Mountain Dew

Author: dutchbuffy2305, aka db2305

Story note: 10 years post-NFA

Rating: M

Betaed by: mommanerd and thedeadlyhook

Feedback: I never tire of it! dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk

#7

Spike upends the coffin to sit down on and think, but no amount of patting his pockets produces the fags that ought to be there. He finally looks down, annoyed at his hands for not finding what they're told to, and registers the scorched cold-weather gear he's wearing instead of his duster. Bugger. His last fag went weeks ago. Why is Buffy taking this so personally? And why did he have to be so bloody stiff-necked in his decision to be not angry about it? Wouldn't have killed him to bend a little.

The sun is taking its bloody time about setting, too. Bugger bugger bugger. A snaky thing looks around the corner of the truck's stained canvas canopy.

"Don't be shy, mate. Only gonna tear your head off, is all."

"Spike," Andrew says and seats himself on the edge of the truck's tailgate.

"You handled that badly, mate," Spike says. "Pissed off the Slayer no end."

Andrew uses his whole body to indicate he knew about it. His neck shoots forward like a chicken about to attack a worm, his mouth grimaces and his hands waggle. "I know. Executive decision. This was an extremely delicate procedure, and we decided you guys would play your roles better if you didn't know. Maybe you could have handled knowing, but I didn't want to put you in that position with Buffy."

Spike thinks of replying, but it would be pointless. The little wanker's done what he's done, no point in giving him a bollocking, although God knows someone should have when he was growing up. Now he's warded up the wazoo, and his familiar Snood has a nasty bite. The living scarf hisses at him. Spike vamps out and hisses back.

"You two have such a rapport," Andrew muses. "Sometimes I'm downright jealous of that."

Spike shrugs, not ready to be appeased yet. Besides, he loathes the striped monster. Now if it had Man U colors...

"Right," he says. "Thing's been done. Better tell me exactly what we did."

Andrew's face lights up. "It is so cool! We've been planning this for years, after I twigged to the reason the world is fucking itself up."

Spike keeps mum, waiting the rant out. Andrew will eventually support each and every questionable statement.

"The reason that humanity seems unable to fight pollution, extreme weather, over-population, extinction of species, is that we're reneging on our deals."

"What deals?"

"The sacred pacts between us and the gods. You know what I mean? They give us a leg up, we sacrifice goats and bulls, use their names a lot, sing their praises, you know the kind of thing. Back when demons ran the earth, this place wasn't so pretty and green, you know. So some of those demons made us, called themselves gods and that's how they won the battle against the other demons. You knew that, right?"

"A version of it," Spike says, skeptical, although he knows Andrew's hasn't been wrong for years.

"So, me and the guys, you know, Rastvanantha, Obuweyo, Dos Feliz, you met some of 'em, we got together and figured it out. The spell cloud protecting the earth is worse off than the ozone layer, and the analogy is not for nothing. It's as fragile as a spider's web, and we've walked through it a couple of gazillion times too many. There was no way we could patch it up. So we negotiated the start of a whole new deal. A representative of humanity, a representative of demon kind, to unite in a sacred marriage at Midsummer's eve, like it's always been done, or at the very least acted out. Savvy?"

Spike really needs a fag now. Andrew's limp scarf stiffens, flexes and dives its flat little head into Andrew's pocket. It comes out with a packet of smokes in its teeth. Great, cigarettes with holes in them. That'll work so well with the smoking. But he grins and accepts them. It's the thought that counts.

"Ta, Andy, and you too, em, thing."

They're insane, All of them. He can hear them buzzing behind the truck, giddy with victory. He braces himself for more bad news. Andrew's not ready yet.

"So, you know, we were monitoring the state of the magic deal, the sacred deal, and we knew you and Buffy had done it. It." He giggles nervously, and Spike guesses from Snood's grimace he's vamping out again. Oops.

"And in fact global weather has been getting back to normal, which is to say, say normal for 300 B.C."

"Why that date?"

"Religion, baby. Buddhism, Taoism, Confucianism, Judaism, and then the big destroyers, Christianity and Islam. Taking all that lovely attention away from the old gods, and since they bound up their power in those deals, lots of 'em died. We had to find new guys to woo, you know. Not easy. They don't much like humanity."

Andrew jumps off the truck and rubs  his hands. He's finished with the conversation, apparently. Spike should probably be flattered he's been singled out as the first target of the sales talk.

