AUTHOR: 1stRabid/Rabid/Raeann
RATING: NC-17
COUPLE: Buffy/Spike
BETA BABES: Mary and Zyrya and Caia
SPOILERS: To S7 “Potential”& AtS S4 “Salvage”
WARNING: MAJOR CHARACTER
DEATH
Pain and suffering ahead, but don’t lose all hope…
SUMMARY: Well, there is this unstoppable hound and it has been called up to kill all the Slayers starting with Faith…and well…Buffy and Co. geared up for war…and won! Or did they? Things appear to be looking up…which, as you know, is always a bad sign in the Buffyverse.
DISCLAIMER: I have no rights. I’m a wild and impetuous rebel. Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Fox TV, UPN and the WB own everything but my fancy new Windows XP operating system. That belongs to Bill Gates.
PART TWELVE
As Buffy stared up the street after the departing Robin Wood, a mischievous breeze twitched at her toga. Other than the wind stirring her sheet and hair, she stood as motionless as the Venus de Milo until long after Wood vanished around a distant curve in the road. She felt drained. What a morning. What a night. Really, what an amazing night. Her toes were still tingling.
A tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth as the memories teased a little of the tension from her body. Nothing seemed as bad as it would have twenty-four hours ago. Judging by their recent reaction, her extended family put her reunion with Spike on the same level as a featured appearance in a Girls Gone Wild video but Buffy didn’t care. Her sister hated her and the netherworld was still trying to kick her ass but at least Spike had her back. A Slayer couldn’t wish for a better life-partner.
Someone scuffed up behind her. Or more precisely, a couple of someones, on repentant feet. Buffy didn’t bother looking over her shoulder. Her supernatural senses told her everything she needed to know to identify the pair. There was no predatory tingle down her spine. That ruled out Spike and Faith. One tread was dragging heavy, a man then, not a Potential. It had to be Giles or Xander. Giles would reek of old library. Scuffer One smelled of sawdust and Polo cologne, making it Xander by default. Scuffer Two had light footsteps and was accompanied by a slight whiff of brimstone and patchouli.
‘
Given the company, it was probably the former. Xander and
Even as she thought on him, Mr. Klummer stepped out his front door. The sound of the door clicking closed caught Buffy’s attention. She glanced up just as Klummer’s always-critical gaze swept across his lawn to hers and was arrested by something. The burly man paused with one hand still on the knob and drew himself up sharply, going from nearly cylindrical to bowling pin shaped.
Surprised and slightly alarmed by the horror on his face
Buffy shot a quick look behind her, half-expecting, despite the report of her
Slayer senses, to see a monster looming.
Her yard was menace free. Most of
her houseguests were huddled on the porch.
‘Almost naked,’ her mind reported dutifully, ‘and there’s a breeze.’
Burning with embarrassment, Buffy grabbed the trailing end of her bed sheet and hastily tied it off again. Her quick move covered the expanse of bare thigh offending Mr. Klummer’s sensibilities. There was nothing she could do about the assembled Blankie Brigade behind her. If anything, Klummer’s scowl deepened. Aglow from her blush, Buffy resisted the urge to bolt for the house and mother hen everyone inside. Never let it be said that a balding man with a visible paunch had cowed the Slayer.
Though her fingers itched to snatch at her robe, Buffy did a slow pivot casually surveying her surroundings. She pretended to spot her neighbor and gave him a Bot-worthy flash of teeth. His renewed glower was a gut punch. Buffy took it without flinching and countered with a jaunty wave. “Morning neighbor,” she trilled in a carrying voice, while thinking, ‘Take that!’ Mr. Klummer huffed loudly and stomped to his Escalade. Buffy couldn’t help chuckling as she watched him lever his weight into the vehicle and then speed pugnaciously off.
“Your robe, Herr General,” Xander
said. Playing court retainer, he executed a sketchy bow as he indicated the
garment in
“Could you stop calling me that?” Buffy asked wearily.
“Yeah, sure Buff,” Xander agreed with mild surprise.
“We just thought...a gift of peace,”
Sighing, Buffy finallly turned toward her friends but her gaze slipped beyond them to the gathering of Giles, Faith and the remaining Potentials. They weren’t much of an army. More like a field of wildflowers, fragile and diverse. Most of her houseguests had spilled out onto the porch but Faith, as usual, stood apart from the group. Spike was a flash of pale skin in the greater darkness of the open doorway. The porch and oaks provided deep pools of shade but he had elected to stay inside the shelter of the foyer.
