Ichnobate
Part Four“Why won’t you tell me where you are?”
“I already told you, Nibblet. It doesn’t matter.”
"Let me talk to Buffy."
“She's safe. She’ll call you soon. Tell Xander and Willow not to worry. If you need us dial Buffy's cell…but try not to need us for an hour or two, okay? Your sister could use a bit o’ rest. Now, I have to go.”
“But…” Dawn began and she was talking to the dial tone.
“Oooo,” Andrew's voice came through the receiver, over the droning buzz of the dead line. “An undisclosed location…a lady in peril…a man of daring and mystery. Is this a rendezvous of forbidden lovers or some other, more sinister…”
“Will you please stop eavesdropping?” Dawn yelled before slamming down the living room phone.
"Oww," Andrew yelped, from the kitchen.
---
A furtive sound in the hallway, beyond the apartment’s front door, caught Spike's attention as he hung up the phone. Instantly alert, he crept closer, listening for a repeat of the noise. A whisper of bedroom slippers on hardwood floors came to his keen ears. Someone was sneaking up…someone in soft shoes.
“Careful, Harold,” a woman said, just outside. “Maybe they’re on drugs.”
Spike relaxed. He reached for the broken doorknob but before he could complete the movement he glanced down. The carved symbols on his bare chest caught and held his attention. He drew back from the door and considered. His shirt was in the wash with Buffy's clothing and he hadn't thought of covering up for visitors. After pondering briefly, he crossed to the dining table to retrieve the kitchen towel he'd used to dry off earlier. He draped it over one shoulder, partially obscuring the Harbringer artwork. Then, stalking silently, he returned to the entryway.
He grabbed the edge of the door and abruptly yanked it inward, stepping out into the hall. He was face to face with a large man in his mid-sixties and a much older woman. The old lady shrieked in surprise. She shrank back, cowering behind her companion. The man squared his shoulders, bracing for trouble, and raised his right arm straight out, pointing a revolver at Spike’s head.
“Freeze!”
Spike froze. “Is this a robbery?" he asked, debating putting up his hands. "Because really that is all I need tonight…that would cork it.”
“This is a citizen’s arrest.”
“We’re the neighbors," the elderly woman remarked, from her safe haven. “I’m 2-D and Harold here," she patted her companion, "is 2-A."
"Who are you?" Harold barked. His eyes raked over Spike from bleached hair to combat boots. He didn't look impressed. He scowled at what he could see of the decorative scarring on the vampire's chest.
Spike did his best to exude innocence. He could smell hostility radiating off the man. And he could understand why. It was late. And Spike knew he didn't look harmless on the face of it. He was toned and fit. Though partially covered with a towel, the occult patterns on his skin spoke eloquently of deliberate mutilation. He didn't want to resort to violence, however, he might not have a choice. First, he tried to sooth.
"I'm William,” he answered, keeping his voice even. “Anya's cousin…by marriage. We're staying with her. You can ask her when she gets back."
"We know that's a lie," the man growled.
"Miss Jenkins is out of town," the elderly woman announced, primly. "She asked me to water her herbs."
"Out of town?" Spike yelped, causing the triggerman to jump. Oblivious to the gun, the vampire gestured broadly. "Oh, that is so typical of her! When did this happen?"
His accusing tone caught the human duo off guard. "Uhm…well…last minute…something came up and…" They babbled, looking at one another in confusion.
Before they could recover Spike took control of the floor. "Something 'came up'? Something CAME UP?" He ranted, pacing off the width of the hall. "Oh, I just bet it did! This is so like her. I'm telling you. I love my wife but her whole family is addle-brained."
"Case in point, this cousin of hers? Anya? Invites us to visit. So fine. We fly in from Bristol. She's supposed to meet us at the airport. We waited for six hours, called her over and over. Finally, had to take the train. And then a cab ride, you would not believe, and when we finally get here, exhausted and half-starved…you're telling me she's NOT even in TOWN? Do you have any idea what we've been through?" His voice took on a high-pitched frantic quality as he pointed into the darkness of Anya's apartment. "My wife is three months pregnant. She doesn't travel well."
"Oh, you poor dear," Ms. 2-D exclaimed, stepping out of Harold's shadow.
