Mortal Allies Series
Episode 5
War and Roses
By: Passion4Spike
Chapter 10: Lord of Hawley Manor
Chapter Notes:
All the thanks to All4Spike and MissLuci for their beta skills! All mistakes are mine.
Thanks to all of you wonderful readers and commenters! You really know how to feed the muse!
-X-
"Wolfram & Hart, how may I direct your call?" the disembodied feminine voice asked over the phone the next morning.
"Err..." Spike stammered. "Need t' talk to someone 'bout getting some documents, all legal and proper-like."
"Your demonic classification, please."
Spike's brow furrowed. "Vampire."
"Family line, please."
"Aurelian," he provided hesitantly.
"Your name?" the voice requested next.
"Spike."
"Please hold."
Music came on that proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the law firm of Wolfram & Hart was evil to the core. He held the phone at arm's length as Lawrence Welk and His Orchestra drove some upbeat rubbish music through Spike's ears directly into his brainstem.
The next voice on the phone was male and professional, "This is Lindsey McDonald. What can I help you with today, Mr. Spike?"
"Right, need some documentation, all proper-like. Driver's license, passport... errr... maybe birth certificate," Spike replied.
"Certainly. That's not a problem," the man agreed amiably. "If you could just give me some details," he continued. Spike could hear the man tapping on a computer keyboard. "I assume you don't want your year of birth to be 1854." He chuckled as if that was the funniest thing he'd heard all day.
"Was thinking more like 1980," Spike supplied. Yeah, it was younger than he'd been when he'd been turned, but this way he wouldn't have to get the sodding thing changed for another ten or twelve years.
"You do know the legal drinking age is twenty-one, correct? And the cost of auto insurance generally drops after the age of twenty-five."
Spike scowled. "Right, best make it, err... 1975 then." Who the bloody fuck had auto insurance?
More clicking of keys could be heard. There'd been more questions: What country did he want his passport from, what birth city, what state for the driver's license, what legal address (he used Buffy's)—the list seemed unending. Finally, Lindsey got to asking for parents' names and what name Spike wanted used as his full, legal nom de guerre.
Spike froze. Of course, they'd want a full name. Couldn't use sodding 'Spike' on legal documents. Bloody hell. He'd spent over a century burying his surname, along with everything that William Pratt had been, under the veneer of the demon. He had no desire to suddenly stamp it all over a passport for the sodding world to see... and certainly not for some law firm that played Lawrence Welk music to have access to. That was the ultimate evil, as far as he could tell.
He cast his gaze around the room, desperately searching for some inspiration. Lamp. Boots. Jeans. Table. Wall. Door. Sheets. Towels. None of that would do. His eyes lit on a shopping bag that had held some new clothes that Joyce had picked up for him at the mall. "Westfield," he blurted out. "William James Westfield. Mother's name: Anne. Father: Henry."
More tapping on the computer keys.
"Many of our clients find it helpful to also have a credit history, a Social Security number, and credit card in their name. We can take care of that, and have a Gold American Express to you within just a couple of days, if you'd like. Credit cards are generally needed to rent a car and the better hotels require them as a type of security deposit for the room, and to use for incidentals like phone calls and the mini-bar. It will, of course, be your responsibility to make the payments in a timely manner."
"Right. Go on and do that, then. How soon can ya have the identity stuff to me?" Spike asked.
"Give me just a moment to check and see if we have a photo that will suffice for these documents," he requested as the clicking of keys continued. After a few long moments, Lindsey said, "Yes, I see one here from our private files dated 1943 that should do."
Spike's forehead crinkled. "1943..." he mused to himself. The only pictures he remembered being taken of him in 1943 were by the sodding S.S. after he'd sobered up from the drugged virgin blood he'd sucked down in Madrid. Fucking wankers. "So, was you behind that whole Hitler thing, then?"
The vampire could hear a smile in the man's voice as he answered, "That's classified, I'm afraid I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you." He chuckled at the old joke, but then Lindsey's tone returned to professionally aloof as he continued, "With this photo, we can have them delivered to your legal address via courier by close of business today. Will that be acceptable?"
Spike's brows went up. "And how much is this gonna cost me, then? With the courier and what all?"
"It's all part of our service. No extra charge," the lawyer assured him. Spike could hear the perfunctory smile in his voice.
