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Barb
...so frustrating!” Buffy said as
they went down the front walk. “Anya keeps saying I should charge for
slaying, and I can’t even begin to list the number of ways that’s deeply
wrong...”
Spike looked
thoughtful. “I dunno, pet, there might be something in that. Can’t
you hit up the Council of Wankers? They pay Rupert a pretty penny. I
know, I nicked his bank book once.”
Buffy made a
face. “Giles is looking into that, actually, but I’m not even sure I want
to take the Council’s money. They’d own me again.”
“So will anyone who signs
your paycheck,” Spike countered. Buffy made another face, complete with
gruesome choking noises. He shrugged. “Better the devil you know.”
“I’d feel a lot better
taking your advice if your idea of financial planning wasn’t ‘beat up demon,
take its stuff, and hope it’s got something worth pawning’.”
He chuckled. “Don’t
knock it, pet, it keeps me in blood and fags. You could do worse than to
go in for a bit of looting yourself. If you’re going to be killing the
slime-covered set right and left anyway, you might as well be doing it for fun
and profit.”
Buffy
frowned and pursed her lips. “We’re getting on the train which is not
going there now.” Spike was only half joking, and she didn’t want to think
too hard about which half. He didn’t kill humans any longer, but it was
little things like this which made it impossible for her to forget the whole
absence of soul business. And the annoying part was that she felt bad
about shooting him down when he really thought he was making a good
suggestion. Time for a blatant change of subject. “So where did you
get this monstrosity, anyway?” she asked, eying the motorcycle parked in the
driveway. She wasn’t up on motorcycles, but if there was a kind
particularly suited to vampires with a basic black fetish, this was one of them,
all dark and gleaming and... there had to be some other word besides ‘sexy’ to
complete the description, but she couldn’t think of it at the moment. “And
why did it come equipped with an axe holder?”
Spike’s eyes lit with that
cool-new-toy look he usually reserved for especially impressive implements of
destruction. He shoved the axe handle through the loops on the side of the
bike and made sure the blade was secure. “As you said--beat up demon, take
its stuff. The former owner made the mistake of trying to run me down with
it a little bit before you got back.” He swung himself onto the saddle and
eased the weight of the motorcycle off its kickstand. “Helmet, pet.”
“You’re not wearing a
helmet,” Buffy grumbled, but she grabbed the one he tossed her and strapped it
on. It was powder blue, had seen better days and didn’t match the menacing
jet black bike in the slightest. He’d probably scavenged it from the
dump. Or stolen it from a much girlier demon than the one who’d owned the
bike. She slipped in behind him on the seat. Ooh, leather.
Comfy.
“I can survive
twenty-story falls on my head, too.” He gunned the engine and the bike
roared to life. “Where’re we off to tonight?”
“East Sunnydale
Memorial.” It was a small cemetery on the outskirts of town, and they
hadn’t been there in awhile. It wasn’t all that popular amongst
Sunnydale’s vampire population, but Buffy felt that it was worthwhile to drop
through every now and then and make sure it didn’t get popular. She
frowned. “He tried to run you down?” That didn’t sit well. She
was the only one allowed to beat up Spike, damn it, even if she had been dead at
the time.
“Operative word
is tried.” He flashed that who-am-I-kidding-I-love-to-brag grin over his
shoulder. “Shortly thereafter he and the bike parted ways and he didn’t
seem interested in it any more, so yours truly took it off his hands--what was
left of ‘em.”
Buffy laid
her cheek against his leather-clad back and wrapped her arms round his waist as
Spike let out the brakes. They tore off down Revello Drive. The bike
picked up speed, parting the night before them like a knife. Wind whipped
over and around her, threatening to tug her hair free of her helmet, and her
body vibrated in time with the throb of the engine. Between the howl of
the wind and the engine noise it was impossible to talk, so she just gave
herself up to enjoying the ride.
Dawn had a sentimental
fondness for Spike’s old DeSoto, but as far as Buffy was concerned, the DeSoto
had been yuck on wheels, and if Spike never drove the thing again she’d shed no
tears. Riding around in that huge antique boat of a car with its
blacked-out windows and all-pervading smell of old cigarettes and spilled
bourbon had possessed a certain edge, but nothing like this. This was wild
and exhilarating. Spike was a really good rider, not that she had any
plans to feed his ego further by telling him so. It felt good leaning into
him as they rounded a corner and roared up the on ramp, her body pressed tightly
to his. No heart beat beneath her ear, but it was hard to imagine anything
feeling more vibrantly alive than the unliving body in her arms. The flat
hard muscles of his stomach tensed under her hands as he shifted his weight from
side to side, effortlessly weaving from lane to lane and occasionally
white-lining it through heavier traffic. There was something utterly
satisfying about speeding down the road with a sleek, powerful, savage beast
purring between her thighs, wholly at her command...
And the motorcycle’s
pretty nice, too.
As
quickly as the thought bubbled up out of her subconscious her conscious grabbed
it, clubbed it over the head, and stuffed it back where it belonged. There
had been so many times in the last month when she’d wanted nothing more than to
curl up in someone’s arms--anyone’s--and be held, wallow in the ancient, primal
comfort of touch. She just wasn’t on hugging terms with anyone at the
moment. It was a little too weird with Willow or Tara, and Anya would get
jealous with Xander, and Dawn was fifteen and prolonged physical contact with
close relatives was hopelessly uncool and Giles would get all embarrassed and
Spike... well, it would have been the height of unfairness to ask anything of
the kind of him, knowing how he felt about her.
But it was OK to hold on to
your undead-soulless-ex-mortal-enemy-talking-buddy when you happened to be
riding behind him on a motorcycle.
Buffy really liked
the motorcycle.
Spike’s
sharp intake of breath jolted her out of her reverie in an instant. “Holy
bleeding fuck!” The man had staggered out onto the highway not thirty feet
in front of them. Drunk, or sick, or heaven knew what, he was wandering
around in little circles in the middle of the right-most lane, making swoopy
gestures with both arms at oncoming traffic. In a few seconds he was going
to be worm food.