Spike gave her a lost puppy look. Keeping eye contact, he gulped heavily like a bulldog swallowing peanut butter. Then, pulling himself together, he sighed and nodded, as if her compassion was helping to strenghten his nerves. His gaze carried hers to the damaged door.
"I had to kick it in," he confessed. "So she could get off her feet for a minute. Have a bit of a lie down. I tell you, I was at the end of my bloody tether." He let a trace of anger show again. "And you can just bet, that penny-pinching cousin of hers will make me pay for every last cent of the repair."
"Miss Jenkins is rather frugal. I've said it myself."
"Frugal is right! Then, to finish it off, I come out to have a look at the damage and this one here is pointing a gun at me."
Ms. 2-D gave her companion a fierce look. "Harold, for heaven sake, put that thing away. Hasn't the poor man been through enough?"
Harold lowered the revolver a fraction but still seemed suspicious. "So? Where is this wife of yours?"
"In the shower," Spike answered, with the confidence of a man who can, in a pinch, produce a wife. "Trying to wash off some of the…traveling." He indicated his half-dressed state. "I was just getting ready for bed when I thought about securing the door." He gave a small shaky laugh. "I'm sorry if we frightened you." He eyed Harold's weapon. "Is this a dangerous neighborhood?"
"Not really," Harold admitted, finally lowering the gun. "But with all of the banging around in there…and the broken door…we thought you were…."
"Criminal masterminds?" Spike chuckled, dismissively. "I was just checking the cupboards…looking for something to eat. We haven't had anything since the airport…and then there was the cab ride…my wife can't keep much down in any case…"
"Yes, it's like that sometimes, Dear. Is this your first baby?"
"Yeah," Spike admitted, taking another deep cleansing breath. "I suppose it gets easier," he said, as if he really wasn't sure it would.
"The first few months are the worst," Harold remarked, letting go of the last vestiges of his mistrust. "My second wife, Marie, couldn't tolerate anything but crackers and milk."
Spike nodded his understanding and they shared a moment, man to man. "Crackers we have and a bit of cheese…but what I really could use are a few eggs. Is there a store somewhere close?"
"Store?" Ms. 2-D exclaimed, rising to the bait. "At this hour? What a notion! With your poor wife sick and tired and you driven to distraction? You wait right there, Dear, and I'll bring out a few eggs." She turned and tottered toward her apartment, muttering about young people today dashing about with crazy ideas.
"I don't want to put you to any trouble," Spike called after her fussy, diminutive form, but he took care not to protest too much.
He felt a sudden stab of guilt. How many times, he wondered, had he and the pale, fainting Drusilla been given easy access into some caring woman's home with the identical deception?
---
"Don't lie to me," Amy's mother snapped. "You've lost them."
"No! They're hidden but…"
"The Xtorsax are stupid, a temporary distraction at best. They won't slow the Slayer for long. You were a fool to think they would. We must have the Hounds. They could tip the balance. That is, if your pathetic spell works."
"It will work," Amy repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.
The witch knelt down on the floor. The sewer was dry, full of leaves and debris. A map of California was spread near the bottom of the pipe, curl-prone corners held down with bricks and bottles. Amy pushed a greasy strand of hair out of her eyes and concentrated on the swirl of smoke tracing over the paper topography.
The being masquerading as her mother paced off her impatience. "I want the exact location not some half-assed approximation. Screw this up and I will have you gutted."
"Nearly there…" Amy frowned, leaning closer. "Nearly…"
The white smoke flared.
---
There was a blip of golden light in the middle of the desert and two beings appeared out of thin air. One of the creatures was demonic and well-over seven feet tall. The other was a small, brunette woman dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit. The woman took a deep breath and then another, savoring the flavor of freedom. It was her first free breath in over two years.
"Whoa, thanks for the lift, Mr. Wiggly," she smiled. "Tell me, is it true what they say about Elpdoxiuns? I mean, normally, I wouldn't even ask but 28 months in the company of women is a long, long time if you catch my drift."
The Elpdoxiun's halo of penis-like tentacles rose to stiff attention as he rumbled, "We are not amused by your efforts at levity. We have explained that your life is threatened and so by association is our own."
