A/N: Sorry this update's taken so long. I've been incredibly distracted by a million different things. Like, say, the evilness of Sleeper with it's Spankya teaser. That was just *cold*! If I was a guy, it would have given me total blue balls ;O) Also, I'm gonna be a biyatch and beg for a little more feedback. I like to have an idea of what's working and what's not. If you read this fic, drop me a line. Abuse me, praise me, whatever. Communication is what I crave! If you're not up to leaving a review, e-mail me-- indiechick5@aol.com. Thanks :O)
Dedication: To Nathan Schulte and everything he could have been. Nate~ the UE class of 2004 will not be the same without you. Rest in peace.
*Weep not for the memories...*
-- Sarah McLachlan, 'I Will Remember You'
It's only another four hours of driving before Anya and Spike decide to call it quits again. This time, however, it's not for a rough romp on the side of the road; it's because they-- finally-- have stumbled upon civilization.
"Oh, thank *God*," Anya groans as an unrecognizable skyline appears above the monotonous cornfields. "I was beginning to think we were trapped in a redneck Twilight Zone. I would have had to start calling you 'Uncle Spike' if we ever wanted to have sex again."
"Kinky," Spike comments, shooting her a sideways glance. "Though you know I'd prefer 'Daddy'."
Anya lets out a short laugh, then stops herself and frowns. "May I just ask what it is with you evil penis-toters being so preoccupied with having your lovers call you 'Daddy'? What kind of a sick, misogynistic power trip is that?"
Spike rolls his eyes. "Feminists," he mutters. "It was a joke, woman, and we're just going to leave it at that. I don't feel like getting into a cross-gender pissing contest over it."
He's learned enough over the past couple months to know that delving into male-female power issues with Anya is pointless and redundant. Sparring verbally with her can be amusing, but ultimately it gets irritating, paradoxical, and often strays far from the original point at hand. Occasionally it leads to fierce and frantic lovemaking, i.e. earlier today, but that is not by any means a regular occurrance.
'Too bad for me,' Spike thinks sardonically, squinting into the horizon. "What city d'you reckon this is?"
A temporarily mollified Anya shrugs as she consults the road map Spike scared out of the hotel clerk. "As far as I can tell, we're somewhere in the middle of Indiana." She pauses, looks out the window at an indecipherably faded exit sign, and then frowns back down at the map. "Although due to the poor quality of road markers around here, we could just as easily be in Texas."
He shakes his head and sighs. "I hope you're kidding."
"So do I," she says. "Being lost in the Midwest is not at the top of my wish-list as of right now. Well, at least it wouldn't be if I *had* a wish-list."
"Nor mine, pet. The blood there's a bit too spicy for my tastes, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I know. I did some vengeance work there about six years ago. It's all gay cowboys and women with mullets and--" she shudders "jackrabbits. Scarier than the Hellmouth if you ask me."
"I thought gay cowboys and jackrabbits were the same thing," Spike deadpans, shooting her a smart-ass look.
"No, actually they're quite diff-- oh." She gets it. "Another joke. Haha."
"*I* thought it was funny," he says.
"Oh, it was, sweetie," she tells him with a tone of mock patronization. "Just not to me."
**************************************
They reach the town less then ten minutes later. It's not as big as it seemed from farther away, just a few buildings that look to be around 10 or 11 stories high and a square mile or so of tightly-packed blocks of stores and apartments. The people walking the sidewalks look mostly lower middle class, with the exception of the sporadic black-suited businessman coming in or out of one of the buildings. The streets are wide and packed with cars and cabs; traffic is slow and frantic at the same time, typical of a jaggedly populated city like this. Anya's willing to bet the demon scene here is booming.
There are two hotels in the city to pick from: one's a Best Western, the other is a Holiday Inn. They opt for the Holiday Inn, figuring they'll splurge a little and stay a couple nights. They're far enough away now, after all, and where else are they going to go?
It's three o'clock in the afternoon, but it seems sunset has been started prematurely by a thick band of storm clouds that rolled into town with the two refugee blondes. They park the DeSoto in the shadows of the homogeneous landscaping and make it into the lobby just as the clouds open and a steady drizzle begins.
Spike does the routine checking in, registering with a knowing smirk at Anya under the name Mr. and Mrs. DeMon, then hands Anya the key to their room. He runs back out to the car to grab her duffel bag and his blood while she heads to the third floor, pointedly ignoring the lewd stares of the teenage bell boys who seem a little too fascinated with her rain-soaked form.
