AUTHOR: Rabid/Raeann
RATING: NC-17 overall, this part R
PAIRING: B/S, S/Wes, B/T friendship
SPOILERS: To As You Were, S6 and Angel S3 - Couplet
BETA BABES: Mary, Zyrya and
Caia
SUMMARY: Spike is a woman and pregnant and he (or she
depending on your P.O.V.) left Sunnydale vowing never
to return. Riley you may remember did a
similar thing…but oddly enough is back. Even though nobody really wants him around anymore. Buffy, who in a fit of masculinity fathered
Spike’s child, is trying to locate Spike with
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Does
DISCLAIMERS: So Buffy came to me (in a dream) and she was really upset about being half-baked. I told her not to worry. It wasn’t her fault. She was a victim of circumstance. The circumstance being I have nothing to say about how she is written on the show because I don’t own any of the BtVS characters. They belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Fox TV, the WB and UPN. So what I am saying is Buffy is like Jessica Rabbit (with tiny boobs and no slinky dress) she’s not bad she’s just drawn that way.
PART FIVE
As soon as Wesley’s even breathing indicated he had entered deep sleep, Spike eased out of his arms and slithered off the side of the bed. He tried to touch down lightly but misjudged the distance. His feet hit the floor with a bump and he crouched, peering over the edge of the mattress, waiting for a reaction. Wes stirred but didn’t wake. Muttering a half-intelligible endearment, he hugged Spike’s abandoned pillow, snuggling it close. Spike’s mouth twitched into an indulgent grin and he patted the nearest bulge of bedding with light affection.
“There now, ducks,” he murmured. “You had a big night. You just rest while I take a gander at your research on death and reproduction.”
Wes snored softly in reply. Spike stood and stretched, rotating his shoulders before padding toward the bedroom door. His soft tread made no sound on the thick carpet. He moved like a ghost, pale and ethereal in the darkness. There was no need for him to turn on a light; the street illumination beyond the kitchen windows was enough to guide his step.
Pausing with a hand on the door frame he looked back at the slumbering Wes. The young Watcher made an attractive picture. Asleep, he looked like an Athenian catamite, too young, all nose and forehead and curls. His was the sort of beauty that had tempted ancient poets. The thin sheet draped across his belly only partially veiled his nakedness. His dark hair was a riot of chocolate against the cream of pillowcases. His mouth had a dewy appeal. Spike considered returning to the bed to sample those full lips, slightly parted as if in welcome.
‘If only I was the man I used to be, pet,’ Spike thought. ‘I could show you a really good time.’
He glanced down at his new body. The perky thrust of his breasts seemed to mock him. He was a long way from the man he used to be. ‘No more good times for you,’ the puckered pink seemed to say. ‘No more Buffy!’
‘I can fuck,’ Spike countered mentally. ‘I can! It was just a little morning sickness.’
‘What? At two days? That’s a record, that is!’
‘Look, it takes a bit of adjustment is all. Not used to being female am I? Tomorrow night, sweet Wes and I are going to go at it hammer and tongs until…’ A quick image of the event entered his mind. He choked off the thought as his stomach gave a warning rumble. He stared down at his chest for a moment in open-mouthed dismay.
“And now I’m arguing with me peaks,” he said in hushed self-loathing.
Aware of the absurdity of continuing the inner dialogue, Spike resolutely flipped the switch in his head back to ‘all business’. He returned to the bed with a long stride. Careless of the noise, he snatched Wesley’s discarded blue flannel shirt from the post of the footboard. The heavy cloth cracked in the air. Plastic buttons rattled against wood, loud in the early morning stillness, but the rhythm of Wesley’s breathing didn’t falter. Spike stalked out of the room, shrugging into his borrowed garment as he went. The flannel was musky with Wes’ scent. Spike shoved the thought of the man away as his fingers weaved buttons into holes, closing the shirtfront and putting an end to the conversation with his mammary glands.
He didn’t have time to bicker with breasts. He had research to do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A helicopter with a sagging belly and blunt nose roared overhead. Buffy leaned out the window, craning her neck to follow the dark shape of the craft as it moved through the night sky. Her jaw muscles jerked. The chopper was going to arrive at the cemetery a minute or two ahead of her earthbound vehicle. The Slayer took a deep breath and tried to relax. She blunted the edge on her nerves by drumming both hands on the dashboard.
“Almost there,”
Making the turn from the paved road,
“Sure looks like they’re being all they can be,” Buffy said.
She was well on the way to outrage at the high-handed way Riley and company had returned. Sunnydale was her town. Spike was her problem. Whatever he’d done. Surely this was about Spike and not Clem. Clem was mostly harmless. But if they weren’t after Clem why use firepower? Even the Army wasn’t stupid enough to try shooting a vampire. It didn’t make sense.