Spike
swerved, avoiding the man by a hair’s-breadth. Buffy yanked on his
shoulder and pointed back; he gave her a “You’re crazy!” look and hauled on the
handlebars without hesitation, slewing into a turn which would have sent anyone
without supernatural strength and reflexes skidding into oblivion. He
circled back, riding the lane divider into oncoming traffic. Buffy was
crouched on the back of the seat now, one hand on his shoulder and the other on
the back end of the bike. As they barreled past the dazed-looking man in
the road, she leaped, kicking off of the bike and soaring through the air.
She hit the man head on, hoping for momentum to carry them both out of the road,
but instead of rolling, he collapsed to his knees on the grease-stained
concrete, carrying her with him.
Buffy scrambled to her
feet. Headlights the size of Ghora eggs were blazing towards her and she
heard the squeal of air brakes and the frantic blare of a horn. She bent
down, lifted the man up bodily, and flung him back to the side of the road and
safety. The words I’m going to die. Again. crystalized in her
brain. The thought was curiously uninvolving. A heartbeat later the
motorcycle roared up behind her and Spike grabbed her around the waist, yanking
her off her feet. They made it onto the shoulder two breaths before the
semi thundered past.
Spike
held on to her, shaking like a leaf and muttering “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...” as
devoutly as any prayer she’d ever heard.
OK. No death today.
“Spike,” she said, a bit strangled. “Let go. ‘Cause inhaling, you
know? Important.”
He
blinked, then released his death-grip a little. “Oh. Sorry, love.”
Rubbing her bruised ribs,
Buffy detached herself from the vampire’s side and walked shakily over to the
object of their rescue. He sat there, sprawled anyhow, blinking dazedly up
at her, a thin, weak-chinned man with receding hair and a long nose. His
face was strangely familiar, but it took Buffy a minute to place it. She
hadn’t seen him in long time. “Willy?” she asked,
disbelieving. “Willy the Snitch?”
Willy giggled inanely and
pawed at the air in the direction of the oncoming headlights. “Pretty
shiny fishy,” he said. “Slishy fishy.” He squinted, faint
recognition sparking in his watery eyes. “Slayer? Don’t break the
fishy, pleeeease...”
Spike
got off the bike and walked over, rubbing the back of his neck and looking
perplexed. “Bloody hell, what’s happened to him?”
“I don’t know. I
don’t think I threw him that hard.” She poked gingerly at Willy’s lank
disordered hair. “I don’t see any injuries...”
The vampire sniffed.
“No blood. Or not enough for me to smell it over the diesel fumes,
anyway.”
“We need to get
him off of the highway.” Buffy glanced around. All right, the DeSoto
did have its good points after all. “Can all three of us fit on the bike?”
“Sure, love. If we’re
completely insane.” At her look he sighed. “Maybe we could tie him
to the handlebars or something.” He dropped to a crouch and waved a hand
in front of the bartender’s eyes. “Oi, Willy, about that tenner...”
Willy’s rat-like face broke
into a sweet, foolish smile. “Wheee! Talk to the hand!”
Spike sucked in his cheeks
and rocked back on his heels. “The old skinflint really is gone if he
doesn’t remember...” He stopped, an evil smile slowly illuminating his
angular features. “Of course we’ve got to help the poor bloke,” he
said piously, getting to his feet. “Only decent thing for hero-types to
do, innit? Come on then, Slayer! Give us a hand.” He hauled
Willy to his feet and led the scrawny man towards the bike.
Buffy gave him another
look. “Spike, what are you up to?”
“You have a nasty
suspicious mind, Slayer.”
“Someone gives me lots of practice.” Buffy patted Willy down and pulled a
shabby brown leatherette wallet out of the appropriate pocket. She began
going through it. “Huh. There’s still a good hundred dollars in
here, and credit cards--” She smacked Spike’s hand away without looking up and
he pouted. “--so if he was mugged it wasn’t by a very efficient
thief.” She pulled out a California driver’s license and peered at the
small print in the chancy light of the freeway floodlights. “4520 West
Endicott, Apartment 23D. That must be where he lives.” She stuffed
the card back into the wallet and folded it up. “I guess we could take him
there,” she said doubtfully. “I’d say hospital, but the way he’s acting,
it’s like...”
“Yeh.” Spike
took her meaning immediately. “Like Tara was when Glory got to her.”
His dark brows dipped together for a moment as if he were trying to remember
something, and he shook his head slightly, as if that could dislodge the thought
he wanted. “But Glory’s dead.”
Buffy shivered.
“Yeah. Really quite sincerely dead. Show of hands for everyone in
this conversation who’s also been dead?” Spike grimaced, conceding the
point. Her mouth firmed. “Well, he’s got to go somewhere, and I’m
not feeling Mother Theresa enough for it to be my place.” She opened up
the wallet again, looking for someone to contact in cases of emergency, but
there was nothing. Not surprising; in the circles Willy moved in, you were
healthy or you were dead, with very little middle ground. “If he’s like
Tara, someone will have to feed him and stuff, and I’m sorry, but eww, Willy.”
She could have sworn there
was a twinkle in Spike’s eyes, but maybe it was the floodlights. “Keep in
mind that if you take him back to his place--assuming the address on the license
is current--you’ll still have to take care of any feeding yourself, as yours
truly won’t be able to walk in the door.”
Buffy gave him the evil
eye. “Willy,” she cooed, “Can Spike come inside your apartment?”
Willy goggled up at
her. “Spikey in the morning...?”
“The invite’s got to be
done at the door in question anyway, pet,” Spike said with considerable
amusement.
She smiled
sweetly. “I’m sure I can talk him around by the time we get there.”
Getting Willy off the
highway ultimately entailed hog-tying him with his own suspenders and balancing
him between them, draped across Buffy’s lap like a trophy deer. Buffy
found this considerably less enjoyable than the previous arrangement, and Spike
wasn’t any too happy about the situation either. They took the next exit
and followed surface streets to Willy’s place at a speed which, for Spike,
approached sedate.
The
apartment complex was old and grungy. Several flavors of loud music
battled for dominance in the night air and no one seemed inclined to pay
attention to two people lugging a body across the parking lot. Willy’s
apartment was a one-bedroom roach trap on the bottom floor which looked as if
he’d offered to store all his neighbors’ spare grunge. After finally
discovering the keys in another pocket (Buffy made Spike search this time,
because eww, Willy) Buffy dragged Willy inside and dumped him unceremoniously on
the couch. Five minutes of coaching on her part finally induced Willy to
say something which satisfied whatever supernatural laws prevented uninvited
vampires from entering private dwellings and allowed Spike to follow them in.
