The first time he woke up, she was gone. Of course. He didn’t really expect otherwise, but one can hope. She was probably just off getting something to eat and calling the kid sis. He rolled over to a different cool spot. He couldn’t even keep the bed warm.
------
The second time he woke up, it wasn’t of his own volition.
“Wake up.”
There were hands on his shoulder, jostling him out of slumber. He automatically pushed them off, telling whoever it was to go away.
“Was that actual language? Sure didn’t sound like it.” The voice sharpened. “Wake up, Spike.”
His head started to clear. “Be a good Slayer and shut up will you?”
Silence. He almost opened his eyes, amazed that she would listen. That’s when a pillow thumped into his face with a cushy, yet rather firm thud. “If you don’t get up right now the next thing I hit you with won’t be made out of fluff, fang face.”
“Christ, woman. Give a bloke a second to wake up, will you?”
“Shouldn’t you be able to wake up instantly? You know as part of an evil, undead predator thing? What if someone was sneaking into your crypt while you slept?”
He turned his head away from her and groused into the pillow. “S’warm.” And it was. Now that the Oklahoma summer sun had been beating against the curtains all day, the entire room was warm.
Buffy blinked. “It’s warm? Natural survival instincts are crippled by a warm bed?” He didn’t answer and she glared at him. One long vampire shaped lump under the covers, with only the tip of his blonde head peaking out. “Just get up, Spike. I went out and found the place. Didn’t take long either, this town is smaller than Sunnydale.”
His head shot off the pillow. “You went there without me?” he yelled, voice rough from sleep. “Did it occur to you that we may not be the only ones after this golden bauble?”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job, Spike. All I did was look around. Of course I waited for you. Providing the backup muscle is why you’re here.”
“Right. Why else would I be here,” he muttered darkly.
Her jaw stiffened at his words as he tossed back the sheets to get up. “I didn’t mean it like – Gah! Naked! Spike put some clothes on!”
He scowled. He’d forgotten that at some point during the day, he’d tossed the offending articles off to the side. Jeans and the like were damn restrictive when trying to sleep. Still – she didn’t have to react like this. He shot her a dirty look as he headed to the bathroom, tugging at the bandage on his hands. “Didn’t mind my dangly bits so much last night,” he snapped, and pulled the bathroom door shut behind him with a slam.
Buffy stared at the closed door, cheeks burning, fists clenched. She most definitely hadn’t forgotten their little moment in the car last night. And she didn’t understand why things always had to be like this with him. So up and down and complicated. Her feet padded quietly across the carpet and to the door. She heard him beyond it, shuffling around, and was wildly curious as to what he was doing in there.
She tapped lightly on the door. “Spike?” she called softly through the door. He didn’t respond, but it was quiet suddenly. He’d stopped doing whatever it was he was doing. She took a breath. “I didn’t mean it like that, you know. Just that – ” she licked her lips, “that it hadn’t even occurred to me to go in without you. We came here together. We’re going to do this thing together.” She waited, and still he didn’t reply. “Spike?”
Suddenly, on the other side of the cheap, scuffed door, she heard him clear his throat. “Just going to have a shower, pet. Then we can go.” Without waiting for a reply, he started the water going.
Buffy stood there, staring at the door for another moment, before turning. She looked over the ugly hotel room, unseeing. She wasn’t certain if she had fixed things at all. But neither of them had yelled, and he’d called her that silly name, so things couldn’t be all bad. She crossed the room and peered out the heavy drapes at the setting sun. It was almost time.
It hadn’t taken very long to find the place, but she hadn’t risked checking it out further. She just had to hope that Giles’ contact was on the up and up.
Buffy sank into a chair by the window, eyeing the hotel parking lot through a crack in the drapes. Aside from the indistinct voices of the occasional passerby, the only noise to be heard was the water of the shower. The gauze around her arm itched uncomfortably and her mind wandered over last night’s events. Between her big sobfest, nearly getting horizontal with Spike, and nearly biting it in a dirty gas station bathroom, it had been a long, long night. In retrospect, facing the long lost Knights of Crazyville back in Sunnydale didn’t seem so bad.
The water suddenly turned off, and her thoughts immediately realigned to the vampire in the bathroom. Spike. She sighed inwardly. That was something she couldn’t ignore or push away any longer. Things were going to be different when they got back home. Different how, she wasn’t sure yet, but definitely different. There was no getting around it.