A twitchy feeling had taken up residence in the pit of Buffy’s stomach. She tried to ignore it as she scanned faces, looking for her ex. The sedan’s headlights and the helicopter’s search beam created a strobe effect, temporarily illuminating individuals. With any luck, Riley would be able to explain what the hell was going on.
It crossed her mind that the Initiative had learned of Spike’s chip malfunction and mobilized to recapture him. It made more sense than heavy artillery being brought in to subdue Clem. Buffy couldn’t imagine what Spike’s floppy-eared friend could have done to provoke such a response. Did he eat Colin Powell’s poodle?
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, soldier,” Riley called lightly.
Buffy turned toward the sound of his voice and saw him sauntering down the slight incline from the command center. He was, if anything, more attractive than ever. But for the first time she didn’t feel the slightest stir in her groin at the sight of him. She was far too worried.
“What the hell is going on?” she barked, pushing past Button-nose even as he saluted and
sir-yes-sirred Riley.
“And it’s good to see you again, too,” Riley said, flashing his bright, boyish smile.
He was as tall and broad and farmhand fresh as Buffy
remembered. But a ragged scar cut across
his face, coming close to giving him character.
It spoke of rough living in the jungles of
He looked good. Buffy acknowledged it. And, when he was close enough to spit at, she picked up the signature scent of his Polo cologne. It took her back to the last time they’d made love. The last night they were a couple. They’d stretched out on her small bed. Riley took the lead and the top, of course. He wasn’t Captain Adventure in bed and the sex had been pedestrian, over almost before she’d started. But Buffy still remembered it fondly. It had marked the end of her innocence. Spike had opened her eyes to Riley’s failings later that same night and then he’d gone on to open her eyes to so much more.
Now, she could no more imagine returning to Riley’s bed than she could see going back to carting Mr. Gordo around with her all day, as she’d done until she was six. But the memory of his sweet attempts at satisfying her was enough to moderate Buffy’s temper. When she spoke again it was with more consideration.
“Sorry…yes!” She smiled tightly. “Good to see you, too. Alive and strapping and all.” Her gaze swept the cemetery as she added, “Not so happy to see your friends. I thought the Initiative had given up on Sunnydale.”
“We have,” Riley nodded. “Or they have. This is strictly an Army operation. And, I promise you, a one time deal.” Without offering any further explanation, he took her elbow and started guiding her along the road.
Buffy glanced back at
“I-i-I ha-hate ga-g-guns,” she whispered.
After grimacing in sympathy, Buffy tried for a reassuring
smile. She missed by a mile but
‘I shall fear no evil,’
“Masterson,” Riley shouted, making her jump. He seemed to be addressing a huddle of skinheads in fatigues. “Where’s Sam?”
One of the soldiers glanced up briefly from his field radio. He pointed to the far side of the nearest circle of heavy vehicles. Riley veered in the indicated direction. Buffy tilted forward to peek around his massive shoulders. There was no sign of a ‘Sam’, but a dark-haired, Amazon was bent over the Hummer’s hood. She was wrestling with the wind for possession of a large sheaf of paper.
She wasn’t an ugly woman but she was as utilitarian as her uniform. Her brunette locks were clubbed back in a severe bun. Her makeup was simple and the angle of their approach put her childbearing hips on prominent display. ‘Obviously descended from good peasant stock,’ Buffy thought. In short, Sam, if this was her, was the kind of woman who would spend her youth fighting men on their own terms and her midlife fighting a mustache on hers. Even at distance, Buffy recognized the map she was examining.
“Sewers,” the Slayer hissed in an aside to
“If we’re lucky,” Riley replied, overhearing. “We can’t risk it getting into the population.”
His comment drew the attention of the matronly soldier. She glanced up and broke into a grin. It was a nice look for her, Buffy conceded. She thought Sam might pass as attractive, despite being slightly cross-eyed. Her face had a bovine sweetness at odds with the techno-weaponry and combat togs she sported on her generous frame. She seemed like the sort who would genuinely enjoy taking the missionary position. Buffy pegged her as Riley’s type even before he leaned in to kiss her cheek.
“Sam,” Riley said, stepping back from the embrace, “Allow me to introduce Buffy Summers.”
“The Slayer!” Sam exclaimed in delight. She shouldered past Riley to grasp Buffy’s hand and pump it vigorously. “This is such an honor.”
“You know about me?” a flummoxed Buffy asked. Her eyes sought Riley’s with the question.
“Every little thing,” Riley acknowledged with a wide grin. “Buffy? This is Samantha Finn, my wife. She’s heard a few stories about you.”
“I am such a fan,” Sam gushed.
Buffy looked down at her hand. It was still in the Amazon’s possession. Slowly, the Slayer let her gaze drift up to Riley’s face. She lifted one brow in inquiry. She didn’t want to appear catty. But it was a bit daunting to the self-esteem when an ex-boyfriend married so soon after the dumpage and it was unheard of for the wife to be a ‘fan.’ Buffy gently extricated her hand from the continuing embrace and decided to take the blow to her ego in stride. There were other issues on the table. An Army bivouacked in her backyard, for example.