"Alright, alright," Faith soothed, jabbing playfully at the demon's side. "Just a little wound up. Trying to get a rise out of you." She snorted at her lame pun but then, seeing her rescuer's look of outrage, stopped teasing.
"Hey, I was kidding. To tell you the truth, I've developed a taste for the softer sex. Not that I'm totally unmoved by the idea of choice. But…I don't know…I've always gotten a rush off being the one in charge."
She wrestled briefly with an imaginary lover, clenching her fingers as if catching up handfuls of long hair before winking up at her companion. The Elpdoxiun was looking past her, staring fixedly at something.
Feeling a Slayerish tingle, Faith followed the demon's milky pupil-free gaze. She saw nothing but night sky and sagebrush. She frowned, glancing back at her immobile rescuer.
"So," she said, shifting out of her battle ready stance. "Giles sent you to spring me, huh? Big evil brewing, I got that. But B go lame or something?"
"The Slayer is well," the Elpdoxiun murmured, its attention on a slight temporal disturbance in the middle distance. The fold in the fabric of reality was beyond the narrow range of human vision. The girl was oblivious to it. It didn't matter. The horror pushing its way into the world would soon be all too apparent. "But we may be…how would you say it?" He cocked his head at her, smiling for the first time. "Screwed?"
With a roar like rending metal, something vile breached the sea of space-time and sprang into existence.
---
Buffy thought she heard a noise.
She twisted off the taps and peeked around the edge of the shower curtain. The room was empty. She listened for a moment longer. Hearing nothing unusual, she shoved the curtain aside and stepped out of the tub. The bathroom door was closed and the room looked much as it had. Except, her soiled clothes were gone…everything, even her underwear…and there was a dress hanging on what had been an empty hook on the far wall.
The Slayer tiptoed across the room, dripping on the floor. She selected a towel from the stack on a shelf above the toilet and wrapped it around her head. After drying off briskly with a second towel, she draped it around her, tying it off like a sarong. Modestly covered, she padded over to examine her new outfit.
Her first thoughts were negative. It was the last thing Buffy would have chosen for herself. But more to the point, it wasn't Anya's style, either. Despite a v-neckline, the garment was excessively modest. Buffy couldn't imagine her friend even trying it on. It was almost virginal, like something from a bridal trousseau.
"The dress that time forgot," Buffy thought, frowning at the floaty romantic confection.
It was a pale floral print of nearly translucent silk with sheer cap-sleeves. The simple bodice was designed to accentuate a lush bosom and the full skirt spilled from a high waist. At its longest point, the handkerchief hemline would only fall to Buffy's knee. But the baby-doll length was small comfort. The Slayer was sure her slight figure would disappear in the voluminous folds of the thing. She would look ridiculous.
"Buffy: the Disney version!"
Biting her lip, she considered her options and Spike's motivation in providing this particular dress. Was this poetic fluff what he wanted now? Surely, it wasn't all he could find. She and Anya were nearly the same size. Was Spike dressing her up to suit his soul's tastes? Like some kind of…Victorian Barbie? Like…Dru? The thought stabbed into her heart. Her eyes burned and the room blurred for a moment.
"Like I care why he does what he does," Buffy reminded herself, angrily shaking off the pain.
She was being silly. She didn't have to wear the dress. She could walk across the hall to Anya's bedroom and select her own outfit. But, she might run into Spike. Her eyes strayed to the spot where she'd held him earlier. The air was still charged with emotion. Somehow, storming out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel seemed like the first step on the path to sexual deja vu. Were they really past the point where antagonism and nakedness intersected unavoidably in broken furniture and bruising passion?
Buffy wasn't sure. Sighing, she fingered the cloud-soft material of Spike's offering. She had to catch at the dress as it slipped effortlessly from the hook and fluttered toward the floor. She grabbed at it with both hands. The crisp stiffness of a store tag crinkled under her fingers. Frowning, she turned the tag out, examining it briefly.
A new notion bloomed in her mind. She carried the crumbled dress to her nose, sniffing at the fabric. Her ready suspicion of Spike's motives melted away. The silk smelled stale but beneath the dusty overtone it still had the slight chemical whiff of a new purchase. Never washed, never worn. It didn't reek of another woman.
