The motorcycle roars to a perfectly angled halt at the edge of the manicured green lawn, and the groundskeeper raises an eyebrow in appreciation.
"Nice bike."
The woman dismounts, removing her helmet, running a hand through her long blonde hair to reanimate it.
"Thank you."
And now the groundskeeper smiles; he is a secret collector of dichotomies, which makes this girl delicious. The massive bike, her tough-looking leather jacket, the precision and grace with which she drives had all led him to a conclusion utterly belied by the face revealed when she pulled the helmet off.
She's beautiful, with wide eyes and full lips, painted in pastels, and there is something achingly gentle about that face, achingly soft about the voice with which she has addressed him. Yet he feels steel within her; maternal, that's the word he wants.
Mother Goddess.
Mother Goddess, ridin' a hog.
Yes, he'll save this one.
She tucks the helmet under her arm upside down, placing her keys and a small package into it. She's looking around... no, no, she's scanning. A small smile grows on her face, and she sets off in a seemingly random direction, moving with purpose.
Oh, yes. He'll save this one.
-------------------------
"Hey, baby," Tara says quietly.
Willow is on the far edge of the lawn, her back against a tree. The sweater she is wearing seems to swallow her alive; she's shrunk since she came here in more ways than one, her formerly round face all angles.
Tara drops down cross-legged next to her, pulls the little package out of the helmet. "I brought you some chocolate. Would you like it?"
Willow nods, and Tara sets to work... unwrapping the chocolate bar, breaking it down into component squares. This is part of their ritual.
"Fucking him yet?" Willow snarls, her eyes flashing black for a moment.
"Baby... you know I'm not," Tara soothes. This is, unfortunately, also part of their ritual.
"I can smell him all over you."
"I took the bike today, and it's his jacket." Tara hands Willow a square of chocolate, then shrugs out of the leather coat, tossing it a few feet away from them. "Is that better?"
"You will."
"I won't."
"You will. I would, if he were mine. I wanted to. Wanted him to bite me, once. Wanted to feel him inside me. You'll want it, too."
This is actually new, and Tara shuts her eyes for a moment. When she has recovered, her voice shows no sign of distress. "Honey, we've been over this a million times. We did this for Dawnie. We're who she picked. It has nothing to do with my and Spike's relationship and everything to do with our individual relationships to Dawn."
"Don't play dumb. You're not dumb." Willow's voice seethes with malice, and Tara stills herself inside. This is not Willow, this is the sickness. This is not Willow, this is the sickness.
"You've already taken him inside. Not physically. Not yet. But he's changing you. I feel it, I feel you. You've given part of yourself to him. You've taken part of him for yourself. But you're mine. Don't ever forget that."
"I never forget that."
"You forget it every day. You bring me chocolate," Willow scoffs. "And what have you given him?"
"He needed those things, Willow. He's... he's the Slayer now. He keeps us alive with the things I've given him."
"You give him power beyond reckoning," Willow hisses, shooting Tara a predatory look. "And you won't even let me have a taste."
Tara closes her eyes again. She hates seeing Willow like this, the hatred that fills her, the darkness that burns from her, that makes Tara's skin crawl, makes her want to run away.
Willow's hand strokes Tara's arm. "Give me a taste, baby."
She will not run away.
"No, Willow, I won't let you drain me. But I will -- when you get better."
"Dangle a carrot," Willow chuckles. "I scare you now. I scare the consort of William the Bloody."
"William the Bloody loves life as much as death. And when you feel the same way, I can take you home."
"No room for me. All shut out of your little fake family."
Tara sighs. "I came to tell you something."
Willow holds out her hand for another square, and Tara passes it.
-------------------------
"Buffy?" Giles repeats, his face slack with surprise.
Buffy surveys him cooly. "You are Rupert Giles?"
His second shock of the day; Buffy has a British accent.
"Buffy... dear Lord... what..."
"Are you Rupert Giles?" she insists.
"Of course I am!"
He does not see the fist coming, but he definitely feels it; that, and his head smashing into the side of a dumpster.
When he is back on his feet, she is gone.
-------------------------
"We don't know what she is yet. Giles said she didn't really know him; recognized him, but didn't know him. She moves like a human... he doesn't think she is a zombie."
"Eat brains," Willow giggles. Her mouth is smeared with chocolate now, and it looks like dried blood.
Tara shivers. "Willow, do you understand what I'm saying? Do you understand what this means? It wasn't your fault the spell failed. You couldn't bring her back because she'd already been brought back."
