by

Sandy S. <mailto:ssoennin@juno.com>

Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and UPN.
Spoilers: Through season 7 of Buffy. The scene in Los Angeles is set prior to the beast’s arrival and the meat of the story is set after “The Killer in Me.”
Summary: What does a funeral home director in Sunnydale see? S/B as usual. . .
A/N: This story is based on a conversation with two friends, Lisa and Jim, over lunch. We were discussing how the vampires could survive the embalming and burial process and the mortality of the funeral directors of Sunnydale. This story was inspired. Thus, the story is dedicated to them.

* * *

* * *

They always danced, no matter the season. They taught me more about love than I ever learned in my short marriage that ended a year ago. They were one of the many curiosities I witnessed in my six-month stint as Sunnydale funeral home director. As if the graveyard was the stage for their relationship, sometimes they danced fast and furious in the battle for their life or out of joy, and sometimes they danced with tenderness weighted with love or sorrow.

However, my story requires an introduction before I can delve into whom they are, so please bear with me. . . .

* * *

Over dinner at my favorite Italian place in Los Angeles one evening, Jim and Lisa warned me not to move to Sunnydale. The conversation went a little something like this:

Taking a mouth full of my chocolate mousse pie, I casually mentioned, “I’m thinking about moving to Sunnydale after the divorce is final. The funeral director there died recently, so they have a job opening. I interviewed over the phone. It’s mine if I want it. At least, when I’m able to move in a few months.”

The couple in front of me exchanged knowing glances. Then, Lisa asked with concern in her voice, “Why Sunnydale?”

My curiosity was piqued by their evident alarm, so I explained, “Well, I was thinking that being in the same city as my ex wouldn’t be too healthy given that we hung out in the same social circles. And Sunnydale’s only two hours away. It’d be a short trip to visit Amber on the weekends. And she could come to Sunnydale on holidays.” Amber is my six-year-old daughter and the reason I got married in the first place.

Jim cleared his throat. “Well, we’ve heard recently that Sunnydale isn’t exactly the ideal place to live. Last time we spoke with Matt and Sherry, they complained about the high death rate.”

“They have more than a couple of pages a day dedicated to obituaries in the local paper,” Lisa added, sipping her coffee.

“Well, that will keep me busy, I suppose.” I would do anything to get my mind off the divorce and the recent tumult in my life.

“They didn’t say anything specific, but apparently, there’ve been several strange occurrences around the city,” Jim continued.

“Strange?”

“Like I said; they weren’t specific. Maybe the deaths are inexplicable. Maybe the crime rate’s high. I don’t know. They just didn’t seem to feel safe much of the time. . . especially at night.”

I sighed. “Well, that doesn’t sound terribly different than living here. And I like the idea of living in a smaller community. Less traffic. Less pollution. Less apathy about other people.”

“True.”

Then, Lisa changed the subject to something about the utility of cast iron in cooking. I didn’t think much of their concerns about Sunnydale at the time, but later, I’d look back with renewed understanding.

* * *

A few months after my conversation with Jim and Lisa, I decided to have movers store my belongings in Sunnydale while I took some time to adjust myself to the divorce. I visited family and friends across the country. Finally, I moved to Sunnydale over a weekend in early February, so I’d have plenty of time to unpack and get settled in my new apartment before going to work on Monday. No one was available to introduce me to my place of work because the receptionist had moved away, and a lawyer had mailed me the keys to the funeral home the previous week.

On Monday morning, I bought a newspaper at a local bookstore to check out the obituaries over breakfast in the nearby coffee shop. I noted that as per Lisa’s observation, the list of recent deaths took up half the first section of the paper.

I pulled into the empty funeral home parking lot at half-past eight and approached the front door, enjoying the feel of the empty briefcase in my hand and fishing for the lone key that I had pocketed because I had yet to put it on my key chain.

Turning the lock and pushing open the door, I fumbled for a light switch. After finding the switch and meandering through the usual entrance and formal rooms, I found my way into the basement room where most of my work would take place. A small, plainly decorated office was arranged to my right, and I entered to find an inexpensive desk made of particleboard, not wood. The desk was clear except for a phone, answering machine, and a long metal box. Behind the desk a fairly standard computer was set up. . . not new by any means but not out-of-date either.

The tiny red light on the answering machine was blinking furiously, and I settled onto the chair to listen to the messages while I explored the drawers of my desk. Finding them empty except for some computer papers and a few mechanical pencils, I wondered where the records were kept. Perhaps the prior funeral director had entered them into the computer and kept electronic records.