Buffy smiled. She imagined Spike searching out this particular garment, scent tracing through Anya's bureau and closets, looking for something the other woman had never marked as her own. It would matter to him. And, suddenly, it mattered to Buffy, too. Feeling a warm glow spread out from her chest, she draped the silky item back on its hook and set about drying her hair.
---
Scowling at the computer screen, Dawn pushed back from the dining table.
"This is hopeless," she groaned.
Andrew washed down a bite of ham sandwich with a slurp of Red FusionÔ. "Have you tried the Lorqu Codex?" he asked.
"Yes, and WiccaWeb and GillianSL and The MageoftheMirrors Forum," Dawn sighed, waving at the laptop. "Ten thousand love spells and curses. I wonder if half these people know anything at all about magic. There is nothing on the First Evil but vague mumblings of coming resurgence…and you know what? We already got that memo."
"Do you think the First has a Live Journal?"
Despite her frustration, Dawn giggled. "Today LBC, Harbringer4 and SweetieTweetie met me at the mall. It was jiggy. Picked up a killer purse. Porked out on Mocha muffins and latte. Way too much sugar. Tomorrow back to world domination."
"Or…or…like…Now I feel fat," Andrew snorted. They shared a juvenile moment until the young man was struck by a serious thought. "What about Tara?"
"What about her?" Dawn asked, her face clouding over again. "Willow is studying her Book of Shadows and…"
"I mean, why don't we try to contact her?"
Dawn gaped at the boy. "Because…?" She gestured as if leading him. When he continued to look blank she provided the answer. "It would be WRONG!"
"Oh," Andrew considered the concept, his head tilted to one side. "Even if we were just talking to her?"
"Tara is in Heaven," Dawn said, forcefully. "Like Buffy was. Like Mom. We can't make her come back here just to answer our stupid questions."
"Well, maybe we can talk to her Phantasm then?"
"Her what?"
"It's kind of like the physical memory of a person," Andrew explained. "Recorded in the walls of their room or the things they used all the time. Every living thing leaves an imprint on the inanimate world. That's where most ghosts come from. I mean, there are real ghosts too…but if there is enough strong emotion like from a war or a murder then a person's imprint gets burned in…and anyone can see it."
"Really? Part of Tara might still be here?"
"Yep," Andrew nodded. "Jonathan was teaching me how to recreate the person digitally…using magic to pull all of the fragments together. Reload them…just like the Matrix." His eyes lit up and he squeaked. "Hey, do you want to see part two and three with me? They're both coming out this year. We could rent the first one. Oh, and Dark City, too! Because really…such a rip-off…except Matrix has Keanu and that stop-action supra-slo-mo thing." He bent back and did a weaving dip with his shoulders. "So extreme. You've got to give them that. Oh, we could even dress up. You could be Trinity and I could be Neo…'cause I got the leather coat now and…"
"Yeah, sure, sounds fun," Dawn interrupted. "Unless we're like…you know…rotting corpses by that time."
"Oh, right," Andrew said, sheepishly. "End of the world." He nodded, sagely. "So, do you want to check for a Phantasm?"
"What would we need to do?"
For a half-second Andrew looked as if he didn't have the faintest idea and then he pulled on a mantle of maturity, standing taller. "Well, okay…we need something of Tara's…maybe that Shadow book or…some clothing. And an imaging device, a crystal or mirror. Sage to purify the room. And my Kortlec."
"Your Korkdek?"
"Kort-lec," Andrew pronounced. "The long wooden thingee with the Immunity Idol Artwork. I blow into it and it vibrates across dimensional phase-waves. I use it to summon de…" He broke off, turning his eyes toward the ceiling. "I can use it to focus the Phantasm. But one little problem…it's…at the school."
Dawn frowned for a moment, distrust of the young man apparent on her face. Then, she glanced at the scattering of useless books and papers on the table and reached a decision. She needed to help Buffy. And she needed answers of her own.
---
A tantalizing aroma made the Slayer's stomach rumble. Straightening up, she tossed her hair back and sniffed delicately. Something smelled delicious. Doubting her senses, she inhaled again. Her mouth watered. Someone was cooking onions and herbs. Someone with talent.