‘Probably afraid of being tossed into ashy oblivion,’ Buffy thought.
“Are we peaceful?” she asked softly. Holding out a hand for the robe, she peered questioningly at Xander.
“More or less,” Xander said with a dismissive little shrug.
“Is Dawnie okay?”
Okay wasn’t the right word in Buffy’s opinion. Her mouth twisted and her eyes flashed but
she didn’t comment. She wanted to yell
at
As if cognizant of her mood and the need to move cautiously,
Xander was studying her. Squinting one eye closed, he
cocked his head to the side like an artist assessing a model. His stance was comical but from his
expression what he saw didn’t please him.
Buffy busied herself with the robe, covering up her bone weary
frame. She’d been happy with her body
once. Now she was thinner than
She ate sparingly. Seldom slept. Never let her guard down. She’d been fighting alone for so long. She was no longer certain of the win. Things just kept coming at her, the Potentials, the First, and the End of the Council, the Hound and the Next Big Bad. There was no doubt in her mind something else was brewing. She could feel the power pooling beneath her.
It just never stopped. Working on the Sunnydale Hellmouth was like being the epicenter in a vortex of chaos. A Slayer couldn’t even get laid in this town without a fight breaking out in her bedroom. Buffy’s friends and family had given her an edge over other Slayers. But she’d lost that. Now, Spike was her edge. He let her rest. That had been one of the good things about last year’s affair; she’d been able to stop being the Slayer for a few hours. She and Spike had worked the brawling into the foreplay, killing two birds so to speak.
“'Okay’ not the word I would use,” Xander said, breaking into Buffy’s recollections and causing her to do a double take. “The childish ranting. The sense of entitlement. Teenagers! Remember how I used to be all demanding and unreasonable like that?”
“Let me think back,”
“We can set it aside now," Xander
said, making a face at
“Yep, you’re the maturest,” Buffy agreed.
“Spike and I have settled our differences with manly scrapping,” Xander said. He gingerly touched a finger to his injured nose, drawing Buffy’s attention to the crusted blood and minor swelling. “We have agreed to divide you equally. Philistine that he is, Spike has staked a claim on your body and heart but I expect you will continue to partner me in Five-Card Jimminy and the occasional game of…”
“He hit you!" Buffy interrupted. Alarmed, she twisted around so she could peer at his injury. As she reached up to touch his face, Xander sidled away. Buffy closed the distance between them with almost maternal haste. "I can't believe he would just…"
“They were both being men,”
“That’s a harsh judgment,” Xander said, bobbing and weaving to avoid Buffy’s examination. “Spike was…making a…point,” he panted. “…about how he wasn’t in pain. Oww!” Buffy had seized his elbow, restraining him for the time it took to gently prod his nose.
“It’s not broken.”
“Ow…thanz…tha’s a comford.”
Releasing her grip on his arm and turning her shoulder to
the house, she motioned
“Apparently, you aren’t Spike’s only special friend,”
Buffy digested this news but could make nothing of it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There’s no chip pain anymore…or there wasn’t ever. He can hit anyone,”
Assured he hadn’t started bleeding again, Xander returned to the conversation and tentatively broached Spike’s theory. “He thinks the whole chip thing was a hoax.”
“A hoax?”
“Psychosomatic. All in his head, to quote that seer of the soulless, Drusilla.”
“Drusilla?”
“She of the creamy skin and Rocky Horror bustier,”
“I know who she is,” Buffy growled, shooting another fleeting look toward the house. “Is she back? Did you see her? Don’t tell me you saw her.”
“No, this is hearsay. According to Spike, last time she dropped by she pointed out the chip hoax."
"Two years ago,"
“Two years?” Buffy squeaked. She gave her head a sharp shake as if she doubted her hearing.
"To be fair, consider the source. Spike thought she was raving mad. But then he started to wonder when….” Xander paused to exchange a telling glance with
“You know,”
“I get the picture! What I don’t get is if there’s no chip, if there never was a chip, what made Spike think there was one?”
“He was in pain,”
“Genuine imaginary pain.”