It was Tara who expressed shock.
“W-w-wife?” she stuttered, nowhere near as sanguine over the news of Riley’s marriage. “B-but it’s only b-b-been…”
“Four months,” Riley inserted, misreading
“It was love at first sight,” Sam sighed. She had turned back to the sewer system map but she tossed a melting glance over her shoulder at her husband.
“It would have to be,”
A veteran of more than one unequal relationship,
It had been just over a year since he’d headed for the jungle. She would have expected him to move on a bit in that length of time…but to marry? Buffy’s situation was different. She had known Spike for years. There had always been heat and some comfort for her there. But even with all their history, Buffy and Spike weren’t about to get married. Marriage was a serious step. People didn’t just slap down ultimatums to loved ones and then fly off to the jungle and pick out another girl. Not normal well-adjusted people.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It took only a minute or two for Spike to locate Wes’ laptop. He settled into the corner of the sofa and lifted the cover. A blue light bathed his face, accenting the soft planes, as the computer hummed into battery-powered life. He pulled up his feet, making himself comfortable. Curled into a kittenish ball, he braced the laptop on his knees and started the log-in procedure. His fingers flew over the keys and then stopped abruptly. The screen was blinking at him. Access denied.
Spike tried a few obvious choices. But, of course, nothing changed. The kitchen clock chimed the time. Spike twitched, glancing up at the sound. His eyes darted nervously toward the bedroom and he listened for a moment but there was no change in the rhythm of Wesley’s gentle breathing. Gradually, he relaxed.
Returning to the task at hand, he chewed on a thumbnail
while he considered what a bookish boy like Wes might use as a password. It would be something apropos but not too
common…no pet names or birthdates. Spike
figured it would be easier to crack than
Wes was an easier nut. A hundred years ago, Spike had been Wes: unsure of his direction, clanking about in the bright armor of awkward sophistication, and nearly as mad for Angel. He put himself in the proper mindset. It took him less than an hour to solve the puzzle.
“Quidnuncle,” he said with satisfaction as the screen flashed through the log-in protocol. “The mythical key to all knowledge. How sweet!”
Once the desktop bloomed with icons, Spike clicked on My Documents and started scanning folder names. One labeled Poems caught his eye and he opened it to find a wealth of sophisticated verse by modern and long dead poets. He nodded his approval of the choices: Whitman, St. Vincent Millay, Baudelaire. Wes had an evident appreciation of erotic passages on death, love and loss. There were also works attributed to Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. These including a tribute entitled Fallen Angel which contained the line “Blood crawls to my skin and weak flesh betrays me, the scent of sweat a petrichor drawn out by his belgard.”
“Belgard,” Spike muttered, “Now there’s a password.”
Closing the time-wasting folder, he moved on to other files. Wes had the usual Watcher texts. Spike noted Hamilton, Grimley and Bourst. But Wes hadn’t contented himself with the classics. There were transcriptions of archaic scrolls and translations of tomes generally considered apocryphal. He had also branched out in some very interesting directions. The N’yazanine was represented, as was the Floccius Prima. There was an extensive file on Buffy. Spike scrolled past it with only a slight hiccough of the right mouse button. He was running short on night. Half way down the page, he stumbled on a folder taking up ten gigabytes of memory. It was labeled Anecrotocia.
“Jackpot. Or,
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m telling you, Spike can’t be this Doctor person,” Buffy was saying.
“My contacts say he is. That’s one nice thing about being back in Sunnydale: I know who to rough up for information.”
“He isn’t smart enough. He doesn’t even know how to program a VCR.”
“He’s smart enough to spend four undusted years in Slayerville. Face it, Buffy, you’ve always protected him.”
“We are talking about Spike, right? About so high, bleached blonde, no impulse control?”
“Century old vampire, evil, mercenary, self-serving,” he ticked off the points on his fingers. “I remember.”
“He’s not that self-serving anymore,”
“Riley, listen to me. Spike hasn’t got the skills, the subtlety, to mastermind something like this,” Buffy insisted.
She shut the mental door on what it would mean if he’d been playing her all along. All his talk of love might have been nothing more than a smokescreen for some kind of Dr. Evil operation. Xander would get way too much satisfaction out of that.
Riley seemed to confirm her thoughts. “He’s been using you. He’s got everyone fooled with his devotion to Buffy act.”
“No,” Buffy shook her head firmly to dislodge her suspicions. “You’re wrong, Riley.”
“Am I?”
“The international weapons trade?” she snorted and waved an arm in a broad arc as she tried to get her audience onboard with the humor of the accusation. “Spike? Working the Internet, cutting deals with terrorists? It’s just…silly. How would he…? Why would he?”