She clicked off the hair dryer and ran a hasty brush through her static-filled hair. Setting the brush down, she reached for her dress. And it reached for her, floating up in response to her charged proximity. Ignoring the way the layers of material grabbed at her, Buffy pulled the garment off its hook and dropped it over her head. It slithered down her naked body, static making her skin crawl.
Her long blond tresses crackled as she emerged from the folds of silk. Dozens of strands were clinging to her face. She pushed at them, impatiently. Then, without bothering to glance in the mirror, she went out into the hall. Hunger had wiped any trace of embarrassment from her mind. The wonderful smells were much stronger once she was beyond the bathroom door and the Slayer followed them easily to the source. She had no conscious expectation. But, when she reached the kitchen, Buffy paused in the doorway, entranced by what she saw.
Spike was at the stove. He didn't notice her arrival. Her bare feet made almost no noise on the carpet and he was, quite obviously, absorbed in his work. He was bare to the waist. The muscles in his back flowed smoothly under scarred skin as he stirred the contents of a pan, gently lifting and turning. Setting his spatula aside, he leaned over the stove to adjust the heat under his aromatic creation. Apparently satisfied, he crossed to the sink's cutting board and chose a wicked looking knife from the selection on the counter top.
Buffy watched him wield the blade with practiced ease. The sharp edge flashed and shimmered as he diced new potatoes into tiny rectangles. She had never, in all of their years together, doubted Spike's mastery with a knife. But this inspired dance of edge and fingers was so different from the gutting thrust she associated with him. It mesmerized her. After the first few slices, his delicate precision worked a kind of magic in Buffy's mind, transforming what she had always considered an instrument of death into a tool for creative expression.
Spike was transferring the tiny white and red chunks from the cutting board into the pan of caramelized onions, when he glanced up and caught sight of his Slayer. Light from the bathroom had flooded the hallway behind her. The glare reduced her backlit dress to little more than a diaphanous halo of color on her skin. Spike's whole body jerked in erotic response and he spilled a third of the diced potato onto the stovetop.
"Bugger," he growled, whirling to hastily scoop up the mess.
They both spoke at the same time.
"I didn't mean to scare…"
"I wasn't expecting…"
The unfinished sentences hung in the air for what seemed like an eternity.
Buffy coughed, shifting uneasily. Searching her mind for something neutral to say, she settled on, "You cook?"
Splashing buckets full of cold reason on his straining erection, Spike kept his back resolutely turned.
"Not often," he muttered.
Buffy edged into the room and he risked a quick sidelong glance in her direction. Her dress was opaque again but static-cling pressed it greedily against her skin, leaving very little to the imagination. Not only were her hardened nipples visible under the adhesive fabric, but even her crinkled aureoles were detailed. Spike remembered the taste of them. He could almost feel them on his tongue. He would suckle and she would moan and arch her back, hands tugging at him, all of her aching for him, growing slicker and hotter until…
"Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God…" Spike's brain repeated in what he considered a decidedly unhelpful way.
Desperate for some distraction, he concentrated on preparing the food. He selected another bunch of fresh herbs and started chopping. Oblivious to her effect on him, Buffy went to the stove.
"I just never thought of you as someone who cooks," she commented, peering into the simmering pan of potatoes.
As she glanced down, the raised peaks of her nipples seemed to stare back at her. Buffy flushed deep, hastily pulling the dress away from her skin. She felt a burning in her veins and hoped the scent of her embarrassment would be lost in the aroma of onions.
"I learned as a boy," Spike said.
Buffy noted the strain in his voice. It made her squirm with some unidentifiable emotion. She crossed her arms over her chest and tried to speak casually. "You went to chef school?"
"No," Spike snorted. His eyes darted in her general direction but he didn't quite focus. "I picked it up from watching my mother. She could turn the simplest fare into culinary poetry. It was bred into her I suppose. She was the daughter of the cook at my father's family estate." He paused to scrape the minced chervil and chives into a bowl, shrugging off some bitterness. "Such is the stain on my character."
Buffy blinked. "Huh?"
Spike's mouth twisted into a self-mocking line. "Well…that and a copious amount of blood."
