipulated, in his British accent, and warmed to the right temperature. Tuck had long ago learned just how many seconds it took to warm a pint to 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit in the little microwave behind the bar.
The bartender didn't know why he'd been so insistent. The beer was long gone, but as near as he could tell, the blond hadn't touched the blood. He'd wrapped his hands around the mug, and stared at it; he'd leaned back in his chair and stared at it; he'd even pushed the mug around a little and stared at it. But Tuck hadn't seen him raise the mug to his mouth yet, and it still looked full. He'd made it a point, after the first hour, to pass by his table every fifteen minutes or so and check.
The crowd was starting to grow, and the vampire looked up, seeming to suddenly notice the increased noise level. With a frown of annoyance, he lifted the mug to his lips and quickly drained it. He set the mug down, grimacing, and pushed back a little from the table, his hands clutching the edge of the wood, hard. He lowered his head between his rigidly straight arms, effectively hiding his expression. Tuck could see, though, that he seemed to be breathing hard, almost gasping for air. Odd. The vampire stayed in that position for a good five minutes. Some of the patrons were getting annoyed by Tuck's absorption with what was going on at that dark table near the side exit, but when one of the customers got a little mouthy, Tuck silenced him with a baseball bat to the head. He was rarely truly intrigued by a customer, and the rest of the crowd could damn well shut up and sit still until he felt like serving them. After all, it was his blasted bar, wasn't it?
Eventually, the vampire straightened up in his chair. His face was coldly expressionless, and his eyes were staring straight ahead. Tuck couldn't tell what, if anything, he was focused on.
The bellow made him jump. The blond had been so silent and contained since he'd come in that the almost deafening roar shocked him. He couldn't tell if it had been caused by rage, or pain, or annoyance at the cold blood, for that matter. If it was that last, though, Tuck hoped the vampire realized that it was his own fault the blood had cooled. Hell, it could have been a roar of joy. With vampires, the difference between rage and joy could be subtle, and not always easy to discern. But it didn't look like happiness that had the butt of the blond's fists slamming down onto the table, which cooperated by breaking cleanly in half under the force of the blow.
Tuck's grip on the baseball bat tightened, and he stole a glance at Haufgle, his Fyarl bouncer who had just recently come on duty. Haufgle rose, preparing to step into any fray that might break out.
The vampire stood, straightening his shoulders. He wasn't in game face, but the coldly threatening look on his sculpted features, and the grim set of his mouth, was frightening enough. Patrons made way as he glided through the crowd. He threw a ten dollar tip on the bar, nodded to Tuck, and killed three demons in less than fifteen seconds as he left the bar, barely even breaking stride.
Including Haufgle, damn it.
As Tuck watched him go he heard the murmured name drifting through the crowd.
Spike.
Tuck's eyebrows rose. He'd heard of him. Fairly often. There were a lot of rumors about Spike. So many, in fact, that Tuck had sometimes wondered if the vampire himself actually even existed. Apparently he did, Tuck acknowledged, if that had been him. Still, he figured most of the stories that seemed to center around the British vampire were probably myths. Urban legends of a sort. After all, the idea of a vampire working alongside a slayer was pretty far-fetched. And, of course, it couldn't be any ordinary vampire, could it? Oh, no. It had to be a master from the oh-so-mysterious line of Aurelius, just to make the story a better tell.
Tuck had always been pretty firm in his belief that the whole Order of Aurelius was nothing but myth. The select, the elite, the chosen. What a load of bull. Sounded like delusions of grandeur to him. Of course, whoever was talking about the mysterious line didn't seem to have any idea of what they were supposedly 'selected' or 'chosen' for, and the talker never actually claimed to be Aurelian himself. He'd never met a vamp who did. Which didn't sit well with his delusions of grandeur idea, but lent considerable weight to his myth theory.
But whatever the truth, it was certain that this vampire - whatever his lineage - was a popular subject for discussion in his bar. Last winter, and into the spring, he was spoken of with hatred and contempt, but as the summer progressed, that tone had changed, and Tuck knew the blond was now feared almost as much as he was hated. There was also a growing and rather grudging respect for his ferocity among some of Tuck's regulars, especially the oldest demons. That didn't surprise him. In the demon world, fear usually begat respect, even admiration of a sort.
