+~+~+~+~+
When is the mountain scared?
When do I feel I haven't failed?
I have to get it together, man.
It hasn't happened yet.
It hasn't happened yet.
It hasn't happened.
+~+~+~+~+
“Loser.” Flip. “Loser.” Flip. “Mondo freakazoid Klingon-wannabe loser.” Flip. Andrew sighed. Going through his old high school yearbooks had seemed like a great way to spend a rainy morning while Jonathan poured over his Voyager schematics and Warren visited a Great Aunt from whom he hoped to inherit. An hour and three thousand, four hundred fourteen point three-five-seven-oh reminders of the lameness that comprised his high school career later, the idea had lost some of its sparkle and shine. He hadn’t even had any friends. He wasn’t even inside Jonathan’s radar in those days. At least Jonathan had thought of that totally cool kill-yourself-in-the-bell-tower-with-a-sniper-rifle idea. Not that it ever would have worked, even if the Slayer hadn’t intervened. Jonathan’s arms were totally too short to reach the trigger, no matter what he said. Still, points for dramatic flair.
The Slayer. Andrew turned the page to stare at Buffy Summers’ name. She wasn’t even pictured. She was probably off too busy having a real life to show up. The Slayer was so cool. In that total, “I want to kill her because she’s my evil arch-nemesis” way, of course. The way she fought, her snappy vigor, her witty comebacks. Not that he had really witnessed a lot of that first-hand. But he had definitely heard the stories. And he had seen things. Lots of things. He was an observer extraordinaire. That was it. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been involved in high school. He had just been too busy setting the stage, keeping a sharp eye out for danger and adventure at every turn. A reporter never became too close to his subjects, or he’d totally lose his objectivity.
Andrew began turning the pages with renewed intent. Praying Mantis Teacher? Hah! He’d known about her. Not that… he was a virgin or anything. Or had anything to be afraid of there. Uh. No. He was just a disinterested bystander. And if he’d placed a bug in the ear (Andrew giggled) of a lamer student or two about how hot she looked, that was mere curiosity, not self-preservation, at work. Right. Andrew nodded before flipping to a different portion. The light above his small desk chair shone dimly on the laminate before him.
Hyena people. Check. Directing them to Principal Flutie’s office had seemed like a stroke of evil genius at the time. Not like he got any credit for that, though. And after Snyder showed up as the replacement, it hadn’t seemed so great after all. Big on the evil. Little bitty on the genius. Nevertheless, he’d been able to stretch his do-badding muscles on that one.
The barest formulation of a plot dawned on Andrew. He had done lots of bad things in high school. Bad, wicked, devilish things! Jonathan and Warren just hadn’t had the chance to see his villainous mind at work. So, granted, he wasn’t so great at doing bad things on his own (school play monkeys excepted, of course), but he was really good at pushing violence in the right direction, lending it that extra twisted helping hand. All he needed was someone suitably foul, dangerous, aggressive, to shove along on his own little course. Then, there’d be no stopping his nefarious ways!
He’d be like Lore, Data’s dark, yet surprisingly dashing, evil twin. Or… like a Sith Lord. But not Darth Maul. Because Warren said they weren’t allowed to mention “Phantom Menace” ever again, unless it included Queen Amidala. And she was naked. Or he could be Alex Krycek, a darkly ominous behind-the-scenes presence of ambiguously evil intent. Only… icks-nay on the ooden arm-way. Andrew pushed frantically through the pages in front of him before coming to an abrupt halt. There. They would work perfectly. Warren would love this.
+++
Buffy continued glaring at the cooking pancake batter as Dawn bounded lightly down the stairs. Buffy turned and raised an eyebrow as the teen came into the room. “You’re awfully bright and perky this morning.”
“Yup,” Dawn said. “Must be all the crack.”
Buffy’s stern squint couldn’t quite hide the twinkle behind her eyes. “We don’t joke about illegal drug use in this house.” Buffy flipped the pancakes on the stove. She wasn’t sure how long she was supposed to let them cook. Was black a bad thing?
“Yeah,” Dawn threw in, “And we don’t joke about eating people either. Whatever.”
“You heard that, huh?” Buffy dumped the pancake briquette onto a plate in front of Dawn. “Look. Breakfast.”
“Uh-huh.” Dawn’s face played over a range of disgusted visages before settling on ‘ick.’ “So speaking of everybody’s favorite evil undead, did Spike come back last night?”
“No,” Buffy said. Stupid vampire. He left. He actually left. Unless… Dawn had a reason for asking. Maybe he did come back. Maybe she just hadn’t noticed. Had Dawn heard something later? Had he wanted to talk to Dawn and not her? Should that irritate her the way it did? Was he ok? And why did he leave in the first place? Stupid vampire. Redundancy? Check. Insecurity? Check. Annoying mental questions? Check, check, and is there a word for infinite check? Buffy tried for calm and casual. “Why? Did you see him?”
“Nooo,” Dawn drawled. “My room doesn’t have a tree,” she answered brusquely, “Duh.”
Buffy turned to pour another doomed pancake into the pan to hide her blush. She tried to remember the vague excuse Spike had thrown out last night. Work. Of course. When was Buffy’s life not about slaying demons? “Whatever the big bad is this time, he said he’d tell us about it later. I’m sure everything’s fine.”
“Sure.” Dawn pulled several generic cereal bars out of the cupboard and set them on the counter. “Look, Buffy, breakfast,” she said with a twitch of her lips.