Buffy shook her head sharply. “No, that’s impossible. The chip is there, in his head.”
“Yeah, but who says it stops him from hurting people?” Xander asked and then answered his own query, “Spike says. That’s who.”
Buffy couldn’t get beyond the implications. Vampires didn’t just stop killing people. And yet, for all intents and purposes, the chip hadn’t existed for her last year. Spike could have killed her at any time during their affair. She’d even let him handcuff her. Lord knows she’d given him every reason to hate her. She’d beaten him down. Taunted and humiliated him. He’d had the motive and the opportunity. She’d fallen asleep in his crypt, curled up beside him under stolen blankets. The first time, it was almost like embracing the grave. She’d wanted to die.
Later, she had trusted him. As she’d told Dawn and Giles earlier, Spike had been trustworthy for two years at least. It was an integral part of his character. But this revelation was too much to grasp. It went far beyond her personal safety. This was about her duty as the Slayer. It meant Spike was, had always been, a danger to the population of Sunnydale.
“He could have killed anytime?” Buffy said, weighing the idea in her mind.
“You, me or other people,”
“But something stopped him.”
“True love?” Buffy didn’t sound convinced.
“It makes the world go ‘round. It convinced Miracle Max to whip up that Miracle Pill. ”
“Xander!” Buffy puffed out his name in exasperation. Whatever game he was playing, she didn’t want to play along.
Her head ached and she needed pancakes. She needed Spike. She needed to feel, safe. She looked at
“You know the chip works, Will,” Buffy said. “You’re the one who told me about it. Now you think Spike was just pretending to be in pain?”
“Not pretending,”
“He loved me.”
“And when did that start?” Xander asked. “Let’s say we accept the love thing. Vampire’s can love…or Spike can at any rate. When did it start? Post soul? No! Before you died? Apparently! Maybe just maybe Spike came back to Sunnydale because he loved you.”
“More than he loved Drusilla,”
“No, you are," Buffy said, smiling for the first time. “Spike is a good man…now. I’m glad you’re both starting to notice.”
"And you might notice how I'm not arguing with you?" Xander put in.
"He loves me! But things have changed. When he got that chip he hated me. He tried to kill me as soon as he thought it was out. He wanted nothing more than to see me dead.”
“That’s your story. Spike tells a different tale.”
“I just bet he does,” Buffy said, nearly smiling again. She knew Spike could be persuasive but she wondered what he could have said to sway her friends to his cause.
“My words have a way,” Xander countered, brushing off the need for alternative narration. “Summing up: Spike thinks he loved you at first sight.”
“Bam, just like that?” Buffy didn’t sound like she believed it. “And it short-circuited his evilness?”
“Right! But not so he noticed. Because he wasn’t about to admit it. So he kept finding reasons to hang around…”
“I mean, please,”
“Right! He kidnaps
“Maybe he’s just incompetent,” Buffy remarked offhandedly as if daring them to agree.
“Sure, maybe those other two Slayers he killed were the
Bumble Sisters,”
“There ya’ go,” Xander said, nodding. “Angelus, king of the damned is warning you to look out for this guy. But hey, maybe he was just kidding.” Xander pointed a finger at Buffy. “Face it, Spike never tried, really tried, to kill you.”
“Well…you look like Xander Harris,” Buffy said, more stunned than pleased by this sudden about-face. “But your mouth is forming un-Xander-like words. Did Spike hit you too hard? Or has the First got you under some kind of mind control?” Lowering her voice she leaned conspiratorially close to whisper, “Do you see dead people?”
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t be careful…”
“Yes, you are,” Buffy said. “That’s exactly what you’re saying.”
“But…Fine, you’re not going to make this easy are you?”
Buffy shook her head, her hair flipping and bouncing. “New, open-minded Xander is wondrously strange…like Cirque du Soliel. I must see more.”
“Fine,” Xander said patiently. “I can see how, if the chip never worked, it might explain a few things as yet unexplained.”
“Such as?”
“Why you never thought: Spike is a vampire! Vampires are evil! Maybe he’s planning my demise!”
“I didn’t…I….” Buffy threw both hands wide, at a loss for rationalization. “I knew he wouldn’t hurt me.”
“And yet,” Xander said, “He did.”