Even though he'd found him rather interesting, Tuck fervently hoped the blond didn't come into his bar again. Killing customers like that could be bad for business. Tuck looked at the two dead bodies and the pile of dust littering the floor, and sighed. Finding another unemployed Fyarl that had the intelligence to be trained as a bouncer was going to be damned difficult.
Some nights it hardly paid to open for business.
But a few minutes later, trying to keep up with the heavy orders and hearing the excited murmurs that continued to run through the crowd, Tuck was forced to reconsider.
Death, it seemed, could be a downright boon to business.
He was busy all night, staying open long after the legal closing time to take advantage of the heavy drinking and the rampant gossiping. It was interesting to see the birth of a new urban legend, see how the story changed, how the demon kill count became higher, and the blond vampire wilder and faster, as the night progressed.
Right kind of slaughter, intriguing slaughterer… Turned out it lent the place a little mystique.
---
It wasn't that often that someone knocked on his door, and he supposed that was why it always seemed to catch him by surprise.
He was tired. Since he'd spilled his guts to the Watcher like some bleedin' wanker two days ago, he was back to sleeplessness. Not that he'd been off it for long, but he'd had that one nice long lazy day in his Slayer's bed. The memory hit him hard, sending a violent rush of pain and pleasure through him.
He ruthlessly shoved the memories away and swung the door open.
He should have known.
Brooms, bucket, scrub brush, garbage bags. Dawn was armed to the teeth. He tried to stare her down, and was met with Summers Stubborn Look #4, eyebrows slightly higher than either #5 or #6.
Failure.
"The others aren't coming are they?" There was no other way to categorize his tone. Spike was whining. "'Cause I don't want any of them touching my things."
"What things? Dawn asked derisively, as she swept into the crypt and deposited her load. "You smashed everything you own to pieces."
Had to admit, she had him there.
"And no, Xander and Anya have some other stuff to do." Dawn didn't know what they were up to, but they sure seemed to whisper and grin at each other a lot, heads bent close together. Even more than usual. It was kinda gross. "Willow and Tara can't help 'til tomorrow, if we still need them, and Giles might stop in, but he was waiting on some phone calls, so he couldn't promise anything. Mostly," she went on, "I think it's just you and me."
That was a bleedin' relief.
"Well, let's get to it then, shall we?" his voice was grudging as he admitted defeat gracelessly, and accepted the big push broom Dawn thrust into his hands.
It didn't take as long as Dawn had thought it might. Since so little was salvageable, it was simply a matter of sweeping, dumping debris into garbage bags, and repeating until the floor was something that could be safely walked across again.
When they'd scrubbed up the spots that needed it, and swept down all the cobwebs over Spike's objections that they lent the crypt 'atmosphere', Dawn stood in the middle of the large room, looking about her with thoughtful eyes. Spike, though not human, and having never been subjected to a female's nesting/remodeling instinct, which had been completely lacking in Dru, nevertheless felt some deep seated male fear stir within him, causing an odd panic to flare up at the look in Dawn's eyes.
"We need to fix this place up," she stated baldly, and the panic almost ignited into flames.
"What?" he hedged. "I don't need much."
"You don't have anything," she reminded him. "And we can't do much, 'cause of the whole no money thing, but geesh, we should be able to make it a little more livable." Her eyes ran around the room again. "You can have the television from my Mom's bedroom. I already told Willow and Tara I was going to give it to you. It's got a built in VCR, too."
"Thanks, bit." He'd take the telly. Bloke couldn't miss his shows, now, could he? "But I'm not that interested in where I live, so we don't need to -"
"Oh, pleeease," she interrupted. "Look at this place. If you didn't care about where you lived, you'd be living in some creepy warehouse, or in a cave like The Master. Instead, you pick this place - flowering vines covering the walls and roof outside, these great windows. It's such a total giveaway. You picked this crypt 'cause it appeals to something in you."
Had he? He glanced around. The windows really were rather visually pleasing, and maybe the ancient wisteria vine covering the outside walls reminded him a bit of England. But all in all, it was just a place to sleep, on the rare occasions he did, and store blood.
Speaking of which…
"Bit - been meaning to tell you, since I know you fret about it. I've been drinkin' regular blood - plain, before you ask. And - no problems."
