CHAPTER NINE
A sharp "ching" resounds in the air as Spike's axe meets with the chain mail of the Hollaran demon he's been sparring with for nearly a quarter of an hour. He's tired of throwing punches. It is way beyond the time for the big guns. Buffy jumps on the demon's back, wrapping her slender arms around the thick, football player width of the demon's neck. She pulls upward and then to the left. No jubilant cracking noise results.
"No, no, Buffy. Hollaran's don't have spines, love," Spike coaches as the blade of his axe collides again with his adversary's breastplate. "You can't break their necks."
"No spines?" she asks, right before the demon pitches her to the ground. She springs back, her spine still in tact, her fists at the ready. "How do they walk?"
The demon spews some gibberish that makes Spike laugh.
"I'm a little rusty on the Hollaran's lexicon of late, but I think he said that they walk over graves of Slayers." He addresses the demon. "Two years ago, I would have been right with you on that sentiment, but now, you're talking about he lady of my heart." The smile on his face nearly matches the gleam of the blade in the milky moonlight as he charges again.
OK, I guess I'm useless again, Buffy thinks, wrapping her arms around her and taking a rest on the closest tombstone. It all wasn't a loss, though. She did stake three fledglings. One who was dressed in a Backstreet Boys tee shirt. She is especially proud of this kill. Not only did she prevent this vamp from lunching on countless victims, but she also kept the poor girl from having to witness the sad demise of the once proud TRL faves.
"So who wears chain mail these days, eh?" Spike asks, taking another swipe at his growling prey. "Aside from you and Cher. At least Cher has a new hit single." His blade nears the demon's heart, but not close enough to kill him; just enough to startle him and put him off his game. "What have you got?"
Green blood flows from the demon's chest and the monster dabs at it with a disbelieving paw. He growls something which Buffy interprets as, "You gave me an owie!" and he lunges for Spike. Ever the agile terrier of a man, Spike sidesteps the advance.
"You have to do better than that if you want to send me to the mat," Spike says, flipping the axe in his hand like a smug bartender with a bottle of Skye. "I've got brains and brawn. And I'm bloody pissed off that you won't die already!"
As the demon rises to the challenge once again, Spike cuts him low. In one swift lowering of the blade, he divides the demon's head into two neat halves. Spike can't be too amused by the sight of the demon going cross eyed, looking at his own brains flowing between the crevice the blade has created. When the demon falls to his knees and eventually lands on his back, that's when the real work comes in. The mucousy gray matter flows onto the grass and Spike doesn't waste any time stamping it out with the toe of his muddied black boots.
"And that," Spike pants, watching the demon dissolve into quivering orange jello, "is how you kill a Hollaran demon." He congratulates himself, watching the goo ooze through the blades of grass and pool by the grave of a doctor who probably charged too much for patient visits and deserves worse than having a demon's remains slime his limestone monument. "You never get used to the smell, though. That odor of rotting peat moss combined with a homeless man's shoe leather? Awful stuff. But he's gone now. His bretheren will be out for our blood soon enough. You up for another round, Buffy?" He expects her to be somewhere near and within whispering distance. "Buffy?" he questions in the darkness, to no one, apparently. He swivels his head around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, somewhere. His eyes come up empty of her. But then he hears something. A retching sound, not close, but just close enough and far away enough for her to run to and try to disguise her disgust.
He rushes in the direction of the moans he is hearing now and finds her, about fifty yards from where he killed the demon. She is clinging fiercely to the face of a tombstone, her cheek pressed against the cold stone. The moonlight reveals a fine spray of finely chopped vegetables on the face of the tombstone, as though someone has flung a can of soup against the engraving.
"You all right?" he asks.
"Fine," she says as she gulps down another wave of sickness. "Must gave been something I ate."
He thinks about supper. She stirred soup in a saucepan slowly for at least and hour and a half and when she finally sat down, it took her almost as long to finish it.
"You're not becoming one of those Ally McBulimics, are you?" he asks.
"Oh, please, Spike! I know I'm skinny, but it's all because of the job. I mean, a good slaying night shaves off at least 1200 calories. Not that I'm counting."
He sits down beside her on the cold, wet ground. A period of intermittent rain showers has made the soil malleable and soft. The dirt contours to his backside as she curls into his embrace.
"So bad soup made you give this poor man a post-mortem tribute he never planned on," he says, kissing her forehead and looking at the inscription on the grave.
"Oh! Sorry, Mr..." She squints and tries to pronounce the name on the tomb, "Scantalopoliliseski?"