“Well,” Spike said,
surveying the room with hands on hips. “Couch, telly, two-foot stack of
Hustlers, and windows covered with tin foil. I feel right at home.
Wonder if he’s got any blood in the fridge. I always suspected he was
holding out with the good stuff.” He began rummaging through the mess of
dirty magazines, old newspapers, and empty beer cans on the table while Buffy
untied their oblivious host. He came up with a somewhat gnawed-upon
ballpoint pen and a pad of yellow legal paper and began scribbling away,
squinting slightly at his work.
Willy sat on the couch and
looked around vaguely. Buffy looked at him, at a loss for what to do
now. “I guess we should call Willow. Maybe she and Tara can do
something for him.”
“Best
bet,” Spike agreed. He handed Willy the pen and shoved the legal pad in
front of him. “Sign here, there’s a good Willy.”
“Round and round, all the
fishies,” Willy said, making a wild whorl with the pen. Spike guided his
hand back to the bottom of the paper.
“Just write your name, nice
big legible letters...” He took the pad back, ripped off the page, folded
it up and tucked it into his inside coat pocket.
Buffy looked up from the
phone where she was dialing her own house. “Spike, what...?”
He looked as innocent as it
was possible for a vampire to look, which was not very. “Private business
matter, pet. I’m not diddling him out of the family farm or anything, just
taking care of a few loose ends.”
She gave him a good long
look. She seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. “I trust you, Spike.”
God, it was incredible when
his eyes softened like that. “It’s nothing you’d want to stake me for,
love, I promise. Here.” He pulled the paper back out.
Buffy took it trepidatiously and began deciphering Spike’s surprisingly lovely
but old-fashioned handwriting.
“‘In consideration for
services rendered to me by William the Bloody a.k.a. Spike this night of
November 28th, 2001, I hereby cancel any outstanding debts owed by the
aforementioned William the Bloody to the Alibi Room or to...’ You’re
trying to get rid of your bar tab? She bit back a laugh and
returned the paper to him. “Um. I can’t exactly say I approve, but
no, I don’t want to stake you for it. Besides, I don’t think he’s gonna
consider that binding when he comes to. I don’t think Willy knows
what ‘aforementioned’ means.”
Spike, who’d been watching
her reaction with surprising anxiousness, relaxed. “Probably not, but a
bloke’s got to try.” As she waited for Willow to pick up the phone, he
looked at the sheet of paper thoughtfully, lower lip caught in his teeth.
After awhile he heaved a rueful sigh and tore it into four neat pieces.
“It’s the little things, you know,” he said, examining the scuff marks on the
toes of his boots intently. “Where I get lost. I mean killing people
and eating them, it’s bloody obvious that’s not... but all this other rubbish
you have to do to be good...”
“Spike...”
He glanced up, still
worrying at his lower lip. “I know, love, I can’t be. Not
really. But still... I don’t want you to be ashamed of knowing me.”
He has got to be the weirdest
vampire on the planet. But it’s a sweet kind of weird,
sometimes... She coiled the phone cord around her hand as the
answering machine kicked in, and waited impatiently for it to get through its
spiel. “Spike, I’ve hated you, despised you, been a little--very little,
and it was a long time ago, so don’t get a swelled head--scared of you once or
twice, wanted to kill you more times than I can count--but I can honestly say
I’ve never been ashamed to know you.”
He cocked his head to one
side and smiled--not his usual cocky grin or self-satisfied smirk, just a
pleased smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled up in the nicest way when
he did that... “Ah. Well, that’s--that’s good to know.”
Was the fact that he could
take something like that as a compliment more on the weird side or the sweet
side? The tension in the phone cord brought her up short. Somehow or
other she’d taken several steps closer to him. Spike was looking
down at her with his hands buried in his duster pockets as if he didn’t trust
them out in the open. Funny how she always thought of Spike as being tall,
when he wasn’t, really, well, taller than her of course, most people were, but--
A nasal drawl behind them
said, “Aww, isn’t that sweet?”
Spike whipped round, his
eyes going yellow, and Buffy almost dropped the phone. She could hear the
beep as someone hit the button to turn the recorded message off and Willow’s
tinny voice from the receiver saying “Hello? Summers residence.
Hello?”
“Uh, never mind,
Will, it’s under control,” Buffy said, slamming the phone back into its cradle.
Willy the Snitch was
sitting on his couch, rubbing his temples with both hands and glaring
impartially at the two of them. “I have the Slayer and her pet vampire
making googly eyes in my living room. I get it. I’m in hell.”
He cowered reflexively at Spike’s growl, then straightened up and poked a
belligerent index finger in the vampire’s direction. “I’m not scared of
you, Spike! That chip in your head’ll put you flat on your back if you so
much as lift a finger against me, so just get out before I throw you out!
And don’t think about comin’ back later ‘cause I’m having someone do the spell
to uninvite you so fast that--”
Despite Willy’s bravado
there was a panicky note in his voice and Spike didn’t look particularly
intimidated; he might not be able to hurt Willy, but it was unlikely that Willy
could do much to hurt him, at least not without a lot of help. Buffy
walked over to the couch, flicked her hair over her shoulder, put her hand in
the center of Willy’s chest, and shoved. He sat back very suddenly.
“Hey!” he whined, rubbing his sternum.
“One of us can still hit
people, Willy, so if I were you? No more googly eye remarks, especially
about people who’ve just taken an hour out of their busy schedule to keep you
from becoming a pancake on the 405.” She bent over to look him in
the eye. “Don’t take this personally, but why are you rational?”
“Why am--” All of a sudden
memory of the last several hours hit, and Willy hunched his shoulders and shrank
in upon himself, trying to sink into the ancient stained fabric of the
couch. “I--I dunno.”
“Can you remember what happened to you?”
Willy pinched the bridge of
his nose in concentration. “I was in the office--at the bar, y’know?
