DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters...they are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and 20th Century Fox. Joss has created a rich and marvelous well to drawn from...I'm just using his characters for my own and a few others' amusement. That being said, this fiction is MY creation. I want people to read and enjoy it. If you like it, email me, or post and tell me! If you want to post this particular fic on a site, just ask. Thanks!
London, 1918
Spike watched Drusilla cross the street. She was wearing a red dress that fell to her ankles in the hobbled style of the day, covered with a discreet, black coat. After all, there was a war going on as well as a raging flu epidemic.
Spike leaned casually against a brick wall at an alley entrance. It was late in this disreputable lower-class neighborhood. The young vampire's long, lean form was clad in shirtsleeves and a non-descript coat, looking as scruffy as possible. He brushed a wild lock of sandy brown hair out of his eyes and smirked as he crushed his cigarette out beneath his booted heel.
Leave it to Dru. The pair had simply followed her nose across China, through Eastern Europe and back home-to London, where the ravages of a country at war and a dreaded Spanish Influenza virus made the meals for two vampires seem like nothing. Their not-infrequent meals didn't even register in the daily papers that screamed of imminent victory over the Germans and the daily tolls of the hospital wards.
Drusilla approached him with her hand held out, a smile tugging at the corners of her scarlet lips.
"My Sweet," She said softly, "I had a yummy nurse to eat. She was so very late comin' 'ome from the 'ospital."
She had a gift, she did…able to find a tender, tasty morsel in all the hardened death of a city under siege. His own meal had been an American soldier, fresh off the boat, and tough as nails. But he had tasted funny, too-probably sick with the flu and didn't know it yet-not that he ever would.
He pulled her close. "Give us a kiss, Love." His hands knotted themselves in the raven curls that fell to her waist. She was warm with the blood freshly drunk. Her hair smelled like lavender. He remembered plucking a spray of the pale purple flowers out of the basket belonging to a girl they had fed off of the previous night. Drusilla was enchanted with the smell of them. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent. When he opened them, the hair wasn't the color of midnight, but sunlit yellow. He stared down into the wide, green eyes of the Slayer.
***
Spike awoke with a start. His hands still clenched. The smell of lavender lingered.
Sunnydale, 2001
"Bloody hell." He swung his legs over the edge of Harmony's bed. He looked up. Sun had set hours ago-and here he was slug-a-bed like some twit. He pulled on his jeans and reached for a black t-shirt. It took a minute to locate his pack of smokes. Lighting one, he inhaled deeply. These dreams had been nagging him for weeks. He could still smell her hair…feel the skin like satin. He crushed out the cigarette and ran his fingers through his hair. He couldn't shake the ominous feeling in his gut.
"Maybe I'm just hungry," he thought to himself. He crossed the room to the tiny fridge. Opened it. One packet left. The plastic pouch was cold. Cold blood-he sucked on the plastic tubing-metallic tang of the blood mixed with the strong sting of the anti-coagulant agent in the bag-he hated it cold. He thought of Giles' microwave.
But a year of vampiric t.v. dinners had taken the joy out of eating. He sighed and tossed the packet back into the fridge. "Sod it all-I want a fresh meal. I want a person to eat-any person!" The memory of a chip-induced headache made him rub his temples. He'd avoided Harmony's hunts. The thought of eating her dead leftovers galled him still. He wasn't ready to stoop that low. Generous as she was in…other things, he couldn't stand the way she looked at him last week when he broke down and tried to taste a not-quite-dead pizza delivery boy. The pain had shattered his skull for three hours.
His long, leather coat was lying on the chair-he pulled it on as he walked out the door to the crypt. How did Angel stand it? Spike had learned to channel the frustration into some truly spectacular violent confrontations with some of the local demons-not that that was winning him any rewards-or relief from the pangs that tore at him night and day. The only other outlet he had was sex. And Harmony was the only thing female giving him the time of day. Still…she had her moments.
In spite of her, and himself, Spike's thoughts drifted back to the Slayer. As he left the cemetery, he kept to the shadow of the stone wall. The last thing he wanted to do was to run into Buffy. He preferred to be the stalker-not the stalkee. The girl's skills were growing. She could sense his presence far too well now that she'd lost her distractions-namely that dead-weight boy-scout. He slowed his pace. The sounds of a fight drew him further into the shadow. "Slayer," he whispered. His muscles tensed. For a split second, he considered joining in. He decided to wait and watch.