A counterweight thumped down in Buffy’s stomach, anchoring the hot air balloon of her good mood. And there it was the other shoe. They were using reverse psychology. Her eyes narrowed and she inhaled sharply, dragging air over her teeth as she went on the offensive.
“You keep playing that card, Xander. And you know what? You don’t know what happened. You walked in after our worst fight and started jumping to crazy conclusions. It wasn’t rape. Animals don’t rape people. Demons don’t either. You won’t let Spike be a man, even with a soul, but you hold him to this impossible standard.” But it wasn’t that simple. She’d used the standard, too. Remembered pain cramped in her stomach and she struggled to explain her conflicted feelings without exposing them. “I was crying because I was hurt. Because I didn’t want to see him as a monster. I didn’t want to see myself in what I did to him…with him…but…”
“Me neither,” Xander said. His voice carried the weight of his dilemma. “But I could only look away from it for so long. Because you were my friend and I loved you. And you kept letting him get away with things. And then suddenly you were sleeping with him? What was that? A thrill? You aren’t that kind of girl, Buff.”
“Maybe I am,” Buffy suggested. “Maybe I like the monster. I’m not a hero, Xander. You put me up on that pedestal but I’m just a woman with limited choices.” The twinge of guilt made her blink.
“I’d rather believe better of him than less of you,” Xander said gently. “And now I have a good reason.” Buffy swallowed down her retort and waited for him to continue. He paused, gathering his thoughts and then said, “With Angel, you didn’t know what he was. You fell in love. I can understand that. But Spike? You knew what he was. He was evil, straight up, no excuses.”
“Okay,” Buffy said, cautiously encouraging.
“But you teamed up with him anyway. Invited him into your house. Let him have Drusilla and drive off into the sunset. That didn’t make a lot of sense to me.”
“And then back he came,”
“He wanted the ring of Armada,” Buffy explained. She frowned, mulling over the name and wondering why it sounded wrong.
“He wanted a love spell,”
“To kill me,” Buffy reminded her.
“Only he couldn’t,” Xander finished, “Because of that pesky chip in his head. Drat the luck! And, of course you couldn’t kill him because he was so harmless.”
“In that completely deadly sort of way,”
Buffy shook her head. "Look, I didn't love Spike when he was first chipped. I loathed him. I love him now. I am totally onboard with the crazy passion. But four years ago?”
“You don’t want to call it love. I’m happy to oblige,” Xander said. “We can call it obsession or fixation or devotion.”
“Or fate,”
“I just think it’s time to stop denying something so obvious,” Xander said.
“Which is a good?” Buffy asked, somewhat warily.
“I am no longer humming tunelessly with fingers in both ears. Something brought you and Spike together and kept you from killing each other lo’ these many years. And it wasn’t the chip, because the chip doesn’t work. Witness my nose throbbing with sincerity.” He indicated his swollen face with a fan of his fingers.
"We're together,” Buffy concluded. She looked from
“Remember how okay you were with me and Tara? I’m like that…only with less twitching.”
"I reserve the right to twitch,” Xander said, extending his arms for an embrace.
Buffy broke into a grin as her two best friends bracketed
her in a sandwich hug. Looking over
their shoulders toward the house, she noticed Giles coming down the steps. His body language was reserved but he was
smiling tentatively. The first rays of
early morning sun caused the grey at his temples to glitter silver. Buffy relaxed. Everything was going to be fine. She watched the Potentials close behind Giles
like the
Everyone had gathered on the porch. Even Spike had come out of hiding. He was lounging against the doorframe, just short of a spatter of sunlight. He was sipping something from her ‘I’ve killed for chocolate’ mug. Buffy caught his eye and he saluted her with a raise of his cup. All seemed right with the world and yet, something nagged at the back of Buffy’s mind. It took her a moment to process the scene. Someone was missing.
She pulled away from her friends and called toward the porch, “Where’s Andrew?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few blocks away, Andrew stumbled to a halt and doubled over, clutching the stitch in his side. His bare feet braced wide. He’d left the Summers’ house in a hurry, clad only in orange pajama bottoms and a faded green t-shirt. He couldn’t run another step. His breath came in short, soundless gasps as he sagged against the wall where Dawn had perched a minute or two earlier. She hadn’t even glanced his way before getting into the car. Andrew’s throat burned from the strain of his run and from trying to yell Dawn’s name.
