Take me down to the Paradise City
Where the grass is green
and the girls are pretty
Oh won't you please take me home- Paradise City/Guns N' Roses
The night had started out well enough. Another graveyard patrol, with her sometimes
undead lover nowhere to be found, despite it being his cemetery. Always undead,
sometimes lover. Shit, what a mess.
She'd roamed row upon row of freshly dug graves, and as she did it had occurred to Buffy Summers that Sunnydale bore a mortality rate beyond that of any rough frontier town in the old west, regardless of size or number of drunken scoundrels. Bodies stacked to the rafters, though the overall population was rarely in any great flux outside of Apocalypse season. The denizens of Dodge City would have been proud. If they'd still been alive, that was.
It had also occurred to her that she was in serious need of a life. She never should have watched that "Twenty-Four Hours of Eastwood" marathon on TBS. She blamed Xander - it had been his choice for movie night.
Unlike Dodge, however (and wouldn't a more fitting expression be 'lets get the hell outta SunnyD'), freshly dug graves took on a new meaning in Sunnydale. Its overcast skies - a stark contrast to its southern California locale - made the town extremely attractive to the vampiric hordes of the world. Much more attractive than some desert outpost with scorching sun and smoldering heat. With the slight complication of a hellmouth - "Boca del Infierno", the Mouth of Hell, to the early Spanish explorers who had the misfortune of stumbling across it - adding to the mix, good ol' Sunnydale was a beacon for Vampires, who came to settle in and procreate - in their unique way. A big sucking thing, she'd once called it. Yes, Sunnydale could definitely suck.
Still, the night had started out with minimal suck factor. Then she found Spike. Then they found the bodies.
Spike's crypt - you could call it a Mausoleum, but really it was just a dingy, although nicely decorated, hole in the ground - was the crown jewel in the cemetery. The largest structure in the place, in the oldest portion of the yard. Much like its first living - well, not living, but spry- tenant, you always saw it coming a mile away. It was, for lack of a better word, proud, hole in the ground or not.
It stood out plain as day for all to see. If only she could see Spike's thoughts that well. To know what he was thinking, know what his intentions towards her were
Alright. So that was a bit too much Victorian Era. Intentions? Get a grip, Buffy. He's not courting you. Well, he is, but he already got... the prize, so to speak. Scratch that. He fucked you senseless. He just didn't get your love. Since he wanted the latter, she supposed sex was the consolation prize, but how bad could mind-numbingly good sex be?
Another part of her answered back, though. Are you sure about that? Oh how she wanted it to shut up. Shut up, shut the hell up, get away from me. Evil brain, she chastised. Only it wasn't all brain, and she knew it. It was heart as well. Her brain, for the most part, was well aware that she shouldn't love a killer. Her heart just wasn't willing to listen. She had hoped, that with time, if she broke off their little tryst, the feelings would go away. But every time she saw him, they was still there. Spike made her feel, when he fucked her up against a wall or bent her over a railing at the Bronze or took her in the middle of a cemetery - a location which hadn't worked out all that well considering she'd had to chase down and slay a newborn vamp buck naked. Worse, he also made her feel at other times, when he was fighting for her or watching over her sister or protecting her friends. Protecting even the ones he didn't like all that much, simply out of his love for her.
Love that he shouldn't be able to have.
And here she was, stuck, like some idiot schoolgirl in a nursery rhyme. I love him, I love him not. I love him, I love him not.
I love him, I love him not.
I love him, I love him not.
I love him, I love him not.
I love - ARGH!
She'd never met a fence she couldn't straddle.
Buffy hadn't planned on bumping into him. Really. It was supposed to be a quick patrol, then exit stage left. He'd been nowhere in the yard; half the time she bumped into him out walking, but not tonight. Of course. He was probably out at some unworldly poker night.