Spike emerged from the bathroom, white towel secured low around his waist, tousling his hair dry with a smaller hand towel. He tossed it towards a corner of the room, leaving his hair a damp riot of white. She watched him from her chair, noticing the way he eyed her warily through narrowed eyes.
He sized her up, taking in her jeans and tank top. The white bandage on her arm stood out against the bronze of her skin. He’d have to get her to cover that up before they made the grab. There was no telling which way this shindig might go.
“So, since you scoped it out, pet, what’s this place look like then?”
She bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to come back with the first remark that popped into her head. “It’s the second floor of a two story place. Kind of run down. But a lot of places looked a little old.”
“Did you see anyone coming and going?”
“Yeah, but it’s a magic dealer. Plus, there were offices and stuff on the first floor. There’s going to be some people.”
Spike grunted in reply and dug through his bag for a clean pair of jeans.
Buffy shifted in her chair, uncomfortable in the silence. “I have a feeling this might not be as easy as just walking in there and saying ‘hello.’”
“Things rarely are when a Slayer’s involved,” he drawled. She shot him a look and he shrugged. “Just how it is. If it was easy, a Slayer wouldn’t be required.”
“I guess,” Buffy mumbled, slightly pouting.
“Might want to hide them chaste peepers of yours.”
“What?” she asked, parsing his language.
Too late. He threw his towel in the general direction of the other one and began tugging on his jeans.
Buffy sputtered, head swiveling. “You’re shameless,” she said, eyes fixed firmly on a hideous picture typical of crappy hotels. She couldn’t fight the slight blush that burned her cheeks.
“Yeah, and you love it.”
She watched in her peripheral vision as he walked over, now in only a pair of black jeans. “No, I don’t,” she protested, but it sounded weak even to her own ears.
“Yeah,” his voice rumbled directly behind her, breath pushing her hair, “you do.” One broad hand came up to gently grasp her throat, while the other travelled along the path of bare skin of her uninjured arm, from shoulder to wrist.
Her breath caught and her eyelids fluttered. How did he do this? Undo her with the simplest of touches.
“S’not a bad thing, love.” The hand at her throat tilted her head up to the side and the ghost of his lips travelled the column of her neck. He pushed his nose into the corner of her jaw and ear, and the curtain of blonde hair that fell there. “Not a bad thing at all.”
Her eyes closed, and she let loose a sigh as his hand played along the skin of her arm and he nuzzled against the warmth of her neck. It was heaven, and she wanted to stay and explore. Just for a little while. But she couldn’t. Duty was calling her name. And it was really damned persistent.
“Spike?”
“Mm?” He didn’t lift his head, just brushed his lips against the side of her neck. His hand moved from her arm to grasp the curve of her hip.
“As much as… this is really nice… we need to get going.” Even as she spoke, Buffy struggled with the words. She struggled with her feelings. She struggled with them. The them that was suddenly her and Spike.
He stilled, and she expected him to withdraw, to pull back into himself. Quickly, she covered the hand at her waist with her own, twining her fingers through his. At that, he moved, brushing another small kiss to her throat. “So we do.” He straightened, disengaging from her, and after letting his hands linger on her shoulders for a moment, he turned back to the rumpled bed where his T-shirt lay.
Pulling the back tee on, he eyed her injured arm. “You need to change into something that covers that up,” he said, nodding toward the wide swath of bandaging around her arm.
Frowning, she peered at it, fingers plucking at the edges randomly. She tugged at it until it was loose enough to peek at the wound. “Slayer healing is a magical thing,” she declared.
Spike arched an eyebrow. “I bet,” he said. “How bad is it?”
She let the bandage go back into place. “Bad enough.” Crossing the room over to her suitcase, she started digging through it. “I think I packed a jacket or a hoodie or something.” Spike watched her as he waited for his bag of blood to ding in the microwave. Knowing the Slayer and her stoic soldier routine, her arm, while much better than yesterday, would probably give under the pressure of lifting a kitten.
Buffy smiled triumphantly and pulled out an old baby blue cheer hoodie. “So.” She turned towards him and he saw the change come over her. The transformation was almost palpable. The Slayer, in business mode. It was in the squaring of her shoulders and in the keenness of her eyes. “Are we expecting trouble?”
