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Title: Wayward Author: Devil Piglet Rating: R/NC-17 Disclaimer: All characters of ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ are used without permission. Author’s Notes: Set very loosely after 'Get It Done.' Feedback: Reviews are welcome: devilpiglet@yahoo.com. *************************************** Part 2: Replacement Killers She was awake. Spike wasn’t sure how he felt about that. She’d slept fitfully for a couple of hours, thrashing and moaning occasionally. When she calmed down he took the opportunity to approach her, a washcloth damp with cool water in his hand. He bathed her forehead, face, the bit of her neck that was exposed – careful, so careful not to let his skin brush hers. Wouldn’t be right. After he finished he retreated back to his perch on the bottom step, lit another cigarette as she sighed and shifted. He’d managed to bring down the fever a bit, but he still had no idea what was wrong with her or how much of the original Nikki remained in this shell. Did it matter? He’d hardly be able take her down even if she had…come back wrong. Send her away, instead, if it came to that. What was she doing here, anyway? Buffy’d come to life right where they’d left her, and hers was the only other Slayer resurrection he had to go by. But there was no way Nikki had gotten from New York to California in the state she was in. The panic and impotence and rage he’d sensed from her were reminiscent of a fledgling vamp. She couldn’t have been around very long. She still wore the same clothes he’d killed her in. Abruptly, her eyes had shot open and scanned the room until they landed on him. Bloody Slayers. He knew they couldn’t see in the dark but this one gave a good imitation of it. Seemed like she could see right to the empty core of him, in fact. Bloody Slayers. For the past few minutes she’d been holding her blade to her chest like it was some kind of talisman. For all he knew, it was. Lovely piece, all curved and deadly. The knife, too. He walked across the room, stopping a few feet from where she lay. She didn’t flinch – not Nikki, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction – but he noticed as she went rigid and watchful before him. “Water.” He said it casually, and extended the bottle towards her. The glare that earned him was disbelieving and venomous. He pursed his lips. “Haven’t tampered with it, if that’s what you’re worried about. Go on, take a look.” She ignored him, pointedly bringing the knife higher and turning her face to the wall. “You’re dehydrated,” he told her roughly. Sudden and surprising desperation made him harsher than he intended. “You need to drink something or you’ll just make yourself sicker. You got that?” Of course she got it; Nikki hadn’t been stupid when they’d first met and he had no reason to think that her current incarnation would be any different. In that respect, at least. He studied her as he had all night. Sensing his scrutiny, she slowly turned back to him and met his gaze. “Who are you?” he murmured. When she spoke, her voice was raspy and strained. “You know who I am, vampire.” “Found your tongue again, have you? Good. We’re going to have a little talk, you and me.” “Go to hell.” “Tonight I spent two hours surrounded by a dozen teenage girls watching Ben Affleck in a pair of red tights. I’d say hell has come to me.” She laughed, a tinny death rattle. “So I should feel sorry for you.” “Sweetness, you have no idea.” He took her free hand in his and wrapped it around the water bottle. She struggled to pull away and made a decent try of it, but illness had ebbed that fabled strength. “You met the Slayer. The latest one, that is. Buffy. She’s my girl.” Oh, that got her attention. “Quite fond of me, she is. Hates it when anyone puts holes in her pet vampire.” He nodded to his shoulder, where the wound she inflicted had gone unnoticed by the others. “What do you think she’ll do, if I mention your violent tendencies? Got a houseful of humans to protect. She’s not much for turning the other cheek, these days. Was never her strong suit to begin with.” He held her hand in both of his now, inwardly marveling at the warm, solid reality of her. Seemed incredible that she could be here, with him, pulse pounding double-time but stubborn and steady. He wasn’t going to fuck this up; wasn’t going to let her slip away now that she’d returned. Hubris, to think that he’d gotten some sort of second chance. But here she was, all but handed to him. And none too happy about it, either. He gave her fingers a squeeze and was rewarded with a look of pure loathing. “All I have to do is go upstairs, and tell them that you’re dangerous. Unstable. Hell, I could tell them the truth – that last time I checked, you were as dead as me.” “Gonna tell them how I got that way?” He forced a smile. “Don’t think the subject will come up.” “What have you done to them? To make them trust you?” He heard the genuine curiosity behind her question. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re stuck with me, unless you want to try your luck out there.” He jerked his head toward the grimy corner window. “How long do you figure you’ll last out there, in your…condition? A day? Maybe two, if you stick to the shadows but in Sunnydale, that’s really not the best strategy. All sorts of nasties lurking about.” Nikki raised her chin. “I,” she said slowly, “am the Slayer.” God, she was glorious. And he didn’t want to have this conversation with her. He released her hand and she backed up, away from him. “Nikki –" “I told you not to say my name!” Stupid to allow that to hurt him, or to expect anything else. His good – well, less-than-evil – intentions had always been met with suspicion from Buffy and her little crew, and they were as receptive an audience as he could hope for. Nikki…she was the one person who would never, never trust him. He nodded. “Right.” He took a few steps back, leaned against the old metal shelving that held a dusty collection of National Geographic magazines and assorted canned goods. “What’s the first thing you remember?” *************************************** She hated how he watched her. He had no right. His very presence was a violation. And now he wanted her to confide in him? This was all too cruel – being held prisoner in this house, with him as her warden; the creeping, insidious litany in her brain that something’s not right, something’s not right here; the reluctance of her enervated body to attack and defend even as he stood not five feet away. How long would it be, Nikki wondered, before she could kill him? Except…he’d kept her secret. Knew somehow that it was what she needed right now; that she couldn’t give that part up until she’d figured it out for herself. And he was right – she would be seen as a threat. Understood. She hadn’t looked too kindly on dead people, in her day. In her day… “What year is it?” she asked. Dreading the answer. Thankfully, he didn’t play at sympathy or surprise. “Two thousand and three.” She’d…known, that time had passed. Felt it in her gut when she first opened her eyes. But his words pierced her somewhere, deep and low. So long, so long…my sweet boy... She shook her head slightly, ignored how the vampire’s eyes narrowed. She couldn’t go there, couldn’t let those thoughts enter her head. If he even suspected she had a child – No. She’d kept him secret and safe before and she would do it again. “How long have you been here?” he asked. “Three days. Maybe longer.” “What happened?” Furious inhuman howls, and above that the chant of droning voices. Rushing, fetid wind that carries her thorugh darkness. Every cell in her body wants to resist but she can’t move, can’t open her eyes. All she can do is taste the dirt in mouth. She fixed her gaze on the floor. “Don’t know. Woke up, saw a bunch of guys standing around. They tried to put their hands on me and I showed them that wasn’t a nice way to treat a lady.” Her companion smiled faintly. “They almost had me, though. Didn’t think they’d fight that well with their eyes sewn shut.” That seemed to jar him; the cigarette trembled in his fingers briefly. It pleased her. “Spike, isn’t it?” she said with stomach-turning sweetness. “You introduced yourself that night.” The trembling intensified, though she couldn’t imagine why. She waited for him to gloat over their last encounter, to taunt her seductively until she couldn’t bear another word. But all he said was, “You need to eat something.” He disappeared upstairs and she slumped forward, angry at how five minutes of talking had drained her so completely. By the time he came back down, carrying a plate, she was half-drifting. She heard the scrape of porcelain against concrete as he set the plate down. “Cheeseburger and something called ‘tater tots’,” he was saying, but his voice was far away. “Can’t believe I even have to say those words, but if we had pizza one more night there was going to be a mutiny…” She closed her eyes. Lost to slumber, the knife clattered out of her grasp and onto the floor. She woke briefly when dawn filtered through the window. Saw him sitting on the bottom step, reading a book. And saw her knife replaced, with deliberate care, next to the stakes that were lined up beside her bed. Part 3: Ripening
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