Yet she went towards the crypt. Reaching it, she didn't want to enter. Everything still said no. He'd be in there, poker nightwas a delusion. He'd be there, and that was bad. Plus, she'd have to see the results of her redecorating-by-way-of-hand-grenade attempt. That was worse. True, it hadn't been her fault, but every time she saw the place now, it reminded her that she'd blown up the bed. She'd liked that bed, even if they didn't manage to make it there very often.
And once again, her thoughts were betraying her. Just great.
The earthquake saved her. More or less. He'd smelt her right away, and Buffy still couldn't reach a decision - was the whole smelling thing just really icky, or really erotic (or was it a mixture of both, well maybe not icky but nasty, in a way she fucking loved)?
Spike had been drawn out by her scent, and she felt like a canary fallen victim to the proverbial cat.
He saw the grass stains on her dress - and a leaf clinging to her blouse; fuck, how had she missed that? - and laughed. They were the remnants of the one fledgling vamp she'd encountered this night.
"Very funny" she spat at him. How dare he find this amusing. Ad if he's the gentleman caller, he should be offering to well, dust her off!
"Well, luv, last time we got grass stains on you-" he began.
"Do. Not. Finish. That. Thought." she fired back. But it was too late, her mind had already begun to wander. Sex on the lawn, in front of her house, behind the bushes but still in front of her own house. It was degrading, perverse, inappropriate, and a whole hell of a lot of fun. She had cum within spitting distance of her petunias.
She stalked off with a grunt, earning her another wry smile from the bleached blonde vampire who kept pace beside her. Trying to ignore him... his presence and his annoying habit of taking pleasure in her discomfort (better than having him take pleasure in you, her mind taunted, and oh why wouldn't it shut up), she walked in silence, back the way she had came. Towards home.
Of course, Spike was not one to respect a comfortable silence (not that this was comfortable. Semi-comfortable at best, really. Fine. Downright awkward). "So just where do you think you're going? Don't tell me you're done for the night and you're heading home with visions of pillows and comfy beds dancing in your mind. You came here for something, now out with it" he demanded.
Buffy sighed. Spike could be an annoying pest, but he had a nasty habit of seeing the truth and getting right to the point about it.
"I wanted you to come-" she glared at his raised eyebrow but continued, "to Dawn's birthday party. She'll be seventeen, it's a big deal, she loves you for some reason I can't fathom, and it would mean a lot to her". She paused. "And-I-want-you-to-be-there". Her cool was blown somewhere around the word "and".
"Riiiggttt". Spike drawled. "So is this for you, or for her?"
"It's for both of us" she replied. It was the truth after all. On rare occasions, it was a good thing. Very rare, with Spike.
"All well and good then. Cake, presents, and I promise not to eat any of the guests. Unless it's that delightfulRichard." Frankly, Buffy considered this last jab a victory. He was coming, Dawn would be happy, and he didn't try to blackmail her. If he insulted Richard - whom she'd probably never see again, as he undoubtedly now thought her a freak - so be it.
"Great. I'll tell Dawn. It isn't for another week, so not to worry. But if you get her a gift, it had better be appropriate." Then, considering Spike's shopping tendencies, she added "and not stolen."
"Cross my heart and hope to spend a private evening with Peaches, luv" he retorted. Which, given how much he hated Angel, was probably a pretty solid oath.
Satisfied that her business with him was complete - and forcing herself to keep things strictly business - she turned from him with a meek "goodnight". Only to have him stop her, latching onto her arm.
"Going so soon? Come on, Slayer, the night's young, the stars are out, and there's a vampire about to raise to your left." This got her attention, and true enough, there was indeed a fledgling vamp clawing its way out of a fresh grave next to her. Barely thinking, she slid a stake out of the waistband of her pants - knowing that Spike would be admiring her hips as she did so - and rammed it into the vamps chest before he'd even made it all the way out of the ground. Proud of her efficiency, she let out a small shout of triumph, only to meet with Spike's frown when turning towards him.
"That was a tad sterile, Slayer... where's the sport in offin' the poor bastard before he has a fighting chance?" Would nothing ever satisfy him? Other than that, anyway?