He was too late to save her. Feeling forlorn and helpless, he watched Wood’s black Buick speed away. His hammering heart beat the truth home. He wasn’t a hero; he was comic relief, a joke. He could have told Spike or Buffy or even one of the Potentials about the danger. Why had he rushed out alone?
“They would never have listened to you!” The faux Jonathan answered Andrew’s unspoken question. Andrew turned to watch him coalesce into being a few paces away. “To quote Princess Leia, et al: ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’” Jonathan said.
Andrew glared his dead friend and mouthed, “Frell off!”
The Faux Jonathan mimicked him and then snickered. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe Hound?” The pale witticism seemed to delight the First. It repeated it a few times before focusing on Andrew again. “Hey, maybe your voice would come back if you used a really naughty word. Try something manly. Come on. Repeat after me,” he leaned close and spoke with exaggerated enunciation. “Fuck! Off!”
Andrew blushed at the vulgarity, turning his head to avoid the image. The faux Jonathan was a painful reminder of his sins. He’d killed his best friend for the First. Now his newest friend was about to die at the hands of another agent of evil. The irony left a bitter aftertaste. Andrew knew it was immensely fair but the realization did nothing to diminish his sorrow.
A flash of chrome caught his eye and he focused in on it. In the yard of a house across the street, a rotating sprinkler head was watering a small pink bicycle. It was the sort of bike favored by ‘tween-aged girls. It had sparkles and fringe and a banana-style seat. There was a pink pony painted on the frame and duplicated on both fenders. The bike’s owner had carelessly dropped the flashy ride on her way into the house for dinner. She’d abandoned it to the elements.
Andrew’s heart swelled, seizing on a possibility. He imagined the painted pony was a fiery steed and the small pink bike was a Harley. His mind’s eye conjured up a suit of fanciful armor. It would be light and shiny and impervious to fire. Emboldened by the daydream, Andrew clanked across the street. Snatching up the bike, he started wheeling it toward the curb.
A dog barked, close and loud. Reality intruded for a second and Andrew tensed for shouts as paused in the driveway to mount the girl’s bike. But the dog returned to other business and the morning returned to expectant stillness. The house behind Andrew was silent. He heaved a leg over the seat and pushed off. Pedaling furiously down the center of Milkweed Terrace, he continued his pursuit of Robin Wood’s car.
Certain the Buick was heading for the High School Andrew set his course for Ellis Park. He could take the short-cut and make up time. As he turned off the main road, he noticed the tulips blooming in neat beds. He aimed the bike between the rows. The white fringe hanging from his handlebars, tickled his fingers as he hopped over curb and skidded through the flowers. Finding the paved path, he skirted a lone dog-walker. The portly woman shrieked daintily and her bull terrier yapped as he swept past. The woman saw a gangly boy in pajamas. His knees stuck out to either side as he pedaled.
It was a lovely morning for a canter in the park. The day was brisk and bright. Andrew’s imaginary armor sparkled. He gave his steed his head and the horse surged forward. Trees formed a leafy canopy, creating pools of shadow and splashes of light. Andrew had to squint against the strobe effect to see clearly. When the trail curved sharply, the graveyard loomed to the west. The view was blocked by a hedge but the wingtips of tall angels and the stone roofs of mausoleums made the cemetery easy to recognize. The sting of regret touched Andrew’s heart, pulling him out of fantasy. He remembered helping dump Katrina’s body in a ravine just beyond the trail. She was heavy in death and she weighed on him still.
He raised one hand to swipe at the film of tears clouding his view but before he could clear his vision, a huge hound with gaping red jaws popped into being ahead of him. Andrew’s mind refused to process the whole beast. He saw it only in pieces, sharp teeth, hunched hindquarters and a baleful eye. The creature sprang. Andrew opened his mouth on a silent scream. He braked and swerved, grabbing at his wobbling handlebars but his correction came too late. Overbalanced, the bike tipped, back tire sliding sideways. It was all over in a matter of seconds. Momentum carried Andrew to the slathering maw of Ichnobate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Am I the wanker’s keeper?” Spike asked when Buffy, entering the house under a full head of steam, confronted him about their prisoner cum ally.
“You didn’t think to stop him?”