Avoiding any contact, he reached past the Slayer to retrieve one of four eggs. He cracked the shell on the lip of his bowl and spilled the runny center in on top of the greenery.
"And when I say, 'Huh?' I mean 'What?'" Buffy explained, absently. She was easing surreptitiously backward still plucking at the front of her dress. "Assume that I watch very little Masterpiece Theater."
The vampire looked up, catching his beloved's eye. She was glowing. Her warm radiance sparked something in Spike's belly, making him feel buoyant in spite of the painful subject. He relaxed and laughed, tongue pressing against the back of his teeth.
"Alright, Pet," he bargained, waving her toward the dining table. "Take a seat and I'll tell all." Despite his best effort, Spike's line of sight dipped down, as he murmured, "You understand…just at the moment, I'm having trouble forming coherent thoughts?"
Feeling, suddenly, inexplicably, weak in the knees, Buffy scooted to a chair and sat down. She fluffed out her dress, tenting it over her legs to make it modest again. "I'm all ears."
"The part of me that's not acting like a love struck schoolgirl, anyway," she amended mentally. "It's not like we haven't been all kinds of naked together," she reminded herself. "Nothing new here. Nothing to see. Move along."
"And not to be self-focused but…are we eating soon?"
He pulled a fork from a drawer, prodded the potatoes and said, "Very soon."
"Okay, keep cooking while you explain about character staining?"
"My mother was a servant," Spike resumed. As he spoke, he used the fork to whisk eggs and herbs together. "Or the daughter of one. Of the servant class, at any rate."
"So, that made you a servant, too?"
"No, because my father was well born. They married for love, breaking the cardinal rule of a class society. Which meant we lived in a no-man's land, out of step, never truly welcome in either world. My father's family saw to my education, a decision that made me unfit for service. They sent me to a fine school and then on to Oxford. But I had no peers. I was always an outsider. Beneath the notice of anyone I might consider a friend. The son of a younger son and a servant girl. No personal accomplishment could remove the stigma of my birth." He laughed, cynically. "Not that I had any personal accomplishments, unless you count tragically inept poetry."
"And cooking," Buffy reminded.
"I suppose," he admitted. "I might have trained as a chef. But I was arrogant. Young and full of grand ideas. I didn't see myself clearly."
He strode to the refrigerator, took out a container of mayonnaise and, after unscrewing the lid, spooned a generous dollop into the eggs. Buffy's stomach did a slow roll. She tried not to grimace in disgust but she tensed. Spike noticed the change in her posture.
"To improve the texture," he explained. "We haven't any cream."
"Oh," Buffy mumbled. The finer points of cooking were a mystery to her. When making scrambled eggs, she usually broke them directly into the hot oil and stirred until they were done.
She hoped Spike was more of an artist than his choice of ingredients led her to believe. He sat a clean pan on the stove and lit a fire under it before tossing in a hunk of butter. He swirled the pan, coating it in a heavy layer of grease. Buffy's mind totaled up the fat grams. When the butter was completely melted, he uncorked a bottle of white wine and splashed a few tablespoons of alcohol into the pan, filling the room with a heady fragrance. Despite her misgivings, the Slayer's tummy growled again.
"So, why didn't you just come to America?"
"Money," he answered, giving the eggs one last brisk whip before turning them into the wine and butter. "My father died, just before I graduated from Oxford. I had to take a job as a tutor to support us. I suppose I could have gone alone, taken my chances on finding work, but I had an obligation…my Mother. I promised I would take care of her and…"
"You did," Buffy stated, finishing his sentence.
"'Til the day I died."
Her mind went automatically to his promise to protect Dawn. The corners of her mouth quirked up. He always kept his word. It was one of the many things she admired about him. He understood commitment. She knew he considered his fall from the tower a failure but as far as she was concerned, there was only one promise he'd ever broken.
"He swore he would kill me," she thought. And on the heels of the idea, Spike's words came back to her.
"Buffy, you've never seen the real me," he'd said, just before the Bringer's took him.