“Money, power, pure wickedness?” Sam guessed piously. “Demons delight in undermining goodness. Evil is evil. It doesn’t need a reason.”
“Thank you, for the Church Lady summing up,” Buffy grumbled, shooting a venomous glare at Mrs. Finn.
“Look,” Buffy sighed. “I’ve been in there.” She stabbed a finger at Spike’s crypt. “I was there just last week.” ‘Only for a minute,’ her traitorous thoughts reminded. Spike had hustled her out the door so fast Buffy had been slightly hurt. And two nights ago he’d had the motorcycle running when she arrived. She hadn’t been in his bed for weeks. “There are no demon eggs,” she finished in a ringing tone, hoping to convince herself as much as the others.
“I hate to disagree with you, ma’am,” a young soldier said, walking up to their group. He snapped out a salute before handing Riley a sheet of paper. “Preliminary electronic surveillance report, sir. We’ve got about four dozen eggs in a chamber below the main crypt. Also two sub-human hostiles in residence.”
“The vampire?” Riley asked hopefully.
The soldier shook his head. “No, sir. Sorry, sir. No sign of a room temperature hostile. We’ve got the Suvolte underground and what looks like a Korurffur upstairs.”
“A sag?” A disbelieving Samantha Finn leaned into her husband so that she, too, could consult the report. “What would a vampire be doing with a sag?”
“His name is Clem,”
“They eat babies,” Sam said matter-of-factly.
Buffy shook her head. “They scare babies,” she said. “With the boogada. And Clem doesn’t even do that. He’s a furritarian. He can’t tolerate smooth skin…kittens and puppies only.”
“Naturally this makes him okay by you,” Riley scoffed. Before Buffy could reply he looked beyond her and barked an order at the nearest group of soldiers. “Okay, we are going in high and low.”
“HEY!” Buffy yelped. She sprang forward, latching onto his arm. He whipped around under the impetus of her superior strength. “No highing and no lowing, until I say so,” she said, giving the huge man a shake.
Riley tried to break free of her grip but only succeeded in bruising his arm. He shot a meaningful glance at his wife. Sam signaled and there was a collective ratchet of metal from all over the cemetery as Riley’s unit brought weapons to bear on the Slayer.
“Whoa! Hold it! Time out!”
“He’s doing MY job,” Buffy insisted, tossing the rejoinder over her shoulder. Her hold didn’t slacken and her penetrating gaze never left Riley’s face. “We used to be on the same side, Riley.”
“Used to be,” Riley confirmed.
He looked pointedly down at the fingers clamped around his forearm. Buffy let her grip loosen so he could slide free.
“And now you order people to shoot me?”
They sized up one another. “Funny thing,” Riley said while absently massaging feeling into his arm, “My contacts in the Sunnydale underground told me Spike was untouchable now. They seemed to think he worked…under…you.”
The helicopter had moved on, leaving behind an ominous
stillness. Buffy narrowed her eyes at
her ex.
“Halloo,” someone cried, cutting through the tension. Everyone, soldiers and civilians, looked toward the salutation. A white flag of silken lingerie was waving out the door of Spike’s crypt. Clem’s nerve-jangled voice carried across the tombstones. “Confab, parley, sporkjaw, please…someone…anyone…halloo?”
“Is that my camisole?” Buffy asked, peering at the fluttering symbol of truce.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wes was dreaming of sexy lingerie, pale, cool skin and warm oil. He and Miss Spivey had retired to the bed. Her stomach had apparently settled.
“Mmmm,” she sighed. “That feels wonderful.”
“You like a firm pressure,” Wes acknowledged.
He was kneeling on the bed beside the scantily dressed beauty. In response to her encouragement, he unhooked the fastenings on her brassiere. Pushing the satin straps aside, he shifted to a more upright attitude so he could apply more force to his work. The mattress rocked as he continued to rub the heels of his oily palms along Miss Spivey’s delicate spine. The heavy friction burned his skin.
“Harder, luv,” she instructed. “Make it hurt.” Wes complied with the request.
“When was the last time you had a massage?”
“’82,” she murmured into her pillow.
“You must have been a child.”
She hummed noncommittally in reply. Wes reached for the massage oil and measured another squirt into his hand. He rubbed his palms together to warm the slick fluid. It dribbled through his fingers, tracing a dotted line across the canvas of his lover’s back as he mounted her, straddling her hips. Suddenly there was nothing between them but Wes’ gray cotton sport boxers.
He rocked up onto his knees, leaning forward to squeeze firm flesh against fragile bone. His fingers skated on her skin, drawing figures in the greasy patina of excess lubrication. He repeated a series of maneuvers several times…rock up…knead…slither down and settle into the saddle. Miss Spivey started to buck and squirm beneath him. Wes smiled and swiveled his hips to press her against the bedding.