"You weren't so quick with the apologies a week ago," Spike has to chuckle. "He was a vampire. You slayed him last Tuesday."
"Oh well, then. No worries!" she brightens.
Her smile is tired and strained, and even in the dim, he can see her color is almost as green as the blood shed by the demon Spike just killed. "If you're feeling sickly, you don't need to be out in this dampness. Come on. Let's get you home into a warm bath."
"Mmm…that sounds good," she muses, allowing Spike to help her to her unsteady feet. "You lead the way."
Spike bursts through the door of the magic shop, a scowl on his face and purpose in his step. "Nice try, Buffy. I did some checking. Turns out, In the Bedroom isn't a porn flick. It's some angst-ridden weepy with that schizo bird from Carrie."
"Fine," Buffy answers, too tired after her training to fight with him. "We can see another movie. It doesn't have to be that one. I just don't want to see another movie that makes me feel as though I've damaged a chromosome watching it." She takes a swig of her water. "Let me just get my coat and I'll be ready to go."
Spike is slipping on her coat when Giles approaches.
"So it's a night out, is it?" he asks.
"Yeah," Buffy says, whipping her hair out of the back of the coat. "I'm not Bronzing it tonight. After ten straight days being called, 'Miss' and 'Hey you', I think I'm owed some time alone in the dark with someone who can actually call me by my name."
Giles' expression turns ashen as though he's thinking of the unseemly scenario Buffy could be suggesting. Then realization comes upon him. "Oh, right. The pictures."
Spike cannot contain the satisfaction on his face from seeing Buffy's Watcher so visibly shaken by thoughts of the two of them in the dark. He can almost hear the "wah wah" guitar porn music playing inside Giles' head.
"See you later, Giles. I'll be in tomorrow before work." Buffy turns in Spike's arm to leave.
"Oh Buffy," Giles calls before she makes it to the door. "I hope you feel better."
Out the door and into the night air, as the tinkling of the bell inside is silenced, Spike asks her, "So what was that all about?"
"What?"
"The 'hope you feel better' wish from your Watcher."
"Oh," she says, waving a hand in front of her. "It's nothing." Secretly, she is berating her Watcher, wondering how someone with such thin lips could have such a big mouth.
"Did you sick up again?"
"No."
"Well, then?"
"What? It was nothing!"
"Buffy…"
She exhales sharply, fretting with the buttons on her coat. "Well, there was this one thing."
"And what was that?"
"I sort of…sort of had a fainty thing during training today."
"What?" he blasts.
"No biggie! I didn't actually faint. I just got kind of light headed and had to sit down with my head between my knees for a few minutes. Then I was all better."
Spike purses his lips and studies her for a few minutes. He says nothing; just puts a hand to her back and guides her gently in the direction of his car.
Once inside the Desoto, Spike continues his vow of silence and turns on the ignition. In the first rumblings of the old engine being forced to breathe life again, Buffy looks warily at Spike. He seems angry and annoyed with her. For what? Being sick? For not calling him after her little, insignificant spell and telling him. "Honey, great news! I almost fainted!"
Two minutes into the drive, Spike has still not spoken and Buffy realizes that they are not heading towards the multiplex. Nor are they on the way home.
"Wait. Where are we going?" she asks.
There is some movement in his jaw, but none on his lips.
"Honey, where are we going?" she asks again, slightly panicked.
"I'm taking you to hospital," he says plainly.
"What? No! Spike, no!"
"If you're puking up everything you eat and you're getting the dizzies during training, you need a doc to look you over."
"Spike, I'm not going to the hospital!"
"Yes, you bloody well are!" he returns angrily.
"Don't yell at me!"
Taking his eyes from the road, he looks over at her and can only shake his head. "Sweetheart," he softens, "I don't mean to be cross, but I'm just concerned, is all. And you don't seem to be worried at all. I mean, look at you. You're exhausted all the time, you can't keep anything down, and you're almost as pale as I am. Getting woozy while sparring with your Watcher is one thing, but what if it happens while your going head to head with some nasty who could very well take a bite out of Buffy when she's down for the count?"
She knows he's right. There's so little time in a Slayer's life for personal concerns, even in matters of health. When you're trying to save the world, things like a tummy ache and head rushes seem secondary.
"I am a little worried," she says quietly. "But not enough to go to the hospital right now. Please don't take me there, Spike. I hate that place. Nothing but bad memories there. I'll…I'll call my doctor tomorrow."
"You will?"
"Yeah, I will. It's about time for my 3000 mile check-up anyway. I'll make the appointment first thing in the morning."
"Right then. You do that."