But he was wrong. She'd seen nothing but the real him. Even when she'd hated him and hated herself for letting him in. From the first strike of his fist back in High School to their original spell-induced passion, from their final sexual frenzy all the way up to this moment of nurturing, she had always been aware of him. Always known him as a man. She wasn't blind to the predator inside him…the demon. But she could see all the facets of Spike…wicked, infuriating, disgusting, overwhelming, infectious, unbelievably sensual, supportive and now tender…
"I know I'm a monster but…"
"You're not," she whispered.
"Not what?"
"Dead. Not completely!"
She smiled and he grinned back, acknowledging his half-life. A comfortable, companionable silence stretched between them. Only the sizzle of the butter and the scrape of his spatula against the pan kept the quiet from being absolute. Buffy felt a deep sense of contentment settle over her. She watched as Spike took two plates from the cupboard and filled them with food…eggs, potatoes and a few slices of apple. Everything was carefully arranged. Lovingly arranged, she thought. She had never known this kind of intimacy. It felt right. It felt normal.
Spike turned off the heat under the potatoes and ran water into the empty egg pan. The play of light and shadow on his skin intrigued the Slayer. He was scarred, now, where her hands remembered satin smoothness. Her eyes traced one of the puckered lines down until it disappeared into his jeans. It gave mute testament to the agony he would suffer for her. Buffy's heart clenched in her chest. She wanted to hold him, sooth his pain, but she didn't know how to begin building bridges.
In her limited experience, when the bridges burned someone always walked away. Buffy didn't know how to break the cycle. How did people move from anger to forgiveness? Most of all she didn't know how to ask for what she needed. She didn't have words. She only knew how to be alone. People gave up on her. They left…or she did. It was a familiar pattern: her father, Pike, Ford, Angel, Riley. She didn't know what to do with a man who stayed close when it was over. What could she say to let Spike know she wanted to create something new?
He came to the table and set a plate in front of her. Remembering the mayonnaise and wine, Buffy braced herself for disappointment. She was determined to eat every morsel, no matter how horrid. Spike put his own dish down, poured her a glass of water and hovered, awaiting her judgment. Wishing he would sit, she picked up a fork and used it to carry a bite of egg to her mouth. There was a delicate explosion of texture and taste against her palate.
"Mmmm, OhhhmmmaaGawh…mmmmhhMMM!"
She swallowed and immediately scooped up another fork load of the wonderful concoction. It was savory and sweet and creamy all at once. Closing her eyes in ecstasy, Buffy let the harmonious flavors melt and mingle on her tongue. It was heavenly. Literally, the best thing she'd ever put in her mouth. Better than chocolate.
"You like it, then?" he asked, still standing over her.
"OhhhmmmmMMM," she groaned. As soon as she could speak, she expanded on the orgasmic vocalizing. "It's fantastic…better than…anything…better than sex."
Spike chuckled in the back of his throat as he dropped into the chair at a right angle to hers.
"Nice analogy, that! I'm flattered and insulted in one."
Buffy blushed, feeling the rush of schoolgirl shyness overwhelm her again. She stole a glance at Spike but all of his attention appeared to be focused on his food. She tried the potatoes. They were tangy, buttery, crisp and fluffy, the perfect compliment for the eggs. She swallowed, sighed, took a long drink of water and sat down her glass with a click.
"Okay, it's official," she announced. "You are cooking for me from now on."
"I live to serve," Spike said, gravely, but he let her see the twinkle in his eye.
---
"This is troubling," Giles said, studying the tracks in the sand.
"And this is blood," Anya remarked. "Human, I think."
Her companion glanced at the red stained leaves she was holding in her hand. "Are you sure this is the rendezvous point?"
"Glick's Tavern," Anya said, nodding at the small bar across the highway. They were a few miles beyond the suburbs of Los Angeles. "All the rage in the demon world. Can't miss it."
"And your contact? He's reliable?"
"As only an Elpdoxiun can be. If Kevin says he'll be somewhere, that's where he'll be."
"Kevin?"
"His mothers were free thinkers."
Giles digested this news, his uneasy gaze still searching for any sign of Faith or her rescuer. "Then we have to assume they were attacked. There was a struggle here," he announced. "Blood and these unusual tracks…but no bodies."
"Maybe they were eaten?"
"No, I rather think the fight turned into a chase," Giles said, looking up the road.