The microwave dinged and he popped the door open, happy to find the bag nice and warm. He shrugged. “It’s like I mentioned to your Watcher after the event, love. During that refreshing bout of torture, I heard one of Glory’s scabby pinheads mention the sphere.” His face shifted, and with practiced finesse ripped the bag with his fangs. “So I’d lay bets on yeah, they might just be here, too.”
He tipped his head back and took a healthy pull, his throat working. She always felt a bit like a voyeur when he did this. Drank. Like it was an act that people just weren’t supposed to see. But, she mused, most people weren’t, were they? They were supposed to be the victims.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “Who’s paying for this little wizgig anyway, Slayer? Don’t imagine the wizard’ll just give it to us.”
“His name’s McTeague. Giles said the Council was funding it since it’s such a major need.”
Spike arched an eyebrow skeptically. “You mean the Council that you oh so recently told to kiss your pert little arse?”
Buffy frowned, her hands, in the process of putting her hair into a ponytail, coming to a momentary stop. “When you say it like that…”
Spike stretched out his legs, sprawling gracefully. “I’d wager that old Rupes is funding this one, pet,” he said, then took another pull off the blood bag.
Buffy finished pulling her long blonde hair through the blue elastic band and thought of the money her mom had left behind her. It had been a fairly modest little cushion, that was now dwindling rapidly under hospital bills. “I’ll have to thank him later. In some really vague way so he doesn’t get all… British and awkward.”
Spike shot her a look at that, but she merely shrugged. “You know that’s how it’d go.”
They fell to silence for a moment. Him drinking his blood, and her packing up the various odds and ends that had made it out of the suitcase. Before this trip she would have laughed at the idea having a companionable silence with Spike, but had since discovered that it was in fact possible. It sure didn’t happen very often, but it was possible.
Buffy shoved her flip-flops in the bag and suddenly stopped, both hands braced on either end of the suitcase.
“I’m not too worried,” she declared.
It was only half a lie. Her nerves thrummed. She wasn’t worried about dispatching a couple of Glory’s goons. She was worried about somehow missing this sphere thingy that was suddenly so integral. And she was worried about Dawn. The distance between her and her sister was like a thread of anxiety, and each day and mile between them just pulled it tighter.
Spike eyed her, lips tinged red. “Right.” She wasn’t fooling anyone. He could hear her heart going pitter-pat. “Either way,” his voice suddenly turned smooth and wicked, and she abruptly remembered the days when he had terrified her. “We’re going to put up a hell of a fight.”
He smirked around a mouthful of fangs, his golden eyes glinting, and she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “They have no idea, do they?” she said with a small laugh. “All right.” She pushed off from where she leaned on the dresser. “Let’s get this show started.”
They peered up at the grey, two story building from Spike’s parked car. “Lights are on. Someone must be home, then,” Spike said, hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel.
Buffy eyed the street. Aside from the occasional passing car, the place was largely deserted. Most people probably cleared out after the work day was over, she guessed. Motion caught her eye and she watched an older man climb into a pick-up, start it up, and drive away. He didn’t look like a scabby monk, but she wasn’t going to limit her options. She looked back up at the lit up window. “Someone or some thing,” she said quietly.
Spike shot her a sudden grin. “Won’t know until we chop it open, pet,” he said cheerfully before popping open the door and climbing out of the car.
Buffy hastened to follow. Climbing out of cars with a sword in your hand was always awkward. She had decided long ago that long swords and cars just weren’t supposed to be around at the same time. Dry heat hit her the moment she stepped out. The sun hadn’t been down too long yet. “This guy could be good! You don’t know. You can’t just kill him to death.”
He glanced at her as she caught up to him, the corners of his mouth curling slightly. The orange light of the street lamps bounced off the blade of his sword and the black leather of his coat. “Won’t kill him. Just scare him a bit, is all.” He was still smiling that toothy grin as they trotted across the street, his duster furling behind him. “Think we should split up? I’ll go ‘round back, just in case he makes a break for it or someone beat us to it?”
She nodded, looking up at the light shining through the window on the second floor. “Yeah, alright.” She turned on him, and gave him a sharp look. “But no chopping unless he does something really twitchy.”
Spike turned, heading towards the alley. “Not until he twitches. Got it.”
