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[2] Shiv
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If a tree falls in the forest, and only a vampire hears it, does it make a sound?
If a stake explodes, sending wood flying like shrapnel into the air...
If one sliver, the length of a toothpick, with half its diameter, this tiny little thing traveling at thirty miles an hour, slipped through the sternum, a shiv nesting effortlessly into a vampire's heart...
Would it be just enough dust?
Apparently not, as the bloodsucker in question stumbled a handful of steps back, clutching painfully at his chest, but managed to otherwise stay irritatingly whole. A quarter inch higher or lower, it might have angled harmlessly off his ribs. A millimeter thicker, dust in the wind.
At that point, Xander Harris figured that William the Bloody has got to be the luckiest vampire in the world.
A crack snapped the Scooby of out his ruminations, back to the fight at hand. Or rather, what was left of it:
- The demon, something resembling a twelve-foot Easter Island statue, stubby stone legs and all.
- The Slayer perched on its back, her left leg wrapped about its neck, right calf looped about its arm as leverage.
- The Slayer's right hand, owner of the former stake-cum-toothpick extravaganza, palm pressed flat against Stonejob's temple, cranking the head below it to an ugly sub-ninety degree angle.
...Which all resulted in a rather predictable turn of events, namely, the stone monument toppling as Buffy untangled herself from its shoulders, pushed up into a handstand and elegantly dismounted to a ten-point landing.
Seconds later, an "Owww," whistled out as Buffy, dropping all pretense, shook out her reddened palm and began digging at the splinters under her skin. "Could have used a little help here at the end, Spike."
"Sorry."
Xander waited, expecting the punchline, the insult, a lewd remark. Hell, he'd come up with three on the spot.
But sorry was all she got. All they ever got now. The First Evil, who'd bled Spike dry over the Giant Manhole of Evil hadn't left much behind, save the little paper shell that soaked up the entire household's supply of hydrogen peroxide twice a month. This shell of Spike, who Buffy had dutifully brought home and placed in the basement hadn't thanked her so much as completely retreated from all semblance of living. Unliving. Whatever it was, it meant no more playing pool or watching TV or participating in any such semi-human activities the pre-soul Spike'd so fond of. Hell, he'd been more animatedinsane, post Out-of-Africa.
Apparently, with Spike's tenure as personal stabby-toy to the Turok-Han, came the startling clarity that he wasn't fit to pretend to be human. No, not this monster, the thing that was little more than an animated corpse. It seemed he'd finally accepted it. Trash, that's what he was. Nothing. The ever so miniscule particle, non-recyclable, walking landfill.
"I'm...I think I'm all right." Deadboy Junior lurched unsteadily forward, hand super-glued to his chest, like he was permanently stuck in a pledge of allegiance.
"Didn't ask," Dawn snipped, cutting a path around him to bisect the otherwise uninterrupted view between him and her sister. As if it were her personal responsibility to act as her personal meat shield.
Buffy seemed displeased. Or simply tired, hungry and wanting to get patrolling over with. Plus the splinters in her hand looked like they were beginning to itch. Her mouth thinned into a line, and a muscle at her temple might have twitched. But she didn't say anything.
Besides, Dawn wasn't the only one who did that. Willow was more unconscious about it, Xander, less circumspect. Sunnydale's linebacker defense, all in the name of guarding Slayerdom from the world's most apathetic vampire.
Not that any of their efforts really mattered, though. Spike rarely even spoke to Buffy anymore. He could barely bring himself to look at her half the time. Left to his own (questionable) devices and (again, questionable) sanity, he seemed perfectly content to sit in the dark, haunting the basement of her house, much like he did at Sunnydale high.
At least that's what it seemed every time Xander went downstairs to fetch him. And it was always Xander that got the honors because somehow, in this little fucked-up group of friends, he of all people hadn't been betrayed by William the Bloody.
In return, no one pointed out to Spike that he'd become a lot more like Angel than he'd ever admit, because he hated that idea more than he hated his soul. And no one really delved into the whys or hows of the vampire obtaining that particular piece of baggage. Buffy hadn't exactly been forthcoming with the details, either. But then again, it wasn't difficult to figure out. Hello, stupid here. Obsessive. Impulsive. Not big with the thinking. Duh.
And yet, in those buried, unrecognized parts of him, Xander understood what it was all about. He got the kind of fervor Buffy engendered, the worst she brought out in those who would destroy the world, who would destroy themselves. All for her.
Like Angel. Whose fixation betrayed a fascination with the girl. Even evil with the big 'E', he'd loved her in his own sick and warped way, endlessly and grotesquely fascinated with her.
Or Riley Finn. Nice guy. Who'd tried to touch the darkest part of himself to connect with the Slayer. And still it hadn't been enough.
And, of course, Spike. Soulless, evil (and proud of it) Spike. Spike, who never stood a chance, because after all was said and done, beneath the bite and bluster and hundred years of carnage, he was still a man.
It had taken so much time, paid in blood and Buffybots, but in the end, Spike finally understood. Realized the incontrovertable truth.
Yes, you sick fuck, you evil, perverted bastard. She's too good for you. She's always been too good for you.
Xander figured himself lucky. Pow! Shot down cold at the onset. Lovers, boyfriends, fuck buddies had all come and gone, but in the end he was still there; always there. The friend. Best friend. The gang of three. Better that than some cast-off shell of all the boyfriend corpses left in her path.
Still.
Given a chance.
He wouldn't have passed it up.
After all, he was still a guy.
But the vampire with remorse? With the soul? He'd seen this show once already. Really didn't like it the first time around, no interest whatsoever in experiencing the rerun.Xander craned his head back over his shoulder, ducking to the left, and then to the right. Especially one lagging so far behind, he'd almost become an afterthought.
Exasperated, he hollered, "Remind me again, why we bother to let you tag along?"
It took a moment for Spike to catch up, which, in the interim, gave him ample time to come up with a suitable rejoinder.
"Well, I'm sure if screaming like a little girl could dust the vamps, you'd have the whole Hellmouth sewn up fine an' pretty, Placebo Boy." A flash of the old sneer sparked as he leaned forward on the balls of his feet, head cocked and hands curled into fists.
With a slap to the chest, the Xan-man sent Spike stumbling back. There it was. What he was looking for.
A reason to dust you. Any reason. Doesn't even have to be a good one.
The vampire snarled, eyes flashing game-yellow.
"Don't make me separate you boys." Buffy, entourage in tow, took a swift U-turn towards the burgeoning tet-a-tet.
But 'tet'...or maybe its twin, the other 'tet'...was gone as soon as it appeared. Energy sapped, like it had all drained out of his feet, Spike slipped back to zero, sinking to the ground, his hand pressed back to his chest. Without the spark, he looked pitifully small.
Kneeling, Buffy touched the back of the vampire's wrist. He watched, seemingly surprised that her fingers didn't carve into him like sunlight. Gently, she pulled it away, and saw it – blood on his palm; on his chest, a blotch the size of a dime, black staining blue.
Huh. Today he'd been wearing a blue shirt. Xander hadn't even noticed. Didn't care, really. It was only because that dime-sized blotch was growing larger and larger, that he'd even clued in.
Glancing down at his own hand, he saw the smear of red there as well.
Yeah. Luckiest vampire in the world.