"That was an anti-particle enchantment," Giles informed them all, after the group had somewhat recovered from the sight of watching their hard-won stone boil itself into nothing but an airborne puff of marigold smoke.
It was gone.
All that fighting, for noth- well, actually, the fight itself had been pretty exhilarating. It just had failed to get them what they needed.
The watcher leaned calmly over the notch in the floor, and Spike could tell that he was trying to conceal his fascination, probably due to everyone else's distress over what had just occurred. There was far too much Oxford scholar left in the watcher, however, not to treat the incident as a research opportunity. "I've read about such spells…" the man continued, running a careful finger along the perimeter of the tile, "but I've never had the opportunity to see one carried out. Dodger must have incorporated it with a timing hex of some sort."
Charlie's voice rumbled dangerously in her throat. "I have an idea. Let's go see if he needs any help with that concussion of his." She turned on her heel and began to stalk towards the door, "You still hungry, Spike?"
Surging after her, Spike grabbed Charlie's arm, stopping her before she'd even made it up the to the front level of the store. Tempting as it was to get involved in another brawl, he was certain that doubling back to Jefferson Road would result in a doomed second match. There was a very good reason why Spike had survived for as long as he had; he knew which fights were worth jumping headlong into and which ones to give a wide berth.
"What are you gonna do, pet? Mock him to death? Fairly certain you're no-jo in the mojo department 'til your next fillup."
"I didn't need magic to lay him out with a two by four," she snapped, trying to pull away. He held on tighter.
"You were bloody lucky. Pulled a fast one on us, he did, and if you think for one bleedin' second that he's not in cahoots with Bleaks, think again. Rotten bastard's prolly there right now, waitin' for us to throw caution to the wind and return to the scene. He'll get what's comin', luv, but not yet."
Her lips contorted into a feral expression, and for a moment Spike thought she was going to wrench her arm out of his grasp and try to leave anyway. And if he had to knock her out, tie her up, and carry her back to the crypt over his shoulder, injuries and all, sod it, he would. But a look of acceptance passed over her face and the inferno in her eyes flickered down to a low burn.
Spike loosened his clasp on her arm, sliding his hand around her hip and slipping his thumb through the belt loop in her jeans. It was an affectionate, intimate gesture, but moreover insurance that he'd feel the second she started moving towards the door if she changed her mind.
"I thought we had this in the bag! We'd practically tied the bag's handle into tiny, impossibly tight knots! I hate it when people mess with us!" Willow fumed indignantly. Tara had returned from the training room with a medical kit, and the redhead held out her hand as her girlfriend liberally spread some clear antibiotic gel across her reddened palm. "What are we gonna do without the stone?"
Buffy took a deep breath, and ran her fingers through her blond hair, looking worn out and discouraged. "We go for plan G, as in Get it Elsewhere." The slayer plopped herself down on the divider step and stretched her legs out in front of her.
"Why didn't you call Manny?" Anya asked, knitting her brows in the direction of the watcher. "His store stocks them and does overnight delivery. Really good prices too… I'm not sure how he does it but I'm thinking we should sit down with him at some point and discuss-"
"Anya?" Giles interrupted, his eyes suddenly snapping up from where they had been transfixed on the hole in the floor. "This information would have been particularly useful earlier. Such as yesterday."
"Well pardon me, but you said you had everything under control. How was I supposed to know that you'd send my boyfriend and the vampires to some crack house for magic supplies? It's not my fault that we're sitting here like… ducks. Ducks that are sitting. Sitting ducks. Why do they call it that? Do ducks get killed alot?"
"Yes, I remember what I said," Giles confessed through gritted teeth, "And I take full responsibility. You said this Manny fellow does overnight delivery?"
Anya glanced down at the store owner's wristwatch. "Well yeah, but it's almost midnight right now. I won't be able to call him until the morning. But we can get it by Friday."
"That's not soon enough," Buffy asserted, shaking her head and staring at the coffer on the table top. "Bleakgrave isn't going to wait around for us to get our act together. I'll go get the stone myself. How far is it to Manny's store?"
"It's in Oakland. I'd imagine that it would take a few days to get there, even for a fit, avid pedestrian like yourself, so shipping really is the much better option. It's very affordable," Anya reiterated. "Oooh, or what if someone drove you there?"
"What an excellent plan," the slayer said dryly.