“I meant suspicious,” she called after him, trying to be quiet about it, but he had already disappeared into the dark. She frowned at the poorly lit alleyway before turning back to the main entrance. Time to get that sphere. Finally. Energy buzzed through her, setting her nerves thrumming. Her hands and feet and muscles itched, ready to move, ready to fly, just like they always did when she set out to take someone down, or get the goods, or save the day. It’s what she was built for. That’s just what it was like, she guessed, when you were designed for a purpose.
She tried the handle. Locked. Probably locked up once business hours were over. That was alright. She had her own special key. One firm push was all it took. Wood strained and metal snapped, and she was in.
Buffy was worried the moment she stepped inside. It wasn’t the surrounding offices that worried her. They were all closed down for the day, with no one around to be suspicious of her and the sudden sound of door breakage. No, what worried her was the large circle and all the little squiggly markings drawn in a lurid purple on the floor. If Willow or Giles were here, they’d probably know just what the markings meant. Just what language or region of the world they were from. But they weren’t. Not that it really mattered anyway. Buffy had been doing this job long enough to know that whatever else these symbols might be saying, the main thing they said was bad. Bad, bad, bad.
She glanced around the building again, eyes keener now, looking for some other hint of what kind of magic had been done. The closed up rooms looked perfectly benign, so she turned to the staircase leading upwards. A sign stood beside the stairs, with white plastic letters announcing ‘2nd Floor – McTeague’s Curiosities’. Bingo.
She took the stairs quickly, running shoes moving soundlessly over the old steps that seemed blessedly creak-free. At the top, she turned the corner and paused. Across a narrow strip of landing was a wooden door torn half off its hinges. Splintered and broken, half of the door lay scattered across the hall, the other half still clinging sadly to a bent hinge. That was also bad. She approached the door, grip tightening on the hilt of her sword. Whatever had torn that door down was big. And strong. Big and strong never boded well.
Images of the monks already come and gone with the Dagon sphere and Spike trapped fighting whatever this thing was flitted through her head. She quashed them. They were not the sort of thing that a Slayer dwells on. Not if they plan on living very long.
Buffy slipped up to the door frame and peeked inside. No one was around. Shelves lined the walls, and display tables covered the floor, all full of oddities, whether in liquid form, or dried out flora, or maybe was-alive-at-one-point fauna. The inside of the shop looked much like the Magic Shop, except dustier. And completely trashed. Glass from broken jars was sprinkled everywhere, their former contents spilling over the shelves and onto the floor. Scorch marks were on the floor and walls. Display tables were upended, some missing a leg or two.
Softly, Buffy crept into the room. There were two other doorways. One, open and leading into an office behind the counter. The other, was off to the side, the door shut, with light and muffled voices slipping out. She eyed it warily. They must be in there. Probably already had the sphere, too.
She glanced at the door leading to the back office. She should wait for Spike. She should – a flash of scarlet caught her eye. Lying on the floor behind the counter, was an old man with a wide mustache, presumably McTeague. His white hair was stained red in the blood that seeped across the carpet underneath his body.
His face was contorted in a stiffened rictus of pain. It took her a moment to process what was wrong with him, for the pieces to click together in her brain. His arm was missing. It wasn’t missing in the ‘I lost it in ‘Nam’ sort of way. It was missing because it’d just been ripped off. All that remained was a jagged stump just below the shoulder. Splintered white bone poked out, glistening with red. There was blood everywhere, pooled all around him. A trail of it led from the body all the way to the closed door across the room. How didn’t she see it before?
She looked back at the old man. There was no other mark on him. He had died from having his arm torn off and from the resulting blood loss. The tip of her sword listed to touch the floor, her stomach lurched. It was a hard way to die. Good guys weren’t supposed to die this way – defeated and lone and in so much pain.
A floorboard creaked behind her and she spun, sword whirling up and ready.
Spike just looked at her. His empty hand raised in a gesture of harmlessness. His sword was lowered, even as the tip of hers found his throat, the sharp point just inches away. He took her in: hazel eyes fully dilated; breathing hard; blood pounding its way through her veins like a horse at the track. It was a long moment before she blinked, really seeing him, and lowered the sword.
He looked past her, at the body on the floor, at the way the arm was missing. He supposed he could see how something like that could get to a person. Even a warrior who’s seen more than their fair share of death. Maybe even more so a warrior like this one, one who had the threat of death dogging her around like a bloody shadow. Spike looked up from the body and took in the utter chaos of the shop and the burn marks on the wall. The old man had fought with magic. If he had to make a bet, he’d put money on whatever monster had torn off this guy’s arm being fairly resistant to physical magic. Voices and sweat and blood and something else, something thick and musky, tugged his attention to the closed door across the room.