After jotting down notes from the messages, which turned out to be fairly routine, I turned my attention to the box on my desk. Fumbling with the latch, I threw back the lid easily so that the metal clunked on the desktop. Inside was a single item. . . a computer disc. The label on the disc was penned in a shaky hand and read, “To whom it concerns: Make sure to examine this FIRST.”

Curious about the emphasis on the last word, I spun around and turned on the computer. The screen lit up quickly and in a few minutes, I’d slipped the disc into the computer and opened the directory to view a list of the files. A word processing file was the only file listed, and I clicked on the title, “IMPORTANT.doc.”

My eyes read steadily at first, but by the time I finished the fifteen-page instruction manual, my eyes were wider than an owl’s, and my heart was pounding. I now knew exactly why there were so many deaths in Sunnydale and what I had to do. . . what I would be forced to do. That is, if I decided to believe what I had just read.

* * *

Yes, yes, I’m getting to the two main characters of my tale. I just need to give this background, so you understand where I’m coming from. In fact, they’re in the next section. . .

* * *

A bit bewildered after the revelations on the disc, I chose to leave my new place of employment in favor of doing something to calm myself down.

For some reason, I’d always felt a sense of peace from taking a walk through the cemetery next to wherever I worked. The graves were often beautifully adorned with flowers, other plants, and decorations. I enjoyed reading the names and dates of birth and death and imagining what that person must have been like in life. Often, I also used the time to sort through my thoughts about various issues.

Well, let me tell you that sorting through the notion that vampires and other demons might actually exist was not an easy task.

I rolled the thoughts and arguments for and against such an idea so many times in my brain that I didn’t notice where I was going, and I ran smack into a young, red-haired woman who was sitting on her heels before a beautiful headstone, which bore the name, “Tara.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, regaining my balance by clasping the marble marker she had been surveying with what I now noticed was intent, steady sadness. After years of witnessing people in graveyards, I could usually read how people were feeling. There were degrees and variations of pain.

“I-it’s okay. I’m fine. I-I was just leaving anyway.” She gave me a shaky smile, and I saw the remnants of tear tracks on her fair cheeks.

Feeling a wave of compassion for her, I asked a question I might not normally pose to a stranger, “Whom are you visiting?”

The young woman nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and her eyes flickered from mine to the graves behind me. “A friend. . . a very close friend whom I love. . . loved very much.”

“Her death must have been hard on you,” I observed whiled mentally kicking myself for making such an idiotic statement.

She lowered her head and studied her hands. “It was. . . is.” Then, her eyes found mine. In them was painted a wariness and uncertainty but also a deep strength that often marks youth who have been through many difficult experiences.

To ease her mild alarm, I offered her my hand, which she made certain to grasp firmly and hold for a heartbeat longer than most people. Her eyes bore into mine then as if she was searching for something. She must have found what she was looking for because she sighed and released my fingers.

“I’m Mr. Fisher. . . Sam Fisher, the new funeral director.”

“Oh.” Some realization must have hit her then because she repeated herself, “*Oh!*” Then, she shook her head as if storing away the information. “I’m Willow. . . Willow Rosenberg. What happened to Mr. Turner?”

She probably met him at her friend’s fairly recent funeral. “He passed away. Didn’t you know?”

“Oh! No, I didn’t know! I’ll have to tell Buffy.” She must have noted my confused expression because she attempted a clumsy clarification. “Ehm. . . I mean, she met him, too, my friend, Buffy, did. . . meet him. At our friend’s. . . burial. . . um. . . her service. She’d probably like to know. Not that she ‘likes’ to hear that kind of thing.” She changed tactics and turned to tables back to me. “Did you know him?”

“No, I didn’t. I just accepted the job through a phone interview. I’m pretty new. Just got here a few days ago.”

Willow nodded. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You, too. Well, I must get back to my walk. You have a good day.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

As I meandered away from Willow, I noticed how she gently caressed the headstone and whispered a few words before she headed in the opposite direction.

* * *

So, I lied, and the couple wasn’t in the last section. But I forgot about the importance of meeting Willow. . . .

* * *

Because of the backlog of work, I ended up losing track of the amount of time I spent in the tiny basement. When I glanced at the clock with bleary eyes, I realized that darkness had likely descended over this part of the world. As I became more aware of my body’s exhausted muscles, I made the decision to close shop for the night and return more refreshed in the morning.

Sighing, I shoved the papers I was working on into an unorganized pile and rose, pulling on my winter coat. At least, I had the small available staff coordinated to come to work tomorrow. The light from the small lamp in the office was the only illumination for the path to the first floor. Slightly disoriented in my new workspace, I staggered up the stairs, fumbling for the car keys in my pocket.