Spike's brows hit his hairline. "What service is that, then?"
"We've handled the affairs for the Order of Aurelius for several centuries now."
"That so? And just what other services should I be takin' advantage of?" Spike wondered.
"We're a full-service firm. We can assist you with any legal, financial, or supernatural needs." More key-clicks. "I see you haven't withdrawn your annual stipend."
Spike's forehead was beginning to cramp as his brows tried to furrow and stay near his hairline at the same time. "And how much is that?"
"A 'King's ransom' can be withdrawn annually without prior approval by the head of the clan," Lindsey replied, clearly reciting from something he was reading on the computer. More key clicks sounded over the line before he continued, "Who I see is listed as Angelus Aurelius."
"And just what does a 'King's ransom' go for these days?" Spike wondered.
"Approximately ten thousand in US dollars."
Spike barked out an acerbic laugh. "Must'a been a bloody unpopular king," he observed.
"It seems the rate was set in the early seventeenth century by Henrich Nest and hasn't been updated since," the lawyer explained.
Spike snorted and rolled his eyes, but his mind was doing some quick calculations. "Seeing's as I haven't taken my stipend for the last century, I reckon I'm due round-abouts a million dollars, then," he posited eagerly.
"No, sorry, you have to take it each year or it reverts back into the general account."
"Of course, it does," Spike grumbled. And, of course, he'd never heard of such from Angelus or the bloody bitch, Darla, who was likely the one who set the rate back then, not sodding Nest, anyway. She did like her finery and frippery, and didn't care much for getting her hands dirty to get it—bloody, yes; dirty, no.
"Right, well, I'll have this year's then—send it along with the documents. Cash, none of that check bollocks."
"Of course," Lindsey agreed.
"What about Dru... Drusilla the Seer? Has she taken any of her stipend?" Spike wondered.
"No. There is no record of her making any claims."
"Being a full-service lot, do you reckon you could find her and send her a bit of it each month? In whatever currency the locals use?"
"Of course, I can set up a monthly disbursal and have our mystics locate her for the payments."
"And this doesn't need Angelus' approval? Won't be sending off warning bells to the wanker?"
"No, not at all," Lindsey assured him as he continued typing on the keyboard. "It will show up on the annual report at the end of the year, of course."
That was eleven months away. Spike shrugged. He'd deal with the tightwad then if he wanted to make a fuss. Seemed like this was Spike and Dru's money just as much as it was fucking Angel's. Pillock!
Spike thought back to 1943. "What about Sam Lawson? He take any of his allowance?"
"No, sir."
"Can ya do us a favor, send 'im a message from me and let him know 'bout it... let him decide if he wants it?"
"Of course, that's no problem. Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Westfield?" Lindsey asked solicitously.
Spike started at the name before remembering—that was him. "No, I reckon that'll do for now."
"If you ever need anything else, just ask for me by name. I'll be happy to help you with any Aurelian business."
"Ta," Spike replied before hanging up. He'd been a bit worried about having enough dosh to furnish the house properly, at least without making another trip down to Sonora and having his way with a few drug dealers. He hadn't been looking forward to spending the time away from Buffy, and now that likely wouldn't be a problem. He'd be able to make the old house a proper home, somewhere Buffy could feel comfy when she visited, which he hoped would be most of her waking and sleeping hours.
Things were absolutely looking up!
-X-
"'William James Westfield'," Buffy read from his birth certificate later that night. She was cuddled beneath Spike's arm, leaning against him on the couch as she went through the documents the lawyers had sent. The TV was on, casting flickering blue light over the room, but the volume was down. Joyce had gone to bed a while ago, but Buffy was too interested in this new information to sleep or even make out. "Like the mall?" she wondered, glancing up at him. "Does your family own the mall?" she asked excitedly, sitting up to look at him, her eyes full of childlike glee. "Can we get discounts?"
Spike chuckled. "Relatively sure there's no relation," he advised, pulling her back against his side. His fingers traced idle patterns on her arm, which was making it hard for Buffy to concentrate, but there was so much about Spike she didn't know, and she longed to know everything. No detail was too small or inconsequential.