"Oh -- so now you think I'm supposed to leap up and be all cured by this revelation?"
Tara hugs her knees. "I guess I'd... kind of hoped for something like that."
"I was wrong. You are dumb." Willow cocks her head, smirking. "Oh... look at your sad little face. This visit's almost over; I can smell when you break. Looks like I've drained you after all, haven't I?"
"Willow..." Tara struggles to keep her composure. "Baby, please don't..."
"Run home, little bird. Run home and let your pet corpse make you hot chocolate with little marshmallows. Run home... so the eater of babies, the rapist of children, the slaughterer of continents can let you cry on his shoulder."
"He's different now."
Willow laughs. "Remorse can't wash the blood off your hands, baby. No one knows that better than me."
"So you don't even bother with it." Tara says flatly.
"What does he call you now? Pet? Love? Wifey? Honey?"
"We're done here," Tara snaps. She puts the rest of the chocolate bar in Willow's lap, rising, walking across the grass to retrieve Spike's jacket.
"You'll never be the witch I was," Willow calls.
Tara looks over her shoulder. "That's true. And I thank the Goddess every day that it is."
-------------------------
The blonde man at the end of the bar intrigues her.
Normally, she does not stay more than fifteen minutes at this particular pub; there are seven on her patrol route, and traffic is usually light here.
For him, however, she has stayed.
She has ordered a beer, which she will not drink; alcohol slows the reaction time. However, it gives her an excuse to take a booth and watch the man. If he is, indeed, a man.
He has the accent of a local, but he is new; she's positive he was never in here until yesterday. She'd remember him; he scrambles her radar. This is new and memorable.
Her senses tell her vampire, and yet...
He wears a cross around his neck, the pendant resting just beneath the pale hollow where his collarbones meet. It appears to cause him no pain; there is no sizzling, no smoke.
So -- not a vampire.
And yet, what lies behind the cross gives her pause; a brand, seared into his skin, in the exact shape of the pendant. This cross was burned into his flesh -- and it takes a lot to scar a vampire.
Well... one easy way to tell for sure.
She snags an empty shot glass off a nearby table, moving into the shadows to fill it to the brim from her small bottle of holy water.
She makes her way towards him, shot glass in hand, putting a touch of stumble in her step. Let him underestimate her; it will just make the killing easier, if he is what she suspects he is.
When she is near enough, she trips on nothing, falling forward; they collide, her 'drink' splashing all over him. He grabs her by the biceps, steadies her. Their eyes meet; for a single moment, he gazes at her as if she is a treasure beyond price.
Interesting.
That look is quickly replaced with a predatory, appraising glance. Whatever she was to him a moment before, she is now just a blonde in a bar.
"You alright, pet? Took a bit of a tumble there..."
"I'm fine," she replies, and notes that her words have startled him for some reason. He hides his shock quickly.
Also interesting.
Now that he is touching her, the screams of 'VAMPIRE!' in her head are stronger than ever... yet the holy water did not affect him at all. She watches as he licks a drop of it off his hand, leering at her.
"Buy you another drink, love? Since I'm wearin' yours...?"
She places her hand on his chest. She feels no heartbeat beneath her palm.
"Unless, of course..." he drawls in a low, silky voice, covering her hand with his own, "You'd rather get out of here..."
She looks pointedly at his ring, noting that his hand around hers is barely lukewarm. "You are married."
"Indeed I am, sweetheart." He smirks at her, raising an eyebrow. "Does that bother you?"
She casts her eyes around the pub. It would be better, easier, to kill him outside.
"It does not bother me."
As he pulls her towards the exit, she scans him, searching for information. He is an unknown. She does not like the unknown. Known enemies allow for efficient choice of weapon, of attack.
No crosses, no holy water... but no heartbeat, no body heat. Perhaps not a vampire, but still something that requires second death. He is wiry rather than bulky, and that kind is usually more dangerous. He moves like a dancer, moves like she moves; this might actually be a good fight. Favoring his left hand. She makes mental notes of these things.
Still... better to clear up what he is before she kills him. He strikes her as a talker.
"You have an unusual scar." She gestures towards his chest.
His eyes flick downward. "Ah, yes."
"How did you receive it?"
"Fell in love with a bird," he says huskily. "Cross is hers. Been wearin' it since she died."
"And this cross... it burned you?"
"Yeah."
She smiles; he has been classified. "That must have been painful."
"Sort of the point, really." He swings the door open, holds it for her.
