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Author's Note: For Fer1213 and Buffy X's Livejournal Spuffy Kink-a-thon. What's Fer1213's kink, you might ask – Buffy and Spike having to rely on each other with much snarkage of course. Must be UST, Spike's lighter included in some way, and no mystical solution to their problem. Fanon and schmoop are out of the question as well.

Decided to do a re-imagining of a story that I loved but my muse had crapped out on long ago. Sort of a fractured fairy tale kind of vibe with a little Lemony Snicket's style thrown in; hope you enjoy it.

**


The Bad Beginning

Dear Reader,

I am sorry to say that the story you are currently viewing on your computer screen is extremely unpleasant.

It tells an unhappy tale in the life of one Buffy Summers and the un-life of one William The Bloody. Even though they are both equally charming and clever in addition to being ridiculously hot, Ms. Summers and Mr. The Bloody have led lives (un) filled with woe and unspeakable danger as far as the ye could see (i.e. gym fires, the rhyming of ‘effulgent' and ‘bulge-in-it', vampire masters, eternal ‘hickeys', giant snakes, 1800s slack English hygiene...).

From the very first sentence of this story when the two are forced to be in close proximity of one another, disaster lurks at their heels. In this short story alone, Ms. Summers and Mr. The Bloody encounter demons with gambling addictions, the dances of joy and disappointment, and a multitude of uncomfortable feelings.

Yes, it is my sad duty to write down this unpleasant tale, but there is nothing stopping you from clicking your browser's ‘back' button and reading a fan fiction about wonderous high school geek-to-chic transformations or miracle, prophesied vampire/slayer babies.

That is, if you prefer that sort of thing.



"...Bloody infuriating bitch!" Spike threw his head back and roared at no one in particular. The sound of which, had enough blind rage combined with the right amount of agonizing hurt and piss and vinegar to unleash a symphony of hell in the form of howls from neighborhood dogs and car alarms.

This was not how his night was supposed to go.

In the fevered delusion version of things, now would be the time when Buffy (ever so thankful to him for rescuing her. Turning his back on his past with Dru and vanquishing his one-time "Black Beauty" in the name of love, and the greater-good and shit like that) would be repaying him for his heroics.

And repaying would of course lead to him trying out that bottle of cherry- flavored motion-lotion and breaking in that new pair of handcuffs.

But no. Oh no.

He had to fall for a blonde, ungrateful, holier-than-thou...

"Bitch!" Spike's boot-clad foot landed a heavy kick on the Summers' front door.

Any sane woman would've fell to her knees and soiled her panties over the things he'd said! Here he was, willing to give up being evil for fuck's sake – and for her! It was all to please her pleasant-self! And she'd spat on it. Wouldn't even allow him to say "I love you", because in the ass- backward, black and white logic of Buffy Summers Land, the words "I love you" only mean something if you're a soul-having pillock or an ex-Soldier with masculine identity issues and a tiny dick.

Sure, a little anger over the situation was to be expected. What with the cattle prodding and the chaining her up with a crazy-ass vampire, but it was the thought that counted.

Hey, she lived, didn't she.

"You really think getting Red to work her mojo is gonna keep me out of your life?! I got news for you, sweetheart – you're stuck with me! I'll always be here, and you know why? Cause, I'm in your gut, Summers! Deep down, you know we have something and one day you're gonna get that rude awakening! You can't shut me out, Buffy – no matter how hard you..."

The click of the porch light shutting off was the last blow Spike's ego could take. Fists clenched and teeth grit so tightly they could crack at any moment, he slowly began the long walk home.

**

Oh. My. God.

Buffy let her head linger on the door, afraid if she moved an inch, she'd redecorate her mom's colorful rug with even more colorful vomit.

Spike's in love with me?!

Was this some kind of sick joke?! What the hell had she done to deserve this! She was a good person – risked her life and the lives of her friends and family to save mankind on a daily basis, that alone should qualify her for a gold, shiny halo in the eyes of the gods or the powers, or whatever. So what was with all of this unnecessary punishment?!

"Oh. My. God," this time the groaning came from outside of the confines of her head.

"Should I even bother to ask how tonight went?"

Her head finally leaving the haven of the front door, Buffy regarded a smiling Joyce grimly. "I don't wanna talk about it. I don't wanna think about it. I just wanna go upstairs, take a long, hot shower and forget this nightmare."

Without another word Joyce looked on as her daughter trudged up toward her room.