I hear this noise out back and went to see, we get bums goin’ through the
garbage all the time lookin’ for empties that ain’t empty, if ya know what I
mean. There was this guy out in the alley...” He trailed off and
rubbed his mouth. “Didn’t look exactly like a bum, though. Too
clean. Middle-aged guy, pretty good shape, dark hair, a little grey
maybe...” He shook his head, baffled. “Wasn’t a vampire or nothin’,
I can tell ‘em near as good as you can, Slayer. Just a guy. I ask
him what he’s doin’ out there, he says just passing through, and I say fine, and
he says--then it all gets confused.” He looked around. “Shit!
If the back door was left open those assholes will clear me out! I gotta
get--” He got unsteadily to his feet and lurched across the room to the front
door before a dizzy spell hit. He grabbed the doorknob and leaned heavily
on the grimy doorpost before sliding to his knees.
Just a guy. Ben had
been just a guy. Ben was dead. Which was why Glory was dead, which
was... damn. “We’ll make sure the back door’s locked. We’ve got to
make a stop there anyway.”
Willy pulled himself to his feet. “Well, in that case, ain’t you gonna
offer me a ride?”
Spike
smiled--definitely of the evil. “I think we can arrange that.”
The faded
letters on the front of the building said ‘The Alibi Room’, but no one ever
called it anything but Willy’s. Willy’s bar greatly resembled its
owner--small, shabby, and furtive, it crouched between two larger
buildings as if trying to escape notice. As soon as the motorcycle rolled
to a stop in the parking lot said owner unfolded himself from his awkward perch
and lit out for the front door, a look of absolute terror in his watery eyes.
Buffy watched him go.
“Did you absolutely have to make him ride on the handlebars?”
Spike paused, lighter
halfway to cigarette, and thought about it for a moment. “Yeh.”
“Just checking.” She
reluctantly let her arms fall from his waist and got off the bike, checking out
the parking lot warily. “Is it safe for you to be here? Last I heard
you weren’t very popular in Demonsville.”
Spike took a drag on his
cigarette and snorted smoke. “I’ve got a big strong Slayer to protect me,
haven’t I? ‘Course it’s not safe, that’s half the fun.”
“This ‘fun’ you speak of,
it’s one of those English words that translates to ‘nerve-wracking terror’ in
American?”
Spike growled
and lunged for her; Buffy dodged, laughing, then stopped so abruptly that he
nearly ran into her. “‘Smatter, love, losing your touch?” he asked
teasingly.
Laughing.
She’d been laughing. For a moment there, she’d felt...good. Really
good. Alive, and happy to be so. Astounded, she tried to grasp the
sensation, analyze it, clutch it to her heart--and of course it dissolved under
her scrutiny, fraying away into bewilderment. She avoided his eyes.
“No, no, this is just--we can’t be playing around. Business, now, here.”
She could feel that blue
gaze burning into the top of her head, heard a faint sigh. “You’re in
charge, Slayer.”
Willy was
already there when they arrived in the alley behind the bar, scouting
suspiciously around the loading dock to see what had been stolen in his
absence. Buffy examined the alley in minute detail, determined to do or
say nothing which could remotely be described as googly. There were empty
crates and a big cube of crushed cardboard boxes on the loading dock, and a
dumpster full of assorted bar trash down in the alley proper, presumably what
the mystery guy had been going through when Willy discovered him. A
smaller container stamped ‘SUNNYDALE RECYCLES’ stood nearby, half-full of empty
beer cans and broken bottles. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find,
but if anything useful was here, it wasn’t in a form she could
recognize. Spike paced around looking at things in a less organized
fashion, the faint frown back on his face, nostrils flaring every now and then
as he tried to pick up a scent. He’d put his cigarette out, which meant he
was really serious about it.
“I give up,” Buffy said at
last. “If there are clues here, I’m missing ‘em. Unless... Spike, is
that clue-face?”
He came to
a halt in the middle of the alley, took his half-smoked cigarette from behind
his ear and re-lit it. He ran one hand through his hair, ruffling the pale
waves further. “This is ‘What have I sodding forgotten?’ face.
There’s something... familiar here, but I can’t suss it out.” He jerked
his chin at the bar. “Ought to see if anyone inside knows who this bloke
is. ‘Sides, I’m famished.”
Buffy didn’t think that it
was very likely that any of the patrons would recognize Willy’s vague
description if Willy himself, who knew everything worth knowing about
Sunnydale’s less than savory inhabitants, didn’t know who the guy had
been. But... it was closing in on eleven, and maybe a break would clear
her head. “OK. Let’s go.”
The dim lights inside
Willy’s did little to conceal the accumulated grime. The flyspecked mirror
behind the bar failed to reflect a good third of the patrons, and probably
wished it couldn't reflect another third. The crowd wasn’t a large one,
but from the moment they crossed the threshold every eye in the bar that wasn't
on her was on Spike, half a dozen sullen gazes pinned to the center of their
backs, evenly divided between preparations for fight or flight. Normally
when Buffy dropped by Willy’s, broken furniture and smashed glass resulted.
Spike, having undergone an
instant transformation into Big Bad mode the moment he’d crossed the threshold,
was eating it up. He strutted over to the bar, platinum blond head held
high, all cocky swagger and knowing smirk. Enjoying himself, and the
knowledge that one wrong word, one wrong move on his part would precipitate a
brawl. He leaned one elbow on the bar top and flashed the
natural-born-killer grin at the female Bracken demon behind the bar.
“O-neg
with a Guinness chaser and a club soda for the lady.”
The bartender looked
uncertain. “Um...there’s...you...”
“Cash on the barrelhead or
get out, Spike,” Willy snapped, bustling up behind her.
Spike raised
an eyebrow at Buffy. “There, you see? No good deed goes
unpunished.” He turned back to Willy, obviously ready to argue the
point. Buffy put a hand on his shoulder.
“Charge it to the Magic
Box, and give us a receipt,” she said firmly. “We’re on the job, it’s a
slaying business expense,” she added at Spike’s inquisitive look. “Anya’ll
charge it back to the Council of Watchers, or deduct it from the shop’s taxes,
or something financially brilliant like that.”
Spike looked as if he
weren’t sure whether to be pleased at getting free drinks or annoyed at being
cheated out of a skirmish, but finally settled on pleased. He smirked at
the bar girl, or demon. “In that case, give us some nachos too.”