When I reached the open door to the ground level, I caught a vague movement out of the corner of my right eye. Before I could react, a hand grabbed the front of my shirt roughly and dragged me into the light streaming from the reception area. My back and head slammed against the wall, and stunned, I dropped my briefcase with a clatter.

Blinking past the stars marring my vision, I peered into a pair of glowing yellow eyes and inhaled the scent of death that marks all the bodies I dressed for funerals. . . except this dead body was animated. Instantly, I knew that all the information I’d read on the disc was true. The debate inside me ended.

Then, the dead thing spoke, breathing cool air over my face with each syllable, “So you’re the new funeral director. We’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”

Swallowing past the fear in my throat, I ceased struggling against his inhuman strength and mustered a confidence I wasn’t exactly sure I felt. “Yes, I am. How may I help you?”

The thing laughed, then, throwing its head back and revealing pointed canines and a crumpled forehead that made me shudder inside. “Listen to him.” He turned his head sideways, and I glimpsed several similar beings behind him with arms crossed and cocked heads ornamented with cruel smiles. Random chuckles whispered through the air. “He sure is full of it. His heart is racing at ninety miles a minute. He doesn’t know the drill yet, but he will.”

Words flew out of my mouth before I could censor myself, “Drill? What drill?”

“The drill that every funeral director follows with regard to things that go bump in the night,” he replied snidely.

“And what drill is that? What do I have to do to satisfy the vampires of this city?” I wanted to hear my task straight from him.

“Oooo, listen, Frank,” my captor taunted condescendingly. His grip loosened on my clothing, and I slid down the wall to my feet. “He knows what we are. Smart boy.”

“Mr. Turner left information.” His words also warned me to keep the outward appearance of calm in the creatures’ presence. It helped that my temperament naturally allowed me to do just that. I knew not to make sudden moves as well.

“Ah. He did, did he? Then, you know why we’re here.”

I kept my voice even, “Yes.”

“In your job as the coordinator of funerals and burials here in Sunnydale, you have the unique opportunity to be near a hellmouth. To keep the undead happy, you have to follow a few rules.”

I decided to push the envelope. “What will happen if I don’t?”

He intentionally shoved his nose a millimeter from my own, licking his lips with exaggerated slowness. “What do you think will happen? What do you think happened to Mr. Turner?”

Carefully, I swallowed at his very obvious threat. “And what do you expect me to do?”

He ticked off his points by digging a new finger into my spine. “We need you to do things to facilitate the survival of our kind. . . meaning no embalming of bodies with obvious vampire teeth marks on their body. . . none of the required concrete fillers in the graves. . . no informing the Slayer of our whereabouts.”

“The Slayer?” I was confused on this point. Mr. Turner had left no mention of a “Slayer” on the disc. . . only the vampires’ rules and what I would be required to do to placate them. “What’s a Slayer?”

“Me.” A distinctly female voice flowed forth from the direction of the funeral home’s front door. Power etched the single utterance. She tilted her head and continued, “Or, in the case of the current era, multiple me. But, just me tonight.” Her eyes re-focused on the vampires. “Confused yet?”

All eyes flew from me to a slight, leather-clad young woman, standing in the doorway with her legs spread and bearing a crossbow loaded with wooden arrows. She grinned sardonically at the mass of vampires who stood slack-jawed at her entrance. Murmurs of “slayer” preceded the quick rush of vampires as they roared and attacked the woman en masse.

Firing her weapon, the wood landed with a *thunk* into the chest of the nearest vampire. He paused before bursting into dust. As I peered through the flying sediment, she stepped aside and another figure took her place in the door frame. . . a man of average-height. His skin was pale as the vampires’, and although his face was marked with youth, his hair was shock-white.

The vampire invading my personal space lost interest in me as the young woman and man began picking off the vampires around them. Unable to move from the horror of what I was observing, I simply stared.

The pair were desperately outnumbered but seemed to take the challenge with indifference to the overwhelming odds. Their arms and legs whipped into their enemies in time to a rapid, invisible beat that the vampires couldn’t seem to discover. With each misstep to the two’s inner music, dust flew through the air, hanging in a haze that made the scene appear almost surreal. Their movements were intuitive and fluid. . . the mark of hours of training, as I knew from my extremely brief childhood encounter with martial arts.

After several minutes, all but two of the vampires, who hadn’t fled, had been weeded away, and I could tell that the two blondes were tiring. Without warning, one of the remaining vampires, the one who had held me against the wall, landed a blow on the side of the young woman’s skull with a loud crack. She crumpled to the ground in what appeared to be slow motion, and my captor bent over her prone form.