"'10 Downing Street'," she continued reading. "Is that where you grew up? Do you think it's still there? Maybe we could go—"
"Not my actual address, pet," he corrected, cutting her off. "As I recall, that's where the Prime Minister lives."
"Oh." She frowned. "Do you remember your actual address, you know, from when you were... from before Dru?" Buffy asked, casting another glance up at his face. His eyes were a different blue in the light from the TV, almost ethereal, like that perfect moment of twilight between sunset and full dark when the sky hovered between worlds. There were times when his eyes were so mesmerizing that she could feel them drawing her in until she stood near the precipice, waiting and wanting to fall into them, into him—heart, soul, and body—yet her inner demon wouldn't quite let her take that final step… but she was getting closer.
Spike turned and nuzzled against her neck, her hair tickling his skin, breathing in the clean scent of her—lavender and vanilla prevalent in the soft aroma of her shampoo and body wash. "22 York Place," he provided. "Dunno if it's still there. Never went back, if I'm honest. Why would you want to—?"
"Because it's part of you and I just want to know," she cut in, closing her eyes as his lips found the warm, sensitive spot behind her ear that sent shivers rippling up and down her spine.
"It's not me. The man that lived there is dead," he murmured against her neck.
Buffy frowned. "I thought... but you remember, right? You didn't just start as a blank slate when you were turned."
"No, but I've changed. Been a long time since I've been him."
"We all change," she pointed out. "I'm not the same person I was when I was ten. Hell, I'm not the same person I was when I was sixteen, but it's still part of me. It's part of my story, where I came from, how I got here. Isn't that guy, William Westfield, part of your story?"
Spike stopped nibbling on her soft skin. He leaned his forehead against the side of her head and closed his eyes as a soft sigh spilled from him. As hard as he'd tried to squash William, to bury him, to leave him behind, he'd never quite succeeded. Not even Angelus could beat, burn, bugger, or whip William from him. William the bloody awful poet was still there, still slipping into his thoughts—even more often now, around Buffy. Spike had had snippets of poetry drifting around in his brain for days. "Pratt," he whispered.
"What?" Buffy asked, confused.
He sat back so he could see her eyes and Buffy twisted to look up at him. "His name... my name, it's Pratt, not Westfield. William James Pratt. Just wanted to keep that private-like. Didn't want t' give it to... well, anyone."
Her brow furrowed. "Pratt, like... the word you call people that sounds not so nice?"
His eyes rolled up to the ceiling. "Different spelling... but yeah, like that."
Buffy pursed her lips to keep from smiling. "Well, you picked one of my favorite places in the world to change your name to. I approve."
"Glad it passes muster. Just don't be spreading that about. Rather keep that between us, alright?"
"Sure, of course." Buffy nodded, feeling a sudden rush of affection swell her chest, making the 'L-word' bounce around at the edges of her mind yet again. It cost Spike something to tell her his real name, she could see it in the tense set of his shoulders, in the way he could barely meet her eyes. He was trusting her with a secret—one he felt was a big one. It wasn't necessary; she would've never known, but he told her anyway. He trusted her with a piece of his past. A name that could be tied to his real life and the real man he used to be. A man she knew in her heart had been a good man, an honest man, a man whose integrity still shaped the actions of a demon nearly a century later. Angel wouldn't even tell her a fake last name, let alone his real one. "But you didn't answer the question. Isn't William Pratt still there, still part of you?" Buffy asked, already knowing the answer.
Spike sighed, his dark, lush lashes fluttering against the pale skin beneath his eyes as his gaze dropped. "Yeah," he admitted. "He's still about... part of my story, part of me."
She put a finger beneath his chin and lifted his face, daring him to look at her. Locking gazes with him, she slid her warm palm up against his cheek, her eyes glittering in the dancing light of the TV. "Then I want to know about him. I want to know who he was, and I want to know how he turned into you, how you got to be here, with me. I want to know about the guy on your passport with the black hair and how he ended up a platinum blond. Even if it's painful to hear, even if I might not like all parts of the story, it's what made you who you are, and I kinda like this guy," she asserted, her breath a soft whisper against his lips. "He's pretty special... in a stubborn, shirty sort of way."
With his heart on the verge of bursting, Spike smiled, but held his tongue a moment. There were too many sappy verses tumbling around in his mind, threatening to make a fool of him. Finally, he said, "Whatever you want, luv... just ask," before closing the short distance between their mouths and capturing her lips in a sensuous, slow-burn of a kiss.