"So? Do we try to follow them?"
Giles considered the idea, weighing his desire to return to Buffy and the Slayers in Training against his concern for Faith. Finally, he shook his head. "No, we are running out of time. I'm afraid the First may have regrouped. You and I would be hopelessly outclassed. I think we would only be in the way if we tried to intervene in this battle. Faith is more than competent. I had hoped we would get to her in time but," He paused grimacing as if in pain. He took his glasses off for a moment, pressing the back of his hand to his eyes. Then with a sigh, he hooked the eyewear back onto his face. "Now we must trust in her abilities. I believe she will defeat whatever is pursuing her. This is a setback but not a complete failure."
"If she doesn't die horribly, you mean?"
"Well…yes!" Giles snapped, glaring at his companion.
"Or join the other side."
"That is another eventuality we must never overlook. I don't think she will die; she is resourceful and well trained. She will, no doubt, make for Angel Investigations."
"Not Buffy?"
"She'll want information from the nearest source," Giles reasoned. "And Angel helped Faith before…when she was threatened. According to Buffy, they have a friendship of sorts. Even if she doesn't need his assistance in killing…well…whatever this thing is, she would want to see him."
"Except he isn't there."
"Cordelia and Lorne will tell her everything."
"Or they will all die horrible deaths," Anya remarked.
"Will you please stop harping on that point?"
"Fine," Anya sulked. "Bark at the messenger. Isn't there some Watcher trick you could use on Faith? Some kind of compulsion spell? Make her come to Sunnydale? We can't just give up. What if she's the one the Eye was talking about?"
"Honestly, I doubt we could force her to help us," Giles said. "Faith is…difficult to sway. Fierce and, in her own way, as stubborn as Buffy."
"Come on, Rupert! Are you telling me the Watcher's Council never had to apply the thumbscrews to a rogue Slayer?"
Giles sighed. "Honestly, Anya? Don't you think we have enough problems without resurrecting the inquisition? We should count ourselves lucky if Faith didn't join the First and work against us. No, we have been outmanuevered. We had better return to Sunnydale. Faith is a Slayer. She will survive and assist us or she will die and one of the remaining Seven will be called. Either way, we should be with Buffy. Are you certain you're friend will have told Faith of our need?"
Anya nodded.
"Then we must turn our attention to our own duties. Frankly, I am more than a little concerned about these tracks?" He walked over to a paw print and crouched to study it. "Have you ever seen anything like them before?"
Anya hunkered close to the Watcher, examining the imprints with him. "Werewolf, maybe?" She guessed. "But I've never seen one this size. It would be as big as a Buick."
"And nearly as heavy," Giles said, using his finger to gauge the depth of the impression. He stood and dusted off his hands. "I know I've seen something like this before…or perhaps read about it. A long time ago…a rendering in a book or a description…"
"If only we could talk to another Watcher."
"There is someone," Giles admitted. "An undercover operative."
---
"We could enter through the skylight, find some rope and drop down like Tom Cruise in MI, avoiding the laser beams of death."
"It's a gymnasium," Dawn reminded. "No laser beams. Besides wouldn't it be easier to just pick the lock and walk in through the door."
"Except, I don't know how to pick a lock," Andrew admitted. "But I've done that Tom Cruise thing a couple of times."
Dawn looked slightly impressed but after a moment, she shook it off and took out a set of burglar's tools. "I can pick the lock," she said, with a modest little shrug. "Spike taught me."
"He is so cool."
"Yeah, if you're into leather and evil," she mumbled, biting the tip of her tongue as she concentrated on manipulating tumblers. "Oh, wait…you are!" After a couple wiggles of the pick, the lock clicked. With a self-satisfied grin, Dawn straightened up and pulled on the handle. The door swung, effortlessly, open and she conceded. "Spike's a good teacher, though. When he's not crazy or in love or whatever. And…not many people know it but he's a fantastic cook."
"I wish he would teach Buffy," Andrew grumbled, as they wandered into the echoing vastness of the gym. "I bet she's the worst cook in the world."
"It's funny," a deep masculine voice spoke out of the darkness just in front of them. "It seems like I learn something new about Miss Summers everyday."