As if he instantaneously knew, the young man whirled from his current opponent and called what I assumed to be her name, “Buffy!”

The vampire he had been fighting leapt on his back, but the young man slung the creature over his shoulder and pierced his chest without looking. He raced forward, tearing the attacker off Buffy. As the young man was squatting next to her, the stunned, lone vampire was shaking his head.

Spying a discarded wooden rod a few feet away, I snatched it up, my heart doing somersaults beneath my ribcage. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I stabbed the wood downward, gasping a bit at the shock of the wood tearing through flesh. My victim and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance just before his body completely dissipated.

I staggered back, partly from the astonishment of what I’d just accomplished and partly from the physical exertion of it. I re-faced my rescuers as the man gathered Buffy onto his lap, cradling her head against his shoulder. Alarm pumped through me until I realized that she was conscious. Her small arms encircled his neck, and she nuzzled her face into his shoulder. The expression on his face was one of pure love. It was a look that no one had ever aimed at me.

Then, the young man centered on me. “Do you have a first aid kit around here?” His accent was definitely British.

My brain attempted to re-focus as I noted the gash on the young woman’s forehead. “I-I think so.” I hurried toward the reception area’s tiny office. “I believe I saw something in here earlier when I was exploring.”

He moved the young woman with care and followed me down the hall. As I searched for what they required, I listened as Buffy whispered to the man holding her.

“Spike. . . I’m fine. Please put me down.” Her words were slightly slurred.

“No, pet. You’ve taken a pretty hard blow to the head,” he murmured in return.

“Um, I think I’ve walked home with more severe injuries before.”

Spike settled Buffy on the sofa in the waiting area. Their voices faded as I separated from them. Through the receptionist’s glass, I viewed him tuck a stray hair behind her ear. I opened cabinets and rummaged through the contents, finally finding my target. Happily, I rushed to the doorway with my treasure.

Spike accepted the kit and thanked me. Buffy sent me a smile that said she was placating Spike. I nodded and retreated to the office, keeping my ear on the conversation in the next room.

The slosh of alcohol was followed by a distinct, “Ouch!”

He sighed. “Pet, it’s going to hurt.”

“I know, but I get impatient with myself. Blow it?”

“More like, you get impatient with me,” he countered. “And yes, I’ll blow it.”

She withstood his next ministrations but made a face and pinched his arm. He swatted away her hand, and she shot him a glare.

“How come you went on that date?” His tone contained an element of hurt as he concentrated on her wound.

“With Principal Wood?” For her part, she was half-surprised and half-amused, forgetting to be annoyed at the pain on her forehead. She seemed to be trying to catch his gaze. “Why are you asking about that now? Jealous?”

“Yeah,” he acknowledged quietly. “Shouldn’t I be? A little?”

“Maybe,” she replied cryptically.

“Is that a maybe or a yes?”

“Just what I said.”

“And what’s that?” he insisted, dabbing her wound with a medicine cream.

“That *maybe* you should be.” Her eyes sparkled at him.

He took her in a circle. “Should be what?”

“Jealous!”

He began stripping a bandage from the wrapping. “Do you *want* me to be?”

My ears strained to hear her low answer. “Yeah. Maybe I do.”

A smile spread over his face, and the wrinkles in his brow smoothed out. “Good.” Spike began packing away the medical supplies. He raised a brow at his patient. “Done, pet.”

As Buffy felt the bandage on her forehead, her eyes widened, and her chin jutted in a mock pout. “You!”

He grinned. “Me, what?” He snapped the lid shut.

“You tricked me!”

“What of it? Got you to stop fighting it, didn’t I?”

She thought for a moment, but unable to think of a suitable response, she merely stuck out her tongue at him playfully.

Spike chuckled. “Nice tongue. I seem to remember it as an old acquaintance.”

“Just an acquaintance?”

“Maybe.”

Before they could launch into another round of banter, I stepped back into the room. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Buffy smiled. “You’re welcome. It’s my job. Thanks for the medicine.”

“Who are you, if I may ask? What’s a ‘Slayer?’ And why did you help me? And vampires. . . I didn’t know they were real.”

“They are very real,” Spike informed me. “Welcome to Sunnydale.”

“You’re the new funeral director, right?” Buffy asked.

“Yes, I am.” My thoughts were racing. “Did Mr. Turner die at the hands of those monsters?”

Buffy rose from the sofa and crossed her arms. “Yes. They killed him. With everything that’s been going on, I was unable to monitor his safety as usual.”

“W-why did they kill him?”