“Oh, yeah,” she breathed, responding eagerly to the erotic contact.
With a little more encouragement, she was fruitlessly humping the bed linen in earnest. The ride made Wes so hard he could see spots forming in front of his eyes. Unable to continue the massage, he broke the rhythm. His greasy fingers fished in the opening of his fly and fumbled out his dick. It found the natural cleft of Miss Spivey’s behind, settling into the groove as if designed for it. She welcomed the new development with a tiny mew of delight. Her rounded bottom rose to meet him as he thrust against it.
Wes purred some inconsequential nonsense and blindly reached for more oil. He wanted to be slippery as an otter on her snowy back. There was something irresistible in the idea of sliding along her death-pale skin. He let the rich sauce trickle down his chest. Stray droplets fell on the figure beneath him and to his surprise Miss Spivey began to change. Wes felt his knees being shoved open by the increased mass of her hips. He glanced down and reveled in the masculine breadth of flesh between his legs. His gaze swept up to the decorative letter ‘A’ on one shoulder blade.
Wes placed a hand over the tattoo. “Angel,” he whispered. Throwing his arms around the vampire, he inhaled the sweet smell of him. Oily momentum carried him to the bed in a slow glide. His fingernails scrabbled for purchase, leaving deep scratches in their wake.
“Wes,” Angel hissed.
It was an exultation. There was a
world of meaning behind the name and Wes was about to respond in kind when the
night was ripped in two by a stirring rendition of God Save the Queen.
Wes yelped, bolting upright in the bed, instantly awake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Flanked by Tara and four steely-jawed men-at-arms, Riley and
Buffy approached the crypt door. It was
standing slightly ajar but the
Buffy tried a tentative call. “Clem?”
There was no scurry of life, no movement beyond the dark sliver of deep black that opened into the crypt. A twig snapped under someone’s boot, the crack as sharp as gunfire. Buckles and bullets rattled as the army’s finest quivered in response. Buffy rolled her eyes. She didn’t suffer fools gladly. She took an exasperated breath. The air was perfumed with night blooming jasmine and heavy with dew.
“Clem?” she repeated, louder this time. “It’s Buffy.”
Receiving no answer, she put a hand to the door and
pushed. The heavy metal shifted,
creaking theatrically. Buffy exchanged a
glance with Riley. She signaled her
intention to enter and then stepped cautiously over the threshold.
“I have a few people with me,” Buffy was saying. “We’re coming iiii….”
Her announcement was cut short by an Apache shriek. A huge white something came flailing and
flapping out of the darkness. Buffy
dropped into a crouch.
Whatever the thing was, it was twice Clem’s size and obviously demonic. A bulbous creature, it lumbered toward them at speed with a bouncy Stay-puft Marshmallow Man stride. They had a fleeting impression of a maw, blooming like a hellish flower and lined with jagged teeth before the thing was on top of them. It seemed to have writhing snakelike appendages. Soldiers cried out warnings. Bolts were drawn back. Rifles were leveled on the thing.
A millisecond before the first shot was fired Buffy recognized the demon and sprang into its path. As bullets started spraying the room she wrapped her arms around the creature and dove for the floor, carrying it with her. The heart-level volley of fire missed them completely. Unfortunately they bounced back up again. They hopped and bumped across the floor, jiggling and tipping indiscriminately.
Buffy’s technique for containing the demon reminded
“ARES INCINDIARUS!” she shouted.
Her hands hula-danced through the runic forms to complete the incantation. In response, the metal on all nearby weapons heated to an intolerable temperature. Men yelped in pain. Rifles and side-arms and grenade belts clattered to the floor.
“Oww!
Shit,” Riley yipped, hastily dropping his just drawn gun. His hand flew to his
lips and he turned a nasty glare on
“Because you were shooting…and it’s just…”
“Clem,” Buffy grunted, completing
There was a rude sounding whoosh of air and Buffy’s head and shoulders sank out of sight. Then Clem’s plaintive voice announced, “But I don’t want to be chipped.”
“We aren’t here to…”
“I’m harmless. And…and an endangered species. Babies give me hives. And that puppy didn’t have a collar on. I don’t care what that little girl said, lying little smoothie. I thought it was a stray, I swear. Please, don’t let them chip me, Buffy, please.”
“We won’t,”
Taking her meaning, he shuffled forward and announced in an overly official voice, “That’s not why we’re here. We just want the eggs.”
Clem peered around the edge of the sarcophagus at the man. “I don’t have any eggs,” he said. He swiveled his neck to look over his shoulder at Buffy. “I’m not even seeing anyone.”
Buffy grunted and stood up, dusting off the front of her jeans.
“Not you,” she said, “Spike’s eggs.”