Anya opens the door of room 306 and sighs her relief. There's not a roach in sight and the maroon carpet covers the *entire* floor; it is also without the suspicious white stains that were so obscenely obvious on the carpet of the Incest-- er, *Windcrest*-- Inn. She shuts the door, sets her purse down next to the closet, and walks over to the bed.
"Nice to see the springs don't creak," she says to herself as she sits down on it. She glances around contentedly, glad to be somewhere that bears even the tiniest bit of resemblance to a normal home.
'Wonderful,' she thinks. 'Only four days out of the Dale and I'm already travel-weary.'
She sits idly for a few moments, contemplating what exactly that means. She's not homesick or anything tragic like that, she's sure of it. She doesn't miss the crypt or the town, she only feels a slight pang at the thought of the shop. And to her great relief, she doesn't feel any regret for leaving the last shreds of proximity to Xander behind. She'd been concerned for awhile that despite what she and Spike have going for them, there'd always be a gaping void in her where Xander had been. Thankfully, she realizes, that void is nowhere near the size she feared it would be. Anya guesses she's just not enjoying the constant driving and the tension that's been rearing its ugly head between her and Spike. Sure, they've had their moments of relief from it, like yesterday with all the laughing, but it seems like too much is hanging over their heads for them to really cut loose. There's something still tethering them to the Hellmouth.
Anya's train of thought is de-railed as Spike opens the door to the room and tosses her bag in. She looks up, starting slightly, and has to give an inward laugh as she sees that he's drenched from head to toe and dripping water everywhere, his hair all wild and curly from the gel being rained out.
"Christ, there's a bloody deluge outside," he grunts, setting his bag of blood next to Anya's purse. "Hope your duffel's waterproof."
Anya raises an eyebow. "Well, it's obvious that *you're* not."
"Very funny," he says, stripping off his duster. "And just for that, I'm changing in the bathroom instead of letting you see my gorgeous, glistening body."
"Oh God, no," Anya says, feigning horror. "Please, don't take away my naked Spike priveleges."
He grins. "Maybe if you're a good little demon..."
"Me, good? I don't think so."
Spike laughs. "Naughty, just the way I like 'em." He peels his shirt off, keeping his eyes on her.
"Oh stop it," she tells him. "Your charm is wasted at the moment. I just remembered I have to call Tara, and I can't have you parading around like a Chippendale's dancer while I'm trying to talk to her."
He snorts, a disgusted expression playing across his brow. "I'll not be compared to those *ponces*. You know my moves are completely superior to theirs." He emphasizes his point with a slight sway of his hips.
"Is *that* your sexy dance?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
He starts to nod, then catches himself, drawing up his shoulders. "I *told* you already, Anya. I have no dance."
And with that he turns and walks into the bathroom.
******************************************
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't carry mummy's hands anymore. Really? Well, I guess if you can't find one anywhere else, we could probably special-order one for you. Okay. No, thank *you*. Have a good day."
Tara hangs up the phone behind the counter of the Magic Box with a curious expression on her face. 'That's the third person in the last week who's called for a mummy's hand,' she thinks, not able to recall one single spell or charm they're neccesary for. 'Maybe there's some kind of ancient Egypt convention in town or something.'
She shrugs to herself, glancing up at the clock on the wall, and sees that it's almost time to close for lunch. A flurry of butterflies begins to stir in her stomach; she and Willow are meeting for coffee at the Espresso Pump in twenty minutes. They're getting together under the guise that they need to discuss Buffy and Xander, but she knows the subtext is screaming "date".
She feels a little guilty thinking about how this could be another beginning for her and Willow when there's more pressing matters at hand. Like, say, the issue of Spike and Anya being forced to leave Sunnydale because their ex-lovers have suddenly come down with extreme jealousy complexes. She shakes her head, remembering the looks on their faces when she'd told them they'd have to fight or leave. Anya'd looked so scared and Spike had just looked so... lost. She hopes she never has to break news like that to people she cares about again.
Tara pulls herself back to the present and starts to lock up the register and the display case behind the counter. She's just about to turn the key when a sudden ring from the phone causes her to give a start. Normally, she would let the machine take the call so close to lunch, but she kind of feels like stalling right now. She crosses to the counter and picks up the reciever.
"Hello, you've reached the Magic Box, how may I help you?"
"Tara?" asks the voice on the other end of the line.
"Yes?"
"It's Anya."
Tara's face brightens into a smile. "Oh, hey, sweetie! How are things going?"
"All right. We're somewhere in Indiana at the moment, and it's raining cats and dogs. But not literally. That would be a little frightening."
Tara chuckles. "Yeah, it would. How are you and Spike doing?"
"Pretty well, thanks. We had sex in the car today. I've never done that before. How about you?"