“Because he didn’t follow their rules properly. They found out that their numbers were dwindling more rapidly than would be expected if I were simply happening upon them in the cemetery. Didn’t take them long to realize that he and I were collaborating to some extent. . .although less so recently with what’s been happening in Sunnydale.”

“What’s been happening in Sunnydale?” What could possibly be worse than the vampires I’d witnessed tonight?

Buffy and Spike exchanged a knowing look. “You don’t want to know,” she answered.

“Well, if I’m going to put my life in danger, I’d like to know what’s out there.” I gestured to indicate the infinity of darkness outside.

What they told me next had my head spinning. My dreams from that night on would be filled with vampires, slayers, and an incorporeal evil that had been present since the dawn of time. Why I didn’t just up and leave Sunnydale the moment I learned this information, I’ll never really know. Perhaps, at the time, I felt like being in Sunnydale, helping this mythic slayer gave me a new purpose in life. I hadn’t been an adequate husband or father, but I could darn sure help make the world a better place.

by

Sandy S. <mailto:ssoennin@juno.com>

My first encounter with Spike and Buffy would not be the last. The next segment tells of the second time I saw them together. Funny how when I look back, every encounter with the pair seemed more salient, more significant than the rest of my memories of my duration in Sunnydale.

* * *

As the days passed, I slowly adjusted to my life in Sunnydale. When I first began informing Buffy of potential vampires, I wondered why she didn’t merely attempt to eradicate the vampires through the coroner’s office.

She explained that vampires had corrupt humans working for them in the coroner’s office. She wasn’t sure which staff members in the office were the culprits, but she couldn’t very well confront all of them without raising too much unwanted attention among hospital staff.

Going through the funeral home to catch vampires was easier for Buffy. . . although most of the time that wasn’t too reassuring to me. I had to carefully inspect each body because vampires who weren’t embalmed didn’t appear to be that much different than the humans who were. Someone in the coroner’s office was smart.

In the end, at least Buffy caught a few vampires through me even if some slipped past the coroner’s office to shallow graves elsewhere.

I acquired a few people to work at the funeral home during the day and to handle the heavy workload of the small city. Each new body brought to me a sense of dread as I wondered if the vampires would return to avenge what happened to their brethren. Thankfully, anytime I had to work at night, I merely called Buffy, and she sent someone to protect me.

One night, Spike arrived in the doorway, flipping a stake in his hand. “Good evening,” he stated simply.

I nodded and continued my scan of the body on the table. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?” Buffy hadn’t previously sent Spike.

“Fine.” He approached my side, peering over my shoulder to examine the corpse. “Vampire?”

“Nope. No teeth marks. But I have a guy who was victim of a stab wound at work. Could be a winner.” I’d learned that vampires could be created through more than just teeth marks. Any old wound would work as a gateway to the birth of a vampire. “He’s next up. Didn’t you read about it in the papers?”

Spike stepped away from the body and leaned against the wall to the left of me, pocketing the stake. “Don’t really read the paper. Willow or Dawn usually checks the obits.”

“Oh.” In the past, I would have balked at young women scanning the papers and internet for information on circumstances of death. I couldn’t imagine my daughter doing so. But now. . . it didn’t seem so strange.

Spike meandered into my office while I finished with the woman on the table. As I was putting away the body, he reemerged bearing a framed picture. “Your daughter?”

Stepping away from the scene of death and stripping off my gloves, I tossed the latex into the toxic waste container. “Yeah. Amber. She’s an angel.”

Spike’s face remained impassive as he studied her photograph. “She’s pretty. Why isn’t she with you?”

My heart warmed with love for my daughter whom I’d spoken to only last night. “Her mother and I recently got a divorce, and for some reason, we haven’t reached a custody agreement yet. She’s in kindergarten. She’s brilliant. . . the light of my life. Do you want kids someday?”

His eyes reached mine then, sending me a message of unwavering sadness but also acceptance. “I can’t have children.”

Compassion for Spike flooded over me. “I’m sorry.”

He spoke matter-of-factly, “It’s okay. A result of my own actions which I have to accept.”

“Still, it doesn’t make it any easier, especially when you meet someone you really care about and want to have a family.” I paused, then, took a chance. “Does Buffy know you can’t have kids?”

Spike was startled by my question and shifted uncomfortably with the expression of someone who’d been unintentionally discovered. Instead of falling into my trap to discuss his relationship to the slayer, Spike sidestepped my comment by stating the most parsimonious truth, “Yeah.”

I opened my mouth to comment on what I observed between the two of them, but before I could utter a single word, a loud clatter rose from the enclosure where the bodies were kept.