“Oh, no,” Clem declared. “How could you? So that’s why Spike ran away. Because you…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead he obstinately folded his arms over his ripped shirtfront. “I’m not telling you where he went. Even if you torture me with…with feathers. You won’t get to chip the baby.”
Blushing in agitation, Buffy hissed a warning and made a ‘cheese it’ motion with one hand, cutting her fingers across her throat. Clem peered suspiciously at the men in the entryway and then looked back at Buffy. But his floppy-eared nod of comprehension came too late.
“What baby?” Riley asked. He had been prodding his fallen weapon with a tentative boot tip but this reference captured his complete attention.
“Uhm…it’s…uhm…”
Clem stuttered, his eyes pleading with
“Code,”
“Hide the salami,” Clem supplied without hesitation.
“What?!?” Buffy and Riley said together.
After glaring daggers at Clem, Buffy shouldered in front of
him. She’d managed to turn an even more alarming
shade of red and now looked apoplectic.
“So? It’s true, then? I might have known. Word on the street is you two are together…you and…” He curled his lip in disgust as he said the name, “Spike?”
Clem held up a claw. “Y-you kno-know…I’m not sure I had that translation right. English is my second language.”
Buffy wasn’t listening. She was concentrating her ire on Riley. Her fingers curled into fists and her eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. She spoke with deceptive softness.
“You want to know if Spike and I are ‘together’?” she asked, lifting one brow. “Do we know each other you mean? Like…in the biblical sense?” As she spoke she stalked forward, closing with Riley’s little military cadre in low, slinky strides. “Are we intimate? Are we lovers?” She paused, about a foot from him and said, “Do we do the deed?”
“Buffy, there’s no need for…”
“Oh, no…I live to satisfy your idle curiosity. Because I wouldn’t want you to be behind on the local news…just because you were…you know…out of town. So here’s the inside line…Spike and I aren’t married or anything but we have fucked the house down.”
Riley caught on to the idea that a pissed-off Slayer would do nobody good and could do a righteous amount of harm. He looked around for assistance or some avenue of escape. His men were no help, having already given ground. He turned back to the diminutive spitfire facing him and tried for a pacifying tone.
“I only asked because I care,” he said with gentle indignation. “You are better than this Buffy.” He indicated the sad furnishing of the crypt with the sweep of one hand.
“Better than him, you mean,” Buffy snapped.
“Okay,” Riley nodded. “Better than him. Is that so shocking? He’s a soulless killing machine.”
“Let me get this straight,” Buffy returned. “I’m ‘better than this’ but it was okay for you to consort with the vampire whores you picked up in bars.”
“That was different. I know it was wrong but…. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as he said, “…you know why it happened.”
“No, no I really don’t,” Buffy said. “I know you blamed the entire thing on me. I wasn’t ‘giving enough’ for you. But we never explored your self-esteem issues. In fact, we never explored any issues at all. Instead of working with me on our problems, you mostly issued an ultimatum about my attitude. And when I didn’t instantly comply with your demands, you flew off into the jungle leaving me to deal with my mother’s death and my sister’s life and so much hell on earth you have no idea.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” Riley said with enough sincerity to blunt her bile.
She stared at him for a moment, wondering if anything would have changed if he had stayed in Sunnydale. Would they still be acting out their charade of a relationship? The jagged pieces of Buffy’s life up to that moment, all the pain and change wrought by her death and rebirth, seemed to fall into place. A picture formed in her mind, one that had no place in it for Riley Finn. Slowly the tension in her shoulders eased. A ghost of a smile touched her lips as she made peace with their past. Reaching out a hand, she gave her ex an affectionate pat on his broad chest.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Someone else was.”
She glanced over her shoulder at Clem. “They aren’t here to chip anyone,” she informed him. “They think Spike is selling Suvolte hatchlings to the highest bidder.” She still didn’t sound convinced of it.
But Clem took the news in stride. He brightened visibly and
nodded. “So that’s what’s in the basement." He tossed a meaningful
sidelong glance at
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As soon as his national anthem started blaring out of the tiny speaker, Spike snapped the lid shut on the laptop. The noise continued. He popped out of his seat, wild eyes searching the room for a way to silence the music. In desperation, he stuffed the computer under the middle sofa cushion.
The muffled sound was only slightly less earsplitting. It was still loud enough to wake the neighbors. Spike reached for an occasional pillow and jammed it into the cushion cracks to supplement the stifling. There was no doubt in his mind that Wes would be coming to investigate, probably sooner rather than later. He considered smashing the laptop or heaving it out the window but neither solution solved his problem. He was going to be caught spying.
"Why am I the Lucy Ricardo of vampdom?" he muttered.
As if in cosmic answer, there was a clicking sound to his left. Spike glanced up and what he saw caused him to slowly straighten. He was staring down the barrel of a .44 Magnum. The safety was off and the hammer was cocked.