“They’re in there,” she whispered, back planted firmly against the body.
“Yeah,” he said and nodded towards the back room he’d come through. “There’s a chest broken all to bits. Chances are they found it pet.”
“Then we’ll just have to take it back,” she threatened softly. “There was some kind of circle downstairs. The bad mojo kind of circle. I think – ” she couldn’t help but glance at the body, “ – that they summoned something.”
Spike nodded. “That explains the smell. It’s in there. Along with three of the monk types.”
“We should take it out separately. I don’t want these jerks sneaking off with the sphere while we play with whatever ugly they brought.”
Spike frowned. “That’s actually… not a bad plan, Slayer. I’m kind of surprised.”
“So not in the mood, Spike.” She tried to stay stern but a corner of her mouth curled up just a tiny bit. “Remind me to smack the crap out of you later on.”
He looked at her, eyes bright, like he wanted to say something else, but instead he simply pressed a finger to his lips to shush her. Rolling her eyes, they quietly crept across the floor to the closed door.
Snatches of voices gradually began to form words. “ – crush it. Before anything can happen to it.”
“No. I am sure that She Who is Tastefully Selective of Footwear and All Things Painful would want the certainty of seeing it destroyed herself.”
“But what if during the transportation the Slayer overtakes us?”
Buffy positioned herself to one side of the closed door, where she wouldn’t be visible. Sword in hand, Spike strolled up to the door and pushed it open, as casual as if he’d been invited.
“This a private party or can anyone join in the killing?” he drawled, leaning against the doorjamb.
Three scabby-looking demon monks stood in the small room, surprise etched clearly across their faces. One of them clutched the sphere. The golden bauble wasn’t what caught his attention, however. What caught his attention was the pale, fleshy thing hunched down on the floor, its back turned to him. It was clearly occupied with something in its hands.
“It’s the vampire,” one of the monks exclaimed. “The Slayer’s vampire!” The monk snapped his fingers at the pink thing bent over on the floor, “Glansig, kill him!”
Spike’s mouth quirked, not sure if he should be offended or pleased with that particular title. The Slayer’s vampire. “That’s right. The Big Bad’s here and…” Spike trailed off as the thing crouched in the corner started to rise. And rise. And then it turned, and he was momentarily speechless. All in all, at eight foot something, he was surprised the beast fit in the room.
It wasn’t something he’d ever run across before and he had a feeling that by the end of the fight, he’d be okay with never seeing it again. Its torso was short, but its arms and legs were impossibly long. Its knuckles brushed along the floor. For all its length, it didn’t lack in thickness. Limbs the width of young trees looked perfectly able to tear him into tiny, dusty pieces. Its face was piggish, its jaw strong and covered in blood. Blood, both scarlet fresh and darkly dried, was dribbled down its chest and bulbous belly. That’s when Spike realized what the thing was holding in one hand. He had thought it was a club of some sort, but then he saw it for what it really was. It was the arm missing off of the old man.
Spike stood in the doorway, eyes fixed on the monster. This thing had withstood all the magic the old man had thrown at it and then tore off his arm to use it as a chew toy. The monster eyed Spike back, preoccupied with the arm, with gnawing on splintered bone and cooling muscle, not terribly concerned with the monk’s orders it seemed.
A vague image of Buffy’s bad arm popped into his head and he blinked it away. “Alright,” he said, squaring his shoulders. With a snarl, he brought his gameface forward. “Step on up then, ugly,” he taunted, making a show of fangs. The beast jerked back, nervous at the change and shift of bones, the sudden appearance of another animal, the sudden threat. Then with one small roar, the monster charged.
It moved like lightning for something so big, using fists the size of hams to swing forward on its knuckles like a gorilla. Spike barely had time to duck back, out of its way before the thing smashed through the entry, tearing apart the wooden frame. He leapt over a table, simply trying to keep some distance between himself and the monster. The vampire was barely conscious of the crash behind him as the Slayer toppled over a huge bookcase, effectively blocking the now jagged doorway and leaving the monks trapped.