"Did you check out the Black Mountain?" Andrew says and point. "Nicely covered in snow, instead of bare and ugly. Vegetation is doing good, too. CO² in the air down a percent already. My guy in Malta says he'll be growing me a dodo steak in a few years."

"Yeah, great, weather is nice. Tell me more about the deal you made. On behalf of all humanity? Fucking hubris, mate!"

Andrew backs off a step. "Just, you know, the pact's got to be confirmed again. Definitely at Midsummer and Midwinter, but preferably daily. But I figured you and Buffy would be totally up for that."

He scuttles off into the sunlight, with his living stole making ugly faces at Spike behind his back.

Tosser. Buffy's never ever going to forgive this.

#

"Baffy!" someone cries out, and Buffy vaguely remembers him from London, but she sure as heck knows he's not supposed to hug her this tight.

"Amazing. Incredible. Only you could have performed this well! Extraordinary!"

His wizened pale-brown hand pats her midriff. "Any sign yet?"

Buffy's jaw is still busy dropping when he gives way to a bevy of other well-wishers. "Mz. Summer! Splendid job!" "Congratuliere!" "Hachoo, mees Sammer!"

And so on and so forth.

Buffy's smiling muscles are starting to ache and the only thing holding in the head of steam building up behind her eyes is her teeth, clenched grimly together below bared lips. What the fuck are they talking about? Sure, she's saved the world before, and people were happy, okay, so far so good. But this level of felicitations? Coming all the way to the back of beyond that is Bhutan for run-of-the-mill world-savage? She tries to find Andrew but fails.

"Your figure, she is the most glorious, fertile, maternal in the world! I will commission a statue to eternalize the gorgeous swell of she your belly..."

He's lucky he doesn't get an elbow in the schlamozzle. Her year with the Immortal has made her seriously adept at avoiding male 'admiration' and she skates backwards out of the crowd while still engaging in smiles and chitchat on the front. Andrew. Now.

There he is, hopping out of Spike's truck, stupid scarf trailing behind him.

"Andrew, yoohoo!" Buffy grits out between her teeth and Andrew turns back to her.

His face is pale, and he folds his arms, but he stands his ground. Buffy can almost admire him for it.

"Splainy. Or there will be hurty."

Andrew attacks right back. He hugs her tight to his parka and busses her cheeks. He's smoothly shaven, fragrant, straight from the Jumolhari in Thimphu, Buffy bets. He wears Clinique's 'Simply', which is so not a male fragrance.

"Buffy, this couldn't have happened without you. Only you and Spike could have withstood those powerful forces riding you, and I don't need to tell you that the fate of the world was hanging on this. But you guys came through. Incredible job!"

Buffy walks slowly in the direction of the gleaming yellow bus the Watchers and wizards came on. Andrew is forced to walk along with her. The moment they're out of sight she yanks Andrew close to her face.

"I could kill you right here and now. Give me a reason why I shouldn't?"

"But Buffy, you saved the world. You've always acted for the greater good. What's so different now?" the little worm says.

"You used me. You used me and Spike. You bet the fate of the world on whether we'd still have feelings for each other? Are you insane? What are the odds?"

"Please, Buffy, I'm Spike's friend. You think I wouldn't know that he's never stopped loving you?"

Buffy's aggression drains out through the wet earth, and she suddenly feels her aching butt, her furry teeth and greasy hair. She's not prepared for the anger to go that easily and stands, flailing, at a loss as to what to say to Andrew. Why bother? He's not going to understand her world view. He's been lucky, just plain lucky, and he thinks he saved the world because he moved Spike and her into place like chess pieces.

She's not going to let him go that easily. "You're a despicable human being. Your self–esteem is so inflated you can't look past the bloated balloon of pride floating in front of your face. What are you going to do now? Have a party with your buddies? All these men, huh, why are they always men, I wonder, trading people's lives for the good of the world? I spit on you! I'm never going to work for you again! And neither is Spike!"

Shit, she shouldn't have said that last one. In fact she should have swallowed the whole rant, because Andrew is just like Aura, he can sense she's no longer truly angry, just pretending to be for the sake of appearances. Her words slither off him like grease in a Teflon pan. And she so wishes he would stop fiddling with that stupid scarf, because it's distracting her. Maybe she can still find her righteous anger, but really she just wants a bath and a lot of hot greasy American food. Andrew bends his head close to her ear. "Hot wings? Burgers? Coke?"