Immediately, Spike set aside the picture of my daughter and palmed the stake from his pocket. With the stealth of a cat, he slipped up to the place where the stab- wound-guy rested. My heart leapt in my throat as I reached into a nearby drawer to brandish my own stake. So I wasn’t nearly as competent a warrior as Spike, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

As Spike swung open the hatch, my stomach flipped, and something I’d become accustomed to feeling in Sunnydale lurched in my throat.

Stab-wound-guy remained motionless in his confinement.

Damn.

The noise grew in volume, and I advanced toward Spike as he began impatiently throwing open each door on the enclosure.

My eyes grew round as I observed a hatch swing open behind Spike, but before I could shout a warning, Spike was tackled to the ground by our errant vampire. The stake flew out of his hand. Spike threw the vampire backwards, knocking over a metal cart in the process.

The vampire pulled himself up with alacrity and launched himself at Spike again. Spike caught his head before it hit his abdomen and flung him to the ground. While the vampire was otherwise occupied, he lunged for the stake that had rolled to one side. I chastised myself inside for not moving for it sooner or tossing him mine.

The next few seconds were a blur as the vampire scooted across the floor and pulled me to the ground, using me to resume standing. As he moved past me, I maintained the right state of mind long enough to attempt bringing the stake toward his chest, but he batted my hand away with a laugh.

Meanwhile Spike had retrieved his stake and stopped upon seeing that I was trapped. . . and to view the growing panic that was spreading across my face. I could see the war within him as he tried to make a decision about his next action.

The vampire laughed brusquely. “Let me walk away from this, and he lives.”

“I don’t think so,” Spike replied without hesitance, clutching the stake tighter.

The point of my stake pressed painfully into my neck, and I could feel something warm running down my neck. “Maybe I’ll kill him anyway.”

Now I really was panicking. My breaths came in short wheezes, and my head began spinning. I wasn’t sure if it was from the blood loss or fear. The vampire’s arm tightened around me.

Upon hearing those words, Spike rushed the two of us, and before I knew what was happening, I was knocked roughly to the ground on my side, and the vampire was floating dust around me. Spike remained on his feet, and he offered me a hand up.

Blinking my eyes, I peered up at Spike to thank him. What I saw floored me. Questions whirled through my head. Could one turn into a vampire merely by touching another vampire? If so, how much contact did Spike have with this vampire. . .with any vampire? Has he always been a vampire? Do Buffy and her friends know he is a vampire? How could he be enamored with a *vampire* slayer if he’s a vampire? A-and *that’s* why he couldn’t have kids!

Spike noticed my slack-jawed expression. He seemed uncertain for a moment, but when I backed rapidly away from him, he touched his forehead as if he didn’t know what he was. Comprehension entered his glowing yellow eyes, and his face immediately resumed human form.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Sam.” His tone was even and neutral as he held my eyes with his.

“S-stay away from me.” I backed into the table in the center of the room as I edged toward the door. If I could manage to reach the entrance, I could possibly beat him to my car. Thankfully, I had the keys in my pocket.

He advanced slowly as if to prevent me from sprinting away. “Seriously, do you think Buffy would put up with me if I were evil?” He cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. “Not that she hasn’t in the past. But anyway, do you think she’d have sent me to protect you?”

“I d-don’t know. Maybe she doesn’t know you’re a vampire.” I used my little speech to cover more ground toward my destination.

Spike further closed the gap between us. “Trust me, she does. I’ve been working with her going on six years or so. . . give or take a year. She knows me quite well.”

“*I* don’t know you.”

“Listen, this is bloody ridiculous. I’m *not* going to hurt you!”

“Sure, su. . .”

The entrance of said slayer cut off my sarcastic comment. “Spike! What are you doing to Mr. Fisher?”

Defensively, Spike presented his palms to her, letting the stake hang loosely from his fingertips. “Nothing, pet. He just saw me.” Spike gestured in a circular fashion around his forehead area.

Buffy did the unexpected; she laughed. Patting me on the shoulder, she reassured me, “Spike *is* a vampire, but he works with me.”

My brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. Aren’t vampires *evil*?”

Smiling, Buffy confirmed my thought, “Yes, they are. Spike was. . .once.” She gave him a tender-eyed look. “But he’s not now.”

“Not now?” Something wasn’t computing in my mind.

“He has a soul.”

“Oh.” Was that supposed to explain away the vampire part because he had a soul?

Spike took a deep breath and added, “Which doesn’t mean I can’t do evil. It just means that I have a choice about whether I do good or evil.”

Buffy nodded. “Right, right.” Then, her manner turned serious. “Spike, the reason I’m here is I needed to talk with you about something.”