Buffy started to object,
then shrugged. It couldn’t hurt. After all, this was strictly
business. ...so frustrating!” Buffy said as
they went down the front walk. “Anya keeps saying I should charge for
slaying, and I can’t even begin to list the number of ways that’s deeply
wrong...”
Spike looked
thoughtful. “I dunno, pet, there might be something in that. Can’t
you hit up the Council of Wankers? They pay Rupert a pretty penny. I
know, I nicked his bank book once.”
Buffy made a
face. “Giles is looking into that, actually, but I’m not even sure I want
to take the Council’s money. They’d own me again.”
“So will anyone who signs
your paycheck,” Spike countered. Buffy made another face, complete with
gruesome choking noises. He shrugged. “Better the devil you know.”
“I’d feel a lot better
taking your advice if your idea of financial planning wasn’t ‘beat up demon,
take its stuff, and hope it’s got something worth pawning’.”
He chuckled. “Don’t
knock it, pet, it keeps me in blood and fags. You could do worse than to
go in for a bit of looting yourself. If you’re going to be killing the
slime-covered set right and left anyway, you might as well be doing it for fun
and profit.”
Buffy
frowned and pursed her lips. “We’re getting on the train which is not
going there now.” Spike was only half joking, and she didn’t want to think
too hard about which half. He didn’t kill humans any longer, but it was
little things like this which made it impossible for her to forget the whole
absence of soul business. And the annoying part was that she felt bad
about shooting him down when he really thought he was making a good
suggestion. Time for a blatant change of subject. “So where did you
get this monstrosity, anyway?” she asked, eying the motorcycle parked in the
driveway. She wasn’t up on motorcycles, but if there was a kind
particularly suited to vampires with a basic black fetish, this was one of them,
all dark and gleaming and... there had to be some other word besides ‘sexy’ to
complete the description, but she couldn’t think of it at the moment. “And
why did it come equipped with an axe holder?”
Spike’s eyes lit with that
cool-new-toy look he usually reserved for especially impressive implements of
destruction. He shoved the axe handle through the loops on the side of the
bike and made sure the blade was secure. “As you said--beat up demon, take
its stuff. The former owner made the mistake of trying to run me down with
it a little bit before you got back.” He swung himself onto the saddle and
eased the weight of the motorcycle off its kickstand. “Helmet, pet.”
“You’re not wearing a
helmet,” Buffy grumbled, but she grabbed the one he tossed her and strapped it
on. It was powder blue, had seen better days and didn’t match the menacing
jet black bike in the slightest. He’d probably scavenged it from the
dump. Or stolen it from a much girlier demon than the one who’d owned the
bike. She slipped in behind him on the seat. Ooh, leather.
Comfy.
“I can survive
twenty-story falls on my head, too.” He gunned the engine and the bike
roared to life. “Where’re we off to tonight?”
“East Sunnydale
Memorial.” It was a small cemetery on the outskirts of town, and they
hadn’t been there in awhile. It wasn’t all that popular amongst
Sunnydale’s vampire population, but Buffy felt that it was worthwhile to drop
through every now and then and make sure it didn’t get popular. She
frowned. “He tried to run you down?” That didn’t sit well. She
was the only one allowed to beat up Spike, damn it, even if she had been dead at
the time.
“Operative word
is tried.” He flashed that who-am-I-kidding-I-love-to-brag grin over his
shoulder. “Shortly thereafter he and the bike parted ways and he didn’t
seem interested in it any more, so yours truly took it off his hands--what was
left of ‘em.”
Buffy laid
her cheek against his leather-clad back and wrapped her arms round his waist as
Spike let out the brakes. They tore off down Revello Drive. The bike
picked up speed, parting the night before them like a knife. Wind whipped
over and around her, threatening to tug her hair free of her helmet, and her
body vibrated in time with the throb of the engine. Between the howl of
the wind and the engine noise it was impossible to talk, so she just gave
herself up to enjoying the ride.
Dawn had a sentimental
fondness for Spike’s old DeSoto, but as far as Buffy was concerned, the DeSoto
had been yuck on wheels, and if Spike never drove the thing again she’d shed no
tears. Riding around in that huge antique boat of a car with its
blacked-out windows and all-pervading smell of old cigarettes and spilled
bourbon had possessed a certain edge, but nothing like this. This was wild
and exhilarating. Spike was a really good rider, not that she had any
plans to feed his ego further by telling him so. It felt good leaning into
him as they rounded a corner and roared up the on ramp, her body pressed tightly
to his. No heart beat beneath her ear, but it was hard to imagine anything
feeling more vibrantly alive than the unliving body in her arms. The flat
hard muscles of his stomach tensed under her hands as he shifted his weight from
side to side, effortlessly weaving from lane to lane and occasionally
white-lining it through heavier traffic. There was something utterly
satisfying about speeding down the road with a sleek, powerful, savage beast
purring between her thighs, wholly at her command...
And the motorcycle’s
pretty nice, too.
As
quickly as the thought bubbled up out of her subconscious her conscious grabbed
it, clubbed it over the head, and stuffed it back where it belonged. There
had been so many times in the last month when she’d wanted nothing more than to
curl up in someone’s arms--anyone’s--and be held, wallow in the ancient, primal
comfort of touch. She just wasn’t on hugging terms with anyone at the
moment. It was a little too weird with Willow or Tara, and Anya would get
jealous with Xander, and Dawn was fifteen and prolonged physical contact with
close relatives was hopelessly uncool and Giles would get all embarrassed and
Spike... well, it would have been the height of unfairness to ask anything of
the kind of him, knowing how he felt about her.
But it was OK to hold on to
your undead-soulless-ex-mortal-enemy-talking-buddy when you happened to be
riding behind him on a motorcycle.
Buffy really liked
the motorcycle.
Spike’s
sharp intake of breath jolted her out of her reverie in an instant. “Holy
bleeding fuck!” The man had staggered out onto the highway not thirty feet
in front of them. Drunk, or sick, or heaven knew what, he was wandering
around in little circles in the middle of the right-most lane, making swoopy
gestures with both arms at oncoming traffic. In a few seconds he was going
to be worm food.