Buffy stiffens, saliva floods her mouth. The man is making her drool on command? He's so dead.

"I told the hotel manager to stand by with a hot bath. You slide in and I'll have his daughter bring in all that hot yummy greasy salty American food and I'll top it up with Ben & Jerry's. Well?"

"That's blackmail," Buffy says weakly.

"Buffy, you're a gorgeous woman, but you're not looking your best right now. You do want to, don't you? Look radiant for Spike?"

If she were a real hero, she'd spit his bath and his ice cream in the face, but her willpower's a ninety-pound weakling and caves. It needs to build up its will-muscles and later go on to become Governor of California.

"Bath oil?" she moans. "Shampoo?"

"Cream rinse, and she could even touch up your roots if you want to....She's a trained manicurist...."

Buffy's hand creeps to her parting and then she hides her hands in her pockets. "I accept your offer of bath, manicure and food. For the rest, I still hate you and I will talk to you later."

Oh yes, she'll talk to him later. But after she's been fortified with all that civilization has to offer a smelly tired, hungry woman, whose pelvis and back ache from riding donkeys and trucks for days.

#

As soon as the sun sets, Spike slips into the festive crowd. Andrew has organized a celebratory barbecue, Bhutan style, which mostly means roasted tofu and peppers, and no one sees him as he slips through the crowd, sneaky as a predator can be among his natural prey. He can still remember wishing to be that predator again, and humans are his natural prey, but the memory of that wish is as faded as a century-old Daguerreotype.

He should have asked Andrew a lot more questions. Such as, exactly what kinds of demons were now humanity's new gods? And what else does humankind have to do to keep their side of the deal? He bets there're gonna be virgins involved, and blood sacrifices, possibly goats. And how come he didn't know demons had the power to turn back global warming? He's a demon, and he never knew that.

Spike doesn't find Buffy in the throng. He'd tried to follow her argument with Andrew through the medium of her heartbeat and their voices, but she went too far from the truck, too many people interfering with their loud bodies and sloshing blood. Deliberate, on Buffy's side. Hope she hasn't emasculated poor Andrew. Although he deserves her anger.

Spike gets new, worried thoughts about Buffy and he needs to check on whether she's okay. In the lobby cum dining room cum almost everything, he gives the clerk a note for her so he can see in which slot it's placed. He goes up and listens at Buffy's door. Her heartbeat is a little bit too fast for someone leisurely enjoying the bath he smells.

He quietly forces the door and pads towards the bathroom. The small table is strewn with the remnants of a junk food fest. Buffy' sitting straight up in the bath, eyes staring away into nothing.

"Buff? You okay?"

"No," Buffy says and grimaces. "I think I ate too much ice cream."

"Best stick a finger in your throat.," Spike advises as he settles himself on the bath rim.

She rolls her eyes.

"Lie back. Let me try something."

Buffy lies back without a word. Maybe she remembers how good he was with sprains and headaches. He wets a cloth and puts it on her forehead. Then he picks up her limp left hand and starts massaging, finger by finger, then the palm, then thick pads of her thumb. Something's different, he thinks but then he notices it's only that her hand is smooth and her nails are pink and glossy. She managed to get a manicure in, here, which is maybe not back of beyond, but certainly the suburbs to the back of beyond. Kudos.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Gonna be home in a couple days."

"Yeah."

"Where did you stash Andrew's body? Cupboard?"

Buffy groans low in her throat. Too relaxed to tense her facial muscles in a smile, he guesses. "He lives. I wasn't a hundred percent sure he was an evil idiot. Innocent until, you know the drill."

She yawns widely.

Spike gives up all thoughts of talking it out and helps her get into bed instead. She insists on brushing her teeth and stumbling over to the tap to spit and rinse. She's out the minute she hits the mattress. Spike thinks of joining her there, but resigns himself to a few more nights in the coffin. Truck to Thimphu, plane to Delhi and then to London. If he gets into bed with her now, the last leg of the journey in the cargo hold of the plane will be the harder for it. They'll have plenty of time to talk after. He wonders what Buffy's daughter is going to make of him.

#

The trip by third-world bus to Thimphu, the plane-rides to Delhi and London are uneventful. Spike's absence is marked. Buffy wonders about it while she shuts out the incessant chatter of her seatmates and keeps them at bay by automatic smiles. Does he always travel pretending to be luggage, or is he avoiding her? Andrew certainly is, and tries to camouflage the fact by sending her his whole posse of starched Watchers and creased, unwashed wizards to talk to her, one at a time.

