Chapter Twenty~Seven: Gratuitous Smirking Smurfs, but without the Smurfs.

@ @ @

Enjoy the chapter. Review after you read it, so that I know you did. Enjoy it, I mean. And feel free to offer plot suggestions on Of Blondes that Bite and Stab. I've already got this series outlined, so no suggestions are necessary for this one. Thanks, though, Jessica.

~Star Mouse


@ @ @

Xander and Anya at the Magic Box caused such a stir that he completely forgot to warn anyone about Faith.

@ @ @

"...And, in other news, the escaped convict from the women's penitentiary is still at large, though police suspect she may have left the state."

A black and white mug shot of a dark-haired young woman with round eyes flashed on the screen, and Cordelia blinked at it. Thinking quickly, she pressed the record button on the TV/VCR unit, forgetting her coffee to study the photo on the screen. The picture shrunk and flew into the upper corner of the display, revealing the anchorman at his desk.

"Faith Wilkins is charged with multiple murders, as well as the possession and use of several illegal and unsafe performance-enhancing drugs. The populace is warned to regard her as extremely dangerous, whether Wilkins appears to be armed or not, and to report any sightings to the number at the bottom of your screen." Cleverly, the shot shifted to view the anchorman from the side, and he turned to face the audience before addressing it again. "The Lakers lost last night, in an upset to the..."

"Angel!"

@ @ @

Those bastards. *Whump* ...Or, bitches, I guess? *Whap* Whatever. *Thwackthwack* Damn them. I won't only kill them, I'll...*thumpthumpthumpcrinkcrink* ...skewer them, gut them, and hang them up by their intestines from the ceiling!

"Oh, Anne..."

When she heard the singsong voice, Buffy gritted her teeth and threw another whirlwind round of punches. She was training, working out the kinks in her injured arm and leg. Like she always said, demonic possession is no excuse for letting yourself go. Or she would, if she had ever had occasion to use it before now. She landed a few sidekicks, then bounced back on her platforms.

Vadas watched from the doorway. He really should stop her. He'd been set on saving his 'soldiers.' But she looked like she was having so much fun... He stood there as she shot another vicious punch to the trussed up vampire's midsection. It let out a little grunt, through the gag, and involuntarily swung from the chains affixing it to the ceiling. The bag lay in the corner, sand spilling out.

Anne stepped back and headed purposely for the wicked-looking knife stuck in the seat of the chair behind her. Vadas straightened.

"Alright, that's enough. No need to unduly punish others for your own failures."

Buffy ripped the knife from the wood and whirled on him, all flashing green eyes and clenching teeth. "My failures?" She shook her head and the knife. "Uh uh. Why the hell don't you have magic wards up? 'Cause ya know, not having much of a problem with the torture until the tortee goes all Trekkie on me."

The Hungarian gazed placidly at her, and her knife. "There's that displacement again." He pushed the blade aside with an index finger, then wiped his hand against his suit jacket. "Have you seen a psychiatrist?"

The blonde looked about to explode, but instead deflated, dropping her arms to her sides. "God, do I need to!"

"After we take over the world," Vadas asserted. "If there are any good ones left by that point. Now, what do you think we can do in the meantime to gather our information? We'll require considerable knowledge on the subject in order to open the correct portals."

Buffy/Anne/who-the-hell-ever rolled her eyes. "Since it takes about a month for you heliophobics to travel anywhere, we should probably stick to sources in town."

"Good so far," he nodded.

She scowled briefly, on principle, before continuing. "The Watcher I grabbed wasn't talking any time soon, and the freaky redhead will have all sorts of wards over her by now, if I know her."

"And do you?"

"The old guy'll never talk. Trust me on that one. He's done this kind of thing before," she said, ignoring the question. She twirled the knife and looked thoughtfully into the distance. She wandered over to the chair, swinging the hanging vampire as she passed. She sat down and crossed her legs, still playing with the knife. Vadas watched in mild amusement.

"The shop would have what we need," she mused, "but we'd never be able to get in. There are still protection spells and stuff up from the last time a hell-bitch tried to open a ga--wait a second."

@ @ @

Faith looked up suddenly when the door opened, and relaxed only slightly when she saw it was that blonde guy from before, carrying towels.

"Spike."

He nodded slightly, setting the towels down on the end of the bed. "Slayer the Second. Nice to make your acquaintance."

Faith looked down. "We've met," she said, then jumped ahead before he could comment. "So, you've become Return of the Souled Vampire Pets: the Sequel, now in Technicolor?"

"I'm no one's pet, most certainly not Buffy's, if that's what you're implying."

Faith looked back up at him, noting the lickable cheekbones. "I heard. Tough break for B."

"'You heard'?"

"Willow. The redhead gave me the skinny on the goings on here."

