[Reviews - 57]
-
Table of Contents [Report This]
Microsoft Word Chapter or Story | ePub eBook Chapter or Story | Printer Chapter or Story

Has been viewed 1805 times

- Text Size +




A/N works a right pain in the arse! makes writting that much more difficult. Still my neighbourhood nag the lovely slaymesoftly (Patti) got on my case about this one and I sprang into action and finally finished this chapter. Hope to have more up soon the next couple of chapters are written in rough draft so this week or begining of next.

Apologies for the long wait and thanks as always to teh fabulous proofing skills of April who like the star she is turned this round over night for me (teh time difference is actually a bit of a boon)

Kisses for her and for anyone who takes up this story again xxxxx

------------------------------------------------------------------

"It was horrible." Dawn's hands are still shaking slightly as she gratefully accepts the sweet, milky tea Giles hands her. Stuffy they may be, but the Brits do have one thing right: there is no trouble or upset that cannot be soothed by tea. "I was so sure he killed Xander."

"He had a damn good try." The carpenter's neck is already a mass of purple bruises, forming on the side opposite the twin punctures covered now by one of Giles' extra-large band aids. Anya's hand plays soothingly in his hair as he shakes his head in angry disbelief. "Son of a bitch."

"Dawn." Buffy ignores his outburst in favour of focusing on her sister. "You said you thought I was on to something. Explain."

The teenager pulls herself together with remarkable aplomb, and once again the slayer can feel that ever-growing respect and pride in her little sister’s strength. "It was like you said. The way he acted…the things he said were wrong somehow. Like you'd have to know him to realise, but somehow he was just off."

Buffy nods pensively; maybe Dawnie has a little supernatural perception of her own. Or maybe they just both know Spike far too well for either of their own goods. "It was weird; he was calling me all the wrong names—"flower," and soppy stuff like that. Those aren’t his names for me." She says that last with emphasis, as if his choice of pet names is fundamental, and perhaps it is. "I think he gave me another message. He said—"

"God, what is it with you Summers women?" Xander seems to think about standing, but from the look on his face a wave of nausea prevents him and he flops back down with a surly grunt. "Can't you just accept that Spike's a bad guy?" He waves vaguely at his own neck. "Exhibit A," he intones sarcastically.

"You’re alive, aren't you?" Dawn had obviously heard this more than once on the walk back here, and has grown impatient. "I think it was some kind of sleeper hold, but he made it look good. I was so sure…"

"Why would he want you to think he'd killed Xander?" Willow asks. Funny how just recently Dawn has been so completely accepted into the group. No one talks around her anymore; people listen and Buffy realises that she's earned that, with long hours at the research table and growing common sense.

"I don't know. To scare me, I guess." She shakes her head as if irritated with her own conclusion. "But it doesn't make any sense. I mean, I'd realise soon enough he was alive."

"Why's he alive at all?" They look a little taken aback, and Buffy adjusts her tone before she continues. "Not that that's not of the good. But if Spike's in Sunnydale for a good old fashioned killing spree, he's got more reason to kill Xander than anyone else, after the way you treated him."

Anger seems to fortify Xander and he braves the sickness and gets to his feet. "The way I treated him?" he demands, rage and disbelief colouring his voice in equal measure. "So somehow this is my fault for not being nicer to poor widdle Spikey? Sorry, but I didn't realise we were wooing the mass murderer."

"That's not what I'm saying, Xander." She tries to placate him.

"Shoulda known you'd take your boyfriend’s side."

"I think what Buffy is saying—" Oh wonderful Giles, calm and rational, bringing oil as always to troubled waters. "Is that there is little love lost between you and Spike. So why did he spare you? Why not just kill you, Dawn, and Buffy last night?"

"And why pretend? Why would he want Dawn to think he did kill him?" Willow's natural inquisitiveness would be enough to ensure her participation in further debate, and the slayer can't help but be grateful at least for that much.

"Maybe it wasn't for Dawn," Anya suggests without looking away from where her own hand strokes Xander's shoulder.

"Someone else," the slayer muses aloud, brow furrowed in thought. "And last night when he was kicking me, I'll warrant that looked a lot worse than it was. Although…" She shifts a little in her seat and winces at the stiffness in her body. "Not exactly a picnic in reality."

"Someone's watching him." It’s Dawn again, full of ideas and input. She’s so quick, little Dawnie, and so eager to help. "Who? Why?"

"I don't know, Dawnie. Maybe there's some kind of clue in the things he's said."

As clues go, they're pretty obscure. Her pen scratches over Anya's pad, disjointed random statements written in her schoolgirl bubble print. Lines squeezed in here and there, arrows and crossings-out turning the page to a spider’s web of confusion as she tries to get her memories into order.

"Right. From the top." She rolls her aching shoulders and gives the page a challenging look before beginning. "The first thing he said was stuff about before he left, but I think that was kinda a heads up, just to get me listening. So the first one I got is
'Some William the Bloody type waking up and gobbling you down.' At first I thought it was just Spike being gross." She curses the blush that accompanies the implication and presses on. "But he hates being called William, and what's with the 'waking'?"