She can feel herself blushing. "Um... w-well, never in a *car*... but there *was* th-this time--"
"No, no," Anya interrupts. "I meant how are things with you and Willow?"
"Oh!" she exclaims. Her blush deepens. "Th-they're getting better. Thanks for asking."
"No problem. Now, if you'd like to continue with your 'never-in-a-car-but... story, I wouldn't object."
"Um, that's okay. It's really not that interesting."
Anya gives an audible shrug. "If you say so."
"So," Tara says, changing the subject. "Do you have enough money? I deposited a check for you yesterday."
"We haven't been to a bank yet, but we'll probably be going out tonight so I'll get some more then."
There's a slight pause then, and Tara can just barely hear Spike's voice in the background. A soft scuffling sound betrays the fact that Anya's put her hand over the mouthpiece; Tara is able to make out Spike saying something about "our insane ex-es" and Anya replying that she hasn't asked yet. Another scuffling sound, and she's back on the line.
"Sorry, Spike doesn't know how to behave when people are on the phone."
Tara bites back a laugh. "That's all right."
"Yeah. So, anyway, how are things... you know... *there*?"
She switches ears and sighs. "Well, Buffy and Xander haven't calmed down much. They're still bent out of shape. Willow and I are actually starting to wonder if maybe someone's done something to them. We're meeting a few minutes to talk about it, as a matter of fact."
"Oh." Anya's voice is ambiguous. "So we should still stay away for awhile?"
Tara nods needlessly. "Probably. But as soon as we figure out what's going on-- if *anything-- I'll let you know. Okay?"
"All right. Thank you."
"No problem, sweetie."
Another pause, then Anya says, "Well, I'll let you go now. I wouldn't want you to be late for your date."
"Oh, it's not a date," Tara tells her. "It's a meeting-type thing."
"Don't be ridiculous," Anya says. "It's a date. Enjoy yourself; don't try and resist if Willow puts the moves on you. And remember what you told me in the shop a while ago-- everyone needs someone."
She smiles. "I will, thanks. I hope you and Spike stay safe and happy."
"You, too, Tara. Good-bye."
"Bye."
Tara hangs up the phone, feeling strangely even. 'Demon wisdom,' she thinks. 'Beautiful thing.'
**********************************
Anya puts the phone back in its cradle and looks over at Spike, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. "Looks like we'll be on our trip for another week at least."
He cocks his brow. "That a good thing or a bad thing?"
Anya smiles. "I think it's whatever we want to make it."
***********************************
TBC...
Dedication: To Nathan Schulte and everything he could have been. Nate~ the UE class of 2004 will not be the same without you. Rest in peace.
*Weep not for the memories...*
-- Sarah McLachlan, 'I Will Remember You'
It's only another four hours of driving before Anya and Spike decide to call it quits again. This time, however, it's not for a rough romp on the side of the road; it's because they-- finally-- have stumbled upon civilization.
"Oh, thank *God*," Anya groans as an unrecognizable skyline appears above the monotonous cornfields. "I was beginning to think we were trapped in a redneck Twilight Zone. I would have had to start calling you 'Uncle Spike' if we ever wanted to have sex again."
"Kinky," Spike comments, shooting her a sideways glance. "Though you know I'd prefer 'Daddy'."
Anya lets out a short laugh, then stops herself and frowns. "May I just ask what it is with you evil penis-toters being so preoccupied with having your lovers call you 'Daddy'? What kind of a sick, misogynistic power trip is that?"
Spike rolls his eyes. "Feminists," he mutters. "It was a joke, woman, and we're just going to leave it at that. I don't feel like getting into a cross-gender pissing contest over it."
He's learned enough over the past couple months to know that delving into male-female power issues with Anya is pointless and redundant. Sparring verbally with her can be amusing, but ultimately it gets irritating, paradoxical, and often strays far from the original point at hand. Occasionally it leads to fierce and frantic lovemaking, i.e. earlier today, but that is not by any means a regular occurrance.
'Too bad for me,' Spike thinks sardonically, squinting into the horizon. "What city d'you reckon this is?"
A temporarily mollified Anya shrugs as she consults the road map Spike scared out of the hotel clerk. "As far as I can tell, we're somewhere in the middle of Indiana." She pauses, looks out the window at an indecipherably faded exit sign, and then frowns back down at the map. "Although due to the poor quality of road markers around here, we could just as easily be in Texas."
He shakes his head and sighs. "I hope you're kidding."
"So do I," she says. "Being lost in the Midwest is not at the top of my wish-list as of right now. Well, at least it wouldn't be if I *had* a wish-list."
"Nor mine, pet. The blood there's a bit too spicy for my tastes, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I know. I did some vengeance work there about six years ago. It's all gay cowboys and women with mullets and--" she shudders "jackrabbits. Scarier than the Hellmouth if you ask me."
"I thought gay cowboys and jackrabbits were the same thing," Spike deadpans, shooting her a smart-ass look.
"No, actually they're quite diff-- oh." She gets it. "Another joke. Haha."
"*I* thought it was funny," he says.
"Oh, it was, sweetie," she tells him with a tone of mock patronization. "Just not to me."
**************************************
They reach the town less then ten minutes later. It's not as big as it seemed from farther away, just a few buildings that look to be around 10 or 11 stories high and a square mile or so of tightly-packed blocks of stores and apartments. The people walking the sidewalks look mostly lower middle class, with the exception of the sporadic black-suited businessman coming in or out of one of the buildings. The streets are wide and packed with cars and cabs; traffic is slow and frantic at the same time, typical of a jaggedly populated city like this. Anya's willing to bet the demon scene here is booming.
There are two hotels in the city to pick from: one's a Best Western, the other is a Holiday Inn. They opt for the Holiday Inn, figuring they'll splurge a little and stay a couple nights. They're far enough away now, after all, and where else are they going to go?
It's three o'clock in the afternoon, but it seems sunset has been started prematurely by a thick band of storm clouds that rolled into town with the two refugee blondes. They park the DeSoto in the shadows of the homogeneous landscaping and make it into the lobby just as the clouds open and a steady drizzle begins.
Spike does the routine checking in, registering with a knowing smirk at Anya under the name Mr. and Mrs. DeMon, then hands Anya the key to their room. He runs back out to the car to grab her duffel bag and his blood while she heads to the third floor, pointedly ignoring the lewd stares of the teenage bell boys who seem a little too fascinated with her rain-soaked form.
Anya opens the door of room 306 and sighs her relief. There's not a roach in sight and the maroon carpet covers the *entire* floor; it is also without the suspicious white stains that were so obscenely obvious on the carpet of the Incest-- er, *Windcrest*-- Inn. She shuts the door, sets her purse down next to the closet, and walks over to the bed.
"Nice to see the springs don't creak," she says to herself as she sits down on it. She glances around contentedly, glad to be somewhere that bears even the tiniest bit of resemblance to a normal home.
'Wonderful,' she thinks. 'Only four days out of the Dale and I'm already travel-weary.'
She sits idly for a few moments, contemplating what exactly that means. She's not homesick or anything tragic like that, she's sure of it. She doesn't miss the crypt or the town, she only feels a slight pang at the thought of the shop. And to her great relief, she doesn't feel any regret for leaving the last shreds of proximity to Xander behind. She'd been concerned for awhile that despite what she and Spike have going for them, there'd always be a gaping void in her where Xander had been. Thankfully, she realizes, that void is nowhere near the size she feared it would be. Anya guesses she's just not enjoying the constant driving and the tension that's been rearing its ugly head between her and Spike. Sure, they've had their moments of relief from it, like yesterday with all the laughing, but it seems like too much is hanging over their heads for them to really cut loose. There's something still tethering them to the Hellmouth.
Anya's train of thought is de-railed as Spike opens the door to the room and tosses her bag in. She looks up, starting slightly, and has to give an inward laugh as she sees that he's drenched from head to toe and dripping water everywhere, his hair all wild and curly from the gel being rained out.
"Christ, there's a bloody deluge outside," he grunts, setting his bag of blood next to Anya's purse. "Hope your duffel's waterproof."
Anya raises an eyebow. "Well, it's obvious that *you're* not."
"Very funny," he says, stripping off his duster. "And just for that, I'm changing in the bathroom instead of letting you see my gorgeous, glistening body."
"Oh God, no," Anya says, feigning horror. "Please, don't take away my naked Spike priveleges."
He grins. "Maybe if you're a good little demon..."
"Me, good? I don't think so."
Spike laughs. "Naughty, just the way I like 'em." He peels his shirt off, keeping his eyes on her.
"Oh stop it," she tells him. "Your charm is wasted at the moment. I just remembered I have to call Tara, and I can't have you parading around like a Chippendale's dancer while I'm trying to talk to her."
He snorts, a disgusted expression playing across his brow. "I'll not be compared to those *ponces*. You know my moves are completely superior to theirs." He emphasizes his point with a slight sway of his hips.
"Is *that* your sexy dance?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
He starts to nod, then catches himself, drawing up his shoulders. "I *told* you already, Anya. I have no dance."
