Ichnobate
Part OneCold.
He was cold.
He could own it.
It was a simple truth.
His first sensation.
And his first need born from it.
Desire.
He wanted – needed heat, warmth, fire…
…burning like the sun…
…all that was denied.
God, how he loved her…ached for her.
Breath hot on his skin, tendrils of hair fisted in his hands, manhood shackled in sultry velvet…and the sweet flood of life in his mouth…. he remembered it all…how it felt as she came…she was coming…
…the dish slipped from his numb fingers.
It clattered to the floor…
…and shattered.
"You're a filthy pig, William. Look what you did, you nasty little boy," a woman's voice shrieked, out of the void.
He flinched from it and it became voices, surrounding him, each taking a word, "Wicked, evil, disgusting thing…bad dog, mad dog…just like your father."
"Sire!" The First voice corrected the others with a hiss. This voice was older than the world. It frightened him.
His face was wet.
Tears…or rain…or blood.
He didn't know.
He was blind. Or blinded by the dark. He couldn't raise a hand to check. His hands were dead; lumps of flesh, numb and useless. He'd been standing in the cold too long…looking in at her window. Watching her warm another man.
Watching her spin.
Through the ice-glazed glass, he watched her. She was seated by the hearth, at the wheel, drawing thread from wool. Her golden hair, caught up in pink ribbons, dropped in soft wisps, teasing her cheeks. He longed to place a kiss in the hollow of her throat. Then further down, where her bosom was covered in ivory lace. But that wasn't allowed. It was wrong. The heavy skirt of her dress draped modestly around her lower limbs, hiding even a hint of her spiked boots. The fire warmed her to a blush and she sang as she worked, a soft, sad melody of maidens lost.
He had sinned…betrayed her trust…muddied the floor, spilled the soup, made messes…and she'd laughed her mad laugh and rid herself of him…
…locked him out in the bitter cold night.
A lost child…all alone…
...in the dark…
...with his monster.
His mirror image had been made horribly real.
"She won't come for you," the voice said, close by his ear.
"She will," he whispered, knowing the insolence would cost him. The glint of a knife cut the dark. Staring emasculation down, he insisted, "I believe…she…will…come."
---
"Careful, oh, God! They've…”
"Cut him down. Get him off of there. NOW!"
“Do you think…can he feel anything?”
“Can he hear us?" a man speaking, almost familiar. He strained to place the voice.
"Highly unlikely," another man replied, manner clipped, accent British…older—It tweaked a memory. "Surely, it would be easier…kinder…to just…quickly…"
"NO!" the sweet voice of salvation, denied him.
---
He heard her speak again, some while later. "There must be something we can do.”
"Buffy?" The Brit, using cautionary tones. "You must not hope for anything…for a…recovery. He's been completely drained. And the damage…mutilation…I've never seen such…."
The voice trailed off but not before he'd put a name to the second man. It was the Watcher, Rupert Giles. But that was wrong; he knew it was. Not the answer. Sure to be caned. Forced out into the cold. Giles was in England. Chopped to pieces…scattered on the wind. Hadn’t she said so? Who was this then, speaking in open defiance of her?
“But he’s not dead…gone…whatever,” the sweet one insisted, all bright light and golden promises. "There would be," she hesitated, before whispering out the word. “Ashes.”
"Like me…my love," he thought, in the deepest recesses of his mind, "gone to dust for you."
“No,” the Watcher agreed with her. "He's not ashes. But it’s only a matter of time. He's wasting away to skin and bone. And there’s nothing in there, Buffy. No spark of animation. This is just a lifeless, battered shell.”
“Blood,” the familiar man spoke, in finger-snapping inspiration. “Vampire's heal up from it, right? I mean, we could feed him, try to replace some of what he lost.”
“If he would eat," Giles sighed. "And I’m afraid – even then, Xander…”
YES! Xander. He struggled to connect the name to a memory.
And she spoke again, “What about my blood?”
“Buffy?” a tangle of shocked voices bounced off the walls surrounding him. Silently, he echoed their cry.
But she would not be turned aside so easily, “Slayer blood is like the designer drug of vamp world, right? Super-Antioxident! Remember Angel? When Faith…when he was poisoned? I brought him back…my blood cured him.”