“How was I to know he wasn’t free to come and go?” Spike countered angrily. “Seemed like the ruddy family pet to me.”
“How long has he been gone?”
Buffy’s tense expression caused Spike to soften. “Near as I can remember?” He pointed toward the kitchen. “I’d say twenty minutes tops. I poured a cuppa breakfast and started it brewing in the microwave. The twonk rushed in before the bell dinged. Seemed a bit agitated but then he always looks frantic. He clomped down to the basement and after some banging about he comes up again and legs it out the door.”
“Still wearing his Tigger jammies?”
“Yeah,” Spike admitted. “And he was barefoot. So he couldn’t have gotten far.”
“Why would he rush off at all? Unless the First…” Buffy left the sentence unfinished.
Looking distracted, she hurried through to the kitchen. Spike, Xander and Giles exchanged glances and then, of one accord, followed after her. Faith watched them go. She seemed of two minds for a moment but finally shrugged off her curiosity and shuffled over to flop onto the couch. A pile of magazines at the opposite end of the sofa skittered to the floor and Faith made a visible show of making no effort to stop them. Her boot heels thumped as she propped her feet up on the coffee table. After locating the remote, she thumbed on the television and settled down to watch Nickelodeon.
As primary color cartoons bloomed on the screen,
Feeling less than heroic,
Turning to the nearest cluster of Potentials,
Rona nodded. “And start breakfast.”
There was a murmur of hungry agreement. Breaking into groups of two or three, the girls headed for their respective rooms. Faith turned up the volume to drown out the sound of galloping girls and the sudden increase in Potential chatter.
“Is it going down soon, miss?” Molly asked as she and Willow mounted the stairs. “Is that what you were talking ‘bout with the Slayer outside? Mr. Giles said we should let you have a mo’.”
“It is definitely going down,”
In the kitchen, Xander was reasoning with Buffy. “So he’s missing? What does it matter? Maybe he went after Dawn. Maybe he remembered a Comic Con somewhere. We are talking about Andrew. He’s harmless.”
“There’s that word again,” Buffy said. She opened the kitchen door. There was no sign of Andrew on the small stoop or in the yard beyond it. Leaves on the oak trees swayed in the morning breeze. Without turning around, Buffy addressed Spike over her shoulder. “Can you track him?”
“If it wasn’t daylight, you mean?”
“Right,” Buffy sighed. She was losing her edge. She leaned her forehead against the jamb for a second before stepping back inside and closing the door. “Try it tonight. For now we need a plan. We are down one agent of the First. Everyone else accounted for?”
“Did a tally while you were taking the air,” Spike said. “All present.”
“Good! The last thing we need is to lose people.”
“I think we should divide the group,” Giles suggested. He held up a hand, forestalling Buffy’s comment. “I know you don’t favor that. But if we move half of our force to the warehouse, keep the others here…”
“Some of us might survive,” Buffy finished. She gave a quick nod. “Time to rebasket our eggs.” Slipping into her commander role, she shouted to Faith.
“What?” Faith yelled back.
Buffy groaned as Spike chuckled appreciatively. “So not funny,” Buffy muttered in an aside, narrowing her eyes at him. Raising her voice, she spelled out her wishes. “Come! Here!”
There was a flurry of what sounded like cursing from the living room. Booted feet hit the floor with a thud. The television blared and then the cheerful cartoon music was abruptly silenced. After a bit more grumbling and a spate of stomping, Faith slouched into the room, cigarette smoldering in one hand.
“Who died and made you Warden?” she asked.
Tilting her head back, Buffy seemed to search her memory. After a second or so she snapped prompting fingers at her mentor. “What was her name, again, Giles? Cindy? Mandy?”
“
“I wasn’t joking,” Buffy said solemnly. “I was making a point.” She leveled a steady stare at Faith as she laid it out. “She died and I was called. I died and you were called. You die and…” She left the sentence dangling in the air.
Giles raised a point-of-order finger. “Actually, Kendra…”
“Summing up,” Buffy snarled, never taking her eyes off Faith.
Faith squirmed self-consciously. She hated being part of the big picture, another link in an unbroken chain. Slayers didn’t have sisters. There was only one. She fought and died alone. And that arrangement was fine by Faith. The mere hint of family or personal connections made her decidedly nervous. Desperate to avoid meeting Buffy’s eye, her darting gaze went to the cheerful curtains over the sink. They mocked her with their homey tea kettle pattern. She didn’t want to feel at home in this house. Scowling, she took a long drag on her smoke.