He peered around a corner of the stone wall surrounding the cemetery. Buffy stood facing three vamps, freshly risen from the looks of them. He shook his head. He had watched the Slayer fight often enough to know that this was going to be quick. Her knees were slightly bent and she kept turning as the three tried to surround her. Idiots. They were going to try to rush her at once. He climbed to the top of the wall and crouched, ready to fight if he thought Buffy might need the help. She didn't.
The first vamp, a heavy-set male, grabbed Buffy from behind. The slight girl bent over, throwing off his center of gravity and flipping him. As he landed flat on his back, Buffy drove the stake home. She immediately made a sweeping kick to her left and knocked the second vamp's legs out from under him, adding a quick series of punches to his face. The stake to the heart followed and, without looking behind her, Buffy drove the stake into the third vamp's chest as she straightened from her crouching position. The remaining pair exploded into dust.
She brushed the remnants of the vamps from her clothes. She sneezed and said something to herself that he couldn't quite hear. Spike smiled. He never tired of watching her work, her athletic movements always strong and assured. As she started walking out of the cemetery, he weighed his options-follow her, and she might catch him at it. Although she hadn't seemed likely to stake him, her greetings were always tinged with annoyance-and sometimes punches to nose. "Bugger it," he said aloud. What did he have to lose? He slid off the wall. Gliding through the shadows and avoiding the street lamps, his lithe figure, clad in black, would be difficult to see. Still, he lagged as far back as he could. He lost sight of her a couple of times, but recognized the path she was taking. Looked like she was calling it a night. Heading home to an empty bed. He pursed his lips as the thought hit him: What he wouldn't give to join her….
Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. He looked at the street sign-Revello Drive-almost there. He shook his head, as if to clear it. What the hell was he doing? He was suddenly filled with rage-at the world, at his situation, at himself and, most of all, at the Slayer.
"You're a bloody idiot," he said out loud, to himself.
"That's just what I was thinking."
Spike whirled around to face the Buffy. She stood with her arms crossed in front of her, leaning against a tree. They were only a couple of blocks from her house.
"Spike," she said, "how many times do I have to tell you to stop hanging around my neighborhood?"
He stared at Buffy for a moment, as if he hadn't heard her speak. She was a head shorter than he, a tiny thing to have so much power. Her hair was swept up in a pony-tail and she was wearing something dark and hooded over leather jeans. She uncrossed her arms and stepped closer to the vampire.
"Would you get it if I made my point with something pointy," she said, frowning as Spike continued looking down at her.
Spike stood his ground. "And how many times do I have to tell you that this is still a free bleedin' country?"
"I may be wrong, Spike, but I don't think the undead are covered in the Bill of Rights." She said. She sighed and continued, " I am so getting tired of you. This is getting ridiculous, Spike. Why are you still here anyway?"
"What?" he asked, cocking he head as if he could physically parry her question
"In Sunnydale. There's nothing for you here. The Initiative is gone. No soldiers. No lab. No doctors to remove your v-chip. What could possibly be keeping you here?"
If she only knew. He could smell her from where he stood-her scent was different from other humans--and he took another step towards her, picking up…it was floral…Was it her shampoo? Perfume? God, whatever it was, it was subtle, distracting…and sweet.
His eyes narrowed as he focused on the Slayer. "Oh that's right." He said, grinning. "Soldier boys packed up and left town. All of them. What's wrong, Slayer…you miss your boy-friend? Sexual tension startin' to build up? Anything I can do to help?" He leered and leaned closer still, seriously invading her personal space.
She answered those questions with a right jab to his face.
"OW! BLOODY HELL! Why do you always have to go for the nose?" He probed delicately, wincing at the pain. His eyes watered. "I got ties here, you know, Slayer. Got me a decent place. I'm established. Thinkin' of puttin' down roots."
"Wouldn't be that undead ditz keeping you here, would it?" she asked, referring to Harmony.
"Oh, you're one to pass judgement on the company I keep, you are! Besides, I'll have you know, Slayer, I haven't seen Harmony in weeks. Ever since…" he trailed off with the lie, avoiding eye contact.
"Ever since I kicked your ass?" she finished.
"Ay!" Spike felt the frustration building. His brow furrowed as he peered into the Slayer's face. Her expression was openly hostile. "I already told you I was sorry about that little misunderstanding, Buffy. No…harm…done," he said.
She prodded his chest with one finger. "No harm? Riley could have died!"
He unconsciously leaned in to her touch. He lowered his tone and purred, "Well, maybe I'd have saved you a good deal of embarrassment if White-Bread hadn't lived long enough to humiliate you with those vamp whores, eh?" He bit his tongue as soon as he said the words. He watched Buffy withdraw. Her eyes hardened and her lips thinned. He couldn't stop himself. These words were the only weapon he had left to use against her. "I'd have thought you'd have taught the boy a lesson. Bit o' tough love, so to speak." A slow smile spread across his face as he watched his barbs hit home.