"Oakland's a five hour ride from here, give or take." Willow frowned in thought as she wound a bandage tightly around her hand. "I'll can go with you and make sure it's the real deal. Maybe Riley could drive us."
"Or I could drive," Giles offered, picking up and dusting off the spellbook that was lying upside down on the floor.
"That tin can's still kickin'?" Spike was sure that he had sufficiently accordioned the watcher's mode of transportation the last time he'd driven it.
"No, I have a new vehicle. Automatic transmission, sporty, it's quite nice."
Spike could hear the pride in the watcher's voice, and couldn't stop himself from tearing the man down a peg or two. "So, what, it's a three-quarter life crisis car?"
Giles turned an unusual shade pink and began to retort, but Buffy interrupted him. "No, it'd be better if you here, Giles. I'm supposed to be watching Dawn after school tomorrow since mom's working late, and I'd feel more comfortable if you were here keeping an eye on her. I'll arrange a ride with Riley."
"Very well," the watcher agreed.
"And what about the box?" Xander asked. "We can't just leave it sitting out on the table, all willy-nilly."
"Yeah, it's not like I can sell it," Anya agreed. Her eyes shifted back to the box, squinting at it as she appraised its value, "I can't, right?"
"We'll have to hide it, under spell and key and maybe in a tower surrounded by an angry dragon and half a dozen ninjas. Somewhere safe." Buffy let out a jaw cracking yawn and rested her head in her hands. "And then I'd like to get a few hours of sleep before we head out."
"Tara and I will do the hidey thing, and I'll meet you at your house before the morning rush hour hits," Willow said, looking pointedly at Buffy, Spike, and Charlie. "You guys go catch some z's. You all look exhausted."
"Don't need to tell me twice," Buffy said, standing up to grab her coat and beelining for the exit, with Charlie hot on her heels. Spike took a moment to pilfer a bottle of aspirin out of the medical kit lying open on one of the chairs before leaving the remaining Scoobies to their work.
"I'm sorry this turned into such a mess," Charlie was apologizing to the slayer when Spike made it into the cool night air outside the shop.
Buffy crossed her arms over her chest and drew in a deep breath, releasing it with a rush. "Yeah, well, it happens. Things that should be easy end up not being easy and then Buffy has to miss Psych class again because she has to go see a guy about a stone."
The complaint seemed to catch Charlie off guard. "I'd go if I could, I mean, if it's not sunny, I can-"
"No, don't listen to me. I'm just grouchy and tired, and things with Riley…" the slayer trailed off as she caught sight of Spike standing nearby. "Anyway, just come by tomorrow night, and we'll start making some plans to go after Bleakgrave as soon as the box is destroyed. For real this time."
"Absolutely, we'll be there," Charlie said, and Spike began to contemplate when it was exactly that he'd lost his bollocks and the ability to make his own plans.
"See you tomorrow." Buffy shoved her hands into her jean jacket pockets and stepped onto the dimly lit street, en route to Rovello Drive.
"Where you goin' pet?" Spike asked distrustfully as Charlie began walking off in a direction that was decidedly not towards the crypt.
She stopped and half turned, her profile crisp and bright against the background of heavy shadows. "I thought we were dropping by the hospital for the American Red Cross Special. O-neg? Handy carry out packets?" She spoke slowly, as if giving him time to jog his memory. "With how we look right now, someone would probably wheel us straight to the morgue if we just take a nap in the hospital entranceway. Same floor as the blood bank right?"
Truthfully, Spike's stomach was growling with anticipation and his ribs were in dire need of sustenance to help knit themselves back together. And if he was alone, he'd already be in the hospital waiting room, flirting with the sign-in nurse or outside, picking the locks to back entrance. But he wasn't alone, and he had no plans put Charlie in any more danger or leave her out of his sight.
He was plagued with a prickle of uneasiness, much like the night in Prague when Dru was almost torn to pieces by an angry mob. While he hadn't listened to his nagging intuition then, he'd be twice damned if he didn't now. The leftover cow's blood in the fridge would be a perfectly sufficient dinner if it meant that they had less of a chance of bumping into the untouchable magician or his unbitable human cronies.
"Think I'd let a spot of peckishness cut into all that time we could be shakin' the sheets?" The wicked undercurrent of his tone was ruined when he lifted an arm to check on the welfare of his cigarettes, barely able to suppress a hiss of discomfort.
She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly seeing right through his pretense. "You look like you can barely make it into the sheets, much less shake them."