Spike raised an eyebrow, decided the girl wouldn't mind a little smoke, and pulled a [disgusting, evil, cancer-causing, deathstick] cigarette from the pack in his pocket and set about lighting up. "'S really not her story to tell, now is it? Not sure the Slayer'd appreciate you having all the..." he took a drag, expelling the smoke in the dark Slayer's direction, "...gory details."

"I thought you weren't her pet."

"No, but I do recognise common courtesies."

Then she laughed, full and throaty. "Bullshit. If you had an iota of courtesy, you'd open a damn window before I catch my death of emphysema and early labor."

He rolled his eyes, but moved to open a window, nonetheless. He could get to like this girl. Always did take his women bossy. "Early labor, pet?"

She shrugged. "You know. If I get pregnant in the next few minutes."

He couldn't help the smirk. "Not likely. Though, if you'd like to get out of the prison drag and into something less sweaty, there's a shower down the hall willing to oblige. Red's offered up her wardrobe, but that's all at her apartment at the moment, so you can just grab something from down the hall. Not much leather in the lot, but it should fit you better than anything in the twigs' closets."

Faith had perked at the word 'shower,' and stood, grabbing the towels Spike had brought in moments before. "Who's clothes are they?"

Spike wrapped his lips around his [tobacco-filled, nicotine-riddled, tar spewing] cigarette and, yes, smirked.
"The next generation."

@ @ @

Willow slammed into the Magic Box, having deposited a loudly protesting Marion on the bed in her apartment. She was met with several surprised faces. Everyone had kind of assumed she'd be keeping a bedside vigil for at least a few hours. No such nurse-maiding. A few quick-yet-effective healing spells, a touch of kissing it better, and she was gone.

The redhead stalked past Xander and Anya, and right up the stairs to the loft. Giles blinked after her.

"Willow?" She was rifling through the grimoires. He shared a worried glance with Birdie. "Willow, what are you doing?"

She settled on a book, and grabbed several more and a handful of plastic baggies off the endtable before trotting back down the stairs. She met Giles at the bottom and passed off all the books but the first.

"I'm going to try again. Buffy is not going to snatch anyone else while we're sitting here doing nothing. Giles, you and Anya take the non English ones. Xander, Birdie, Petchra, one of you needs to start an inventory. Nearly all possession~type spells require hex-grade stick cinnamon. See how much we have; that'll give us an idea of our margin of error. Everyone else needs to get their nose in a book and sticky note every depossession or cleansing spell they can find. Got it?"

There was silence. Petchra raised her hand. Willow acknowledged her.

"I have no sticky notes," she confessed.

Willow grabbed her purse and pulled out pads of multiple colors. She tossed them at the Slayer, who caught them without blinking.

Willow turned back for the door. Giles jumped forward. "Willow!" She turned back, yet again, clearly annoyed. At least her eyes weren't black. "You are still susceptible to the dark forces. What happened yesterday could happen again. Someone else, I should--"

"You and Anya are the only ones that can translate most of the texts. I need you all on research duty, and nothing went wrong with the healing spells I just did. I'll deal. Oh, and someone needs to run to Buffy's house, and get Spike and Dawn to come help, too. The more eyes, the better."

"Can't we just call?" Xander spoke up.

"Broke the phone."

Willow left.

Xander coughed. "Anyone else getting some deja vu?"

Everyone but Anya gave him a blank look, and he realized they were the only ones that had been present last time Willow took command of getting Buffy back.

Birdie grabbed Joyce's car keys, having taken over the largely unused Honda. "I'll go grab Dawn and her pet vampire. Petchra, wanna come?"

Petchra set down the ceremonial skull she'd been fiddling with, and followed her out the door. They got strapped into the car in silence, with only a slight cringe on Petchra's part as Birdie lurched away from the curb before remembering to change gears.

The two had become roommates, since, typically, Petchra had not come into town with lodgings reserved. Marion was camped out in the renovated basement bedroom, and Spike had started sleeping on their living room couch more often than not, since Buffy's relapse. This overcrowding meant doubling up, and the other members of the household had instantly voted the two with the freakiest sleep schedules together, for the good of all.

It was working well, though Petchra had a surprising tendacy to end up with all the sheets and covers cocooned around her. Birdie had started sleeping in a sweatshirt to stave off the chill.

But that wasn't her only disturbing habit.

Oh, no. Not by far.

Birdie fought hard to keep her eyes on the road as the young Thai woman punched a CD code and track number into the music player on the dash. But she couldn't stop the groan that birthed at the first fiddle strains.

"I saw the light

I've been .baptised

By the fire in your touch

And the flame in your eyes

I'm born to love again

I'm a brand new man..."

The scarred one rolled her eyes. "Country. You like country~western music. What kind of sicko..."

Petchra just started singing along, shouting the lyrics in her heavily accented voice, right along with Ronnie Dunn's southern drawl.

"Well the whole town's talkin'/'Bout the line I'm walkin'/That leads right to your door.../Oh how I used to roam..." She turn her face in towards the driver side, and screamed, "I was a rolling stone!"

Birdie sighed dramatically, even as she winced at the sheer strident volume. Ever since this disturbing musical preference had come to light (and after failed attempts at conversion on both her own and Marion's part), she had been subjected to far more dance hall music than any person outside the great state of Texas should be made to bear. Admittedly, this is better than more of Dwight Yokam...

Then, Petchra started head-banging. "I used to have a wild side/ They say a country-mile-wide/I'd burn those beer joints down/ That's all changed now," she performed some bizarre seated two-step, now stocking'd feet skittering across the windshield in a way Birdie was sure would be impossible for anyone but a Slayer. "You turned my life arooound!" And still head-banging.

The first time it had happened was some psuedo~pop country crossover that had come on the radio in the Magic Box. Petchra had started twitching like some fly-ridden horse, screaming about a long goodbye. Dawn had been silenced. Birdie had been shocked. Marion had been horrified. Spike had been present, until he had retreated back through the cellars to the crypt to throw the Clash onto repeat in defence. Marion had joined him almost immediately, stumbling into his crypt muttering something about Dolly Parton, and they'd drown'd their sorrows in The Guns of Brixton.

The impromptu bonding session had tightly united the two Brits, if only in shared horror for the fiddle.

Birdie gave a mental shrug. Hey; whatever works.

And she jumped in when the chorus returned.

"I saw the light/ I've been .baptised/ By the fire in your touch/ And the flame in your eyes/ I'm born to love again/ I'm a brand new man!"

Ashamedly, she knew the next verse. And Petchra knew that. She dropped out, knowing Birdie's competionist personality wouldn't let the song go unaccompanied, now they were halfway through. Birdie thumped the steering wheel, for emphasis, while turning left and screaming, if not at the tops of her lungs or even exactly on key, at least showing willing.

"I used to love 'em and leave 'em/ Oh, I'd brag about my freedom/ How no one could tie me down/ Then I met youuuuu/ Now my heart beats truuue!"

Unprompted, she continued into the next verse, Petchra finally not being able to stand it, and coming back in. "Baby you and me together/ Feels more like forever/ Than anything I've ever known/ We're right on track/ I ain't looking baack! I saw the light---"

Birdie managed to extricate herself from the song, and allowed Petchra to yell the last three choruses all by her lonesome.

They actually pulled into the drive before the song ended, but Birdie refrained from twisting the key until the final chords had died.

Petchra immediately silenced, calmly unbuckled her seatbelt, put her shoes back on, and headed for the house. While Birdie did those things that keep drivers occupied for a few minutes, she headed straight upstairs, where she knew Dawn, and probably Spike would be holed up.

Birdie instead wandered into the den, and stopped short.

Who the hell is that?

And is that my Honeycomb she's eating?

...Are those my clothes??

The dark-haired young woman on the couch seemed perfectly at ease, working her way through a bowl of Cheerios, lounging around in a pair of olive green courderoys and a Goo Goo Dolls t-shirt.

While Birdie was still standing there, wondering what to do, the mystery girl looked up. Bright chocolate eyes delivered a measuring glance. An eyebrow raised.

"You Birdie?"

The Scarred One nodded warily. The woman on the couch smirked. "So how's it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"Being the Slayer."

Birdie stopped short, mid-step. "What do you know about being a Slayer?"

"A lot." At that moment, Petchra came down the stairs. "Birdie, where do the Summers keep the pain medication?" she asked in Thai. She blinked at the person on the couch. ".Hello..."

She was awarded the same studying look Birdie had received. "And you would be the Chosen Other One?"

Petchra looked to Birdie for help. "Not actually one..." she started.

"Right. There's four or something now. You know B's listed as one of the longest-living Slayers ever? What a load of shit."

Birdie's brain clicked. "You're Faith."

"Right on one, B2."

Petchra leaned in left towards Birdie. "Shouldn't she be in prison?"

Faith looked annoyed. "Hey, stop that. I can't understand a word you're saying." The Thai Slayer raised an eyebrow at her in a passably condescending way. Faith rethought. "Which is probably why you're doing it." Inwardly, though, she was cheering. At least these girls weren't mindless council drones, like she'd feared.

There were thumps on the stairs. "Nir, where's the meds?"

When Spike rounded the corner and saw the three Slayers all gathered in the den, he nearly groaned at the injustice of not being able or willing to take advantage of it. Stupid soul. Stupid chip. Not that the government metal was really the largest factor anymore, anyway, but still. What had Buffy called him? Serial killer in prison? Bitch didn't know what she was talking --well, yelling-- about. No prison would hold him for long if he really wanted out. Not even stupid metaphoric ones. He hid his inner dialogue of self and soul with (yes) a smirk. "I see you ladies have met. Corrupted them yet, then, Jailbird?"

