TITLE: Ties That Bind, 5/?
 
AUTHOR: La Rose Noire
 
EMAIL: goddessblkrose@yahoo.com
 
SUMMARY: Takes place back when Spike was newly chipped
and forced to be one of the Scoobies. This will be
Spike/Willow, of course, because, well, that's how it
SHOULD BE .
 
RATING:  G 
 
 
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, et al own all
that is Buffy...including the characters in this
story. If they were mine, the whole last few seasons
would have been nothing but a bad dream. No copyright
infringement intended, just a desperate attempt to
right some fictional wrongs.
 
 
Part 5
 
 
He whistled happily in the dark as he headed home
through the deserted cemetery, pausing now and again
to do a little jig on a headstone then jump off, as
high and as far as he could. He'd had a bloody
brilliant day; first, the best sleep he'd had in ages,
with no Slayer filled dreams, just technicolour scenes
of blood and mayhem (of which he was, of course, the
instigator), then an evening filled with poker (for
once he'd managed to leave with no kittens but plenty
of money) with a side order of violence. The odds were
four to one, and he was the only one left standing. He
touched the side of his face gingerly, wincing a
little at the tenderness of his quickly vanishing
bruises, and switched to humming, badly mangling
"Anarchy in the UK." He lit a cigarette and took a
deep drag, watching as the exhaled smoke drifted  into
the crisp, clean air. 
 
Some nights, it was just so good to be undead. 
 
He stopped humming as he reached the door to his crypt
and spotted the cardboard box sitting in front of his
door. He stood a good distance away and examined it as
he finished his cigarette. It was an ordinary
cardboard box, maybe three quarters of a meter tall, a
little longer in width, sealed with cellotape. "Spike"
was written neatly across the top in big black
letters. He ground his cigarette out underneath his
boot without taking his eyes off the box, then
approached it slowly.
 
It didn't move, it wasn't ticking, and it didn't
stink. So far, so good. He gave it a shove with his
foot, then skipped back a bit and waited.
 
It just sat there.
 
**I'm not going to let some bloody stupid box ruin my
night** His always short patience at an end, he strode
forward and picked at the end of the thick piece of
cellotape holding the box closed with a black
fingernail, chipping the polish even more, finally
pulling it off in a strip and idly wrapping it around
his index and middle fingers as it came off. He
wrinkled his forehead and flared his nostrils as he
caught the barest hint of vanilla in the air, then
brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed the tape.
 
He knew who'd left the box for him.  For a moment, he
was sorry he hadn't stopped by the shop to see the
little witch earlier in the evening, but the thought
of the Slayer ruining his perfect day banished any
regret. He'd thoroughly trounced Blondie in last
night's battle of the wits – when she stomped away,
she was on the edge of tears – and dutifully checked
to make sure Red had gotten back to her dorm safe and
sound after their little exchange; he'd deserved to
have tonight off. 
 
He squatted down and ripped open the top of the box,
wondering what was so important that the witch would
venture out to the cemetery at night to deliver it. 
 
He didn't move for a long time; he just sat and stared
into the open box. Finally, carefully, he began to
remove the contents, examining each item as he placed
it gently to the side. 
 
Four 24 biscuit boxes of Wheetabix. Six bags of
Walkers potato crisps: two salted, two salt & vinegar,
one tomato ketchup, one beef & onion. Two eight-packs
of Pub Draught Guinness in the techno-cans. Four tubes
of McVities Milk Chocolate Hob Nobs. Two packs of
Jacobs cream crackers, and four bags of their
Twiglets. Two bags of Bassetts jellie babies. And
stacked neatly in a corner, bars and bars of Cadbury
chocolate – the good stuff, not that crap made in the
states and stuck in a Cadbury wrapper. This was real
Cadbury chocolate, crunchie, and fudge, and dairy
milk, and whole nut, and double decker… 
 
"Oh, Red." He shook his head in disbelief as he sat
back on his heels and surveyed the bounty in front of
him. All his favourites. Everything he loved, all the
food he'd missed. His mouth watered and he laughed out
loud. He wasn't sure why she'd done it, but he was
glad she had. It was quite possibly the best gift he'd
ever gotten. 
 
