"If Giles dies, she dies."
Buffy stared daggers at Spike as her mother opened and closed her mouth silently, a bit like a fish, her face contorted with a worried and desperate look.
Spike glared back before slipping out of her front door and into the crisp night air. He would save Drusilla, just as he had countless times before.
Once outside, Spike patted around his duster, looking for that pack of smokes he nabbed from the cop. Eventually his fingers found it and he slipped a slightly crushed cigarette out of the pack, lighting it with a flick of his trusty Zippo. He sauntered down the steps and took a deep inhale of smoke, letting it flow out of flared nostrils. As he started making his way back to the damned mansion — which he would be happy to never lay eyes on after tonight — he caught a glimpse of the Slayer and her mum in what looked like a shouting match.
"Great," he murmured to himself. Spike still couldn't believe Buffy hadn't told her mother that she was the Slayer. Bloody dangerous is what it was. Girl might think she could handle everything, but it was her mum that saved her hide the first time they...
He was losing his mind. What did Spike care about the Slayer's safety?
"If anyone's gonna kill her it's going to be me, that's why," he said aloud, trying to convince himself. Even he could tell it sounded lame.
Spike crushed the cigarette and suddenly realized he hadn't gone very far. In fact, his feet had taken him to the back porch. Weird.
He raised an eyebrow and looked around suspiciously. After a beat he shrugged and started climbing the steps. Might as well check on the Slayer, don't want her to be late in saving the world and all that.
A jolt went through his fingers as Spike grabbed the door knob.
"Oi!" He exclaimed before shaking his hand and trying again.
This time, his fingers curled around it easily, and he quietly pushed the door in.
Just want the plan to go well. I don't care if the Slayer and her mum are fighting. Just want Angel dead, and quick.
Spike took a gulp of air as he entered the kitchen, expecting to come face to face with an irritated Buffy. It took a moment for him to realize something was wrong.
First of all, the smell was different. Very… oniony? And something else that was so familiar but he couldn't quite place it.
Instead of the sounds of Buffy fighting with Joyce, there was a faint sound of music coming from somewhere in the house. Spike caught a few bars of a tune he knew quite well.
A broken nose and a broken heart/ An empty bottle of gin…
He didn't know the Slayer liked Social Distortion. Seemed more like the boy band type to Spike. He shrugged, but felt another unwelcome ping of curiosity about his enemy. Hmph.
Spike continued to look around, noticing that the lights were all different too and that the table was cluttered with streamers, plates and plastic cups. Had Buffy suddenly decided to throw a party?
"Slayer?" he said, though the room was empty. "What the hell is going on?"
"What?" called a voice from the other room.
Spike stepped carefully through the kitchen and into the living room, which was suddenly filled with very different furniture. And some quite posh oriental rugs.
And, a girl around Buffy's age standing on a stepstool hanging a banner that read "Happy Anniversary" in glittery letters.
She wasn't wearing the tight black sweater and gray pants Buffy had on just a few moments ago, though. Instead, she wore ripped jeans and a red flannel, her hair up in a ponytail with loose bits around the edges.
"What's all this then, where's the Slayer?" said Spike, swirling around, "How did this…"
Before he could finish, the girl jerked around and nearly leapt off the stool. Her eyes were frantic, a bit like Buffy's mum's had been earlier.
"You're not supposed to be here!" she said, obviously panicked. One of her hands shot up to Spike's face, covering his eyes. "Don't look at the sign!"
"Well pet, I already saw it," said Spike, swatting her hand away. "When did the Slayer decide to throw a party?"
The girl's eyebrows furrowed over a pair of steely blue eyes. He took in the other details of her face and felt perplexed. This wasn't one of Buffy's Scoobies — there was the shy red haired one and the chatty brunette bird — this girl was blondish and short. With a nose that looked a lot like Buffy's.
"So you're a relative or something?" said Spike, absentmindedly, still staring at her features.
"Oh very funny, acting like you don't know me," said the girl, a slightly hurt look taking over her face. "Look I know you're mad at me for going to the Bronze the other night, but you don't have to be all emotiony and melodramatic," the girl rolled her eyes.
She even talked like Buffy.
"I love you," she continued, putting a hand on his shoulder. Now Spike's own brows furrowed. "And I know you just wanted to protect me after the…"
The girl trailed off and cocked her head to the side, looking at him suspiciously.
"Are you feeling ok?" she asked. "You seem a little," her eyes rested on the mostly healed scars on Spike's face from when Buffy had dropped an organ on him.
"Am I feeling okay?" Spike responded with a strange laugh. He frowned "well.."
Was he feeling okay? No, not really. Everything in his life had gone sideways since he came to Sunnydale and had to deal with the damned Slayer. Finally he thought he had found a way out and now this…
What was this? Who was this bird who reminded him so much of Buffy but wasn't Buffy and why did she think she knew him?
They stood there for a moment in silence and the girl started to turn pale. Then she started asking more questions Spike couldn't answer.
"Did something happen on patrol? Where's mom? Did something happen to her?"
"I," Spike sputtered, feeling suddenly queasy. "I'm sorry love, I haven't the faintest about what you're goin' on about."
The girl gulped.
"You're not joking, huh?" she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.
Spike raised an eyebrow and shook his head.