Buffy moaned into his mouth, turning her body into his, careful not to break the connection between them. She lifted one leg over both of his, her hands cupping his face as their tongues danced and their lips drank in the pleasure of each other. She settled down onto his lap, straddling him as his hands skimmed down her body to settle on her hips, pulling her closer.
When his fingers slid beneath the soft top of her PJs, he found nothing but warm, glorious skin beneath. They traveled up over the curve of her waist, delighting in the way her stomach quivered under his touch, then found the firm, round mounds of her breasts. The moans were mutual as he cupped her soft flesh, teasing her nipples, delighting in the way they hardened, yearning for more. Her hips began to gently rock against him as his thumbs brushed over her pebbled flesh and the kiss stretched out until infinity seemed within reach.
With oxygen becoming an issue, Buffy finally gasped, pulling back and resting her forehead against his as he'd done with her so many times. It was a pose Buffy cherished – intimate and sweet, but not dangerous. Her body thrummed with need, her skin prickling with desire, shivering everywhere he touched her. No one had ever touched her like Spike—not any of the boys she'd dated, whose fumbling hands made them look like buffoons in comparison—not even Angel had been so attentive, so gentle, so maddeningly adept.
"Hey! You're being distract-o guy," she realized with a pout, sitting back to look at him. She was still panting lightly, her body burning, pulse pounding.
Spike's hands kept moving over her skin, now damp with a sheen of perspiration, slipping around to her back to caress the long muscles on each side of her spine. "Are you complainin'?" he wondered with a devilish grin that made his eyes sparkle in the shifting light.
"Never," Buffy conceded, a crooked grin emerging, before capturing his lips again. She'd get more answers from him—but not now, not tonight—maybe tomorrow, or the day after that. Someday when kissing him, touching him, drowning in desire for him, didn't seem like the most important thing in the world.
-X-
The next day, Friday, Spike went down to City Hall with a passport, driver's license, and birth certificate in hand. It was surprisingly easy to get to through the sewers, with its own well-marked entrance. His only issue had been getting from Buffy's house to the nearest manhole cover, not that he couldn't manage it with a thick blanket over his head, but it was a bit inconvenient. He wondered if Joyce would mind him connecting her basement to the underground system. He'd have to ask her.
No one in the Abandoned Property or Tax Collector's office batted an eye at him. He could've eaten the whole lot before they'd known what hit them. Gotta love Sunnydale. It was the opposite, actually. They'd been quite pleased, almost to the point of ecstatic, to have someone interested in what they called 'the old Hawley manor house', which had a couple of other owners since the Hawleys, but none had lasted more than a few months before they'd gone missing. In fact, the civil service employees had been so excited to see the cash in his hand that the County Clerk had signed the deed over to him on the spot, had it filed, and presented him with an official copy—signed, sealed, and delivered—before he left a few hours later.
When Spike returned to Buffy's house, blanket smoking lightly from the late-afternoon rays that peeked through the trees along Revello Drive, he was greeted with a tittering gaggle of teen spirit. Xander, Willow, and Oz were all there, along with Buffy and the great slobbering hound, all eager to know how it had gone.
"Add one to the population of Sunnydale," Spike told them with a smug grin, holding up the deed for them to see. "You're now looking at the new Lord o' Hawley Manor."
Buffy was smiling that dazzling smile of hers, looking at him like he hung the sodding moon, and Spike thought, in that moment, he could've done so. Her smile made his heart soar, his blood dance, his stomach flutter with joyful butterflies. He could conquer any labyrinth, cross any desert, sail any sea just to see that smile. Had anyone ever bestowed such a smile upon him before? One so full of pride and affection? So full of… dare he hope… love?
He wanted nothing more than to sweep her up into his arms and snog her silly in that moment, but managed to restrain himself, taking his cues from her. He didn't quite understand what the problem would be if he did that right here and now, but he could tell from her body language that it wouldn't be appropriate.
He'd known going into this relationship that there would be times when he'd have to bow to her judgement on many things. It'd been a long time since he'd worried about proprieties, and his demon didn't give a rat's ass about social dictates, so he was a bit out of practice. He settled for drinking her in with his eyes and returning the smile she was blessing him with.
"This calls for a toast!" Xander declared, holding up a bottle of Welch's Sparkling White Grape Juice.
"Woof!" the dog agreed, his tail slashing through the air like a furry saber.
Spike blinked at the bottle. "Are you bleedin' kidding me? Put life and limb on the line buying a house on the sodding Hellmouth, within spitting distance of a bone yard, and you're toasting it with fucking grapes that haven't fermented?" he complained as Xander unscrewed the lid.
Xander grinned. "Thought you'd rather have un-inebriated minions to start working on it, oh Lord of Hawley Manor."
Spike's brows shot up. "Tonight?"
Buffy slipped over and pressed herself against Spike's side, fitting herself snugly beneath his arm, as Xander poured the drinks. "Leila and Giles are trailing Faith tonight."
"Lydia," Willow corrected automatically.
The Slayer ignored her friend. "So, we're all with the free-ness. No time like the present to start, right?"
"But it'll be dark," Spike continued. Not that he wasn't chuffed and just as anxious to get started as they were, but it'd be bloody hard to get anything done by candlelight, at least for the mortal among them. Anyway, he'd had in mind celebrating in a more private way with Buffy, which included lots of snogging and getting her hot little hands on his cock again.
"I have a solution for that," Willow piped up, taking a glass from Xander. "Giles and I worked on it today—it's a light spell. Perfectly safe!" she added hastily at Spike's dubious look. "Watcher approved."
"We can at least start hauling some of that grody furniture out to the curb and maybe even rip up the carpet," Xander suggested as he finished pouring and handing out the sparkling grape juice.
"Why do I think by 'we' you mean me and the Slayer?" Spike asked suspiciously, taking a glass from the boy.
"'Cos you're not as dumb as you look?" Xander suggested with a smirk, raising his glass. "Here's hoping Hawley Manor isn't haunted... and if it is, they stay out of my room."
Spike snorted, but lifted his glass. They all touched the red Solo cups together and drank. "Here's to second-rate DIYers not bolloxing up my bleedin' house," he added, raising his glass again.
Xander frowned. "Is 'second-rate' better or worse than 'mediocre'?" he asked. "I don't know if I've just been insulted or not."
"That's 'cos you are as dumb as you look," Spike asserted, reaching over to touch his glass to Xander's before downing the unfermented champagne.
-X-
At the house, the group stopped in front of the ornate wrought iron gate as Spike ripped the 'City of Sunnydale' sign down. He started to push it open, but Xander stopped him.
"Wait! My first official task as mediocre handyman," he explained, extracting a can of oil from the bag of tools he carried and applying a liberal helping of the slick liquid to the hinges. He worked the gate back and forth a couple of times until the squeal was gone, then stepped back. "I think that deserves a promotion to 'middling', at least," he suggested, waving a hand at the un-squeaking gate.
"Is 'middling' better than 'second-rate'? And where does 'mediocre' stand in the hierarchy?" Oz wondered. "It's better than 'inferior' or 'substandard', but I think we may need a definite scale of lackluster here for reference."
"Well, I think non-squeaky gates are excellent," Willow gushed. "Much less creepy and House-on-Haunted-Hill-ish."
"Much with the improving," Buffy agreed. "Less cringy on the ears."
"You lot are easily impressed is all I gotta say," Spike complained, pushing the gate open on smooth, silent hinges. "Be more impressive if the git were able to coax a bit of natural lube from the sodding thing. Reckon we know why he can't keep a girl now."
"Hey!" Xander objected. "Have you been talking to Cordy?"
Spike snorted and strode up the walk—his walk. His overgrown walk. But his. He wasn't sure why he was so chuffed with it, but he was. Maybe because it was his and his alone. That wasn't something he'd ever had before—a real place of his own. Not his mum's. Not some stolen flat whose previous occupants were decomposing in the garden, feeding the flora that bloomed much brighter the following spring. This was real, something that felt permanent, solid, stable. Somewhere that he could choose; choose who to invite over, who to allow in and who to lock out. It was a place to make a home, not just for him, but for Buffy, because he wasn't sure it would mean as much if not for her. He slowed his pace and Buffy caught up to him. His hand sought hers and their fingers linked, her warmth seeping into his cool flesh, becoming part of him, if just for a while.