He barely felt the sting of Buffy's slap.
"Consider this your last warning, Spike," she said icily. "You won't get another one."
He watched her turn and stalk away as he rubbed his reddening jaw. He stood there for a minute. Contemplated going after her. He sighed, turned and headed in the opposite direction.
He sincerely hoped Harmony was back at the crypt.
***
Casa Summers was dark. Buffy hung up her pull-over as she quietly entered the front door. Her mom was standing at the top of the stairs.
"Rough night, Honey?" she asked as Buffy climbed the steps.
"No. Pretty normal, actually. Slayed three vamps-Trifecta for Buffy." She answered. "But you shouldn't have waited up." She stood beside her mother, reluctant to say good-night.
Joyce, although tired from recent surgery, wanted to wait up for her daughter. She still worried about her, too. She was slowly regaining her strength day by day and was proud of the way Buffy had handled their family crisis. Buffy was so busy saving the world and taking care of her younger sister-at that thought, Joyce caught herself and frowned-she was still in shock over recent discoveries concerning Dawn.
She reached over and brushed a stray strand of blond hair from Buffy's face. So powerful, and yet, vulnerable. With the burden of her destiny constantly weighing on her, Buffy very often forgot to take care of herself. Joyce finally was feeling well enough to try to remedy that.
"Why don't I run you a bath?" Joyce suggested. "It'll help you relax,"
Buffy stretched. "Mmmmm…post-slayage bath. I could go for one of those. But don't bother if you're tired."
"It's no trouble, Buffy," her mother said softly.
A few minutes later, Buffy padded down the hall in her white, terry-cloth robe. Joyce held out a towel as she entered the steam-filled bathroom. Moisture condensed on the mirror.
"I thought, a little aromatherapy," Joyce said. "I used that new bath oil you like so much. Lavender."
Buffy smiled. She closed the door and dropped her robe. The warmth of the bath crept through her limbs as she settled into the tub. She even practiced a new focusing exercise Giles had taught her. Her newly intensified slayer training was coming in very handy. It helped her push thoughts of Riley out of her mind. She was learning to deal with regret. With her mind and body cleansed, the only thing she was thinking about was bed.
***
Spike sat staring at the bed. He frowned as he watched Harmony pawing through a pile of compacts, and God knew what all.
"Harm, you haven't eaten a sodding Mary Kay Lady again, 'ave you?" He asked, rolling his eyes.
"Nope. Salesgirl at the Clinique counter," she said perkily, flashing a toothy smile at Spike. She had her feet tucked up as she sat on the satin coverlet. She held up an atomizer. "Mmmmm…I wonder what this scent is." Rubbing her wrists together, she slid off the bed and walked over to the chair.
"I don't know…what'd ya think?" she asked, holding her pale arm inches away from Spike's nose.
He started to push her hand away but stopped. He breathed in the soft floral aroma. He took a hold of Harmony's hand and stood up. His hands worked their way up her arms, to her shoulders and slid down the sides of her body. He looked down at her hungrily.
The Slayer had a slender body. Slaying kept her muscles well toned, but she was still a tiny slip of a girl. Harmony on the other hand…
Spike explored Harmony's generous curves with desperation. He buried his face in her long, blond hair and closed his eyes. But as he did this he found himself thinking of Buffy. He pulled away and looked at Harmony's face-she had generous, pouty lips and enormous blue eyes. He kissed her roughly and pushed her onto the bed.
"Ow! Spike" she yelped. "Watch it!"
He had been oblivious to the hard, plastic cosmetic containers spread out on the bedspread. He picked up the atomizer. He looked at it closely. Lavender Breeze. He growled and threw it as hard as he could. The tiny bottle shattered against the crypt wall.
"Spike!" Harmony said, sharply. "What's wrong with you?"
"I don't want you to wear that scent anymore." He snapped. "I bloody don't like it!"
"All RIGHT!" she said. She was used to Spike's rapidly shifting moods. In the last few weeks, anything could set him off. He was always staring out into space-detached-even when they were making love. She smiled at him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Baby," she said. "Come back to me."
He didn't smile, but he approached her slowly, gracefully, climbing back onto the bed and Harmony with measured intent. She responded enthusiastically. Spike closed his eyes again. He'd given up trying to not think of Buffy while shagging Harmony. He breathed deeply. All he smelled was lavender.
THE END