"Care to make that a wager?" Determined to have his way, Spike lowered his lashes and let his vision slither up her legs and curl around her chest before meeting her eyes again.
"Just calling it like I see it," she replied, unconvinced, but let him take her hand and guide her in the direction of home anyway.
"I'm the very picture of health, pet."
It took longer than he would've liked to make it back to the crypt, but between his ribs and the fact that running would draw too much attention, slow was the only possible speed. By the time they arrived, it felt like his lungs were on fire despite the fact that he didn't even use them. The bodily damage and exhaustion of the fight was quickly catching up with him.
By some miracle, he made it down the ladder to the lower level, letting out a quiet grunt as he toed off his boots and slid his duster from his shoulders. He slumped into bed fully clothed, not wanting to go through the unpleasantness that divesting himself of his apparel would cause, both in pain and in commentary from the peanut gallery.
As she stripped off her own blood and grime-covered clothing, Charlie's eyes narrowed suspiciously at his reclining figure. "I thought you were fine."
"Am."
She put her hands on her hips, a display which might have been a tad more imposing had she not been standing in her underwear. "Funny. Those don't look like your usual birthday suit pajamas."
"Not sleepin' yet, am I?"
"Take your shirt off."
He still had enough wherewithal to smirk at the command in her tone. "Is that what we're playin' tonight, pet? Think there's still some chains kickin' around somewhere down here, if you wanna really go for the gusto."
"Shirt. Off."
Sighing, and shooting her a frustrated look, he gingerly lifted the hem of his shirt over his head, glancing down at his torso as he did so. He had to admit, it looked even worse than he thought it would. Deep eggplant marks with tinges of scarlet dappled across his ribs in a starkly contrasting sea of porcelain skin. Charlie went as still as a photograph as she inspected all the trauma he'd exposed.
"Christ, Spike," she finally breathed out, wide-eyed with concern, "You could've said something earlier."
"Sure, I could've. Didn't need to, didn't want to," he retorted. "Don't need to go all Colin Craven every time someone tries to turn me into a vampire puddin'."
"Alright, hearing you loud and clear, Macho Guy. But just so you know, your manliness won't melt off if you inform me that the upper half of your body resembles a doppler radar monitor during hurricane season." Before he had the chance to ask what she was doing, she turned and went scampering up the ladder.
He'd heard the sound of the microwave beeping before she came back down, so he wasn't exactly taken aback when she shoved the mug of warm cow blood into his hands. But he was reluctantly pleased by it. He hated playing the part of the invalid, since he'd spent far too much time in a wheelchair for it to hold any appeal. But where he'd previously been given taunts and insults and emasculating treatment, he was instead bestowed with small gestures of care and tenderness.
His meal was warmed up to a perfect 98.6 degrees, Charlie's fingers were feathering over his aching ribs, her bruised lips occasionally pressing to his shoulder as they sat in bed and he sipped at his liquid dinner and she at hers… it made his injuries almost seem like an advantage.
Almost.
He wouldn't've minded not feeling like someone was playing Jenga with his ribcage every time he shifted his position even a little.
"Did you know Janna?" Charlie asked softly after a while. Spike was surprised it had taken her as long to bring up the subject. Her aunt's name seemed to have been dancing on the tip of her tongue all bloody night.
"Knew of her," he shrugged, instantly regretting the painful movement. He moved the pillow he was leaning against a little higher up behind him. "Heard things from Angelus."
"Yeah, about that… he might be all kindly, undead Dr. Jekyll at the moment, but Mr. Hyde is always going to be lurking inside of him, isn't he? If I ever see Angel again, all I'll be able to think is that his face was the last she ever saw before he killed her." The words hung heavily in the air for a moment, before Charlie added, "It might not be his fault, but I think I hate him."
"Founded that club decades ago, luv," Spike said breezily, but in truth, her declaration skewered him with a pain far worse than his ribs. If she couldn't forgive the puppy-eyed, soulful, toothless sulk for something he had an excuse for, how could Spike even begin to hope that she could forgive him?
"How did he gain and then lose his soul to begin with?"
"Got cursed with it. And apparently the great broodin' lump can't get laid without turnin' back to the dark side." Spike couldn't help the smile that stretched up both sides of his lips.