She looked so happy, so relieved, that he felt that funny little tug in his chest that he seemed to feel more and more often around her. He put a hand to his chest unconsciously, rubbing at the scar over his heart.
Dawn came over to him and hugged him. He supposed he could get used to that too, if he had to.
"Is Buffy's blood all gone?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah." He moved out of her arms and away from her. He had no intention of admitting how painful that loss was to him. Another little death. The absence of her powerful blood in his mouth, in his throat and body, was like losing another part of her. And knowing he would never have that again was another agony. For a minute his whole being was wracked with a terrible, mind-numbing pain.
Buffy.
My blood flows in you, will always flow in you now. Always.
Don't think about her, about Buffy. Don't think about her scent, the feel of her body. Don't think about her voice whispering in your mind, her hands stroking over you, the pleasure in her eyes.
How deeply she could moan.
It wasn't real. It hadn't really happened. It was jes' some kind of vision or somethin'.
So don't think about it.
Think about Dawn.
Dawn.
She's what's important. She's all there is, the only thing that matters.
His lifted his head, forcing himself to talk to her. Keep going. Just talk, make noise, keep going. "So, what're your ideas for the place?" he asked. His need to distract himself was growing, and his hands clenched as he struggled to gain control before he began to slam his fists into the crypt walls. Again.
Dawn studied him for a moment, glancing at his hands. She knew he didn't think so, knew he thought he was hiding his pain so well, but he was becoming more and more transparent to her as the weeks passed. Sometimes she wondered if the others could read him as easily as she could. She wasn't stupid. Vampire - blood. Spike - Buffy's blood. She wondered if he was going through withdrawal, like an alcoholic. Or a drug addict.
"Are you okay?" She didn't have to let him try to hide everything, did she?
He met her eyes steadily. "'m fine," he assured her, his voice calm. "So - telly. What do you think? Nice comfy chairs, a sofa, earth tones?"
Even though she could see that his fists were still clenched, Dawn followed his lead. She pushed down her concern and arranged a smile on her face. Just distract him. Give him other things to think about. Things that aren't Buffy, or her blood, or…
"Mostly I'm thinking we check out moving week at UC-Sunnydale. There'll be lots of unwanted furniture left at the curbs when the students move out of their summer housing and into their new places." Dawn made sure her voice held a sufficient amount of animation. "Then - garage sales. Dump - last. I know it's traditionally your favorite home furnishing shopping center, but we can try to move up in the world a little, don't you think?"
Spike judged the anticipation on Dawn's face, and made a decision. Why not? Bit wanted to fix the place up, he could do his part.
"We might be able to do a bit better than curbside at UC-Sunnydale, pet. But we're gonna need a truck."
---
Oh. My. God. They'd stolen a truck. Grand Theft Auto. She was sooo gonna go to jail. 'Course she'd have to be caught first, and Spike would never let that happen.
This was sooo cool!
Dawn was literally bouncing in her seat. Her eyes darted from Spike, who was driving with his usual blatant disregard for traffic laws, to the expanse of road behind them. She was watching for the flashing lights of a squad car, which she expected to see at any moment. Then she tried to look cool and nonchalant for a few seconds, which she never came close to pulling off. Back to bouncing.
Janice and Lisa were just gonna die.
"Get your seatbelt on, luv, and quit bouncin' all over the place."
"Will you teach me how to hotwire a car?" she practically begged, fishing for the safety belt and fastening it.
"Sure. You got the hands for it, bit. Can tell by how you play cards. Be a snap for you to pick up."
"This is sooo cool." She gushed, finally saying out loud the words that had been repeating non-stop in her mind for the past fifteen minutes. " Where are we going?"
"Thought we'd check out the mansion. There was some nice stuff there when we lived there."
"The mansion? You mean Angel's place?"
"Yeah."
"Are we gonna rob it?" she squeaked.
Her eyes were huge, and Spike grinned.
"'Course, we are, bit - er, no." Suddenly he was frowning, attempting to backpedal. Robbery was wrong, wasn't it? Oh bugger it. He supposed stealing a truck wasn't very high on the list of approved things to do with his Slayer's kid sis, either. Bleedin' laws and rules of society were a damned nuisance. Not to mention there were so blasted many of them. Then he shrugged. Bloke couldn't really be expected to keep them all straight now, could he?