“And you nearly died,” one of the outraged spoke alone. She was furious. "Is that what you want? Is that what this is about? He tried to rape you and now you want to throw your life away trying to save him?"
The other Summers girl, little bit, the Nibblet.
"Dawn," his memory whispered. "Still angry and afraid! Better watch your step…don't sleep…you might wake up on fire. Good advice!"
He was placing them in the room like pieces on a game board. Giles was standing there…close to the foot of the bed. Xander at the window, Dawn at Xander’s side, the others gathered in the doorway, and his Love so near and so far away. He might reach out and touch her if he had flesh…an arm…a hand…fingers to call his own. He might hold her close if he were anything more than the memory of a man.
She spoke, again, “Dawn, please, you don't understand. It's not like that. And I'll be careful this time. I promise I'll…”
“Out of the question,” Giles snapped, cutting off her plea. “Buffy, it is entirely out of the question. You are already weak from your last battle and this war is far from over. We've lost so much. We can’t risk losing you. You have responsibilities. The world needs you.”
''We need Spike. Giles I can't do this alone."
“What about an augmentation spell?”
"ANYA! Surely that was Anya, speaking out of turn!" He felt a rush of absurd pride in knowing the former demon's name, as if he had mastered some arcane art.
“You mean, make Spike's blood work harder?” the witch, Red, Tara’s lady, rooted in the earth, reaching upward then sweeping down, weeping...Willow…yes, Willow asked.
“What blood? There's nothing. He's been completely drained,” Giles reminded them. "You can't increase what doesn't exist."
“Then augment my blood, instead,” Buffy insisted.
“Yes, I could do that," Willow said, brightly. But then, she reconsidered, "Or…uh, maybe not…I could enrich its healing power, if I understood how it works….”
"No," Giles growled. “It's too dangerous. I won’t have Buffy’s life…all our lives, hanging by one of your spells. The First interfered before and could very well do so again."
“Or,” Xander put in, “Could you multiply just a little Buffy blood? Make more of it on the outside of her. Like one pint into a gazillion. You know, like the loaves and fishes thing?”
"Hmmm,” Willow said, sounding unsure. “That fish thing is a little out of my league…but…it is possible. And I might only need a drop or two of your blood, Buffy. That is, if I could find the right carrier.”
“Carrier?” Xander inquired. "Aircraft or pigeon? And if you mean pigeon, then let me say, not for sacrificing, right? Because…Gyack!"
“For volume," Anya stage-whispered, in Xander's direction.
“Right,” Willow agreed. “I can’t make something out of nothing. That's creation, you know 'playing god' territory. I need a base substance to be augmented. It’s really more of a transmogrification.”
“Like water into wine,” Anya explained. “It’s not Presto Wine! If you use air…the wine will have no wetness…so you use water…”
“Only we can’t use water,” Willow sighed, “because…wet yes, blood-tastiness, sure, but no nutritional value. It won't heal him. You can just bet nobody got buzzed off the water/wine deal either."
“So, what’s wrong with using real blood?” Xander asked. "Not human, but the pig kind?"
“Too much pig,” Anya said.
“What?”
With an exasperated sigh, Giles re-entered the conversation. "Blood into blood," he illuminated, impatiently. "The greater volume would consume the lesser. The augmentation would never hold out against the similar nature of the carrier. And that said, I am still not sure this will work. The end result seems inevitable. Buffy, I'm sorry, I truly am. But if Spike is going to die, why not end it humanely?”
"NO!" She denied him for the third time.
“What about milk?” Dawn said, with sudden inspiration. She sounded more mature and centered, than the last time she spoke. “A few weeks ago, in biology class, Mr. Gardner said milk is kind of like blood. It gets all changed by the mammary glands, but it has the same properties. Which when you think about it during breakfast – ewww! But anyway, that's why nursing mothers can't take drugs and stuff. 'Cause they can pass it on to the baby in their milk…straight out of their blood. So couldn’t you like magic some milk back into blood? Or would that be too much cow?”
There was silence and then, Anya said, “Milk? It does a body good…could work…"
A general melee of commentary and congratulations followed but only one voice came to him clearly a whispered “Thank you, Dawn!” from his love.
---
“Swallow!”
The command was so hard to obey. He struggled to comply. And lacking the necessary control over his dead flesh, he failed. If he needed to breathe it would be easier. Then the liquid pooling in his mouth would choke him, forcing the reflex.
“Please, Spike, try.”
“I am trying, Luv!"
He heard the bedroom door open.
"How's it going?" Xander asked, as he entered the room.
"Bloody awful, thanks! Now, sod off so I can concentrate!"
Buffy sighed, "It's not going. He's not going. He won't drink."
"Right, just being stubborn about it! Figure I'll drink when I'm sick of lazing about like a decorative bolster, do you?"
"Buff…maybe…"
"Maybe what?"
Xander charged at the idea, speaking brusquely, "Maybe Giles is right. Maybe you should give up on this. Look at him. The wounds aren't healing and…well…Spike may not even be home in there."
"You don't know that. Giles doesn't know. None of you understand," Buffy declared, fiercely, before softly adding, "Not like I do."
"How long are you going to keep this up?"
"As long as it takes to make him well, again. Or until we're out of time."
"Tha's right, Pet," Spike, silently, cheered. "You tell 'em. Wankers are countin' me out of the running too soon!"
But after Xander left, Buffy's weeping showed her heart was at odds with her brave words. Spike tripled his efforts to re-enter his body. He wanted to be with her, again, if only for a moment. He wanted to let her know she wasn't alone in this. He directed his entire being on the simple task of opening his eyes. If he wasn't already dead, he reasoned, he should be able to see her. He struggled to connect with the physical world. And after what seemed like an eternity, he managed to establish a fragile link between his corpse and his consciousness.
He could see her…his Buffy. At first, she was just a vague shape, an outline of colored light and shadows. And then, slowly, she came into clear focus.
She was sitting in a chair by the bedside. The golden fall of her hair glittered in the dim light of the room but darkness had settled on her. One hand covered her eyes. The other was holding a bag of blood in a loose grip near her heart. The crimson fluid had stained her blouse and hands. A spatter of glistening red droplets formed a decorative pattern from just below her jaw down the curve of her neck. She seemed thinner. Her skin pulled tight over visible bone. Her forehead was cut and one cheek was swollen near her eye. She looked bruised, battered and utterly alone.
Tenderness stirred in Spike's chest…just a flutter of feeling…and then there was a flood of pain. It arched him off the bed and set him screaming.
He screamed for days.
Every waking moment was agony.
He would rise into the world screaming, his awareness nothing more than a jumble of impressions through a curtain of misery. And he would only fall into silence when a dose of drugged blood overpowered his pain and sent him back into fitful slumber. Sometimes she held him down. At other times she soothed. If ropes or chains or hands other than hers restrained him, he always fought. He would go on fighting until she came and bid him rest.
---
"Shhh, hush, rest now," Buffy whispered, her small hands pushing the dampened curls from his brow.
There was no pain. No sense of time. Just her hands soothing him.
"You're going to be fine," she assured. Her fingers found his, intertwining. "Shhhhh, Spike, it's okay. It's finally working. Everything is going to be alright, now. We can rest."
She squeezed his hand and then pulled free of his grasp
"Buffy?" he whimpered. "Don't go."
"I won't go," she agreed, with the mild tone of someone humoring a child.
He felt the bed shift as she climbed into it. She curled up on top of the covers, pulling him into her arms. Her body heat burned through clothing, blanket and sheet to warm his skin. He purred, softly, snuggled closer and fell into an untroubled sleep.
He awoke to a new day.
The sunlight was muted It cast the room into deep shadow. But still the light was painful to his eyes. He blinked and tried to focus. He stared at the ceiling. After a time, he gingerly turned his head toward the shuttered windows. It was hard to move. He felt stiff and sore but it was nothing compared to the misery he'd been fighting for what seemed like weeks.
It took awhile to know where he was, to remember being there once upon a time. It was Joyce's room. Buffy's room now. He'd been tied to a chair. He'd been ill and attacked someone. He stared at the shutters, piecing together jagged impressions. Gradually, he became aware of the steady breathing of the sleeper beside him. He inhaled, taking in the subtle perfume of her. The well-loved scent swirled through him like a favored memory and he smiled. He shifted his center of gravity, rolling onto his side to face her.