"Step away from the sofa," Wes ordered from the rule-making end of the gun. There was nothing even remotely sweet in his expression. "Move to the center of the room. Keep your hands where I can see them." Spike just stared. "I said, 'Move!'"
"I heard you," Spike said at last, still in no hurry to comply with the request.
He nearly smiled. He was trying to decide if he should point out the humor in the situation. A gun was no threat to him unless it was big enough to blow his head off. Of course, the Magnum was technically weapon enough to do just that if Wes was a crack shot. The gun packed a serious wallop and could do a lot of damage, even to a vampire. But there was a crossbow by the bed, too. It would have been a wiser choice. Spike was about to remark on the error when Wesley gave him the best reason in the world to play along with the farce.
"If you think I won't shoot because of the baby you are seriously mistaken," Wes said, bracing to fire.
Spike had forgotten about the baby. He glanced down at his belly. His right hand had already responded to the threat. It had settled protectively over his navel, but it would be scant help against a stray bullet; even a strong gut punch might kill Buffy's child. Spike couldn't afford to be disagreeable. Another life, a very precious one, depended on him.
"I…." he said haltingly, dazzled by the dawning idea that his habitually rough-and-tumble style might be severely curtailed by pregnancy. “I'm….uh. Okay, look…don't shoot. I'm moving."
Keeping an eye on the now threatening weapon, Spike raised his hands as requested and walked to the spot Wes had indicated. When Spike was a good distance from the sofa, Wes transferred some attention to the laptop. One-handed, he retrieved it from beneath the cushion and with a few blind taps on the keyboard silenced the alarm. Neither his gun nor his gaze wavered from Spike as he performed the task.
"So?" he said, into the sudden quiet. "You're interested in anecrotocia?"
"You know I am," Spike said. "I already told you…"
"You're carrying Angel's child, yes," Wes finished, his words cutting across those of his guest. "You will excuse my skepticism." He gestured with the .44 to indicate a low sideboard on the other side of the room. "Over there," he said. "Open the far left door. You will find a pair of manacles."
Spike argued his case as he edged toward the cabinet. ""'Course I'm pregnant. Why else would I be interested in your bloody file?"
"Oh, I have no doubt you are indeed with child," Wes said. He nodded at the restraints Spike was holding. "Put them on your ankles," he directed.
Spike turned mulish. "Look…" he began only to have Wes brandish the gun again.
"PUT THEM ON!"
Recreational bondage was one thing but it went against Spike's grain to be fettered in a potentially dangerous situation. If there were bears in the room, he wanted to have range of motion. But Wes didn't seem to be leaving him any other option. As he leaned over to secure the first cuff, he tested the strength of the chain. It was cold iron, well-forged. Wes didn't pull his punches when it came to supernatural domination-ware. Spike wondered if he'd ever used these chains on Angel. It added a fresh dimension to his opinion of the former Watcher.
"If you believe me then why the hobble?" Spike asked when he'd finished clapping himself in irons.
Instead of answering, Wes used the fingers of his gun-free hand to make a come hither motion. Spike shuffled a few steps away from the sideboard.
"Close enough," Wes barked. Keeping his .44 level, he circled wide and opened the right hand door of the sideboard. There were handcuffs and lashes and several exciting small weapons behind door number two. Spike felt like the contestant with a donkey and cart instead of a new Cadillac. Wes tossed him a set of steel cuffs. "For your wrists."
"You do this sort of thing a lot, then?" Spike inquired, nodding toward the S&M bureau as he snapped on the bracelets. "Chain up pretty girls?"
"You're a lot more than pretty," Wes informed him. "Lilah certainly knows her target. I'll say that for her."
"Lilah?"
"Don't play innocent. We both know who sent you."
"Sorry to disappoint the man with the gun, but I'm still out of the loop."
Wes smiled but not in a friendly way. He spoke with telling calculation as if underlining the fact that he wasn't fooled by Spike's act. "You're here for Connor!"
"I thought you said Lilah?"
"Lilah sent you,” Wes snapped. “Or someone else from Wolfram & Hart did. And I imagine you are indeed pregnant because they certainly know I would check."
"We sound a right clever bunch," Spike said.
"But not clever enough. Did you really think I would leave information about Connor lying around the flat unprotected?"
"So we're back to the Connor chap are we?" Spike sighed. "Will it help at all for me to say I have no idea what you're on about?"
"Not in the slightest," Wes said.
"Just checking."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"All units have checked in, sir," a fresh-faced young woman in a crisp uniform reported to Riley. "The perimeter is secure."
"Does that mean I can go in?" Buffy asked. She had taken up a position by the trapdoor leading to the lower level of the crypt. Her knuckles were white around the hilt of a wicked looking nine-inch blade. She was more than ready for the fight. "The sooner I kill this thing the sooner Operation Desperate Storm can move along."