She turns to face him in the alleyway. "So you are a vampire."
"Right in one, love." He bows gracefully, his leather coat spreading like bat's wings. "William the Bloody; pleased to make your acquaintance."
"William the Bloody." Her mouth falls open slightly. "The Slayer of Slayers."
"My reputation precedes me." He seems quite pleased. "Get out your pointy stick, pet. Let's dance."
Five seconds later, he is up against a stone wall with a stake through his heart and an even wider grin on his face. He reaches down, pulling the stake out, twirling it insolently between his fingers.
"You missed," he chuckles. "Oh no, wait... you didn't."
She stakes him again.
"What's this? No fancy flips? No peppy little puns?" the vampire sighs, removing the second stake. "C'mon, Slayer. This isn't how we play... come out and play with me."
She answers him with a third stake to the heart. He groans long-sufferingly.
"Now... that does sting a bit, you know, so I think I've officially gotten enough information for daddykins."
She lunges for him, but he grabs her wrist.
"Pet, I'm bored now. Take a nap."
He whirls her, slamming her back against his body, and the chloroform rag is over her mouth just as she gasps for breath.
Her world fades to black; she does not see how quickly his violence and smirk fades to tenderness and a look of wonder, does not see him gently lift her into his arms and carry her towards the waiting car.
-------------------------
She hears their voices before she can see them.
"Bloody hell, Pops, the soddin' Bot had more personality. I thought she'd perk up a bit once we started scrappin', but there's no Buffy in there. What is she, some kind of zombie?"
"I'm not certain, Spike, but the fact remains that she's a Slayer and she's dangerous. And you say she recognized you by name, but not on sight?"
"She knew who William the Bloody was, called me 'Slayer of Slayers'. Which is growin' on me. Might get me a tattoo. Somethin' classy."
"Can't believe I thought getting a soul would improve you."
"If you thought I'd turn into Peaches, sorry to disappoint. Besides, can't ever have too many cool, threatening nicknames, can ya, Ripper?"
"Spike..." the other man heaved a heavy sigh. "As charming as it always is to watch you sublimate your rage and grief into utter obnoxiousness, I need you serious for a moment. And pass me that bottle."
Their blurred forms clear a bit; the blonde vampire hands a bottle of brown liquid to the older man, who raises it to his lips, drinking deeply.
"See, this is why I never had friends before," the blonde says softly. "Get to know you too well."
"Yes, it is an unfortunate side-effect. I would imagine your sparkling personality ought to prevent you from being saddled with too many more, though."
The blonde lights a cigarette, sighs. "What the hell'd they do to her, Watcher?"
"One of a million unanswered questions, Spike. And she seems to be awake... perhaps the answers will come."
The man -- she can see now that it is Rupert Giles -- passes the bottle back and approaches her, pulling up a chair. William the Bloody -- who Rupert Giles has called Spike -- does the same, but straddles his backwards.
Working together. She files this. The Council will be very interested.
"Buffy," Rupert Giles begins.
She does not answer; she begins examining the ropes they have tied her with.
"Is your name Buffy?" William the Bloody -- Spike -- asks gently.
"I am not to speak to Rupert Giles," she replies.
The two men share a look.
"And why, exactly, is that?"
"You are corrupted."
"Well, I'm not Rupert Giles," Spike says, his cigarette dangling from his lips. "As you could no doubt deduce by my stunnin' good looks. Allowed to talk to me then, love?"
"You should be dead," she replies.
"Am dead, Pet. But if you mean your little pointy stick problem, well... my wife has lovely taste in jewellery."
"I don't think it's wise to share that with her, Spike..."
Spike lets out a snort of frustration. "Hypnotize her or somethin', Rupes, do one of your little truth spells, take a little vision quest in her noggin like Red did. Maybe they've just got her brainwashed... she's certainly sportin' the G.I. Jane look. I keep waitin' for her to spout out her name, rank, n' serial."
"You watch entirely too much television, Spike. We need time..."
"We haven't got time. I need to get back to Sunny D. I'm sure the various n' sundry denizens are quakin' in their boots for fear of Xander. God knows what's happenin' on the Hellmouth while I'm over here bein' your undead Slayer-bait."
Giles stands. "I'll gather the ingredients for a truth spell. Keep an eye on her."
Spike watches him go, crossing his arms across the chair back and leaning his chin on them. "Guess it's just you and me, pet."
"You'll be dust when I'm through with you," she growls.
