Warning: There's a fair amount of "fucking" this and that,
but no real harsh language except expletives; there's an extended implied
sex scene, but no plumbing (plumbing -- explicit body parts -- doesn't
interest me).
Old Blood
Nan Dibble
SIX
Dawn had retreated to the basement and shot the bolt, figuring that was the best she could do. She'd brought a magazine and her headphone set, and flopped on her stomach on the disordered cot, ankles crossed behind her and swinging, listening to a tape. When the banging started and Buffy's voice got louder, Dawn turned up the volume and continued flipping through the pictures. She scrunched her forearms up against her ears.
La, la, la, not listening, so not listening....
One side of the door cracked off and sent the remainder of the door slamming into the wall. Descending like a big round rolling Indiana Jones rock, Buffy flung the magazine away, then took possession of Dawn's headphones despite a snatching grabfest over the cord.
Holding up the micro-player in one hand and the headphones in the other with an implicit threat to squeeze them to powder, Buffy demanded, "Where's Spike?"
"How should I know, what makes you think I have nothing better to do than--"
It was an ex-micro-player. Oh, Buffy was so gonna pay for that, destroying Dawn's property!
"Where's Spike, Dawn? I saw you two talking. You do not want to get me angry!"
"Fine, this is the non-angry that's soooo much better?"
Oh, no! Headphones mangled, twisted apart, wrecked, displayed. However, the up side was that Buffy had just run out of hostages.
Or maybe not: Buffy raised a hand. Dawn pointed at it accusingly: "Guilty! Guilty of intent to slap! You're gonna owe me the national debt and two hours in the Gap. You're--"
The threatening hand was reluctantly lowered, so Dawn withdrew her point. The sisters glared at each other. Buffy blinked first. "Dawn, he can't be out there on his own. It's not safe. For anybody."
Dawn shrugged and flipped her hair for good measure. "I said I'd go with, but he wouldn't let me."
Buffy lifted her face to the ceiling in Thank-heaven-for-small-mercies! unspeakably overburdened mode which she actually did quite well.
Willow came ker-thumping down the stairs and started to say something to Buffy, but Buffy cut her off at "I can't--" with a hand-slice, her eyes never leaving Dawn.
"He said," Dawn quoted precisely, "I should say, 'Out for a walk.' He said you'd know the rest."
Spike knew how to push Buffy's buttons better than anybody: Buffy reacted as though she actually had been pushed, rocking back on a heel, looking not just angry but alarmed.
"OK, Dawn, you're thirty seconds from full DefCon One at ground zero. You will not go to the Freshman mixer and Ice-Capades is history. Where did he go?"
"Buffy," Willow interjected hesitantly but firmly, "I could scry him. Or sorta scry him, not with actual water or anything, just have a look--" At Buffy's surprised expression, Willow's face firmed into something almost sullen. "I can do that without burning anybody's brain out or anything, you know."
"All right: do it."
Willow faced away from the naked overhead bulb and let her eyelids droop and flutter. The fingers of her right hand assumed an uncomfortable, stiff alignment and performed a looping gesture at her side like scooping up icing. Her eyes shot open and she rocked back a pace, suddenly pale. "No need to get like that about it," she exclaimed huffily. To Buffy, she added, "He really hates that. Really hates that! It's either the Bronze or Willie's. And with the mayhem, yelling, broken glass and overall level of let's-break-it-up-and-see-what-will-burn, I'd go with Willie's, personally." Willow nodded judicious approval of her conclusion.
Bar fight, thought Dawn. No wonder he'd refused her company. Nobody ever let her have any fun.
Then Dawn remembered the other part of what she was supposed to say. She jumped up and clasped both hands around Buffy's arm. "And, and I was to tell you you weren't to get yourself all in a twist about it because he was taking a minder, everything looked after."
"Buffy," said Willow said, "that's the other thing. I can't find Xander."