Not that he'd gotten many gifts recently. As he
carefully repacked everything in the box, he tried to
remember the last present he'd been given. Angelus was
good at taking, but not giving, and Dru really wasn't
much for gift giving. Well, she'd given him people,
now and again, a particularly tasty chit or an enemy
or two, presented to him to finish off at his leisure,
but she'd certainly never given him anything
this…thoughtful.
 
He carried the box inside and deposited it on the
sarcophagus, wondering how the witch had known exactly
what he liked. Sure, he and the watcher had argued a
bit over the Wheetabix while they had been
'roommates,' and maybe they'd waxed nostalgic over the
lack of quality snack food and beer here in the States
a time or two, but for her to remember exactly what he
liked…
 
He wondered for a moment if the witch had been
watching him as closely as he'd been watching her.
Sure, he was a good looking bloke, and American women
seemed to love the accent (hell, he'd seen the way the
female customers at the magic shop perked up when the
watcher started talking, and he was old), but the
witch had always seemed a one-wolf kind of bird. He
didn't think she'd even noticed anything about him,
much less that he was a man.
 
Why should she notice? After all, the Slayer had made
it clear, over and over, that he was a monster, a
thing, not a person, not a man, just a tool to be used
and put away without a second thought when she was
done with him. If it hadn't been for the witch, he
would never have gotten a thank you from any of them,
or any other consideration for his feelings at all.
 
The thought brought him up short. The witch had always
treated him differently than the others, been more
concerned for his welfare, his feelings. He'd always
chalked it up to her more sensitive nature (he was
sure she probably collected stray puppies and kittens
to bring home and helped little old people cross the
street, too) and her common sense; unlike the rest,
she was afraid of him, she knew he was a predator, and
could turn on them at any moment. She rarely looked
him in the eye, never sat near him if she could avoid
it, spoke to him only when she had to, and blushed and
babbled when she did. Up until last night, he'd never
been alone with her since that night in her dorm room,
and she always smelled of fear when he got too close.
 
An idea began to form. What if she had been watching
him, aware of him, concerned for him, as a person, not
as just another being.
 
What if she wasn't afraid of Spike the vampire, but of
Spike the man?
 
He shrugged off his duster and tossed it on the chair.
He searched out his lone mug and wiped it out with the
edge of his t-shirt, then jumped up to sit on the
sarcophagus. Pulling an eight pack of Guinness and a
pack of crisps out of the box, he popped open the can
and watched it foam into the mug, marveling for a
moment at modern technology. He ripped open the bag
and took a deep drink, sighing happily, before
returning to contemplation of his new theory.
 
Overall, Red was pretty brave – she'd have to be,
being raised on the Hellmouth and hanging around with
the Slayer all this time. She'd been up against some
pretty powerful demons and vampires – his sire
included – and managed to survive with nothing more
than her friends,  her knowledge of her enemies'
weaknesses, her mortal strength and the little bit of
magic she had mastered. It didn't make sense that she
should be so afraid of being around him, given the
fact that they both knew he couldn't hurt her anymore,
no matter how much he wanted to. 
 
On the other hand, she really hadn't had much
experience with men. He was willing to bet that she'd
been a virgin until she met the wolf; he vaguely
remembered something about her and the moron being
caught snogging somewhere once upon a time, but he
doubted the little prat had been up to much else. He
snickered. Not that the wolf and Xapper qualified as
men, anyway. They were boys; the only man she spent
any time with was the watcher, and he treated her like
a daughter. And though she wasn't quite as…fuzzy as
she had been, she still didn't dress to catch a
bloke's eye like Slutty.
 
No, Red was the shy, quiet type, and, after thinking
about it, he was willing to bet it wasn't his vampire
nature that made her so afraid of him, but the fact
that he was thoroughly male. The knowledge pleased
him.  He downed the last of his stout, put the mug
down, then crumpled the empty crisp bag and threw it
over his shoulder. He rifled through the box, trying
to decide what to eat next, wondering exactly how he
should thank the little witch for her gift.
 
Whatever he decided, testing his new theory should
make things bloody interesting tomorrow.