Watching the in-flight movie, starring at the unbearably cute ten-year old Pitt Jr., would be preferable to the endless looks at her midriff, the eyes of all hues searching for a sign of something in her face, the blatant but unspoken hope. Buffy keeps her anger at bay by daydreaming in full bloody glory of dismembering, garroting, beheading, eviscerating or just plain bashing Andrew to death. She doesn't want to alarm Dawn unduly by calling her in the middle of the night, and she doesn't want to text her or e-mail her. Paranoid, maybe, but she feels it's important to be cautious. She's not gonna make a scene on the plane, but by God is she going to make one after she's gotten some proper sleep in her own bed and at least five showers, a manicure, a pedicure and a hair-treatment. And spent a lot of Aura-hugging time.

She's not an idiot, some passive vessel for a future of indemnity to the forces of darkness, like the creepy Andrew posse has dreamt up. How revealing it is that there are no women in the group, while the council normally consists of an ample majority of mature slayers and witches. They'd never stand for it. How male, to think you could solve all the woes of the world with one shady deal. She just knows who'll be mopping up the fallout of this for the rest of her life.

Buffy wakes up with a shock in the midst of landing on Heathrow. Home! Nearly home! She's texted Dawn her ETA and she can't wait to hold Aura in her arms after all this time. The place next to her is empty. Good. She can only hope that the creepy cabal hasn't been laying hands on her while she was asleep, sucking away her mana and her luck like bloodless vampires.

Her minds goes into overdrive, energized by the prospect of being almost home and safe. She'll mobilize Willow and Dawn to find out what exactly Andrew has been up to. Maybe Giles will even come out of retirement for something of this magnitude. She'll show them what a Slayer is capable of given the right kind of motivation. And she thinks she remembering a Boots drug store in Heathrow, before check out. She needs a little something tested urgently. She's not going to think beyond that, but oh, the butt she'll kick if it's true.

Landing and disembarking  takes forever. Passport control, Non UK- or EU-residents. The bedraggled group of mighty warlocks waits meekly for their luggage to arrive. Andrew is busy negotiating. Spike's coffin, Buffy hopes. Yes. There it comes, on a special cart with a British flag draped over it. Andrew signs multiple papers while the baggage band turns around and around with the same three pieces of orphaned luggage on it.

Finally, the officials leave Andrew in possession of the coffin.

"Buffy, a hand?"

Buffy gives Andrew a big show of how easy she can open a sturdy coffin, dark oak, luxury class. She cracks the lid.

"Oops. Sorry, sometimes I don't know my own strength."

Andrew titters nervously and his scarf hisses at her. No, that can't be true. Spike hops out.

"Lo, love. Survived the trip? Had a nice kip, myself. Let's get cracking, eh? Sunup's in an hour."

In a daze, Buffy follows Spike, who finds his and her luggage within seconds.

"Coming with me, love?"

"Um, no, I have to wait for Aura and Dawn, they said they'd meet me. Wait for me?"

"Mommy!" A piercing shriek sends Buffy's heartbeat skyrocketing.

Aura. She forgets about Spike and runs towards the little dark-haired girl in the red hoodie and jeans. She gathers her up and vacuums in great big lungfuls of Aura-smell, kissing the little grubby face until Aura starts squirming.

"Mommy, stop. You're making my face wet. Gross."

Buffy laughs and Dawn takes the chance to hug her sister.

"Am I glad to be back!" Buffy says. "I missed you so much, Aura baby. Did you miss me?"

Aura glances at Dawn and nods virtuously. "I had vegetables every day. And Dawn reads two stories before bedtime. Can I have ice cream? I'm hungry."

Dawn rolls her eyes. "It's four o'clock at night, pigeon. How can you be hungry! Aren't you sleepy?"

"I'm like Mommy, I can stay awake all night if I want to."

"Let's go home, Buffy, okay? This is not my best time of day," Dawn says with a yawn.

Buffy nods, but then she remembers Spike.

"Spike?"

He's gone.

Oh for God's sake, did she hurt his feelings or something? It's pretty normal for a mother to forget everything the moment she sees her kid, right, and forgets to acknowledge the maybe-boyfriend? If that's how it's gonna be, all easily-hurt-ness and insecurity, maybe it's best that they don't continue whatever this is. Men.

TBC

Feedback:dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk