After much thought, Spike had decided to intercept Buffy and Parker at the party on Tuesday night. He could kill Parker first, of course, and solve one big problem that way, but then the idiot would probably become some sort of martyr in Buffy's eyes. He couldn't allow that. Instead, he would meet them there, warn Buffy, let her catch Parker in the act, and watch the fun.
On his way to the party, though, Spike considered the potential deeper roots of the trouble: the chance that Buffy might actually *like* Parker. What could she see in him? Okay, she probably appreciated the fact that he was human--which was a drawback, in Spike's eyes. Humans were weak and mortal. They couldn't keep up with a Slayer. She needed someone who could be her equal, and not a pansy like Angel, either.
And sure, Parker had a soul. But in Spike's opinion, souls were highly overrated. After all, he'd gotten along just fine without one for more than a century. Look at what had happened to Angel when his had been returned to him. By all accounts, he'd been good for nothing for about a hundred years after that.
No, Spike was clearly the superior choice. He'd convince the Slayer of it soon enough. He sped up until he reached the outskirts of town, where Chesterfield Street lay. There, he spotted lines of cars parked on both sides of the road. If he picked a spot in the middle, he'd probably find the party house with no trouble. Spike waited for a black Jaguar to pull out of its place, then squeezed the DeSoto into the opening. As he stepped out of the car, a wave of music assaulted his ears. Sure enough, 1830 Chesterfield, a large, white house set well back from the road, was just about where he had predicted. The homes on either side were situated several hundred yards away, which was a good thing since the noise would have driven out anyone closer. From the looks of things, the party had been in full swing for some time. Maybe he should have shown up even earlier. With that thought in mind, Spike hurried to push his way in the front door.
"Hey, wait. Who are you?" demanded the burly kid who was manning the entrance.
"It's okay," interjected another boy. "I know him. We have a class together."
Spike vaguely recognized the kid, but didn't remember his name. Frankly, in his eyes one human was pretty much the same as another. They fell into two main categories: potential food, and not-food. At the moment, Buffy and her gang were the only members of the latter category. This particular human was potential food, hence nameless. Still, he *had* just been of assistance and maybe he could be of more.
Spike nodded at him. "Thanks, mate."
"No problem, William. Rockin' party, huh?"
"Yeah, sure. Have you seen Buffy around?"
"Who?" the boy said around a mouthful of pretzels.
"Buf-fy," Spike enunciated clearly. "She's in composition class with us."
"Oh, the blonde who shot you down? Yeah, she's here somewhere."
Immediately losing interest in the kid, Spike pushed past him and cast about for a glimpse or a scent of the Slayer in the crowded, noisy room. This time, he didn't care if she saw him. Hiding hadn't worked. Being nice hadn't worked. He had moved on to the "in your face" approach. If that one failed, he wasn't quite sure what he'd try next.
He scanned room after room of nobodies, stepping around and over the numerous students who were already drunk on bad American beer. Finally, in the fifth room, Spike caught a glimpse of Buffy and her much less appealing companion. They were halfway across the cavernous room, dancing to the beat of a rap song that didn't even deserve the label of "music." As Spike started toward them, the music died down and Parker led Buffy into the sea of people. Spike waded into the middle of the pack, tossing humans right and left. Ignoring the complaints of "Watch it!" and "Excuse you!" that followed him, he cleared a path until he came upon Buffy, standing apart from the crowd in a relatively peaceful corner. Fortunately, Parker was nowhere to be seen.
Spike took a moment to admire Buffy's choice of a form-fitting, midnight-blue, and, of course, very short dress before he joined her. "Good thing I tracked you down, Slayer."
Her expression instantly soured. "What are *you* doing here?"
"I'll get straight to the point. I'm here to help you."
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. In what alternate dimension?"
"Did once before," Spike reminded her. "Angel. Acathla. Proved you could trust my word then. Look, it's about this Parker you came here with. He's dangerous, luv, I know it."
"So says the vampire who's more than once tried to wipe out every trace of me and mine. You'll forgive me if I ignore, oh, just about every single word that comes out of your mouth."
"No. No, I won't. I'm serious. Parker Abrams is bad news." Spike looked at Buffy's disbelieving face and recklessly threw a major card on the table. "He tried to drug your drink at the Bronze the other night."
Buffy's eyes narrowed. "And you know that how?"
"I was there. I saw him."
"I knew it! I *told* Willow you were responsible for that entire disaster, and now you admit it."
Spike shook his head. "The only thing about that night that could have hurt you was the drug. I was just there to observe and make sure things didn't go too far."
"I'd sooner eat glass than listen to you," Buffy snapped.
"Anything wrong?" came Parker's unwelcome voice as he wedged himself into their hideout.
"No, everything's just fine." Buffy turned as far toward him and away from Spike as space would allow.
"Here you go." Parker handed her an opened beer can. "All ready for you."
"I don't drink," Buffy began, then looked at Spike. "On the other hand, just this one time...." She tilted her head back and defiantly swigged down at least half the can in one steady motion.
Spike clenched his jaw until it ached. If that was the way the Slayer felt, let her drink herself into a stupor. See if he cared. He turned and elbowed his way out of the house, not even taking pleasure in the cries of pain and annoyance that followed in his wake. He wasted no time hopping in the DeSoto and turning the car's nose toward home. Buffy had made matters clear: She didn't trust him and she wouldn't believe him. If he said the grass was green, she'd go outside with a magnifying glass hunting for brown blades. Her sheer stubbornness was part of what he loved about her, but he did wish she'd cut him a break sometime.
Like tonight.
His anger fading, Spike reconsidered his options. If he left Buffy alone, she might learn a hard lesson and be more likely to respect his opinion in the future. On the other hand, she could end up in real trouble and never forgive Spike for not trying harder to warn her.
He was probably damned if he did and damned if he didn't, but Spike didn't really have a decision to make. He pulled a U-turn and gunned his way back to the address he'd been so eager to leave not long ago. Doubleparking his precious car, he leaped out and stalked back into the house.
Inside, strangely enough, the front of the house was nearly deserted. Spike made his way to the room where he'd left Buffy and Parker, only to find that pandemonium reigned there. He had to squeeze his way around a clump of people who were blocking the entrance. Curious, he noted that they were circling an individual who was sprawled on the floor.
"Call an ambulance," suggested one. "And the police, too."
"No, then the party'll break up," someone else protested.
"He's really hurt," chimed in a third.
Spike caught a glimpse of Parker's face in the center of the confusion and paused to listen more carefully. When he managed to make out a status report, Spike grinned. The words "broken jaw" and "Parker" sounded awfully good in the same sentence, and he knew just the person who was responsible for that turn of events.
He moved on with his hunt and was soon rewarded. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor he found Buffy, wobbly and clutching the banister for support. Damn, he knew he shouldn't have left her to drink that beer. Who knew what that idiot boy had put in it?
Spike edged as close as he dared, not sure how Buffy would reach to his presence while on drugs. "Hey, Slayer, not looking too good," he ventured.
She swiveled her head toward him but didn't answer.
"Guess you got yourself into some trouble. Your friends are talking about calling the police. We'd best get you of here before that, right?"
Buffy swayed toward him and agreed, "All right," grabbing his arm.
Spike automatically moved to steady her, even as he asked, "You do know who I am, right?"
"Shpike," Buffy slurred.
Good enough. "Why don't you let me take you home?" Buffy made no protest, and Spike silently added, '*My* home, not yours,' as he guided the limp, pliable Slayer into the night air.
end Ch. 12