"Buffy." He made her name a holy word.
She was curled into a self-protective ball and looked like a fallen angel, the picture of defeated yet still ethereal beauty. A new pain cut into him, one born from her suffering. He raised one hand to gently lift a strand of hair from her brow and his fingers lingered to caress her cheek. He traced the curved bow of her lower lip with his thumb. She stirred and he flinched away as if her returning consciousness scalded him.
"Spike?" she questioned, sleepily.
"Yes?"
Her eyes fluttered open in surprise and, for a moment, they simply stared at one another. Some fragile emotion danced across her face. It was gone before he could name it. She braced up on one elbow and frowned. She placed a hand on his forehead, testing for fever. "How long have you been awake?"
"Don't know," he admitted, letting his head fall back to the pillow as he considered her question. "Half an hour maybe."
"No pain?"
"No pain, just weak."
"Could you eat something?" she asked, already swinging her feet over the side of the bed, moving away.
Spike wanted to stop her, keep her close. He wanted to hold her. Kiss her. Make her understand how sorry he was for ever hurting her. But he knew that time was past. He had no right to ask for forgiveness. No reason to expect she would stay. And she didn't.
---
Sometime later, a stranger brought him food. He eyed the girl, with interest. She was somewhere between Buffy and Dawn in age. She had a shoulder length mop of brunette curls and a funky sense of fashion.
"Brought you a cuppa," she said, in strong Cockney. "'Cept 's blood, ain't it?"
He nearly laughed, despite his confusion. "Who are you then, Ducks, to be so far from 'ome?"
"Molly," she answered. She gave a half-flutter of her hand toward the door, adding, "I come over with Mr. Giles and the other potentials." She studied him for a moment, then asked, "It true you're a vampire, then? Kind what we're supposed to slay?"
"You're supposed to slay?"
"Well, if we get the call," she shrugged, looking down at the carpet as she explained. "Then we'd be the Slayer, right? Not just in training. We'd be all Chosen and ready. My Watcher told me, it'd be easy then, killing demons…once I got the power."
Spike's mouth twisted into a mirthless smile, a few too many teeth showing as he commented, "Did he, now?"
The girl nodded, "Yeah! They trained us up proper, see. Books and drills and such. Showed us all the ways…stake and fire and beheading. Said your kind is all bad. No soul and dead tricky. If'n you are one, I mean…"
She handed Spike the warm cup, giving him a long contemplative look, before continuing, "I wonders is all. 'Cause the Chosen One, she says we weren't going to kill you even if you was all crazy dangerous when you came around. And Annabelle, one o' the other girls…one tha' was killed…see? She said maybe we was rescuing you 'cause the Slayer's sweet on you. But I don't see how she figured it. 'Belle was a caution, always sniffin' up romance where none of it belongs. Shippin' Donna and Josh on West Wing, even. Though I told her, he's the boss and that would be wrong. Like on the job harassment, ya' know? So are you? A vampire, I mean?"
"Something like, yeah," Spike drawled, before taking a small sip of blood. The flavor and texture nearly made him retch. He struggled to swallow and then took a few more hasty gulps before thrusting the mug back toward Molly.
"Don't like it much, 'ey?"
"It's an acquired taste."
"Yeah, I bet. So, why didn't the Slayer kill you, then?"
He closed his eyes and slipped back under the covers. "No idea, Pet."
He heard Molly shift slightly shuffling from foot to foot. But she didn't leave. After a minute or two, she gave a small nervous cough. Spike opened one eye to look at her.
"She said for you to drink it all."
"Go tell her I don't want it."
"She might get mad."
Spike chuckled at the notion but Molly didn't seem amused. When she didn't move, he rolled his eyes at her. "Well, we wouldn't want that," he sighed at last, sitting up again and holding out a hand for the mug.
Molly surrendered the cup. "You ever seen her mad?" she asked.
"Once or twice," Spike admitted. He covered his smile by taking a swig of blood.