"Really?" she asked, gaping at him. "God, that'd almost be funny if it hadn't ended with… the way it did. That's the dumbest curse I've ever heard of. What kind of lame-ass moron would curse a vampire with a soul that disappears after he has sex?"
"Right," Spike agreed, wondering if maybe she wouldn't be too upset over the death of her ancestors if she thought they were all imbeciles. "Definitely moronic. Wouldn't be a tragedy if such a berk met an untimely end, now would it? Darwinism and all?"
"Huh?"
"Nothin'," Spike answered, dissembling and tiptoeing away from the cliff of truth he teetered on. He took a long sip of blood, avoiding her confused expression from behind the rim of his mug.
After a few minutes of silence and avoiding her gaze, he realized she had picked his only remaining bottle of nail polish off the floor and was flipping it over in her fingers as she sat with the burgundy sheets twisted around her.
"Paint hearts on anythin' in the crypt and I'll have you doin' penance for a week, pet," he threatened, relieved for the change of subject.
"Don't tempt me," she grinned. "I just wanted to know what it was called."
He'd assumed she'd had an unusual childhood, but he'd also figured nail painting was a right of passage for all pre-pubescent girls. Dawn had a different shade for every day of the month. "Called nail polish. Lacquer, sometimes."
She made no attempt to conceal the exasperated look she gave him. "I meant the name of the color."
"Oh. Black?"
"Nope. It's called Knockout," she said, reading the label on the bottom of the bottle. "That's kinda fitting. You know, I think I'd like to be the person that gets to name all the nail polish colors."
"And will that be before or after you go to cosmetology school? Gonna get a tad problematic explainin' your avoidance of mirrors."
"No, no. I've been thinking about this for a few minutes… there could be a whole nail polish line for vampires."
"And what would that look like?" he snorted, picturing a row of polishes shaped like coffins, sold crypt to crypt by overdressed, undead housewives.
She tapped a finger against her knee, and looked up at the ceiling in consideration. "It would feature dark reds… with names like... Bottom's Up, Breakfast in Red…. Al-red-y Departed."
The whole concept was ridiculous, and though Spike was fairly certain that she wasn't serious about starting up a cosmetics business, he wanted to humor her. "Ashes to Ashes," he suggested thoughtfully.
"A muted, creamy grey," Charlie agreed.
"Just variations on blacks and reds, then? Could call it Vamp Varnish."
"Ooooh, an excellent contribution to this little goldmine I'm sitting on. If you're nice to me, I might be willing to name one after you," she teased.
"I'll always be nice to you, luv." He reached under the sheets to run a finger along her bare thigh, about all the sexual activity he had the energy for, given the state of the rest of him. Even though his touch was light and fleeting, it still drew a shiver and a little smile from her. "And what hue would you give me? A nice, patent leather black? Platinum white?"
"Mmmm," she mused, "No. It'd need to be a color that was always you, not your bleached hair or clothing color palette. Those things can change"
"What then?" He was truly curious what her answer would be.
"Blue would be your color," she said without missing a beat, looking into his eyes, "Gas flame blue, with hints of gold to represent your vampire self. You'd be the only riot of color in an otherwise red and black world."
Something in her expression softened as she looked at him, and Spike wondered what she was thinking. Almost flat-out asked her. But then she looked away, clearing her throat self consciously, and the chance was gone. "We should probably name one for Dracula, too. What do you think? Black with a purple sheen?"
"Color doesn't matter so long as you only fill the bottle half full. Dracs is a bloody welsher. Owes me eleven pounds, he does," was Spike's petulant reply.
At some point before daybreak, feeling more relaxed and revived after the nourishment and smalltalk, his head ended up in her lap as she stroked a hand against his hair and hummed some age-old tune that quivered on the edge of his memory. He was sure the sound was meant to be calming, but the ancestral gypsy lullaby distressed him, as though it was a game of musical chairs and when the humming stopped, he'd find himself without a seat, without the girl.
And eventually her humming did stop, but the only thing Spike lost were his worried thoughts, as he was lulled to sleep by her fingers rhythmically threading against his scalp.
A/N: I haven't been eaten by a bear! Just buried under deadlines at the moment, which is great for my bank account and awful for my free time. But the good news is I know exactly where this story's going, so it's just a matter of getting the time to finish chapters and edit. Thanks for the all faves and follows! Do you guys think that Spike's going to break down and tell Charlie what he did to her family, or will someone else spill the beans? Leave me your theories and burning questions!