Spike
swerved, avoiding the man by a hair’s-breadth. Buffy yanked on his
shoulder and pointed back; he gave her a “You’re crazy!” look and hauled on the
handlebars without hesitation, slewing into a turn which would have sent anyone
without supernatural strength and reflexes skidding into oblivion. He
circled back, riding the lane divider into oncoming traffic. Buffy was
crouched on the back of the seat now, one hand on his shoulder and the other on
the back end of the bike. As they barreled past the dazed-looking man in
the road, she leaped, kicking off of the bike and soaring through the air.
She hit the man head on, hoping for momentum to carry them both out of the road,
but instead of rolling, he collapsed to his knees on the grease-stained
concrete, carrying her with him.
Buffy scrambled to her
feet. Headlights the size of Ghora eggs were blazing towards her and she
heard the squeal of air brakes and the frantic blare of a horn. She bent
down, lifted the man up bodily, and flung him back to the side of the road and
safety. The words I’m going to die. Again. crystalized in her
brain. The thought was curiously uninvolving. A heartbeat later the
motorcycle roared up behind her and Spike grabbed her around the waist, yanking
her off her feet. They made it onto the shoulder two breaths before the
semi thundered past.
Spike
held on to her, shaking like a leaf and muttering “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...” as
devoutly as any prayer she’d ever heard.
OK. No death today.
“Spike,” she said, a bit strangled. “Let go. ‘Cause inhaling, you
know? Important.”
He
blinked, then released his death-grip a little. “Oh. Sorry, love.”
Rubbing her bruised ribs,
Buffy detached herself from the vampire’s side and walked shakily over to the
object of their rescue. He sat there, sprawled anyhow, blinking dazedly up
at her, a thin, weak-chinned man with receding hair and a long nose. His
face was strangely familiar, but it took Buffy a minute to place it. She
hadn’t seen him in long time. “Willy?” she asked,
disbelieving. “Willy the Snitch?”
Willy giggled inanely and
pawed at the air in the direction of the oncoming headlights. “Pretty
shiny fishy,” he said. “Slishy fishy.” He squinted, faint
recognition sparking in his watery eyes. “Slayer? Don’t break the
fishy, pleeeease...”
Spike
got off the bike and walked over, rubbing the back of his neck and looking
perplexed. “Bloody hell, what’s happened to him?”
“I don’t know. I
don’t think I threw him that hard.” She poked gingerly at Willy’s lank
disordered hair. “I don’t see any injuries...”
The vampire sniffed.
“No blood. Or not enough for me to smell it over the diesel fumes,
anyway.”
“We need to get
him off of the highway.” Buffy glanced around. All right, the DeSoto
did have its good points after all. “Can all three of us fit on the bike?”
“Sure, love. If we’re
completely insane.” At her look he sighed. “Maybe we could tie him
to the handlebars or something.” He dropped to a crouch and waved a hand
in front of the bartender’s eyes. “Oi, Willy, about that tenner...”
Willy’s rat-like face broke
into a sweet, foolish smile. “Wheee! Talk to the hand!”
Spike sucked in his cheeks
and rocked back on his heels. “The old skinflint really is gone if he
doesn’t remember...” He stopped, an evil smile slowly illuminating his
angular features. “Of course we’ve got to help the poor bloke,” he
said piously, getting to his feet. “Only decent thing for hero-types to
do, innit? Come on then, Slayer! Give us a hand.” He hauled
Willy to his feet and led the scrawny man towards the bike.
Buffy gave him another
look. “Spike, what are you up to?”
“You have a nasty
suspicious mind, Slayer.”
“Someone gives me lots of practice.” Buffy patted Willy down and pulled a
shabby brown leatherette wallet out of the appropriate pocket. She began
going through it. “Huh. There’s still a good hundred dollars in
here, and credit cards--” She smacked Spike’s hand away without looking up and
he pouted. “--so if he was mugged it wasn’t by a very efficient
thief.” She pulled out a California driver’s license and peered at the
small print in the chancy light of the freeway floodlights. “4520 West
Endicott, Apartment 23D. That must be where he lives.” She stuffed
the card back into the wallet and folded it up. “I guess we could take him
there,” she said doubtfully. “I’d say hospital, but the way he’s acting,
it’s like...”
“Yeh.” Spike
took her meaning immediately. “Like Tara was when Glory got to her.”
His dark brows dipped together for a moment as if he were trying to remember
something, and he shook his head slightly, as if that could dislodge the thought
he wanted. “But Glory’s dead.”
Buffy shivered.
“Yeah. Really quite sincerely dead. Show of hands for everyone in
this conversation who’s also been dead?” Spike grimaced, conceding the
point. Her mouth firmed. “Well, he’s got to go somewhere, and I’m
not feeling Mother Theresa enough for it to be my place.” She opened up
the wallet again, looking for someone to contact in cases of emergency, but
there was nothing. Not surprising; in the circles Willy moved in, you were
healthy or you were dead, with very little middle ground. “If he’s like
Tara, someone will have to feed him and stuff, and I’m sorry, but eww, Willy.”
She could have sworn there
was a twinkle in Spike’s eyes, but maybe it was the floodlights. “Keep in
mind that if you take him back to his place--assuming the address on the license
is current--you’ll still have to take care of any feeding yourself, as yours
truly won’t be able to walk in the door.”
Buffy gave him the evil
eye. “Willy,” she cooed, “Can Spike come inside your apartment?”
Willy goggled up at
her. “Spikey in the morning...?”
“The invite’s got to be
done at the door in question anyway, pet,” Spike said with considerable
amusement.
She smiled
sweetly. “I’m sure I can talk him around by the time we get there.”
Getting Willy off the
highway ultimately entailed hog-tying him with his own suspenders and balancing
him between them, draped across Buffy’s lap like a trophy deer. Buffy
found this considerably less enjoyable than the previous arrangement, and Spike
wasn’t any too happy about the situation either. They took the next exit
and followed surface streets to Willy’s place at a speed which, for Spike,
approached sedate.
The
apartment complex was old and grungy. Several flavors of loud music
battled for dominance in the night air and no one seemed inclined to pay
attention to two people lugging a body across the parking lot. Willy’s
apartment was a one-bedroom roach trap on the bottom floor which looked as if
he’d offered to store all his neighbors’ spare grunge. After finally
discovering the keys in another pocket (Buffy made Spike search this time,
because eww, Willy) Buffy dragged Willy inside and dumped him unceremoniously on
the couch. Five minutes of coaching on her part finally induced Willy to
say something which satisfied whatever supernatural laws prevented uninvited
vampires from entering private dwellings and allowed Spike to follow them in.