"She went a little mad on that thing what had you in the catacombs. After it killed Annabelle, it beat the Slayer good. Looked like she'd die. But then, she got all righteous…just came back hard. Was something to see…"
"Imagine it was."
"We went to war. She marshaled us up. Everyone armed and all. But she didn't need us. Had us get you out while she did the Super-vamp. They went at it hammer and tongs. Never seen the like. Then she tore it apart all on her own," Molly shuddered, at the memory. "Finally, took off its 'ead. Tha's what killed it."
"Wish I'd been awake for it."
"Power like tha’," Molly remarked, more to herself than him, "is unnatural."
"Well, yeah," he said, raising an eyebrow. "That’s kind of the point, isn't it? Supernatural! Slayer, an all?"
"Nah, I mean," the girl frowned, searching for the words, "it's like she wasn't 'uman, even. Like she was all about killing inside."
"Buffy's no killer," Spike said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Molly blinked at him and then blushed. "Oh, I didn't mean to say…tha’ is…she's been right nice to us. I was just…well…fact is I tend to out talk my good sense as Mrs. Morris my Watcher tha’ was, used to say."
Spike relaxed out of his defensive posture. "No harm done, Ducks," he said, handing her the mug again. "Here, take this to the kitchen and tell Buffy I've had enough blood to last me."
"'K," she said and headed for the door. She stopped short on the threshold and shot him a look over her shoulder. "Want me to bring you something else?"
---
"He wants what?"
"'Ot wings, a dozen or so, extra spicy wit' a side of ranch dressing."
Buffy puffed out a small laugh, her first one in days. She got up from her seat at the war center in the Summers' dining room. Running a hand through her hair, she stretched, arching her back. She rotated her shoulders to ease out the tension and shot an affectionate glance past Molly toward the stairwell. For a second, she looked like an ordinary young woman. Then, her gaze flickered to Andrew’s bondage chair, just visible in the living room entryway. The impersonal shielding rose around her and she was a warrior, again.
She cast an eye over the assorted maps, files and books littering the tabletop until she located her cell phone. Plucking up the instrument, she lobbed it toward her sister. Dawn caught the phone deftly.
"Dawn, try to get Willow on the cell. Tell her to cancel the pizza. I'm going upstairs for a few minutes. You girls wait here for word from Giles or Anya. Anything happens, you yell for me. No heroics. Even if you can't get Will, call Xander at the site. Ask him to pick up five dozen wings, the dressing and whatever else we need to make them resemble dinner."
"How ‘bout a nice Chianti and a side of fava beans?"
"Dawn, don't start…"
"Oh, fava beans," Andrew remarked, giving up his hour-long study of the ceiling. "After we saw Hannibal, Warren and I tried some of those. They are to die for…sautéed with a little garlic and fresh spinach. I don't know about the liver though 'cause have you ever felt raw liver? It’s all slimy and bloody and you can see all of the vei…"
"Hey, Naked Chef?" Buffy snapped, as she entered the hall. "You want to button it?"
"I was just trying to contribute."
"You want to help?" the Slayer purred, stepping toward the young man. Andrew bobbled his head even as he shrank away from the look in her eyes. "Tell you what? Why don’t you try contacting your buddy, the 'Root of All Evil’? See if you can get me a forecast on his upcoming reign of terror. Direction of wind-shear, likely casualty list, whatever!”
"I told you, I'm out of the nemesis biz," Andrew insisted. "Nobody is talking to me. Really! I've gone good, just like Spike."
"I'll believe it when I see you flayed within an inch of your life," Buffy replied, before moving away. She nodded at Kennedy, who was on guard, cradling a crossbow in her arms. "He tries anything, shoot him in the liver."
Andrew began frantically hopping his chair around in an effort to see Kennedy as Buffy climbed quickly to the second floor and disappeared from view.
"She's just scary," Andrew commented, abandoning his efforts. Molly, Dawn and Kennedy exchanged meaningful glances.
---
"Hello, Buffy," Spike caressed her name, savoring the flavor of it on his tongue.
"Hey," she smiled, shyly, at him as she slipped into the room, softly closing the door. "Heard you were complaining about the food."
"No Burba weed," he shrugged. "Never could stomach the taste of straight pig's blood."