He closes his eyes, lowers his head, bites his lip against a smile. "Say it again."
"Nice bike."
The woman dismounts, removing her helmet, running a hand through her long blonde hair to reanimate it.
"Thank you."
And now the groundskeeper smiles; he is a secret collector of dichotomies, which makes this girl delicious. The massive bike, her tough-looking leather jacket, the precision and grace with which she drives had all led him to a conclusion utterly belied by the face revealed when she pulled the helmet off.
She's beautiful, with wide eyes and full lips, painted in pastels, and there is something achingly gentle about that face, achingly soft about the voice with which she has addressed him. Yet he feels steel within her; maternal, that's the word he wants.
Mother Goddess.
Mother Goddess, ridin' a hog.
Yes, he'll save this one.
She tucks the helmet under her arm upside down, placing her keys and a small package into it. She's looking around... no, no, she's scanning. A small smile grows on her face, and she sets off in a seemingly random direction, moving with purpose.
Oh, yes. He'll save this one.
-------------------------
"Hey, baby," Tara says quietly.
Willow is on the far edge of the lawn, her back against a tree. The sweater she is wearing seems to swallow her alive; she's shrunk since she came here in more ways than one, her formerly round face all angles.
Tara drops down cross-legged next to her, pulls the little package out of the helmet. "I brought you some chocolate. Would you like it?"
Willow nods, and Tara sets to work... unwrapping the chocolate bar, breaking it down into component squares. This is part of their ritual.
"Fucking him yet?" Willow snarls, her eyes flashing black for a moment.
"Baby... you know I'm not," Tara soothes. This is, unfortunately, also part of their ritual.
"I can smell him all over you."
"I took the bike today, and it's his jacket." Tara hands Willow a square of chocolate, then shrugs out of the leather coat, tossing it a few feet away from them. "Is that better?"
"You will."
"I won't."
"You will. I would, if he were mine. I wanted to. Wanted him to bite me, once. Wanted to feel him inside me. You'll want it, too."
This is actually new, and Tara shuts her eyes for a moment. When she has recovered, her voice shows no sign of distress. "Honey, we've been over this a million times. We did this for Dawnie. We're who she picked. It has nothing to do with my and Spike's relationship and everything to do with our individual relationships to Dawn."
"Don't play dumb. You're not dumb." Willow's voice seethes with malice, and Tara stills herself inside. This is not Willow, this is the sickness. This is not Willow, this is the sickness.
"You've already taken him inside. Not physically. Not yet. But he's changing you. I feel it, I feel you. You've given part of yourself to him. You've taken part of him for yourself. But you're mine. Don't ever forget that."
"I never forget that."
"You forget it every day. You bring me chocolate," Willow scoffs. "And what have you given him?"
"He needed those things, Willow. He's... he's the Slayer now. He keeps us alive with the things I've given him."
"You give him power beyond reckoning," Willow hisses, shooting Tara a predatory look. "And you won't even let me have a taste."
Tara closes her eyes again. She hates seeing Willow like this, the hatred that fills her, the darkness that burns from her, that makes Tara's skin crawl, makes her want to run away.
Willow's hand strokes Tara's arm. "Give me a taste, baby."
She will not run away.
"No, Willow, I won't let you drain me. But I will -- when you get better."
"Dangle a carrot," Willow chuckles. "I scare you now. I scare the consort of William the Bloody."
"William the Bloody loves life as much as death. And when you feel the same way, I can take you home."
"No room for me. All shut out of your little fake family."
Tara sighs. "I came to tell you something."
Willow holds out her hand for another square, and Tara passes it.
-------------------------
"Buffy?" Giles repeats, his face slack with surprise.
Buffy surveys him cooly. "You are Rupert Giles?"
His second shock of the day; Buffy has a British accent.
"Buffy... dear Lord... what..."
"Are you Rupert Giles?" she insists.
"Of course I am!"
He does not see the fist coming, but he definitely feels it; that, and his head smashing into the side of a dumpster.
When he is back on his feet, she is gone.
-------------------------
"We don't know what she is yet. Giles said she didn't really know him; recognized him, but didn't know him. She moves like a human... he doesn't think she is a zombie."
"Eat brains," Willow giggles. Her mouth is smeared with chocolate now, and it looks like dried blood.
Tara shivers. "Willow, do you understand what I'm saying? Do you understand what this means? It wasn't your fault the spell failed. You couldn't bring her back because she'd already been brought back."