The monster knocked the table aside, barely a second behind him, not even pausing in its pursuit. Spike felt the rush of air of the beast at his back and his jaw tightened. Bugger this. He turned, meaning to face the thing, sword high, ready for the swing, and instead caught all the momentum of eight feet of monster barreling into him. They slammed into the wall with a force that left Spike seeing stars and with more than one cracked rib. Before he could form a solid thought, the thing sunk its teeth into his collarbone, sliding across bone and muscle. Spike screamed in pain, hands groping, searching wildly across the monster’s pink flesh, trying to find some sort of leverage.
“Spike!”
“Feel free to join in any second now, Slayer,” he growled through gritted teeth, as black waves of pain rolled through him.
A sudden whizzing through the air ended in a loud thunk, and the monster bellowed, releasing its grip on the vampire’s shoulder. With one hard shove, Spike gained enough room to roll away from the thing and to his feet, one hand clutching at his shoulder. The monster turned to face the Slayer, and while its back was turned Spike lunged for his sword. He came up to see an ancient, tribal looking spear stuck out of the things back, buried deep.
Buffy watched the thing as it flailed blindly to remove the spear from its back. She stood, feet planted firmly, unmovable; her sword, up and ready.
The monster made several desperate tugs on the spear, trying to pull it out, before giving up, it was so deep. Instead, it settled for breaking off the protruding length with a loud snap. With a howl, it threw the broken shaft at Buffy. It was a bad throw, wobbly and ineffective, and she batted it away easily with a sweep of her forearm. Brute strength and speed the thing might have, but it was nothing but a beast.
Buffy glared at the thing that had murdered the man she was supposed to meet today. It had torn off his arm like he was a doll. The creature stomped its feet and puffed out its chest, huffing angrily as it stared her down. Her brow furrowed. The thing was trying to intimidate her, like an animal protecting its territory. Something in her stomach soured. Her body was no longer singing, ready for a good fight. All that was left was an apathy that had become familiar lately, a weariness, of all the death and bloodshed that saturated her days. “I’m tired of this. Let’s get it over with,” she muttered to herself.
Switching her sword back into her right hand, she advanced on the monster. Her arm throbbed from the throw, and she was pretty sure it was bleeding again, but she had needed to get that thing off of Spike.
It watched her. Piggish eyes, leery and keen. Whatever patience it had quickly evaporated and with a grunt, it rushed her. Fully ready, in one quick step she turned, ducking sideways under its arm, sword tilted up, and let the creature use all its momentum to rush upon the blade. The sword sunk up to the hilt in the thing’s gut and the impact shot bolts of blinding pain through her injured arm.
One of its arms caught her, flinging her to the side like an oversized toy. She landed, back first, into a display table, bring it crashing down around her. Tiny glass bottles full of mysterious liquids shattered around her, throwing noxious fumes into the air. Buffy gagged, her eyes watering, as she tried to orient herself.
She watched through tearing eyes as the monster grasped the hilt of her sword and pulled it clean out, screeching horribly as it went. As soon as the blade was out, it let the sword fall to the floor with a muffled whump against the carpet. It teetered, then regained its balance and slowly turned toward her. It took one step, and stopped with a jerk. The tip of a sword emerged, protruding out of its blood stained chest, going right through the breast plate.
With another hard jerk wracking its body, the sword drew back out, disappearing from view. The monster stood, wobbling for a moment, before promptly crumpling to the floor, collapsing in a heap. Spike stood, bloodied sword hanging listlessly in one hand, clutching his shoulder with the other. He was covered in blood from the bite. A smear of scarlet stood out against his white cheek. Like a dog shaking off water, he shook off his gameface. Eyeing her, he wordlessly stepped around the carcass and held out a hand to help her up.
Gratefully, she took his hand and hauled herself to her feet. Knocking her elbow on one of the upturned table legs, she hissed at the sudden jolt of fresh pain shooting up her arm.
Spike snorted. “We make a sad pair, don’t we? I’m getting pretty tired of this shite, too, Slayer.” He nodded his head towards where the monks were still barricaded in the other room. “Let’s not keep our dates waiting, eh?”
Buffy glared at the barricaded door. “This is all their fault.” Deftly catching up the hilt of her sword, she made her way over to the bookcase. “They’re the reason we had to come all the way to Oklahoma. They’re the reason I got my arm all tore up by some loser vampire with a yen for gross restrooms.” Right beside her, Spike braced himself against the fallen bookcase. If he thought about protesting the general accuracy of her declarations, the look in her eyes quickly banished the idea. “They’re the reason that old wizard guy is dead,” she said, mouth rigid with simmering anger. Together, they made quick work of pushing the overlarge bookcase off to the side.