"Well, we are fresh out of the Buffy vintage. Until Willow brews up some more. You guzzled the last of it yesterday. And besides, Chez Summers is more noted for our four-star accommodations."
"No complaints on the room," he said, fingering the linen. "Master suite, all the trimmings, very posh."
"Glad you approve," Buffy said.
"And the help is interesting, too. Little girl tells me she's to be a Slayer?"
"How'd she look?"
"Like she wouldn't last to the second round."
Turning suddenly serious, Buffy sank down next to him. She perched on the edge of the bed and met his gaze. "I know. It's frightening. They're so young." She tried a weak smile, as she asked, "How are you doing? Really?"
"Feeble but better than I was, up and around soon."
"Do you remember anything about what happened to you?"
"Flashes, images of people, Drusilla…you…me…it's all a blurry montage."
"Nothing about the First?"
"Big talk, thinks it's God's gift to the unholy. We can't stop it, we can't understand how powerful it is, older than the word, nothing concrete though."
"Why did it want you?"
"Don't know. To turn on you I think. Act as its agent. But it didn't say why exactly." He looked down and away, murmuring, "Thank you…for coming. For getting me out."
"I need you," she said, simply.
He reached for her hand but she was up and moving, oblivious to the gesture. She paced off her anxiety. "I can't do this alone, Spike. I need your strength, your experience. You know about killing Slayers and we have to keep these girls alive."
"We will."
"We have to protect them. Keep them safe while we take on the First and its minions. The evil is coming out of the walls. Sometimes literally! I don't sleep. I can't let my guard down for a second. And there's no one else I can turn to. Willow can't use magic against this thing. The Watchers are history. Angel isn't answering my calls. And Faith, assuming she would help, is locked up. Giles is working on that and on getting us reinforcements. But for now, it looks like you and me."
"Bugger doesn't stand a chance then, does it?"
She stopped pacing to regard him. Spike did his best to look cocky. Buffy's mouth twitched up at one corner and she nodded. "Yeah, it should run away…very far…very fast."
"But in case it doesn't…" He let the thought trail off as he sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. Ignoring the swirl of nausea that threatened to bring up his breakfast, he said, "Tell ya' what. Toss me some pants and then push off. I'll pretty myself up and pop down for a war council."
"Sure you're up to it?"
"Can you get me some decent food?"
"Xander's bringing wings," she said, handing him a pair of jeans.
"It would have to be Xander," he grumbled.
---
Dawn opened the door in response to a muffled call for help and Xander Harris staggered in under a burden of hot wings.
"It's a Chicken Bucket Monster," Dawn yelled toward the kitchen.
Kennedy and Molly rushed to assist with the kill and within seconds Xander had been picked clean. He emerged from the pile, gripping the handle of a plastic bag full of napkins and condiments in his teeth. Unhooking the final package, he handed it off to a Slayer in Training. Then, he worked his jaw back and forth, as if restoring feeling.
"Okay, so now I know what an antelope carcass feels like," he observed. Spotting Spike at the table, he added, "And speaking of carcasses."
Spike rolled his eyes but nodded a greeting, "Harris!" As he rose to assist the Slayer with dishes and glasses, the vampire continued, "Soddin' wings better not be cold. Sauce gets all congealed…not fit for cats."
"From the man who has dined on two-day-dead homeless guy," Xander gestured, "ladies and…" he looked around, noted the lack of gentlemen present and finished lamely, "more ladies. So where's Giles?"
"He and Anya are off consulting some Oracle of the Blindingly Obvious," Buffy said, plating hot wings. "Expecting word of the on-going apocalypse any second now. Willow went for pizza and to collect Tara's books and stuff."
"Good old community storage shed 10-F," Xander remarked, taking a chair and a serving of chicken, "realm of the forbidden incense burner."
"I'm just glad we got notified about the rent due," Buffy said. "You never think about those things when…" She stopped speaking abruptly and let the thought go unfinished.
Spike shifted uneasily. He still hadn't grieved properly for Tara. She was just another innocent in the crossfire, one death among countless others haunting him. But he missed her terribly. Missed her calming presence in the group dynamic and their sense of shared outsider bonding. She had meant more to him than he'd realized. The idea of grief was relatively new to him and the loss was fresh. He glanced across at Xander.