"Okay," she said, wringing her hands. "This is okay. Everything is fine. Ugh. Why does everything always go all Weirdville when we try to have a party?" she added, mostly to herself.
Weirdville indeed. Spike knew he shouldn't have come back inside. He had to get out of here and away from this strange Buffy's-house-not-Buffy's house and get on with the plan.
"You know what pet, I'll leave you to it then," he said, backing away towards the kitchen. "Best of luck with the party," he added, gesturing to the banner.
Spike was almost to the back door when he heard the girl coming after him.
He sighed and rolled his eyes, preparing to ignore whatever she was going to say. But then...
"Dad, come on. Please." Even if Spike had a beating heart, he was pretty sure it would have stopped at that moment.
What did she call me? This must be some sort of spell. Red — she does spells. But, she's in hospital…
Spike's mind whirled around him, as if he had just downed a bottle of Evan Williams in one swig.
He felt her small, warm hand on his shoulder again.
"Obviously something happened on patrol," she was saying as she guided Spike to one of the stools around the kitchen table. He wasn't sure why he was letting her, but he didn't appear able to resist.
Must be the spell, he thought, trying to make sense of the very confusing past few minutes of his unlife.
"Maybe, like, an amnesia demon or something," the girl was saying while she pulled out a mug from a cabinet. Spike started blankly at its lettering. Harris Construction, it said, the words circling an eyepatch symbol. "You need to eat something, I think. You look kinda…"
Her eyes flicked to his scars again and she went to open the freezer. Spike's eyes widened when she pulled out a bag of blood and emptied it into the mug.
This is bloody insane. This can't be real.
She casually popped it into the microwave and pulled out a box of Weetabix from another cabinet. A loud dinging noise interrupted Spike's trancelike fixation on the mug.
"Oh, the blooming onions are ready," said the girl, heading over some sort of cooking contraption. "I hope they taste as good all air-fried," she said, making a face.
Spike watched silently as she crossed in front of the fridge and his eyes widened even more.
Oh dear god.
Its door was plastered with photos and notes and drawings and little magnetic poetry bits. At the center of this collage was a black and white wedding photo.
There was Buffy, all aglow with her hair pulled back in a bun. Spike had never seen it that way before. He hadn't seen her face look like that either, beaming, maybe even caught mid-laugh, with her eyes looking crinkly and warm.
She didn't look at her loverboy Angel like that. It was always passionate, angsty stares with Peaches.
Spike felt a lump in his throat and he forced his eyes to look at the man in the photo. It wasn't Angel.
It was him. Spike.
WHAT?
But Spike looked happier in the photo than he ever remembered being, alive or undead. His eyes looked at Buffy with no less than pure adoration and a black-fingernailed hand gently held the Slayer's veil away from her face.
He got up from his seat for a closer look and started to take in the rest of the fridge gallery. There were other photos from the wedding with Buffy's Scooby pals, and…
ANGEL? DRUSILLA? SOME STRANGE SAGGY SKINNED DEMON? SOME STRANGE GREEN-SKINNED DEMON?
Spike needed to sit again but he couldn't move.
In another photo, he was laying on the couch from Buffy-not-Buffy's living room, a baby sleeping on his chest. Next to that one, a little blue-eyed girl was riding on his shoulders. The same little girl was sticking out her tongue and wearing her duster in another.
He squinted, looking back at the girl who had called him Dad. She was now inspecting a fried onion with deep concentration. He recognized her as the girl in a martial arts uniform from another photo, Spike's arm thrown proudly over her shoulders. She was hugging him in another, with a tall brunette woman. They all had the same eyes.
Spike closed his and collapsed into a chair as another dinging noise went off.
"This should make you feel better," said the girl, who began fiddling in a drawer until she found a meat thermometer to test the microwaved blood. "Ninety-eight point six," she said, placing the mug in front of Spike.
Drinking old blood out of a mug hardly seemed appealing to him, but the smell was helping the queasy, seasick feeling of whatever this spell was doing to him.
The girl also pushed the Weetabix in front of him, which caused Spike's scarred eyebrow to shoot up.
"Your favorite," she said, an incredulous look on her face. Then, in a surprisingly good imitation of Spike's cockney accent, "Gives it texture."
"That's ridiculous," scoffed Spike as he took a sip from the mug. He wrinkled his nose.
Well, it could use something.
He shrugged and grabbed some Weetabix from the box, tentatively crumbling it into the blood as she watched him carefully.
"Dad, you are really starting to give me the wiggins," she said.
Me too, he thought, glancing back at the fridge.
Then, her expression seemed to change, as if she had some sort of epiphany.
"Hey," she said, her voice squeaking a bit. "What episode of Passions was on last week?"
Spike looked puzzled.
"What's Passions?"
"Oh, nothing," she said, still squeaky.
Sounds of people bursting through the door cut into the awkward moment and the girl began looking through some cabinets under the sink.
"The troops are here with cheesy goodness," Xander's voice said from the hall.
"Enough pizza to put the whole party in a serious food coma," Spike could recognize Willow's voice moving closer to the kitchen. "Not that we want that, just that it's a lot of pizza…"
Willow froze when she entered the room to find her goddaughter motioning "shhh" with her finger from behind Spike, a bundle of rope gathered in her arms.