Dawn added helpfully, "He also took the handcuffs."
Willie's was a demon bar off past the high school: basking in the emanations of the Hellmouth. The three of them--Dawn, Willow, and Buffy--piled into the front of the SUV. Dawn got to go along by making it too difficult and complicated to leave her behind, short of knocking her unconscious. As the Royal Possessor of the (Car) Key, Buffy drove and didn't actually hit anything if you didn't count the big sack of trash or the mailbox lurking among some bushes, that leaped out into the headlights, then crunch and gone.
Willow seemed willing to agree with Buffy's contention that the mailbox had been possessed.
When the car bounced over the train tracks at Wilkins, Dawn's head hit the roof and she was certain Buffy had done it on purpose, the Revenge of the Short and Vindictive.
"I'll show you vindictive," Buffy threatened, but since she failed to follow it up with a specific example, Dawn considered it an empty threat.
Dawn had expected to hear noise, shouting. But when the SUV rolled up to the front of Willie's and ground to a halt in a stretch of weeds--Buffy did not do parallel parking--all was quiet. However the burning car that compensated for the lack of streetlights seemed like a bad sign.
Buffy and Willow shot out, and Dawn clambered out behind them, cracking her forehead on the edge of the door frame. Rubbing the spot, she hurried after and ran into their backs just inside the door. Right in front of them was a hip-high non-humanoid demon carcass--whether one or more Dawn wasn't in a position to judge. Its skin was an otherwise pleasant mint-green. Its white blood made a broad pool on the floor. It appeared to have been carved extensively. The empty bar was to the left. To the right, Xander sat on the floor holding the jagged remains of a beer mug by the handle. All the sharp edges were coated in white goo. So was Xander. Noticing them, Xander waved hesitantly. His left wrist was braceleted in half of a set of handcuffs.
Past Xander, five or six vampires were crowded around the juke box laying on its side. The vamps weren't doing anything but standing very quiet. Following the direction they all were looking in, Dawn found Spike in the shadows by the far wall. His back was turned. He was kissing a guy.
Well, not exactly a guy: it exploded into dust.
And not exactly kissing. Turning, Spike was wiping blood off his mouth. He was in game face and looked extremely pleased with himself. Righting a chair, he set it by one of the few intact tables. As he folded into the chair, he slapped a dripping hand axe onto the table top. The axe was followed by his boot heels. Tipping the chair back, Spike cocked a finger at the small huddle of vamps by the jukebox. One advanced, looking extremely unhappy: the manner was exactly that of one of Glory's scabby minions--downcast eyes, wringing hands and all. The instant recognition gave Dawn a chill.
Spike pointed at the bar and the minion obeyed, stepping over another carcass, this one knobby and so red as to look black. More chilling still, Spike then said, "You can play with it later, pet. I need it awhile longer."
Pleasantly addressing empty air.
The minion came back with a bottle and a glass. Spike hurled the glass through the one unbroken window. The motion flashed the circle on his right wrist: the other half of the handcuffs. He then cracked the neck off the bottle and started doing the peach schnapps thing with it.
Somehow Dawn was pretty certain it wasn't peach schnapps.
Willow had gone to skooch down next to Xander and they were muttering together. As Dawn edged closer, Xander was complaining, "Why do I let myself get talked into these things? Did he say he was gonna wreck the place and start killing everything in sight? All of this, by the way, while handcuffed to me?" He held up his wrist and shook it so that the broken chain of the handcuff rattled. "Or most of it, anyhow," Xander added glumly. "About the fourth or fifth vamp, he decided I was getting in his way and cut me loose, for which I am profoundly grateful." He bowed his head twice against hands clasped prayer style. "Even missed all my fingers, I don't know how because he wasn't even looking that way. God! When will I learn!"
"But you're not hurt?" Willow asked anxiously.