"I was leading up to it."

"How's Dawn?" Birdie asked. "Willow sent us for reinforcements for the literary trenches."

Spike accepted the subject change. "Just needs some pills for the pain," he answered. "She's whining she has nothing to do. Not sure research is what she had in mind, but that's what she gets for being a whine around here."

Petchra shook her head, muttering under her breath in Thai, "He really is evil."

@ @ @

Research was progressing slowly but surely. Even Faith had relented enough from her doctrine of 'no research involvement,' to scan through a few of the more strictly English ones and cart huge stacks up and down the stairs. The stacks of books spiky with sticky notes were growing taller, and the unread ones were in shrink-mode. Only Petchra had successfully begged out of the experience, being only semi-literate at written English, and utterly useless with any other script. Strains of Montgomery Gentry could now be heard from the training room in the back, accompanied by lots of thumps and suspicious banging noises.

Dawn's eyes hurt from all the squinting at crabby, faded handwriting and she was getting twinges in her neck. IT was hard to tell if they were pain bleeding through the meds, or just from the poor posture she'd adopted to read. She looked across the card table at her bulldog, idly running a hand through his white hair as he scanned a page.

"Hey, Spike?"

"Hphm."

"Do you remember when Drusilla dumped you, and you came back here and had cocoa with my mom?"

Despite himself, the vampire smiled a bit at the memory. "Yeh. She ran to the corner store for marshmallows. Left you with me," he said. "You thought it was so funny how I ran away from the cross. Backed me into a corner, you did. Slayer's sis, through and through." He shot her a glance. "Why do you ask?"

She shrugged. "You were kinda drunk. I just wanted to see if you remembered."

"'Course I remember."

"Yeah. Me too." Something in her tone made him put the book down and really look at her. She was staring at her own text, fiddling at a time~yellowed page corner with her fingernails. He put a hand between her eyes and the page, prompting her to look up at him.

"Now what's this about, Bit?" he asked her eyes.

She shrugged. "It's, um. I saw Faith. She ...didn't remember me at first. I saw the moment the fake memories took hold." She shrugged again, trying for nonchalance, but never broke eye contact. "It's just kind of a downer to be reminded that you don't really exist."

Spike grimaced in his head. Thought she'd worked through this. Right. It's so easy to get over finding out you aren't really there. "Dawn," he said quietly, but stressing her real name, "I want you to listen to me. Don't do that thing you do... Yeh, that one. I can see your eyes glazing over, girlie. Really listen." He cautiously took her hand, feeling irrationally happy when she immediately clasped back. He managed to abort the grin in favor of a smirk at the last minute, though.

"You are Dawn Summers. You are a seventeen-year-old girl, and you are becoming an amazingly self~sufficient young lady. And you are that on purpose. It doesn't matter a whit that you are also the key. What matters is that all around you are people that love you, and you have the capacity to love them back."

Dawn's eyes teared up. "Spike..."

"Shush, Ducks. It's okay."

"No! Spike!" She managed to pull her hand from his. "I'm not supposed to grip things yet!" She groaned. "Go get me a painkiller!"

Birdie looked up at the shriek. "There's a bottle of Ibuprofin in the car."

Dawn jumped up, gently cradling her hand, and headed out the door.

@ @ @

Five minutes later, Spike looked up, realizing Dawn hadn't returned.

He went outside to see what the hold up was.

She wasn't there.

After a minute, he caught a scent rather intimate to him.

All Slayers have a certain smell.

But one specifically stands out in it's potency and color. At least for him.

He vamped, to get a better read. Yep. Damn it.

He ran back inside, grabbed the nearest urn, and hurled it at the floor.

"She's gone. The Slayer was here."

@ @ @

"So your arm hasn't healed yet, little sister with the shiny hair? That sparkly key gig doesn't afford you any special healing powers?"

Dawn's eyes teared up as she mutely shook her head.

Buffy sighed, and adjusted her grip on the girl's forearm.

"Such a shame."

@ @ @

Check out my witch savvy. Cinnamon's super powerful, y'all. No joke. Ever tried the Altoids?

And the lyrics (notasongficnotasongficnotasongfic) are property of Kix Brooks, Ronnie Dunn, and Don Cook. Brooks Dunn is actually one of the very few kick ass country bands out there, so don't think I'm in any way advocating diss-age of them. Www.brooks-dunn.com has more info.

Once again, illustrations of Birdie and Petchra (and Faith) can be found at my website. No, I haven't added any more, yet. Yea, I will eventually. As soon as I manage to draw Marion worth the paper.

~Star Mouse

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