"Bitter?" Dawn smirked, in one of those cooler moments. "If that's a new nickname, I don't like it."
"'s not really robbery, pet," Spike tried. "Some of the stuff in that house 's mine, and some's Dru's." They'd both lived there, too, hadn't they? Should give them some claim. Like squatter's rights, in a way. "We can leave Angel's stuff alone, if it makes you feel better."
"Are you nuts? I can't stand Angel. I say - it's there, it's ours."
"That's my girl." Spike perked back up and smiled at her, nodding in approval. And, when they were done with it, they could park the truck back in the same spot they'd nicked it from. Wouldn't need it anymore, anyway.
There - see? It would all come right in the end.
---
He had to admit, the place looked pretty nice. Posh, even.
It had taken them a few days. The hours that were dark enough for him and early enough for Dawn were pretty limited after all, and hauling loads out of the mansion, driving, then unloading their take at the crypt was time consuming. But they had done it. Dawn's enthusiasm for the project hadn't waned, and he was pleased that, as it turned out, his girl had a pretty good eye.
Angelus had always liked his creature comforts and for once Spike wasn't annoyed as hell by it. Well, strictly speaking, he didn't go much for that living underground to pay homage to The Old Ones drivel that the Master had blithered on about on the few occasions Spike had been forced into his presence for some brief period of time. The desire to live above ground was one of the few things he was grateful to Angelus and Darla for. He liked the world, after all. Why would he want to bury himself beneath it in caves with a bunch of bleedin' moronic minions? He'd had a lot less patience for Darla's desire to stay in all the best hotels in Europe as the four of them cut a swathe across the continent. Could be damned inconvenient havin' to deal with all those windows.
The bed had been the biggest challenge. First off, they had to find one in the mansion they both liked. Then it had to be one Angelus hadn't shagged Dru in, an' it couldn't be one he'd laid awake in listening to Angelus shagging Dru. It was a good thing it was a mansion, and had lots of beds to choose from. Handy, that. It was also a lucky thing that vampires had superior strength, 'cause the thing was bugger all to dismantle, lift and carry. Heavy as hell. And he didn't even wanna think about getting it into the lower level of the crypt, or the words that had turned the air a bright blue while he was doing it.
Mostly Dawn held doors open for him while he toted and cursed, her blue eyes wide at some of the words she'd never heard before.
It was a bit of all right though. They'd actually gone out and purchased bedding. Not that all the money had been come by in a strictly honest fashion, mind you, but still... After stealin' the truck and the furniture, he thought he'd better not push things any further with Dawn. She might inadvertently tell someone. He knew she gossiped a bit with Anya. He figured it paid to try to keep some things above board, leastways if the Watcher might find out about it. Not to mention, Marshall Field's had a better security system than the little market where he nicked most of his cigarettes and booze.
He'd wanted black. Dawn had pushed for blue, holding a sheet up to his face. He'd jerked his head away. Who the hell chose bedding to match their eyes? he'd wondered in disgust. They'd compromised on deep reds shot with black and gold. He'd even given in on the throw pillows, which had resulted in Dawn doing some sort of little jig in the aisle of the store.
His girl was happy.
Dawn had nicked some nice statuary from different rooms in the mansion, and they'd had a good time choosing which of the many rugs they liked best, and which ones should go where in the crypt. Lit by the flickering light from dozen of candles, and by the glow from the telly, where Rick was telling Ilsa that they'd always have Paris, the place was almost cozy.
'Course, he'd drawn the line at plants, standing firm, and Dawn had reluctantly conceded the point. Besides, the wisteria vines weren't going anywhere, were they?
They were seated on a nicely squishy leather sofa in front of the telly. His girl was sound asleep. He'd already used the cell phone the Watcher had insisted on getting for him to let Willow and Tara know that Dawn was asleep and would be staying the night with him. Although she's only stayed once before, that time at the request of Tara, Dawn didn't seem to mind staying in the crypt. Spike had suspected the woman had wanted a night alone with her lover. His lips twisted in momentary amusement. Sitting on the roof of the Summers home every night, and blessed with vampiric hearing, he had a pretty good idea of the passion in that relationship. Some of the accompanying visual images his brain had come up with were damned nice, too.