Door slamming loudly in her wake, Buffy flopped down onto her bed in a boneless heap and was fully prepared to stay that way. Screw the shower.

Rolling over on her side she shut her eyes and tried to will her body into relaxing but happy, free of Spike-related thoughts, type of relaxing was apparently not in the cards for her tonight. Every time she closed her eyes, there he was – that annoying grin, that grating accent, and stupid, stupid hair...

He could've gotten her killed tonight! All over some twisted obsession.

The thought made Buffy see a special, blind-rage induced shade of red and she bolted upright, quickly climbing to her feet.

She was way to keyed up to sleep. She needed to hit something. Preferably until it was bruised and bloodied.

Spike would do just nicely.

**

"Whenever the world shit-kicks you, you've always got a friend in JD..." Spike solemnly eyed the bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand as he unscrewed the cap. Taking a quick swig, he bent over to pick up the video on the makeshift coffee table. "And Jenna Jameson," he added begrudgingly.

His head whipped around at the sound of the crypt door being practically ripped off its hinges. For a second Spike considered whipping the fifth of Jack at the Slayer's head but almost immediately dismissed the thought altogether –

Not because of the mind-numbing headache (that would've been well worth it) he just didn't want all of that good alcohol to go to waste.

"Oh, so it's perfectly fine for you to come bustin' up in my home!" He glared, taking another drink. "Enjoy the all-access pass while you can, luv 'cause I'll find a spell to keep your scrawny ass out if it kills me. Maybe tack on a little leprosy or make all of that bouncy hair of yours fall out."

"Shut up, Spike," Buffy lamely shot back.

His hollow laughter echoed throughout the crypt and he absently tossed his precious liquor and porno onto the cushion of the nearby recliner.

"That one cut me deep, Summers." He shook his head, chuckling bitterly. "You came all this way just to tell me to 'shut up'? Tell you what, why don't you run back across town and I'll be over to call you a 'Poo-Poo head' in about fifteen..."

Buffy's fist crashed squarely into Spike's nose and he cursed loudly, staggering backward.

"You bleached, idiot!" she spat angrily through clenched teeth. "I could've been killed!"

"I had the situation under control!"

"So, Harmony pumping you full of arrows was all part of the 'Wooing Buffy' process," she said sarcastically, folding her arms over her chest.

"Well..." he began biting his lip, "no but..."

"I don't wanna hear it. I don't want see you; I don't want you anywhere near me, Spike. Do you understand?"

Spike narrowed his eyes and boldly took a step closer. "You came to see me to tell me not to see you...?"

"Damn straight," she answered before landing another hard right on his nose. "Also...the punching you in the face -- doesn't suck."

Loudly sniffing, Spike wiped the bright red blood from his poor, busted nose on the collar of his shirt and managed to send the iciest of glares in the Slayer's direction.

"I mean it, Spike," Buffy began cooly as she opened the crypt door. "Stay away from me."

**

Now, it is required that every story have a villain. An antagonist to keep the protagonist(s) from being truly happy, thus frustrating the audience nearly to the point of suicide (Joss Whedon's Method to Television Writing, Pg 52). This story, is of course, no different.

The Thorine: as underground as super underground organizations tend to be. Membership only extended to the most prominent and elite (the word ‘elite' in this case meaning ‘ridiculously special') figures of the demon world. The Thorine are not merely interested in normal demon activities such as smashing things, killing humans, and smashing things while killing humans; oh no, this exclusive club takes their animalistic instincts to a new level.

"And we have a winner!"

Wild howls and applause erupted from the audience.

Glancing up at the huge projection screen, the scaly, green-skinned demon known to the room as ‘The Ringmaster' smiled brightly. "It took exactly nine hours and forty-five minutes for the good Dr. Green to give up on freeing himself from those shackles and saw his own leg off. Can we get a round of applause for his will to live?"

The room responded with more loud clapping and shouts.

"Who would've guessed he would've lasted that long, huh? Oh, that's right – lucky number 117! A pot of one-hundred thousand kittens is going to you my friend! The freshest tabbies around." Clasping his hands together, The Ringmaster paced the stage. "And if you thought that prize was as big as it gets, then brothers I've got news for you..."

The screen faded to black before a huge banner dropped down in front of it.

"Battle of the Cows ‘2001! With a grand prize of two million kittens!" he announced amidst cheers. "By tonight, the players will be ready and rearing to go; so, gentlemen, place your bets!"


TBC





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