And with that he turns and walks into the bathroom.
******************************************
"I'm sorry, sir, we don't carry mummy's hands anymore. Really? Well, I guess if you can't find one anywhere else, we could probably special-order one for you. Okay. No, thank *you*. Have a good day."
Tara hangs up the phone behind the counter of the Magic Box with a curious expression on her face. 'That's the third person in the last week who's called for a mummy's hand,' she thinks, not able to recall one single spell or charm they're neccesary for. 'Maybe there's some kind of ancient Egypt convention in town or something.'
She shrugs to herself, glancing up at the clock on the wall, and sees that it's almost time to close for lunch. A flurry of butterflies begins to stir in her stomach; she and Willow are meeting for coffee at the Espresso Pump in twenty minutes. They're getting together under the guise that they need to discuss Buffy and Xander, but she knows the subtext is screaming "date".
She feels a little guilty thinking about how this could be another beginning for her and Willow when there's more pressing matters at hand. Like, say, the issue of Spike and Anya being forced to leave Sunnydale because their ex-lovers have suddenly come down with extreme jealousy complexes. She shakes her head, remembering the looks on their faces when she'd told them they'd have to fight or leave. Anya'd looked so scared and Spike had just looked so... lost. She hopes she never has to break news like that to people she cares about again.
Tara pulls herself back to the present and starts to lock up the register and the display case behind the counter. She's just about to turn the key when a sudden ring from the phone causes her to give a start. Normally, she would let the machine take the call so close to lunch, but she kind of feels like stalling right now. She crosses to the counter and picks up the reciever.
"Hello, you've reached the Magic Box, how may I help you?"
"Tara?" asks the voice on the other end of the line.
"Yes?"
"It's Anya."
Tara's face brightens into a smile. "Oh, hey, sweetie! How are things going?"
"All right. We're somewhere in Indiana at the moment, and it's raining cats and dogs. But not literally. That would be a little frightening."
Tara chuckles. "Yeah, it would. How are you and Spike doing?"
"Pretty well, thanks. We had sex in the car today. I've never done that before. How about you?"
She can feel herself blushing. "Um... w-well, never in a *car*... but there *was* th-this time--"
"No, no," Anya interrupts. "I meant how are things with you and Willow?"
"Oh!" she exclaims. Her blush deepens. "Th-they're getting better. Thanks for asking."
"No problem. Now, if you'd like to continue with your 'never-in-a-car-but... story, I wouldn't object."
"Um, that's okay. It's really not that interesting."
Anya gives an audible shrug. "If you say so."
"So," Tara says, changing the subject. "Do you have enough money? I deposited a check for you yesterday."
"We haven't been to a bank yet, but we'll probably be going out tonight so I'll get some more then."
There's a slight pause then, and Tara can just barely hear Spike's voice in the background. A soft scuffling sound betrays the fact that Anya's put her hand over the mouthpiece; Tara is able to make out Spike saying something about "our insane ex-es" and Anya replying that she hasn't asked yet. Another scuffling sound, and she's back on the line.
"Sorry, Spike doesn't know how to behave when people are on the phone."
Tara bites back a laugh. "That's all right."
"Yeah. So, anyway, how are things... you know... *there*?"
She switches ears and sighs. "Well, Buffy and Xander haven't calmed down much. They're still bent out of shape. Willow and I are actually starting to wonder if maybe someone's done something to them. We're meeting a few minutes to talk about it, as a matter of fact."
"Oh." Anya's voice is ambiguous. "So we should still stay away for awhile?"
Tara nods needlessly. "Probably. But as soon as we figure out what's going on-- if *anything-- I'll let you know. Okay?"
"All right. Thank you."
"No problem, sweetie."
Another pause, then Anya says, "Well, I'll let you go now. I wouldn't want you to be late for your date."
"Oh, it's not a date," Tara tells her. "It's a meeting-type thing."
"Don't be ridiculous," Anya says. "It's a date. Enjoy yourself; don't try and resist if Willow puts the moves on you. And remember what you told me in the shop a while ago-- everyone needs someone."
She smiles. "I will, thanks. I hope you and Spike stay safe and happy."
"You, too, Tara. Good-bye."
"Bye."
Tara hangs up the phone, feeling strangely even. 'Demon wisdom,' she thinks. 'Beautiful thing.'
**********************************
Anya puts the phone back in its cradle and looks over at Spike, standing in the doorway of the bathroom. "Looks like we'll be on our trip for another week at least."
He cocks his brow. "That a good thing or a bad thing?"
Anya smiles. "I think it's whatever we want to make it."
***********************************
TBC...