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