"Except for getting scared into a coronary, too much beer applied externally and not enough--"
Willow lunged to block Buffy: until then, standing stone-faced and staring across the room at vamped-out Spike, still chatting happily with his invisible companion. Willow set both hands against Buffy's shoulders. "Not a good idea, Buffy. It does dead people."
"What? I'm not dead-- Oh."
"Yeah," said Willow, wryly apologetic. "You don't want to.... It could be, well, confusing."
Then Willow turned her head and looked at Dawn, and it was all completely plain. Dawn didn't mind at all, and Buffy wasn't quick enough trying to grab her with Willow still hanging on and blocking.
Dawn went slowly closer until she was near enough to see Spike's face. You could generally tell by his face and even in game face, she thought she'd know. He wasn't pale but people-colored: he'd fed. Slightly sleepy-eyed, so he wasn't so drunk he couldn't still take notice, keeping part of his attention on the small crowd of uneasy vamps, eyes flicking to them anytime one moved, whereupon they'd go even more carefully quiet, then returning to a point slightly to his left and about five feet away.
"Oh, I don't know about that," he said, clearly in response to something nobody else could hear.
Dawn stopped about two good paces from the table. Not a good idea to startle him when he was drunk or having nightmares.
"Spike--"
His head rolled around. "Oh, h'lo, Bit. What you doin' down here?" Game face smoothed into his other face, which she took as a good sign.
"Told you I was coming."
He took more notice. "And I said no, didn't I."
"I came," Dawn said, "with Willow. And Buffy." She pointed, and Spike's eyes followed her finger. Then he smiled and his eyes shut a little more--as if he'd thought of something funny but not that funny.
"Who's there, Spike?" Dawn indicated the space he'd been conversing with.
"Well, it's Dru, innit?" His attention swung that way again, as if called. "No, you can't have her, pet. She's mine. I'll get you one of your own tomorrow."
Knowing she wouldn't startle him now if she moved, Dawn circled the table and stood at his side. She set her hand on his shoulder. His head tipped comfortably against her hip. Not his usual room-temperature skin: warm. But no human corpses to be seen at all. She puzzled at it.
"Spike, if I tell you there's nothing there, you gonna believe me?"
"Dunno, Bit. Try it and see."
She could hear the smile in his voice, even though she couldn't see his face from this angle. One of his provoking moods. He took the bottle and lowered its contents by about an inch. The bottle was still about half full, so no immediate chance of his passing out unless this bottle wasn't the first.
Setting the bottle down with a slight thump, Spike said quietly, "So you don't see her: Dru."
"No. I swear."
"Ah hell." He let the bottle go and rubbed his eyes. Then, just like that, he yanked his boots off the table, reached, and hurled the hand-axe through the space. It buried itself in a windowframe. A sharp glance at the vamps settled them again: even without the axe, they weren't budging. "You see to me good, love. I s'pose I just was missing her. Always liked a nice all-out, did Dru."
"Is she still there?"
Spike shook his head. "Nope. All gone. 'T'isn't as though she won't be back." He sounded sad. "Or one of the other lot. Hold on, love."
She thought he meant to do something, move, but realized he was shivering. And caught onto what he was thinking, and did what he'd said: held onto him.
"It's real," she told him. "I'm real. You can feel that. You're really out of there."
"Certain sure, now, are you?"
"Certain sure. Buffy dusted the Turok-Han and came and got you and brought you home, and I brought you horrible cheap-ass fucking peach schnapps."
"Yeah. Yeah." He'd listened. He'd believed her. Presently the deep shuddering steadied. Spike lifted his head. "Harris, you still here?"
"Present, no thanks--"
"Com'ere. Buy you a drink. Give you one, any road. OK, Red, you can have one too. Not you, Bit."
Dawn slapped the side of his head lightly, and he made a soft purring chuckle.
Although he hadn't called or invited her, Buffy came too. While Xander set up a chair for Willow on the opposite side of the table, Spike did the point-point thing and two or three of the vamps hustled around like waiters, and all the while Spike was looking up at Buffy.