As soon as the way was cleared, the three monks pushed forward in a flurry of motion, trying desperately to escape. Slamming the heel of her hand to the opposite doorjamb, Buffy clotheslined the one at the head of the pack. She shot a look at the other two as they slowly backed up into the room, and then gave a less than pleasant smile to the monk lying flat on his back.
Letting her hand fall back to her side, she placed a firm foot on his chest. “Going somewhere?” she asked, voice deceptively pleasant. With both hands on the hilt, she brought down her sword, without hesitation, plunging the blade in the monk’s chest. Blood flew up, speckling her jeans and her hands, and the monk’s body jerked. His mouth flew open as if to scream, but the only sound he made was a low, gurgling moan.
With her foot still on his chest, Buffy pulled the sword clear of the body. She looked up at the remaining two monks, who, weaponless, were staring at their fallen comrade with horror. “I really don’t like doing these things,” she said, almost offhandedly. “But the two of you have my glowy ball thing. And I need it to kill your boss.” Their gaze flew back up to her, and then to Spike, sheer terror written across their faces. The monk holding the Dagon Sphere clutched it closer.
Beside her, Spike clucked his tongue. “I don’t believe they plan on giving it to us, luv.” His voice was hard and cold and he grinned, baring white, white teeth. “That’s alright, though. I was looking forward to a bit of payback from Glory’s boys here, anyway.” If possible, the two demons paled even further under their mottled brown skin.
“The mi-mighty Glorificus will not f-fall,” one of the monks stuttered. “Dagon Sphere or not, she will find the Key and open the Doors between worlds.”
“No,” Buffy said simply, “She won’t.”
And with that, she and Spike moved in and made quick work of the two monks. It wasn’t like the demons were trained to fight, after all. Not against things like her, like Spike.
Afterwards, Buffy couldn’t really recall leaving the magic shop and making her way back onto the street and into the Desoto. All she knew was the sphere clutched at her side, and a single-minded determinedness moving her feet that wouldn’t rest until she was on her way back to Sunnydale.
The slamming of the car door as Spike climbed in jerked her back to full attention. He watched her out of the corner of his eyes, wary of her silence since she’d killed the monks. With a small sigh, Buffy tucked the sphere closer into her lap. “Take me home, Spike. Please?”
He cleared his throat and turned the ignition. “Sure thing. Or at least a partial part.” He pulled the old car onto the road, and started off for the highway. He was tired as hell and his shoulder hurt like a bitch, but he could stand to get at least a good couple hours away from Elk bloody City. Patting his pockets down for a cigarette with his free hand, he came up short. Of course.
Rapidly becoming disgruntled, he shot a glance at the small bauble glowing softly in Buffy’s lap. “Going to hug that thing all the way back to California?”
“No.” A pause, and then, “Maybe.”
She fidgeted in her seat. “I really didn’t like having to do that,” she said softly. So softly, he almost missed it.
He glanced at her, at the mild upset on her face, as she leaned her cheek against the cool glass of the window. Hell, even he’d almost felt bad about killing those last two, what with the sheer ease of it. Almost being the operative word there. So it wasn’t too hard to imagine what she and her scruples were telling herself. Killing poor, unarmed, defenseless chaps and all that. “They would’ve gone straight back to Glory if you’d let them be. You know it.”
She nodded. “I know. Didn’t say I was sorry. Just that… I don’t really like it, sometimes.”
He would kill twenty more of those monks just for one bloody cigarette. “Yeah, well, that’s what makes you different from the bad guys.” She was silent for one long moment, and he shifted nervously, wondering what he’d said wrong now.
Suddenly, she shot up straight as an arrow. “Buffy – ”
“This is going to change everything, you know.” She cut him off, an edge of excitement creeping into her voice.
Spike frowned at the quick change in mood, “Buffy?”
Her tiny hand covered his, where it rested on the gearshift. “This is going to change everything.”
He glanced over to find her hazel eyes on him, and suddenly he wasn’t sure they were talking about the sphere anymore. He swept his thumb along the side of her hand. “That it might, pet. That it might.”
--The End--
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