"I wish you would reconsider," Riley began. "My men are highly trained and…"
"Slayer comma The," Buffy
interrupted. "I work alone." Clem's floppy-eared nod of approval
caught her eye. He looked proud of her
and Buffy responded to the loyalty by shooting an apologetic glance at him that
carried through to
'And the occasional chipped nympho of a vampire,' she added silently.
"We used to be…friends," Riley said.
"Like you said…'used to be'," Buffy said icily. Riley’s regard flickered. Seeing the hurt in him, she softened slightly. "It's alright. Really! I’m just ready-to-rumble girl right now.”
“What if you need back-up?”
“It’s a tight space down there and I know my way around. I can do this quicker and easier on my own. But you can back-up from up here. Stand-by to be my second wave or to do the wave maybe…in case I need waveage of some kind."
Riley accepted her stand. He stepped away after nodding to the four soldiers poised at the corners of the marble slab. At his signal the burly men lifted in straining unison, shifting the trapdoor to one side. Another soldier stepped forward and tossed two lit flares into the first sign of a gap. There was a deafening roar from the depths.
As soon as the opening was large enough to accommodate her,
Buffy dropped out of sight. A series of
terrifying bellows ripped through the air.
Tara and Clem latched onto one another in a mutually reassuring hug.
Crashes, growls and snide comments emerged from the flickering dark red hole in
the center of the floor. The noise
seemed to go on forever but when it ceased abruptly
There was a moment's silence and then Buffy called up the ladder. "I would not touch them with a pole. I do not like them in this hole. Somebody send down Sam I Am and her trusty incubator of horror.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I'm going to ask you one more time," Wes said to the fettered and frustrated Spike. "What do you know about the prophecy?"
"I've already told you," Spike said with more patience than he felt. "It's a forgery."
He was seated on the floor in the middle of the room, his chained arms looped around his knees. Wes’ shirt covered his more sensitive parts but the carpet was chafing his bottom. He wasn't comfortable. Of course, he didn’t bother mentioning it. Wes seemed to have misplaced his sense of hospitality.
"If Angel is going to kill Connor…"
"Time out," Spike said. "Just humor me for a second and tell me who or what the hell this Connor is…"
"I think you know."
"Let's pretend I don't."
Wes gave a theatrical sigh and a shake of his head but he supplied the bare bones of an answer. "Connor is the prophesied child of two vampires. He is Angel's son."
"Cunting arse you are fucking with me!" Spike exclaimed, surging to his feet. "Angel has a son?"
Wes had lowered his gun during the interrogation phase but he quickly brought it back into play.
"No sudden moves."
Spike wasn’t listening. He was both appalled and delighted by the unexpected news. "But this is…it's just so…" He met Wes’ eye. “Don’t you understand? This changes everything. I’m not the only one.”
His mind raced ahead as he turned and started wobbling toward the door. Angel might be able to give him some advice. The thought of having to ask Angel for anything grated but it would be worth it to have someone to share the burden. Spike wondered why Buffy hadn't mentioned anything about this Connor. Maybe she didn't know. Wouldn't that be rich?
The cold barrel of a gun against his temple halted Spike in his tracks.
“I will shoot you,” Wes said
Spike cut his eyes toward Wes. “Are you sure Angel has a kid?” he asked.
“I was there when Connor was born,” Wes said, backing off a step or two but keeping his gun level.
“It’s just so…”
"Unbelievable?" Wes offered. "Shocking? I agree. But your reaction is rather surprising. I thought you believed Angel to be the father of your child."
Spike did a mental whack to his forehead and tried for the save. "One child is amazing enough…but two?"
"Yes, it does strain credulity to the breaking point," Wes said in a silky voice.
He obviously didn’t believe a word of the story Spike had told. After taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, Spike cracked his neck by rotating it left and then right. When he was relaxed he studied Wes for a long five seconds.
"If you promise not to kill me," he said on the last tick, "I'll tell you the truth."
"I don't generally kill people for telling me….”
Wes didn’t get to finish the thought. Miss Spivey flexed her arms ever so slightly and snapped her handcuffs into two separate bracelets. While Wes was processing that she used the back of one hand to knock the Magnum out of his grip. He watched the gun skittered across the floor into the kitchen. A wash of adrenaline numbed his skin but it didn’t have time to reach his brain before Miss Spivey’s shove forcibly propelled him onto the sofa.
She straddled him in a flash and met his eye steadily as she said, "You're right. I’ve been lying to you.” He tried to get up but she held him down with ease. “Angel isn’t the father of my baby.”
“I knew it.”
“But I’m not here about Connor, either. At least not…directly. I'm interested in vampires having babies…because I'm pregnant…"
"Yes, well," Wes grumbled, scuttling like an overturned beetle in his effort to escape.
"And," Spike loaded the conjunction with enough emphasis to capture Wes' wandering attention. "I’m a vampire."
END THIS PART