"Oh -- so now you think I'm supposed to leap up and be all cured by this revelation?"
Tara hugs her knees. "I guess I'd... kind of hoped for something like that."
"I was wrong. You are dumb." Willow cocks her head, smirking. "Oh... look at your sad little face. This visit's almost over; I can smell when you break. Looks like I've drained you after all, haven't I?"
"Willow..." Tara struggles to keep her composure. "Baby, please don't..."
"Run home, little bird. Run home and let your pet corpse make you hot chocolate with little marshmallows. Run home... so the eater of babies, the rapist of children, the slaughterer of continents can let you cry on his shoulder."
"He's different now."
Willow laughs. "Remorse can't wash the blood off your hands, baby. No one knows that better than me."
"So you don't even bother with it." Tara says flatly.
"What does he call you now? Pet? Love? Wifey? Honey?"
"We're done here," Tara snaps. She puts the rest of the chocolate bar in Willow's lap, rising, walking across the grass to retrieve Spike's jacket.
"You'll never be the witch I was," Willow calls.
Tara looks over her shoulder. "That's true. And I thank the Goddess every day that it is."
-------------------------
The blonde man at the end of the bar intrigues her.
Normally, she does not stay more than fifteen minutes at this particular pub; there are seven on her patrol route, and traffic is usually light here.
For him, however, she has stayed.
She has ordered a beer, which she will not drink; alcohol slows the reaction time. However, it gives her an excuse to take a booth and watch the man. If he is, indeed, a man.
He has the accent of a local, but he is new; she's positive he was never in here until yesterday. She'd remember him; he scrambles her radar. This is new and memorable.
Her senses tell her vampire, and yet...
He wears a cross around his neck, the pendant resting just beneath the pale hollow where his collarbones meet. It appears to cause him no pain; there is no sizzling, no smoke.
So -- not a vampire.
And yet, what lies behind the cross gives her pause; a brand, seared into his skin, in the exact shape of the pendant. This cross was burned into his flesh -- and it takes a lot to scar a vampire.
Well... one easy way to tell for sure.
She snags an empty shot glass off a nearby table, moving into the shadows to fill it to the brim from her small bottle of holy water.
She makes her way towards him, shot glass in hand, putting a touch of stumble in her step. Let him underestimate her; it will just make the killing easier, if he is what she suspects he is.
When she is near enough, she trips on nothing, falling forward; they collide, her 'drink' splashing all over him. He grabs her by the biceps, steadies her. Their eyes meet; for a single moment, he gazes at her as if she is a treasure beyond price.
Interesting.
That look is quickly replaced with a predatory, appraising glance. Whatever she was to him a moment before, she is now just a blonde in a bar.
"You alright, pet? Took a bit of a tumble there..."
"I'm fine," she replies, and notes that her words have startled him for some reason. He hides his shock quickly.
Also interesting.
Now that he is touching her, the screams of 'VAMPIRE!' in her head are stronger than ever... yet the holy water did not affect him at all. She watches as he licks a drop of it off his hand, leering at her.
"Buy you another drink, love? Since I'm wearin' yours...?"
She places her hand on his chest. She feels no heartbeat beneath her palm.
"Unless, of course..." he drawls in a low, silky voice, covering her hand with his own, "You'd rather get out of here..."
She looks pointedly at his ring, noting that his hand around hers is barely lukewarm. "You are married."
"Indeed I am, sweetheart." He smirks at her, raising an eyebrow. "Does that bother you?"
She casts her eyes around the pub. It would be better, easier, to kill him outside.
"It does not bother me."
As he pulls her towards the exit, she scans him, searching for information. He is an unknown. She does not like the unknown. Known enemies allow for efficient choice of weapon, of attack.
No crosses, no holy water... but no heartbeat, no body heat. Perhaps not a vampire, but still something that requires second death. He is wiry rather than bulky, and that kind is usually more dangerous. He moves like a dancer, moves like she moves; this might actually be a good fight. Favoring his left hand. She makes mental notes of these things.
Still... better to clear up what he is before she kills him. He strikes her as a talker.
"You have an unusual scar." She gestures towards his chest.
His eyes flick downward. "Ah, yes."
"How did you receive it?"
"Fell in love with a bird," he says huskily. "Cross is hers. Been wearin' it since she died."
"And this cross... it burned you?"
"Yeah."
She smiles; he has been classified. "That must have been painful."
"Sort of the point, really." He swings the door open, holds it for her.
She turns to face him in the alleyway. "So you are a vampire."