The carpenter had told him of the witch's death a few days after Spike moved in to the man's apartment. At first, the news barely impacted the vampire's mad awareness. Then, in the dead of night, it struck hard. His uncontrolled weeping woke Xander an hour or two before dawn.
After a brief reprimand, the man had turned surprisingly compassionate upon learning Spike blamed himself for Tara's death. "It happened too fast. I mean, I was there," Xander had soothed, "Willow and Buffy were there. Plus… daylight, you know? Nothing you could have done. Really, we would have staked you on sight if you'd showed…and besides…nothing anyone could have done. Not your fault…this ONE thing, I mean. ‘Cause everything else is totally your fault…" He ducked his head to make eye contact, leaning forward to grip Spike's shoulder as he added, "but not this…okay? Don't take on this one."
As if remembering the same thing, Xander offered a half-smile of consolation as he changed the subject. "So, Spike, you're looking less filleted these days. You know, I told you to invest in a really good taxidermist but would you listen?"
"That's 'battle scarred', you git," Spike corrected, but not harshly. He dropped into a chair next to the Slayer. "It's a look. Right rugged, I expect. Besides, we can't all have your peaches and cream complexion."
"True, true," Xander agreed, accepting his cross. "Guys down at the building site are always after my secret to flawless skin…moisturize, moisturize, moisturize and…also…SPF 30."
"Like you know about SPF," Dawn said, shoving at Xander's arm.
"Don't scoff, Bit," Spike said. "Bet if he'd sold cosmetics instead of those rotten energy bars, bloody Xander'd have his own pink limo by now."
Molly giggled and Spike favored her with a smile, encouraging her blush to ignite. Dawn glared at the vampire and then huffed out, "I'm going to check on Andrew," before pushing away from the table and stomping into the hall.
"Chill factor minus twelve," Kennedy muttered.
Buffy started to rise to go after her sister but Spike restrained her with a gentle touch.
"Let it go," he pleaded, sotto voce.
Xander cleared his throat. "Speaking of buildings and sites…nothing on an available training locations, yet. But I'm checking a likely warehouse tomorrow. There's one off Exeter, big enough for what we need."
"Ross and Exeter?" Spike asked. "On the corner?"
"Yeah, you know it?"
"Scoped it out when I got back in town. Easy to secure but there were some people holed up there last time I looked."
"People people or demon people?" Buffy inquired.
"Demons," Spike confessed.
"Yeah, Buffy," Dawn said, coming back to the table, "real people would be dead by now if he found them holed up somewhere."
Spike winced and Buffy's voice cracked like a whip, "Dawn, that is more than enough."
"What? Can't the murdering sexual predator take a little harsh language?"
"DAWN!"
"Why are you always on his side?" Dawn whined, sounding more like six than sixteen.
"Because your side is being rude and childish," Buffy returned. "And we really don't have time to do this, now. We have to find a place to make our stand against the First. And we need every fighter we can find or turn to our cause."
"So," Dawn challenged, "when are you going to get Angel?"
Buffy blinked, "What?"
"Angel," Dawn prompted, sarcastically, "you remember him, Buffy! The OTHER, not so crazy vampire with a soul, love of your life…lives a couple hours away. Any of this ringing a bell?"
"Buffy called him, Dawnie," Xander soothed. "Left messages. He's not answering."
"Yeah, so she says," Dawn returned, as if she didn’t believe a word of it. She was too angry to note her sister moving toward her. "If you ask me someone should just go to L.A and get h…."
She broke off with a sharp yelp as Buffy took an exceedingly firm grip on her arm.
"Nobody is asking you," the Slayer growled.
"Hey, whoa, time out," Xander said. He popped out of his seat, beating Spike off the mark by a second. Pushing his way between the young women, he caught the vampire's eye over the Slayer's head and signalled him off. Then, he spoke with exaggerated emphasis. "Buffy, let's go check on dessert."
Without waiting for his friend's agreement, he marched her toward the kitchen. Dawn stood watching them. Her eyes glassy with unshed tears and full of hurt. Spike took a half-step toward her and she turned and bolted for the stairs.
Return to Round Winners
Return to Listing