“Oh, thank the cereal gods,” Buffy muttered before slipping onto a stool across from Dawn.
“Well, we normally go by mystical glowy key-thing,” Dawn answered sagely, “but cereal gods will work too.”
Buffy smiled, but her thoughts returned to the night before. Their shared time at this same bar. Her frustration at Spike’s premature departure. Then, inevitably, to the reason he left in the first place. Dawn was now in high school. In high school, and still having nightmares. About demons, and horns, and cheese, and friends being eaten, and there was nothing right about that. Buffy’s own bad dreams came with the calling. But there was no super-slayer strength to share for little sis. None of this came in the handbook. The one she’d never read. At least, she was sure Giles would have told her if it had. She couldn’t slay dreams. How could she hope to fix any of this?
“Buffy?” Dawn’s voice broke through the low hum of crackling pancake batter.
“Yeah. Sorry. Sort of spaced. All back now. Space-free. Except in the air sense. You know. Cause… I breathe it,” Buffy offered lamely.
“I was just saying,” Dawn said slowly, “thank you for last night. It really helped.”
“But I didn’t, I didn’t do anything.” Buffy looked at the counter and pulled at her cereal wrapper. “It was just a bad dream.”
“I know.” Dawn reached across the table and touched Buffy’s arm. “But it was nice to have you there. To know you were there for me. Like mom used to be.” Dawn pulled away when wetness threatened her eyes. “Hey, what do you know. Time for all that fun and funky learning at the place that is school.” She slung her book-bag over her shoulder and brushed back her long brown hair. “I’m staying at Tara’s until you’re done with work tonight, ok?”
“Yup,” Buffy answered, shaking off the softness of the moment. “I’ll pick you up there when I clock out.”
“Great,” Dawn said. She began to walk out, but she turned, walked back, and pulled Buffy in for a quick hug. “Thanks, Buffy. I meant it.”
The sound of the door closing vaguely registered as Buffy sat at the stool in awe. She’d just helped Dawn. She had actually helped Dawn. Buffy felt the world shift a little. For the first time since she’d died, she actually felt like she’d been good enough. She’d done something right. It felt nice. And solid. Real. And why had Spike been the one to see its importance long before she had?
+++
Spike stared at the blank telly and smoked his fifth cigarette with little feeling. Why couldn’t the bleeding world just make sense for a while? For a second, just a breath really, he’d thought… No. Didn’t matter what he’d thought. Bitch never would figure it out. Never would see him as any more than a thing to be used. She’d more than shown that last night. Cast his present off with no more thought than a used rag doll, all to grab him and tell him, what? That she wanted him? That she’d use his body to stop her pain? Spike tossed the burned cigarette to the floor and lit another.
What had the red witch said? Soothe all her little achies. Damn straight. So his gift, bearing his heart and his sou… well. No. Couldn’t very well bear that. Since he didn’t have one. But bearing all that he did have for her in one singularly important scrap of paper, and she’d tossed it off to have a rough screw on her frilly coverlet. Big fucking surprise. The cigarette flared as Spike took a deep drag.
Only, it was a surprise, really. That’s the bit that stung. Because for a second, when she stopped him, he’d thought she’d wanted more. The look in her eyes when she’d said the words. And when she’d kissed him… oh, he’d never known she would kiss him that way again. The once, after he’d taken a beating being tortured for the Bit, she’d kissed him like that. Gratitude and grace and “I’m sorry” all wrapped into a gentle press of lips on skin. Everything he’d ever wanted from her. Well, everything but love. And the less thought on that the better. Never one to dwell on things he couldn’t get. Much more fun to ruthlessly drive himself to get them.
Oh, who was he kidding? Far easier to kill this slayer than to love her. Angelus was a whole pisser of wrong about that one. She’d been killed twice. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her well-loved. She wouldn’t let him, wouldn’t let anyone. She was so far gone now. Hadn’t even cared that kid sis was whimpering in the hallway like an oft-kicked mutt. Just wanted him to bring her off, get her high, let her out.
And why hadn’t he? The memories of her warm body pressed into the soft bedding against his side brought a familiar tingle to his groin even now. He could have taken her. Claimed her slow and steady in her own bed. Made her see it different. Made things gentle for a change. But the Nibblet was crying. He could smell it, even if he hadn’t heard it. And suddenly he’d been using each ounce of preternatural speed and stealth to reapply shucked clothes and make a less than subtle exit.
Spike launched himself from the chair and kicked an empty bottle against the crypt wall, taking an eerie delight in the comforting crash. He was a vampire, damn it. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. He needed to go. Get out. Face the demon life for a spell. Remind himself of the way things really worked in the world. Honestly. What kind of world was right when Buffy didn’t care her own sis was in pain? What kind of world was it when he did? Spike grabbed his duster and slipped to the tunnels leading from his crypt. As he stepped into the moldering darkness, only one thing was clear: something had to change.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Plotted this whole story out during Family Law class. But just so you know, there *is* a plot. Fear not, gentle readers! (Ok, I should never channel Andrew. Like… ever again). The reviews for “Paper Promise” were so great that even though I’d never planned a sequel to it, I decided to expand on what I started there. For those who missed my Author’s Response on those reviews, I’ve never written more than about 5,000 words on a story before. Incidentally, I don’t think I’ve ever gone off canon before either. So for everyone who reviewed, thank you for encouraging me to try new things. Especially at a time in my life when I desperately needed to be creative.