"I'm not so sick as you as to draw things out. Vamps rise, I slay, it's not a game." She'd convinced herself of this. Almost.
"Of course it's a game," he retorted. "Deadly one, but fun. Now then... what else can we get up to on such a lovely evenin'?" He gave her a lecherous leer. "Some other fun games, perhaps?"
"I'm going home, Spike, I suggest you do the same." True to her word, she strode off once again, leaving him behind. But once again, he caught up, black duster billowing out behind him. He looked like... a killer. And that's pretty much what he is, Buffy's inner nag reminded her.
"Right, then. Home with you it is." Could nothing wipe the smile off his face?
"Notwith me. Cut it out, Spike. Don't make things harder than they have to be." Damn. Way to go, Buffy, you've walked straight into another innuendo. Surprisingly, though, he let it slip. It was probably too easy even for him.
"Look, I know you" he began. "And before you go thinking that this is gonna be just another perverted compliment, it's not. You know I want you, I'm always thinking of you, and most of those thoughts involve you naked. But my point, and it's bloody well around here somewhere, is that I know what you're gonna do now. You'll trot off home, half pissed and full of energy, watch the telly a bit, crawl into bed, and toss and turn the whole damn night because you're not even close to spent."
Damn. Him. He was right. Buffy knew it, worse, she couldn't hide it.
"Nothing says we can't have a bit of fun, Buffy. I mean clean, honest - well unless we're gonna play cards or something - fun. Take a walk, slay some vamps. There's bound to be something to take up the time."
And again, he was right, and Buffy knew it. Maybe she could do it. Go with him, and not wind up on her back, panties around her ankles (when they weren't torn clean off), Spike driving into her, or maybe licking her, or maybe her licking him...
Get a grip, Buffy, she admonished. She really was becoming a split personality these days, and the cause of her problems rested before her, in the form of Spike. Still, it couldn't hurt. Much.
"Fine. So what do we do?" Buffy asked, then continued "and keep in mind, it will not involve stealing, drinking, or kitten poker. Clem's a great guy... thing... demon... but no kittens. If you want, we can call him up and play normal poker... or something else." Clem was a safety net. Clem was a third party, who could prevent the first two parties from doing any hardcore partyingof a sweaty, naked nature. Plus, she really did like Clem.
Then the quake had struck, and at the center of it, there'd been pieces. Parts. Leftovers. There'd been plenty to do, no worries there.
Now, standing before that very heap of human remains, Buffy felt sick. Not physically; she'd seen pretty much everything as a Vampire Slayer (well, a little physically - it was the smell; dank, rotten), but mentally. Exhausted. Fell one demon, another rises. And this is what the left in their wake.
Fell? Get a grip, Summers, you're sounding more and more like Giles by the day.
She missed Giles. He'd have insight here, he'd support her. Of course, Spike had insight, but it wasn't the type she wanted. Maybe what she needed, but not what she wanted - it was just too disquieting. Someone had taken trophies? She asked Spike as much. Was that what they were? Was an arm or maybe a leg being stored in a freezer someplace by a Jeffrey Dahmer wannabe?
"Maybe" was his reply. Any other time, she couldn't shut him up, and all of a sudden he was Mr. Reserved. But after a few seconds he found the one silver lining in the hole ungodly mess:
"I'm pretty sure only two of these were fresh." And off her puzzled look, he added "fresh as in alive when they were dismembered. The rest - that odor that's turning your stomach right now, the swampy, musky smell - the rest were already in the ground. They hadn't been there long, but they were dead before all this."
To the hardened Buffy - the Slayer - within her, at least, thatwas the silver lining. The compassionate side - the one that was less Slayer, more Buffy - cried for those two souls.
Spike saw all this and more. He watched the girl within her weep, and the general within her take charge.
He needn't have asked "what now?"; he knew damn well what came next - but he did anyway.
"Assemble the troops."