Seconds tick by with laboured slowness as the they glance dumbly at one another, until she can’t take the silence anymore and lets them all of the hook. "Ok, that one might be a bit obscure." She tosses her blonde hair and turns her attention back to the page. "Ok, how about last night? He was talking about the first time we fought."

"Oh, parent teacher night!" Willow bounces and raises her hand then gives them a chagrined look and clasps her hands together in her lap.

"Yep. He said the high school, but then he asked, 'What happened to old Valious?'"

"Valious? Wasn't that the name of that amulet Giles got knocked out for?"

"Thank you, Xander." He's not wildly keen on reminders of his penchant for spending his time unconscious.

"That was the one those scary 'eyes like daggers' big end of the world suicide jump guys were after." Willow's so glad to be able to help, as if she feels the constant need to atone, and maybe she does.

"So, apocalypse?" Dawn asks, with a rueful sigh.

"Maybe, and high school, which means hellmouth." Buffy flops back in her chair; she could admit to being a little bored of—

"Oh, god."

"Dawn?" Something in her sister's voice stills the room to nervous attention.

"A kid. I think they've got a kid." Her eyes are big and wild and her voice cracks under the implication.

"What? Why?" And mentally she's begging that her sister's wrong, even when her stomach is sinking with the instinctive certainty that she's not.

"'Smaller nibbles with just as much juice.' That’s what he said to me. He said it was a message for you and then he called me Nibblet and I knew he was trying to tell me something."

"Did it occur to you he was talking about lunch?" Xander, of course, but even his vitriol seems a little forced, more hopeful than genuine.

Dawn shoots him a withering look before turning urgently to her sister. "'Smaller nibbles.' That’s got to be a kid, someone younger than me. And the juice thing, well, I am the key when it comes to Apocalypses—lypsie, whatever, I'm packing some serious octane."

And isn’t that the truth? If Dawn’s right—and she probably is because for all the hours Buffy spent screwing Spike she understands that she doesn’t know him half as well as her sister does—then a child could die, and somehow that is more disturbing than the ensuing apocalypse. Well, not on this slayer’s watch.

"I need to patrol." She's up and halfway to the door when the objections begin: "Do you think that's wise, Buffy?" "But, Buffy, we're not sure of anything, and if Spike…" "You shouldn’t go alone, Buff. Not with that murdering bastard out there. You’re kidding yourself with this, and we both have the bruises to prove it." "Buffy, are you sure?" And so on and so on.

"Guys." Her voice rises above the oh-so-concerned babble. "You're right, we don't know anything for sure, and I need to know." Her cool gaze washes over each of them in turn like a chill autumn breeze, not cold yet but you know it's not far away. "I need to know," she repeats emphatically. "And right now the only person who knows anything is Spike. I'm going to patrol, I'm going to find him, and I'm going to get some answers. You guys keep working on the riddles. Giles, do your watcher thing; find out if there's anything due to go down." And with that she's gone and the troops have their orders.



……………………………………………….

Renon obviously doesn't know a great deal about vampires. If he did he'd realise that he'd left Spike to wait just within earshot of his mistress' chamber.

"So our plan succeeds? He weakens her?" That voice—like a hundred voices speaking as one, ancient and resonating with power. Whoever this bitch is he can't help but understand why the others follow her; there is something even in just the tone of her voice that lures and subjugates, that makes the demon in him want to crawl to her and serve. It pisses him off.

"Yes, Mistress. All is as you desired. The girl thinks only of her battle with him; she does not see the other pieces moving."

"Good, and then we will be ready." He can even hear her soft, satisfied sigh from here. "The signs are in place. The world readies itself for the coming of my kingdom."

"Yes, Mistress." The worship and wonder in the priest’s voice made Spike sneer, pillock. "Just one more day, glorious queen, and the midnight will see you crowned again in blood and fire."

"It is well." At least the bitch has the class to dismiss her priest's sycophantic fawning. "This world, it wearies and sickens me. I have been prisoner here for far too many a century."

"Soon, mistress."

"Send the vampire again to the slayer, but tell him nothing of our plans except that she must be incapacitated tonight. The death of her friend will have shaken her; he must act now."

So Renon, pompous and superior as ever, sent him back out to see exactly the person he needed to see.

…………………………………………………..

It's not as cold a night as she'd expected, and her heavy Paddington Bear style duffle coat has been relegated to a neatly folded pile on the cold marble of the tombstone next to her. She kicks her heels against the stone and stares distractedly out into the night. She'd seen a program once, years ago, on the TV when she'd been poorly and her mom had ensconced her on the sofa under a duvet for the day, remote in hand to keep the tedium at bay. Anyway, these two overly-cheerful kid TV presenters had been doing an experiment to see what was the quickest way to find each other in a supermarket. It turned out that the best way was for one person to stay still and wait to be found, but of course you had to agree beforehand who was the looker and who was the stander. She remembers insisting that in the event of separation on their next trip to Walmart, her mother should stand still and wait for Buffy to find her.