“Well,” Spike said,
surveying the room with hands on hips. “Couch, telly, two-foot stack of
Hustlers, and windows covered with tin foil. I feel right at home.
Wonder if he’s got any blood in the fridge. I always suspected he was
holding out with the good stuff.” He began rummaging through the mess of
dirty magazines, old newspapers, and empty beer cans on the table while Buffy
untied their oblivious host. He came up with a somewhat gnawed-upon
ballpoint pen and a pad of yellow legal paper and began scribbling away,
squinting slightly at his work.
Willy sat on the couch and
looked around vaguely. Buffy looked at him, at a loss for what to do
now. “I guess we should call Willow. Maybe she and Tara can do
something for him.”
“Best
bet,” Spike agreed. He handed Willy the pen and shoved the legal pad in
front of him. “Sign here, there’s a good Willy.”
“Round and round, all the
fishies,” Willy said, making a wild whorl with the pen. Spike guided his
hand back to the bottom of the paper.
“Just write your name, nice
big legible letters...” He took the pad back, ripped off the page, folded
it up and tucked it into his inside coat pocket.
Buffy looked up from the
phone where she was dialing her own house. “Spike, what...?”
He looked as innocent as it
was possible for a vampire to look, which was not very. “Private business
matter, pet. I’m not diddling him out of the family farm or anything, just
taking care of a few loose ends.”
She gave him a good long
look. She seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. “I trust you, Spike.”
God, it was incredible when
his eyes softened like that. “It’s nothing you’d want to stake me for,
love, I promise. Here.” He pulled the paper back out.
Buffy took it trepidatiously and began deciphering Spike’s surprisingly lovely
but old-fashioned handwriting.
“‘In consideration for
services rendered to me by William the Bloody a.k.a. Spike this night of
November 28th, 2001, I hereby cancel any outstanding debts owed by the
aforementioned William the Bloody to the Alibi Room or to...’ You’re
trying to get rid of your bar tab? She bit back a laugh and
returned the paper to him. “Um. I can’t exactly say I approve, but
no, I don’t want to stake you for it. Besides, I don’t think he’s gonna
consider that binding when he comes to. I don’t think Willy knows
what ‘aforementioned’ means.”
Spike, who’d been watching
her reaction with surprising anxiousness, relaxed. “Probably not, but a
bloke’s got to try.” As she waited for Willow to pick up the phone, he
looked at the sheet of paper thoughtfully, lower lip caught in his teeth.
After awhile he heaved a rueful sigh and tore it into four neat pieces.
“It’s the little things, you know,” he said, examining the scuff marks on the
toes of his boots intently. “Where I get lost. I mean killing people
and eating them, it’s bloody obvious that’s not... but all this other rubbish
you have to do to be good...”
“Spike...”
He glanced up, still
worrying at his lower lip. “I know, love, I can’t be. Not
really. But still... I don’t want you to be ashamed of knowing me.”
He has got to be the weirdest
vampire on the planet. But it’s a sweet kind of weird,
sometimes... She coiled the phone cord around her hand as the
answering machine kicked in, and waited impatiently for it to get through its
spiel. “Spike, I’ve hated you, despised you, been a little--very little,
and it was a long time ago, so don’t get a swelled head--scared of you once or
twice, wanted to kill you more times than I can count--but I can honestly say
I’ve never been ashamed to know you.”
He cocked his head to one
side and smiled--not his usual cocky grin or self-satisfied smirk, just a
pleased smile. The corners of his eyes crinkled up in the nicest way when
he did that... “Ah. Well, that’s--that’s good to know.”
Was the fact that he could
take something like that as a compliment more on the weird side or the sweet
side? The tension in the phone cord brought her up short. Somehow or
other she’d taken several steps closer to him. Spike was looking
down at her with his hands buried in his duster pockets as if he didn’t trust
them out in the open. Funny how she always thought of Spike as being tall,
when he wasn’t, really, well, taller than her of course, most people were, but--
A nasal drawl behind them
said, “Aww, isn’t that sweet?”
Spike whipped round, his
eyes going yellow, and Buffy almost dropped the phone. She could hear the
beep as someone hit the button to turn the recorded message off and Willow’s
tinny voice from the receiver saying “Hello? Summers residence.
Hello?”
“Uh, never mind,
Will, it’s under control,” Buffy said, slamming the phone back into its cradle.
Willy the Snitch was
sitting on his couch, rubbing his temples with both hands and glaring
impartially at the two of them. “I have the Slayer and her pet vampire
making googly eyes in my living room. I get it. I’m in hell.”
He cowered reflexively at Spike’s growl, then straightened up and poked a
belligerent index finger in the vampire’s direction. “I’m not scared of
you, Spike! That chip in your head’ll put you flat on your back if you so
much as lift a finger against me, so just get out before I throw you out!
And don’t think about comin’ back later ‘cause I’m having someone do the spell
to uninvite you so fast that--”
Despite Willy’s bravado
there was a panicky note in his voice and Spike didn’t look particularly
intimidated; he might not be able to hurt Willy, but it was unlikely that Willy
could do much to hurt him, at least not without a lot of help. Buffy
walked over to the couch, flicked her hair over her shoulder, put her hand in
the center of Willy’s chest, and shoved. He sat back very suddenly.
“Hey!” he whined, rubbing his sternum.
“One of us can still hit
people, Willy, so if I were you? No more googly eye remarks, especially
about people who’ve just taken an hour out of their busy schedule to keep you
from becoming a pancake on the 405.” She bent over to look him in
the eye. “Don’t take this personally, but why are you rational?”
“Why am--” All of a sudden
memory of the last several hours hit, and Willy hunched his shoulders and shrank
in upon himself, trying to sink into the ancient stained fabric of the
couch. “I--I dunno.”
“Can you remember what happened to you?”
Willy pinched the bridge of
his nose in concentration. “I was in the office--at the bar, y’know?
I hear this noise out back and went to see, we get bums goin’ through the
garbage all the time lookin’ for empties that ain’t empty, if ya know what I
mean. There was this guy out in the alley...” He trailed off and
rubbed his mouth. “Didn’t look exactly like a bum, though. Too
clean. Middle-aged guy, pretty good shape, dark hair, a little grey
maybe...” He shook his head, baffled. “Wasn’t a vampire or nothin’,
I can tell ‘em near as good as you can, Slayer. Just a guy. I ask
him what he’s doin’ out there, he says just passing through, and I say fine, and
he says--then it all gets confused.” He looked around. “Shit!
If the back door was left open those assholes will clear me out! I gotta
get--” He got unsteadily to his feet and lurched across the room to the front
door before a dizzy spell hit. He grabbed the doorknob and leaned heavily
on the grimy doorpost before sliding to his knees.
Just a guy. Ben had
been just a guy. Ben was dead. Which was why Glory was dead, which
was... damn. “We’ll make sure the back door’s locked. We’ve got to
make a stop there anyway.”
Willy pulled himself to his feet. “Well, in that case, ain’t you gonna
offer me a ride?”
Spike
smiled--definitely of the evil. “I think we can arrange that.”
The faded
letters on the front of the building said ‘The Alibi Room’, but no one ever
called it anything but Willy’s. Willy’s bar greatly resembled its
owner--small, shabby, and furtive, it crouched between two larger
buildings as if trying to escape notice. As soon as the motorcycle rolled
to a stop in the parking lot said owner unfolded himself from his awkward perch
and lit out for the front door, a look of absolute terror in his watery eyes.
Buffy watched him go.
“Did you absolutely have to make him ride on the handlebars?”
Spike paused, lighter
halfway to cigarette, and thought about it for a moment. “Yeh.”
“Just checking.” She
reluctantly let her arms fall from his waist and got off the bike, checking out
the parking lot warily. “Is it safe for you to be here? Last I heard
you weren’t very popular in Demonsville.”
Spike took a drag on his
cigarette and snorted smoke. “I’ve got a big strong Slayer to protect me,
haven’t I? ‘Course it’s not safe, that’s half the fun.”
“This ‘fun’ you speak of,
it’s one of those English words that translates to ‘nerve-wracking terror’ in
American?”
Spike growled
and lunged for her; Buffy dodged, laughing, then stopped so abruptly that he
nearly ran into her. “‘Smatter, love, losing your touch?” he asked
teasingly.
Laughing.
She’d been laughing. For a moment there, she’d felt...good. Really
good. Alive, and happy to be so. Astounded, she tried to grasp the
sensation, analyze it, clutch it to her heart--and of course it dissolved under
her scrutiny, fraying away into bewilderment. She avoided his eyes.
“No, no, this is just--we can’t be playing around. Business, now, here.”
She could feel that blue
gaze burning into the top of her head, heard a faint sigh. “You’re in
charge, Slayer.”
Willy was
already there when they arrived in the alley behind the bar, scouting
suspiciously around the loading dock to see what had been stolen in his
absence. Buffy examined the alley in minute detail, determined to do or
say nothing which could remotely be described as googly. There were empty
crates and a big cube of crushed cardboard boxes on the loading dock, and a
dumpster full of assorted bar trash down in the alley proper, presumably what
the mystery guy had been going through when Willy discovered him. A
smaller container stamped ‘SUNNYDALE RECYCLES’ stood nearby, half-full of empty
beer cans and broken bottles. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to find,
but if anything useful was here, it wasn’t in a form she could
recognize. Spike paced around looking at things in a less organized
fashion, the faint frown back on his face, nostrils flaring every now and then
as he tried to pick up a scent. He’d put his cigarette out, which meant he
was really serious about it.
“I give up,” Buffy said at
last. “If there are clues here, I’m missing ‘em. Unless... Spike, is
that clue-face?”
He came to
a halt in the middle of the alley, took his half-smoked cigarette from behind
his ear and re-lit it. He ran one hand through his hair, ruffling the pale
waves further. “This is ‘What have I sodding forgotten?’ face.
There’s something... familiar here, but I can’t suss it out.” He jerked
his chin at the bar. “Ought to see if anyone inside knows who this bloke
is. ‘Sides, I’m famished.”
Buffy didn’t think that it
was very likely that any of the patrons would recognize Willy’s vague
description if Willy himself, who knew everything worth knowing about
Sunnydale’s less than savory inhabitants, didn’t know who the guy had
been. But... it was closing in on eleven, and maybe a break would clear
her head. “OK. Let’s go.”
The dim lights inside
Willy’s did little to conceal the accumulated grime. The flyspecked mirror
behind the bar failed to reflect a good third of the patrons, and probably
wished it couldn't reflect another third. The crowd wasn’t a large one,
but from the moment they crossed the threshold every eye in the bar that wasn't
on her was on Spike, half a dozen sullen gazes pinned to the center of their
backs, evenly divided between preparations for fight or flight. Normally
when Buffy dropped by Willy’s, broken furniture and smashed glass resulted.
Spike, having undergone an
instant transformation into Big Bad mode the moment he’d crossed the threshold,
was eating it up. He strutted over to the bar, platinum blond head held
high, all cocky swagger and knowing smirk. Enjoying himself, and the
knowledge that one wrong word, one wrong move on his part would precipitate a
brawl. He leaned one elbow on the bar top and flashed the
natural-born-killer grin at the female Bracken demon behind the bar.
“O-neg
with a Guinness chaser and a club soda for the lady.”
The bartender looked
uncertain. “Um...there’s...you...”
“Cash on the barrelhead or
get out, Spike,” Willy snapped, bustling up behind her.
Spike raised
an eyebrow at Buffy. “There, you see? No good deed goes
unpunished.” He turned back to Willy, obviously ready to argue the
point. Buffy put a hand on his shoulder.
“Charge it to the Magic
Box, and give us a receipt,” she said firmly. “We’re on the job, it’s a
slaying business expense,” she added at Spike’s inquisitive look. “Anya’ll
charge it back to the Council of Watchers, or deduct it from the shop’s taxes,
or something financially brilliant like that.”
Spike looked as if he
weren’t sure whether to be pleased at getting free drinks or annoyed at being
cheated out of a skirmish, but finally settled on pleased. He smirked at
the bar girl, or demon. “In that case, give us some nachos too.”
Buffy started to object,
then shrugged. It couldn’t hurt. After all, this was strictly
business.
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