“Yeah, I get it,” she drawled at last. “I buy it and one of the Brady girls is having a very special episode. So we fight.” After drawing in a lungful of blue smoke, she added, “But I don’t take orders and I ain’t that easy to kill.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Buffy said with a smile. “I need you to lead a group of Slayerettes.”
That got Faith’s attention. “You want me to lead them?”
“You heard me,” Buffy said.
She reached past Spike to snag a saucer from the dish-drainer by the
sink. Sliding the makeshift ashtray across the kitchen island toward Faith, who
caught it reflexively, she continued, “You take
“I’m thinking we need firepower,” Spike said.
“They’ll have
“I believe I could manage something in a pinch,” Giles said with dry modesty.
“I meant weapons, pet,” Spike said, gently. “Machine guns, flamethrowers…bloody napalm.”
Taken off guard, Buffy blinked at the notion but Faith bit down on the filter of her smoke and leaned across the counter to slap Spike on the shoulder. “Fucking A-men,” she said around the cigarette before taking it out of her mouth. “Pucker-head’s got a point, B. That dog went down under my Hummer and squished. I say we blast the next big ugly to show snout.”
Buffy met Giles’ eye. “It’s worth a try,” he said. “Even the Turak-Han should burn.”
“Molotov cocktails for everyone?” Xander suggested.
“I’m thinking military surplus,” Buffy said. “Can you get me some serious weaponry? Cannon? A fighter jet maybe?”
“I don’t know, Buff. They closed the Base last year and I’m betting they packed up all the MIGs and took them with. I could lay my hands on some explosives though, construction grade.” He glanced at the clock in the microwave. “And speaking of, I’m late. Better call in.” He went to the phone and started dialing.
“I know a demon who knows an arms dealer,” Spike offered. “Oh, and there’s a bazooka in the basement. But no ammo.” The others stared at him and he puffed out an impatient snort. “What? I was chained up. Not likely to make it out of here in my skin. Had to consider my options.” He ticked ideas off on his fingers. “Wholesale slaughter…sweet talk…begging…something else I could do on my knees while shackled to the…”
“Hey!” Buffy said, shoving him playfully toward the basement door to cut short his remarks. “Just fetch the bazooka, options boy. I keep the spare ammo in the hall closet.”
Happy to have her hands on him, even in sport, Spike resisted Buffy’s push, leaning into her. They tussled back and forth in a dominance game of the sort played by young predators: bite, wrestle, and roll end over end until one of you has the top spot. Buffy wanted to be pinned. She made eye contact and Spike felt the air ignite between them as her glance triggered a mutual flashback to the previous night. Spike’s hands strayed. Seeking skin, he cupped the nape of Buffy’s neck and caught her wrist. The tip of his tongue flashed pink behind his smile.
“You two want some private time?” Faith asked. “We could just go watch Yu-gi-oh ‘til you finish up in here.”
Her knowing chuckle reminded Buffy of the proprieties. She pulled away from the scuffle. Spike darted a chagrined look at the others before ducking his head, shyly. Without looking up, he scooted around the group and a second later had disappeared down the basement stairs.
“Dear Lord, please tell me he wasn’t blushing,” Giles exclaimed, not believing the evidence of his eyes.
“Vampires can’t blush,” Xander, cradling the receiver with his shoulder, said matter-of-factly.
Just as Buffy muttered, “He just ate. It was a reflex.”
“I mean it Buffy,” Giles continued. “I can take quite a lot but I really don’t think I can stomach the two of you flirting like…like high school sweethearts.”
“There was no high school in that flirting, Giles,” Buffy retorted. “That was mature audience only.”
“Yes! I see. So we are all doomed?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
‘Doomed,’ Andrew thought as the bike started to slide.
There was no time for regrets or sober reflection. He let go of the handlebars and crossed his arms over his head. Tucking his chin and drawing up his feet, he let his body find a fetal position. The cinder strewn path rushed at him. He hit and started tumbling ass over ears. The rough paving bit into his skin, shredding his pajamas as he somersaulted. His exposed flesh was grated raw. Andrew steeled his nerves for the bite of the Hound. It would eclipse all lesser pain.