She has no such agreement with Spike, but she thinks that she has always been the stander and he has always been the one doing the searching. It's a bit philosophical of her to ponder the significance of that—it was only a stupid daytime show anyway—but she can't help but wonder if there's a life metaphor in there somewhere.

He does find her, of course, just like always. Even when they were playing their twisted games of hide and seek, she never really hid all that well. She just stood about waiting to be found. He looks bad. Not hangover bad. He looks bad, as in evil bad. "Slayer," he greets in a cartoon villain drawl.

"Spike." This is it, time to put her crazy theories to the test. She feels stupidly nervous like a high school girl who's thinks a boy likes her but can't be sure. Of course, if she's wrong, she's risking a hell of a lot more than her dignity. "You killed Xander." She's like ice over granite, hard, cold and treacherous, but she hopes that he'll know her at least as well as she knows him and he'll see the questions in her eyes.

"That I did. Boy tasted rotten. Surprised he didn't give me indigestion." He's laughing as he speaks, and she can only describe it as an Angelus laugh and then she's certain he's acting.

She flashes him the briefest of looks, eyes widening fractionally in conspiratorial communication. Then she attacks, kicks and punches finding their targets with unerring viciousness. He's bleeding by the time they come apart again, bleeding and laughing and looking at her like she's the most pathetic joke in the universe. "That the best you got, slayer?" Give the man an Oscar because, God, she feels small in the face of his derision. "Killed your pup and all you got for me is a bloody nose?"

"For now." She locks eyes with his. "But really, Spike, how long do you think you got before I get to you?" She doesn’t change her expression but she knows he'll get it.

He grins. Clever, clever Buffy. He knew she'd catch on, and now she's come looking for answers. "What, you giving me twenty four hours to get the hell outta Dodge? Very wild west of you, slayer."

"I'm not letting you go anywhere, Spike." She rolls her shoulders and levels a grim stare at him. "This is over. Tonight."

"Oh no, Darkling." It sounds like some kind of twisted endearment, but she knows she's heard the unfamiliar word before. "It ain't over till the fat lady sings." He cocks his head as if listening and flashes a feral grin before attacking. "Or maybe the nightingale."

And now she's on to his game her punches too look far worse to Spike's constant voyeuristic shadow than they are. Hell, they've damaged each other so much more and called it foreplay in the past. The thought and the careless ease with which it slipped unchallenged through her mind are enough to make her lose her rhythm, and he lands a kick she should have dodged with far more force than he intended. For a second his eyes hold apology, then he's sneering and goading her again and she has to clear her spinning head quickly and pay attention because he might just have something to tell her.

"You think I'll stop with the boy?" He circles her with lazy, big cat strides, and she follows the languid movements with hard, wrathful eyes. "Can you watch them all tonight, slayer? 'Cos soon as the sun goes down, I'm coming and you better be ready."

She launches herself at him again with impressively convincing venom until he goes to ground and she can close for the kill. "You won't touch them," she hisses vehemently as the stake comes down just a fraction too slowly to stop him turning the tables on her with a flick of his hips. And with her pinned beneath him like this, he can barely maintain the charade because it could so easily be cold, white tiles beneath her bruised body in place of damp winter earth.

The shudder that goes through him is so powerful that she feels it along every inch of her body and understands immediately. She can't see his eyes, or his open book face, but she doesn't need to; he's quiet, but the strength of that uncontrolled tremble speaks more loudly than any eloquent petition of regret. They always spoke this way anyway, with bones and skin and push and pull of muscle.

The desire to comfort is completely twisted; she isn't so far gone she doesn't at least recognise that much, but still it's there and it's not within her power to resist it. Besides, when the inevitable need to justify her own actions hits her, she will be able to tell herself she couldn't afford for him to lose it, not when they were being watched and there was a child's life at stake.

"Hush." It's barely a breath against his cheek as she lets her thumbs brush a fleeting gossamer caress across his collarbones. "Hush."

It's not forgiveness but it's not condemnation either, and though it only lasts a second before her tiny hands are flinging him off her, it's precious to him. A gifted treasure of gentleness from a woman whose only interest in him should be righteous bloody vengeance, and he understands, perhaps only now for the first time, how much better than him she is, how right she had been that night she called him beneath her.

He rolls as he lands and comes to his feet with a dancer’s grace just in time to block her full frontal attack and spin her round so she's pinned against his chest.

"Scream." The whispered command confuses her for a moment; then he brings her awkwardly- twisted arm down across his own forearm and the cracking of bone is sharp in the silent graveyard. She screams, bracing herself for the agony that doesn't come, as he tosses her aside; and only she who knows him so well would be able to see the pain behind his mask. Stupid, masochistic vampire; she can't even imagine how he did it or what self-inflicted break he's hiding so well, but now's not the time to find out as she turns and flees the cemetery, right arm clutching at the left where it flops uselessly against her side.





You must login (register) to review.