When there was a chair, Spike said lazily, "Might as well sit down, Slayer. All friends here." Leaning aside, he muttered, "Bit: she's there, right?"
"Poke her," Dawn advised.
"Yeah." But Spike didn't do that. He laid his hand on the table, palm up. And after a second, Buffy set her hand in it. Fingers tightened. Then Spike knocked their joined hands once on the table and was content at the contact. But Dawn couldn't read Buffy's expression at all. Mostly, she looked tired.
"Red," Spike said, "you're a charmin' lady and I hope you get what's comin' to you one day. But if you ever once get into my head again, you and me are gonna have a discussion and you're not gonna like it. Hard enough as it is."
Willow flushed bright red.
Spike went on, "Harris, you didn't do too bad, considering. You--"
There were vamps all around them, awkwardly doing things with glasses and a fresh bottle, and Spike suddenly half rose in his chair and yelled at them: "All right, you lot--get out, I'm done with you for tonight. Get the fucking hell out! Now!"
The vamps didn't wait to be told twice, and dashed for the door.
Spike settled back, glowering. "That, right there, that's the trouble with minions. Never worth all the bother. Too bloody stupid, or if they're too smart, you got to put 'em down. Well, I'll do this lot, but then no more, I swear. Harris: you were my minder tonight. Noplace I went you didn't go. Is that true or no."
Sourly Xander held up his arm and waggled the handcuff. "Not like you gave me a whole lot of choice, Deadboy."
"You mind your mouth, whelp. Chip don't give you any free ride. I tell one of those minions pull your head off, you're gone and no two hours of blinding pain for yours truly, so you show some manners around me."
"What do you want with minions, anyway?" Xander demanded.
"Well, I'm entitled, ain't I? Sodding Master Vampire of Sunnydale, wasn't I? An' the fact I went off for awhile, to see to Dru and all, don't mean there's been anybody fit to hold the name to claim it since. I'm of the Order of Fucking Aurelius, boy--the Master's get, as far back as anybody cares to go, that parsimonious bat-faced bugger. And that means something, even if you're too dirt-ignorant to know about such things, for all you been living smack on top of the Hellmouth all your life, or 'scuse me, your Daddy's basement."
"Someday," Xander said tightly, "you are gonna get yours, Spike, and I'm gonna be there to see it."
"Yeah, sure. Got nothing against basements. Can be right cozy. Had one m'self once, before some military bloke took a mind to fire-bomb it." He glanced at Buffy, but her expression didn't change. Still just watching him. "Anyway. Harris, you see me do one single human tonight? One?"
"You can't: the chip," Xander floundered, scowling.
"When I'd cleared out the place, down to what gave submission as minions, I could'a done anything I damn well pleased, now couldn't I? Could'a eaten you, or had carry-out fetched off the street, now couldn't I? Don't have to kill 'em to eat 'em. Did you see one breathing human being in here?"
"No," Xander admitted, however grudgingly. "Not one."
"Well, then," said Spike, and again looked to Buffy, who sighed out a long breath and looked as though she was willing to claim her arm as part of her again. And in a different tone altogether, Spike said, "Slayer. Do I pass muster, you figure?"
"Yeah, Spike. All right. You can patrol."
"Good. Long as we're out an' all, how about we take a turn by the Bronze?"
Willow, surveying the destroyed bar, gave one sharp bark of startled laughter, then slapped her hand over her mouth. Spike gave her a tolerant look.
"I won't bust anything," he said, as though that should have been obvious. "Already done that part, haven't I?"
"Only if I can come," Dawn put in.
Spike considered. "Well, not a school day tomorrow.... Don't see any problem, myself. Slayer?"
Buffy said, "I can't imagine anything I'd like better. And isn't that pathetic."
"No, that's fine," said Spike, shaking her hand a little on the table.
"That's fine."