Free of any guidance, the bicycle flipped end over end. It fractured one of Andrew’s ribs when it collided with him. Every breath became an agony. What did it matter? He was going to die, alone and unlamented.
It was a beautiful, heroic moment, except for the ungainly tumbling. Andrew tried to appreciate the poetry of his death. But found he was too disoriented. He kept rolling, despite the pain and the indignity. Massive jaws failed to snap shut, stretching his bones and pulling him through space/time like a needle pulling thread. Instead, a mound of leaves, moldering and damp, broke his forward motion. He skidded and uncurled and flailed, making leaf angels as he struggled to sit up. Head swiveling, he searched for any sign of Ichnobate.
The Hound was gone. It had, he realized then, never existed. But even as he got the joke, the leaves shifted. The ground dropped away under him and he slid backward, down the slope of a sharp incline to the exact spot where he and Jonathan had placed Katrina’s body. Andrew recognized the trees and the angle of the descent. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know where he was. The place was tainted with his sin and subtle vibrations spoke to his conscience.
The events of that horrible night came rushing back.
“God, when will you grow up?” he’d snapped.
‘Now,’ Andrew thought and opened his eyes.
Katrina was waiting for him, poised on a mossy rock, the picture of condemnation.
“Gotcha,” she said.
Andrew didn’t respond. He had no voice and his stomach felt funny. Besides, there was no point. Katrina was dead. Jonathan and Warren were dead, too. All that mattered now was Dawn. He had to find her. Warn her. He flopped onto his belly and took a few shallow breaths before pressing up to his hands and knees. The two halves of his rib grated together as the glade did a slow flip before his watering eyes. Digging his fingers in, Andrew held onto the earth, hoping it would stabilize.
When it didn’t, he started to crawl, sliding one knee forward an inch and then stepping the opposite hand. The backs of his hands were bloody. Confused, he stared down at them. There shouldn’t be blood. Katrina’s neck was broken. Maybe it was Jonathan’s blood. That made sense to his wandering mind: Jonathan’s blood was on his hands. Another red bead dropped past his eyes and splashed onto his fingers. Only then did Andrew remember striking his head. He was hurt, cut near his hairline. He couldn’t spare a hand to check but if he concentrated he could sense the wound. A jagged slash, it would leave a manly scar…a tribute to his heroism. All he had to do was live.
It seemed unlikely he would.
At first the injury worried him. He knew vertigo and nausea could mean a concussion and blood always made him feel queasy. But after an hour or two he grew numb and the worry passed. He forgot all about the crack to his skull and recalled only his mission. The blood stopped dripping. Streaks of it congealed on his hands. On his fingers, dirt and debris mixed with the sticky residue, obscuring it. Andrew felt better about blood when he couldn’t see it.
Since climbing out of the ravine was impossible, Andrew made his slow way along the bottom of the gully. The rough ground, broken by knotted roots and stones, was hard to traverse. His forward progress consisted of stumbling and falling. He couldn’t seem to stay on his feet. Finally, he braced against tree trunks and lurched from tree to tree, wobbling like a novice boarder gleaming the cube.
The air was full of sparks. Sometimes angry people or fierce animals appeared. They taunted and roared but Andrew ignored them. He saved his energy for the journey. Each time he fell, it was harder to get up again. But somehow, each time, he managed to stand and once on his feet, he always took a few faltering steps before crashing to the ground. In this way, he reached the edge of the High School soccer field. The vast expanse of green grass defeated him. Lacking the crutch of a tree, he was forced to crawl on his lacerated hands and knees. He kept moving forward but his progress slowed and finally came to an end.
The junior groundskeeper found Andrew’s sprawling body at the edge of the parking lot tarmac. He was mildly surprised to locate a pulse, when he seized on an arm to roll the body over. After a moment's consideration, he levered Andrew into a wagon loaded with rakes and hoes. The boy stirred and mouthed something. Leaning close to catch the words, the groundskeeper heard a faint, breathy whisper.
“Help her...Dawn,” Andrew pleaded before oblivion spiraled up to take him.
Unfortunately, Humberto Javier Gonzales, Sunnydale High School's junior groundskeeper wasn't bilingual.
END THIS PART