"Let's just go to the movie, OK? Just sit and watch a flick and forget about all this for a while. That's what I'm in the mood for."
"I'll even buy you some of those outrageously expensive chocolate covered peanuts you like. What are they called? Goobers?"
Just the thought of chocolate covered anything makes her momentarily queasy. But she doesn't let on that she is anything but enthusiastic for what he is offering. "Yum!" she gulps.
Spike awakes very slowly and rolls his head over to where he customarily finds Buffy's shoulder. He opens his eyes. Her pillow is empty. A quick swipe of his hand across her side tells him she has just vacated the bed; the sheets are still warm.
He slides his legs onto the floor, finding his jeans in a heap by the nightstand. He slips them on and pads out into the hallway. Immediately he sees that the bathroom door is shut. He listens carefully, hearing nothing inside. He raps against the wood cautiously with the knuckle of his index finger.
"Buffy?"
"Yeah," comes the hoarse reply.
"You sick?"
"Just a little nauseous. I'll be all right."
"You need me to come in?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'll be out in a minute."
"What time is your doctor's appointment?"
"10:30."
"You be on time for it, love."
"I will."
Buffy sits on the lid of the toilet, staring at the end of the six inch wand she holds in a trembling hand. A little lavender plus sign deepens in color right before her eyes. But this can't be right, she keeps telling herself. These things are only 99% accurate. There is a margin for error, she assures herself. Just a small, teensy little margin, but it's there. Enough to call a presidential election. Is there a hanging chad that might sway the results in a different direction?
Or a pregnant one?
All the signs, all the symptoms, all the sickness…
She swallows a lump of nausea and lets the wand fall by her side as she presses a damp washcloth to her clammy forehead.
"I don't need a doctor to tell me what's wrong," she says.
"Yep, that's what it is. You're pregnant," Dr. Hemphill says casually as she strolls back into the examining room.
Buffy can only stare at the prematurely graying thirty-something woman, thinking that she has either walked into the wrong room or that she has been smoking the substance that forms the first syllable of her surname.
"No," is Buffy's automatic response. "Are you sure?"
"I'm 99% sure. But I'm going to do a sonogram just to rule anything else out."
There is that percentage again, Buffy thinks. Is 99% just some agreed upon figure to stand for "you can almost count on it, but wait?"
"But I just had a period, like, three weeks ago."
"That was before the baby set up shop," Dr. Hemphill says, sitting gingerly on the wheeled stool by the examining table. "Now he's all moved in and probably thinking about decorating ideas now."
"You don't understand!" Buffy says, tears beginning to thicken at the back of her throat. "My boyfriend is dead!"
"Oh…" Dr. Hemphill says, surreptitiously tucking Buffy's chart under the sleeve of her arm as though suddenly the results are a tragedy. "How long has he been gone?"
"120 years," Buffy replies absently.
Dr. Hemphill's eyes widen. "Excuse me?"
"Uh," Buffy amends. "A long time. Long time."
"And you haven't been sexually active since his death?"
I only became sexually active with him after his death. Buffy is glad for this question because it allows her an opportunity to laugh. But when she does laugh, her eyes spill over with tears. Her visible emotions mimic someone in the throes of grief, but she is not anguished. She doesn't know what she is. For a fraction of a moment, 99.9% of the moment, she is happy, thinking. Thinking…
Oh God thinking…
"No," Buffy replies finally.
Dr. Hemphill wraps a comforting arm around Buffy's forearm. "You want to see your baby?"
Her automatic response is, "Yes."
If there is a little being growing inside of her, she wants to know at least what it looks like, what it is. Then maybe, if she sees it, she can finally believe it.
Dr. Hemphill squirts a generous amount of clear jelly from a tube onto Buffy's lower abdomen, then guides a T-shaped wand over the area, to the left, to the right, and then…
"There it is," Dr. Hemphill says.
"Where?" Buffy focuses her eyes on the image right before her on the monitor. It all looks like white paint swirled into a can of black lacquer.
Dr. Hemphill uses the tip of her ballpoint to pinpoint the it. "It's as small as the top portion of your thumb, but that's it. That's your baby."
Buffy squints, thinking she's already the most inept mother of all time because, try as she might, she just can't see what the woman is showing her.
But then she thinks she does.
It's very subtle. She has to stare at it as though looking deeply at one of those magic eye pictures.
Something jumps on the screen. A heartbeat, maybe. Something. A little life force she can see but not feel.
"What is it?" Buffy asks, transfixed by the fascinating image on the screen.
"It's a little early to tell the sex just yet. Maybe by your fourth or fifth visit---
"No." Buffy interrupts. "What is it?"