Dawn lay against him, curled under his protective arm. Her head rested against his chest, and her arm was draped across his stomach. Her position bespoke her total trust in him, and he tried to suss out how that made him feel.
Damned edgy, mostly. It was unnatural, wrong. A girl her age should run screaming from someone like him, not cuddle up next to him and fall asleep. It aroused all sorts of conflicting emotions in him. If he made a list, pleasure and fear would be warring for the top spot.
Her hair smelled like Lilies of the Valley. He hadn't noticed it before she'd fallen asleep in his arms. She hadn't been this close to him earlier in the evening, and with all the scented candles wafting their varied odors about the room, he supposed missing it could be explained. He dipped his face close to the shining locks and inhaled deeply, letting memories of his Slayer and the accompanying pain wash over him.
Hair so gold it looked like it was shining in the sun, soft white blouse, and the scent of Lilies of the Valley lingering in his crypt after she'd gone.
It was not her usual scent, which made it stand out more clearly in his mind. It was Joyce's, he remembered now. Buffy must have used her mother's shampoo that day, and Dawn must have done so today. Had they used it to feel closer to their mum?
"It's human. A-Negative. That's your favorite, right? I - I owe you. For what you did for Dawn. And I need you back at full strength as soon as possible. You know, don't you, that she'll come after us again? I'm counting on you to help us out."
Another night. A different setting.
"I'm counting on you to protect her."
"'Til the end of the world."
"I'm counting on you."
"I'm counting on you."
It was just a tiny little thing, a remembered scent, but it triggered memories that quickly and radically altered his mood. The contentment he'd been feeling as he surveyed the redecorated crypt slid away, and the always-present pain intensified, flaring up and grabbing him full force, twisting viciously in his gut. His head fell against the soft back of the sofa, and he swallowed convulsively, struggling against the tears burning in his throat and just behind his eyes.
He'd only allowed himself to cry twice. That first night at the morgue, and a few nights back, with the bot. He refused to let the tears come more often.
He didn't deserve the release they offered.
He'd killed her, hadn't he? Let her die? He should suffer for eternity for that. And, bein' what he was, he knew he would. It was fitting, proper.
It was exactly what he deserved.
< You can't think... Spike, you almost died for Dawn, for me. You would have died for us. You put your life on the line, and you think you failed us? Failed me? You're wrong. So completely wrong. >
If nothing else, hearing Buffy say that in his mind the other night had been enough to convince him she was simply a dream of some kind, a vision. The real Slayer would've been much more likely to kick his arse from here to eternity for his failures the night at the tower.
The thought of fighting with her induced its usual reaction in him - pleasure - and his longing for her intensified. He closed his eyes, and indulged himself for a few minutes with pleasant memories,
Buffy - their first time, at the high school; in a warehouse on Halloween; in an abandoned church…
"I'd rather be fighting you anyway."
"Mutual."
Pure pleasure.
Ahhh, Buffy. I miss you, love. Miss you so much. Always.
Dawn muttered in her sleep, and Spike eased away from her, lowering her into a supine position. He ran a shaking hand over her hair, and stood, looking down at the sleeping girl.
"I'm counting on you to protect her."
Promise, love. Gave you my word. I'll take care of her. 'Til the end of the world. Can't ever make up for failin' you the way I did. But I'll do better this time, I swear. I'll keep her safe, protect her. Make myself stronger, faster, better. Won't ever let my guard down. Not for a minute. I'll be someone you can count on. Someone you can...
Dawn turned on her side, and curled a hand under her cheek. Her eyes blinked open and she smiled at him sleepily.
"Mmmm. Night, Spike. I love you," she murmured before dropping back into sleep.
Spike took a step back in shock, staring at her. She'd never said that to him. He'd felt it, maybe, yeah, but she'd never actually said it. She couldn't… She didn't…
He could probably count on one hand the number of times he'd heard those words since he'd been turned, and they threw him, arousing feelings he wasn't quite sure how to cope with. The longer he knew her, the more time he spent in her company, the more he realized that their whole relationship did a damn good job of making him feel things, and think about things, that he'd never had to deal with in well over one hundred years. He didn't think he even understood half of them.
Spike flung himself into a nearby armchair and lit a cigarette. Moodily, he changed channels on the telly, trying to find something of interest. After a while he gave up and set the remote control aside.
Instead, he watched Dawn sleep.
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