A myriad of emotions rolled through Spike’s eyes, and for a moment, I thought I could see his soul. Maybe there was something to the soul bit. “What’s wrong?” he asked her, concern etching his voice.

She smiled vaguely. “Nothing big. I just need to talk. . . get away from the house for a while.”

Spike was attempting to fathom what she might want to talk with him about. “Sure, pet. But first, we have to get Mr. Fisher patched up. He got wounded by a vamp tonight.”

“Oh! You got one! Who?” Buffy wondered as she crossed the room to examine my neck.

I put my hand to the wound’s area, drawing back red fluid. I winced at the sight. “Stab-wound-guy.”

Buffy recognized the incident. “Oh! That guy. Read about it in the paper. Workplace violence. Interesting. He was vamped at work.” Spike passed Buffy the first aid kit.

“Yeah, he was working late at the school, I believe,” I noted as Buffy cleansed the wound. I was proud that I didn’t flinch at her ministrations.

“Ah. I should have known.” She shook the cotton puff at me. “Never, ever work late at night in a school in Sunnydale.”

“Got it.”

Buffy bandaged my neck and examined her work with satisfaction. “There.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Sam, do you mind coming with Spike and I to the church in the cemetery for a bit?” Spike’s face fell at Buffy’s question.

“How come?” I wondered.

“Well, it’s too far to escort you all the way home and then come back here on foot. My house is closer to your place than here, so it’d be a waste to walk all that way back. And I’m bushed after this evening of patrolling. Plus, we can’t very well leave you vulnerable here. Do you mind?”

Buffy’s long explanation sounded like she might be attempting to avoid something she wasn’t sure she wanted to confront, but of course, I wasn’t sure what that was.

“I guess that’s fine,” I agreed. I cast Spike a glance, unsure how to react to him as a vampire when I’d been thinking he was human.

“Okay, then. Let’s go.”

* * *

You may think I’ve made some leaps with my insights about these two people. . . and yes, I said *people*. I suppose my backwards view of events is tainted by what I witnessed later. This next part of the tale covers what happened in the church.

* * *

In an effort to avoid listening to every detail of their conversation despite the temptation, I busily explored the front of the chapel, running my fingers over the cool wooden pews, staring into the flickering candles lit by believers and mourners, and leafing through a book of church songs.

The church was a Catholic one, so I swung down the kneeling bench and dropped to my knees. I prayed for my family and especially my daughter. I prayed that I would know what to do with the knowledge I’d gained about the supernatural world. . . a world I was finding myself quite caught up in. When at last I sat back to survey the crucifix hanging before me, my ears automatically aimed toward the quiet voices drifting from the back of the church.

Buffy’s voice was laced with heartbreak and vulnerability. “None of you can truly understand,” she protested.

Spike’s response was gentle but bore a trace of impatience as if he’d heard this line of thinking before from the slayer. “Buffy. No one can understand anyone’s perspective perfectly.”

“Well, there you go. No one can understand me. I’m the slayer. . . the only one. . .”

Spike interrupted her before she could veer off too far into her rant, “*But* we can listen and put ourselves in your shoes.”

“But you don’t have to experience what *I* do,” she insisted. “You don’t have to feel responsible for all the deaths that occur.”

She’s asking him to tell her how special she is. . . that she’s needed despite how helpless she feels in the face of ultimate evil. My thoughts fly to Amber and the look in her eye the day her mother and I told her that we weren’t going to be together anymore. Despite the conflict surrounding us, I was proud that my ex-wife and I had told her together. It hadn’t been easy. The vulnerability of my daughter never failed to touch my core. I decided to call her later tonight to remind her that I love her.

“You can’t be responsible for every death that occurs related to the First. That’s like saying you’re responsible for the sun shining today and not yesterday. You have no control over those things. You can’t control what others do all the time.”

Buffy sighed. “But I’m supposed to be the leader in this war. And I don’t even know what to do to stop the First. And he keeps manipulating people. . . getting people I care about killed. And I know I have to accept that people are going to die in this war. But people look to me to stop it. . . stop the death.”

“And what happened with the girl tonight. . .”

“Was one of the deaths I didn’t stop. . . no matter how hard I tried.”

She sounded so defeated as she studied her hands. I willed Spike to touch her and comfort her. I knew he was a vampire, but if this was the end of the world, she needed someone to understand her. . . or at least try to.

I couldn’t fathom the weight she bore, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to truly put myself in her shoes as Spike had said others could. The very thought frightened me and made me want to run away. Perhaps she was afraid others would turn from her. . . perhaps they had. . . if they thought they had to take on what she did, and perhaps she was right.

“Buffy. . .”

He reached for her, and she allowed the gesture. Without another syllable uttered, he pulled her onto his lap. She let out a small cry when he folded his arms around her, and my head snapped fully up from where I was busily pretending to read a tattered hymnal. When I realized that the cry was half out of relief, I refocused on the book, keeping my view on them out of the corner of my eye.

The certain sounds of crying drifted my way, and I remembered the same utterances coming from my wife. . . my ex-wife when she knew we would never work together.

My heart ached as Spike stroked the slayer’s shoulders tenderly and rocked her back and forth in his lap. Suddenly, it struck me that the vampire probably understood her better than anyone else could, being mired in the same twisted world she was. She could be herself with him the way no one else could.

A stab of jealousy went through me. I longed to find that kind of companionship, but I didn’t know if I’d really want the connection if it came with such a hefty price tag.

For several minutes, the two bonded. Funny how adversity brings people together more closely than they ever would have been. When her tears ended in hiccups and tiny shudders, he kissed her forehead, and she moved her arms from his chest until they wrapped around his middle.

“I got makeup on your shirt. Now it’s all messy,” she said, making one of those observations people put together when they feel a little awkward about expressing their feelings.

Spike’s voice was hoarse with emotion, “I can deal with messy, pet. It’s what I do.”

“I bet,” she returned, patting his shoulder but remaining in his arms. Her next sentence deftly sidestepped the other meaning of what he was telling her, “I bet you spent hundreds of years helping Drusilla get the blood out of her clothes.”

Spike smiled slightly. “Well, not technically *hundreds* of years. . .but yeah. I bet you had your fair share of dirty garments, too.”

“Yeah. Some from slaying the nasty demons, some from Dawn borrowing my clothes, and some from. . . well, *you* know what from,” she teased. She settled her head against him again.

The last comment was obviously something from their past that I was not getting.

They were silent for several more seconds. Then, Buffy asked hesitantly, “Can I ask a favor of you?”

Spike was firm and sounded sure of himself. “Anything, pet.”

“Promise me something.”

Spike stiffened a little. “Now you know that if you ask me to promise you something, I will do my utmost best to follow through. I mean, I won’t back down from it.”

Buffy nodded and looked into his eyes briefly. “I know. I remember. . . will always remember what you did for Dawn. . .for me. And that was before. . .”

“Before I got my soul.”

“Yeah.”

I was a little confused on the soul point. What exactly did a soul mean to a vampire? What exactly did a soul mean to any of us as human beings? People do good or bad with a soul. Does a soul amount to anything besides a moral conscious? And do all people with souls have a moral conscious? My instincts told me “no,” but I wasn’t sure what my instincts said about vampires with souls. Hell, I didn’t even know vampires existed until a month or two ago.

“So what do you want me to promise, love?” Spike asked, his voice heavy with emotion. He so obviously loved her. I hadn’t realized until that moment that he needed her as much as she needed him.

“Promise me. . . that no matter how bad things get, you won’t disappear on me,” she murmured as if she thought of needing someone as being weak. Maybe that’s what others had told her. . . that’s what society often teaches us.

Spike inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. “Pet, I can promise you that I’ll never leave your side. . . no matter how long the fight takes. . . no matter how brutal it is. I’ll be at your side until I’m no longer living.”

“Will you?” she asked doubtfully. I wondered vaguely if she had been told those things before and then betrayed.

“Do you know me?” he asked firmly.

“Yes.”

“What do you think?” He paused and then continued, “Buffy, you know I love you. You know I’m not going anywhere.”

“Love is fickle,” she responded. “I need you to be here. . . not because you love me but because you’re willing to stand by me to the death.” Her tone is edged with slight bitterness.

Taking her by the shoulders and pushing her back from him, he asked with hurt and slight anger, “Do you think *my* love is fickle?”

Buffy was startled by his retort and back peddled quickly. “No. No, I don’t, Spike.” She surprised him by touching his cheek tenderly. “You love with your whole being.”

She surveyed his face with an expression that suggested something further might happen between them when suddenly, a loud crash rang out over the church.

Spike and Buffy were on their feet in an instant, and I imitated their movements, fighting the urge to hide under the pew. Despite my introduction to the world of fighting evil, I was still a coward at heart. . . at least, when faced with evil forces.

“Is there a ‘Spike’ in here?” a man announced in a booming voice from the doorway.

The owner of the question was of fairly small stature and wore a handsome suit. He was carrying a stake and was surrounded by approximately twenty demons who looked like they could definitely take down the slayer and her partner. . . if not the whole building.

We were in big, big trouble.

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