"Right in one, love." He bows gracefully, his leather coat spreading like bat's wings. "William the Bloody; pleased to make your acquaintance."
"William the Bloody." Her mouth falls open slightly. "The Slayer of Slayers."
"My reputation precedes me." He seems quite pleased. "Get out your pointy stick, pet. Let's dance."
Five seconds later, he is up against a stone wall with a stake through his heart and an even wider grin on his face. He reaches down, pulling the stake out, twirling it insolently between his fingers.
"You missed," he chuckles. "Oh no, wait... you didn't."
She stakes him again.
"What's this? No fancy flips? No peppy little puns?" the vampire sighs, removing the second stake. "C'mon, Slayer. This isn't how we play... come out and play with me."
She answers him with a third stake to the heart. He groans long-sufferingly.
"Now... that does sting a bit, you know, so I think I've officially gotten enough information for daddykins."
She lunges for him, but he grabs her wrist.
"Pet, I'm bored now. Take a nap."
He whirls her, slamming her back against his body, and the chloroform rag is over her mouth just as she gasps for breath.
Her world fades to black; she does not see how quickly his violence and smirk fades to tenderness and a look of wonder, does not see him gently lift her into his arms and carry her towards the waiting car.
-------------------------
She hears their voices before she can see them.
"Bloody hell, Pops, the soddin' Bot had more personality. I thought she'd perk up a bit once we started scrappin', but there's no Buffy in there. What is she, some kind of zombie?"
"I'm not certain, Spike, but the fact remains that she's a Slayer and she's dangerous. And you say she recognized you by name, but not on sight?"
"She knew who William the Bloody was, called me 'Slayer of Slayers'. Which is growin' on me. Might get me a tattoo. Somethin' classy."
"Can't believe I thought getting a soul would improve you."
"If you thought I'd turn into Peaches, sorry to disappoint. Besides, can't ever have too many cool, threatening nicknames, can ya, Ripper?"
"Spike..." the other man heaved a heavy sigh. "As charming as it always is to watch you sublimate your rage and grief into utter obnoxiousness, I need you serious for a moment. And pass me that bottle."
Their blurred forms clear a bit; the blonde vampire hands a bottle of brown liquid to the older man, who raises it to his lips, drinking deeply.
"See, this is why I never had friends before," the blonde says softly. "Get to know you too well."
"Yes, it is an unfortunate side-effect. I would imagine your sparkling personality ought to prevent you from being saddled with too many more, though."
The blonde lights a cigarette, sighs. "What the hell'd they do to her, Watcher?"
"One of a million unanswered questions, Spike. And she seems to be awake... perhaps the answers will come."
The man -- she can see now that it is Rupert Giles -- passes the bottle back and approaches her, pulling up a chair. William the Bloody -- who Rupert Giles has called Spike -- does the same, but straddles his backwards.
Working together. She files this. The Council will be very interested.
"Buffy," Rupert Giles begins.
She does not answer; she begins examining the ropes they have tied her with.
"Is your name Buffy?" William the Bloody -- Spike -- asks gently.
"I am not to speak to Rupert Giles," she replies.
The two men share a look.
"And why, exactly, is that?"
"You are corrupted."
"Well, I'm not Rupert Giles," Spike says, his cigarette dangling from his lips. "As you could no doubt deduce by my stunnin' good looks. Allowed to talk to me then, love?"
"You should be dead," she replies.
"Am dead, Pet. But if you mean your little pointy stick problem, well... my wife has lovely taste in jewellery."
"I don't think it's wise to share that with her, Spike..."
Spike lets out a snort of frustration. "Hypnotize her or somethin', Rupes, do one of your little truth spells, take a little vision quest in her noggin like Red did. Maybe they've just got her brainwashed... she's certainly sportin' the G.I. Jane look. I keep waitin' for her to spout out her name, rank, n' serial."
"You watch entirely too much television, Spike. We need time..."
"We haven't got time. I need to get back to Sunny D. I'm sure the various n' sundry denizens are quakin' in their boots for fear of Xander. God knows what's happenin' on the Hellmouth while I'm over here bein' your undead Slayer-bait."
Giles stands. "I'll gather the ingredients for a truth spell. Keep an eye on her."
Spike watches him go, crossing his arms across the chair back and leaning his chin on them. "Guess it's just you and me, pet."
"You'll be dust when I'm through with you," she growls.
He closes his eyes, lowers his head, bites his lip against a smile. "Say it again."