They mounted the steps as one, and it felt bloody perfect.
In the foyer, they stopped and waited for Willow to get her light spell going. "If ya burn my sodding house down, I will kill you—violently and painfully, got it?" Spike warned the witch.
Willow flinched, looking at him worriedly.
"A vague disclaimer is nobody's friend," Spike taunted with a smirk, throwing her own words back at her.
"Harsh," Oz grunted, eyeing Spike curiously, as if trying to decide just how serious he was.
"Not helping with the spell-casting," Willow declared before taking a deep breath and centering herself like Giles had shown her. After about half a minute of focus, Willow took five candles from her bag and set them out at the five points of a pentagram.
"Any halfwit could put out sodding candles," Spike complained. Willow shot him a death glare, while Buffy elbowed him lightly in the ribs. Spike rolled his eyes, crossed his arms, and waited.
Willow lit the candles then took her place in the center of the pentagram. "Hecate, hear my plea. Light the night for us to see. Accept my gift as praise to thee," the witch recited, taking out a small vial of a clear oil and letting one drop fall on each of the flames. "So mote it be!" she finished as the oil dripped onto the last candle. As soon as that happened, the flames detached from the wicks and floated up into the air, growing and expanding until each one was a small orb of light, casting nearly bright-as-day illumination over them.
The witch grinned and touched one of the balls of light. "See? It's not even hot. No fire," she observed, tapping the ball and sending it floating over toward Spike like a soap bubble. "Just take one with you and put it where you want."
Spike caught it in his hand. It sort of hovered over his flesh, not actually touching. It wasn't even warm, just bright. He looked back at Willow. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. It's catch-free," she proclaimed. "I paid with this... Abramelin oil." She held up the small vial to show him. "Apparently, the goddess really likes it. And it smells nice." Willow took a sniff of it as if to prove her point, before looking back at the vampire.
Spike frowned a moment looking around the now-illuminated interior of the house... his house, but couldn't see anything bad happening. He shrugged. "Right then, you lot start in here, I'm gonna go out and get some of the boards off the windows so we can get some sodding air in here. Smells like a morgue. An overcrowded morgue with no refrigeration in the middle o' summer in Death Valley."
There was no arguing with that.
"I think we need to get some baking soda," Buffy suggested. "You know, like you put in the fridge to absorb odors? Maybe a dump-truck full of it?"
"Or a few million of those little pine tree air fresheners," Oz suggested.
Spike snorted.
Xander waved it off as he grabbed one of the shiny orbs for himself. "It'll be okay once we get some air moving and the carpet and stuff out. It'll be minty-fresh in no time."
"What are we supposed to do with all the stinky furniture?" Willow wondered, looking at the stained and smelly couch, chairs, and loveseat in the living room.
"Just pile it by the curb. I've got Junkman Jay coming by tomorrow to haul it to the dump," Xander explained as he walked into the dining room and examined the table and chairs in there. The table was covered in candlewax and other stains he didn't want to contemplate, but it looked like solid oak. Thick and heavy and well made. "Leave anything that's just wood with no cushions or anything," he instructed. "I might be able to refinish it."
And with that, they began. Spike went out and pulled down all the boards from the windows and doors, beginning on the ground floor before making his way up to the second-floor balconies and doing the same there. It took a while, but he finally got the house opened up to start the airing out process. The rest of the group began hauling things out of the house to the street.
It had been gross and nasty, and they'd all been filthy by the time they'd finished clearing out the first floor. Other than the grodiness, it had gone well until Oz had pulled up the edge of the carpet and uncovered a copious horde of large, nasty cockroaches beneath.
Oz made a sound that might've indicated a bit of surprise, but it was hard to tell. Willow, however, screeched as the repulsive brown beasties began to scatter, scurrying in all directions, including directly toward her feet. Buffy let out a girlish shriek herself before she began stomping with both booted feet in an effort to not only kill them, but keep them from running up her legs.
Xander's shrill exclamation rivaled Willow's as he, too, began slapping his size-twelves down on the scattering throng of grossness. Spike cursed colorfully as he joined the others in trying to eradicate the creepy-crawlies with his feet.
To an outsider, it must've looked like some sort of wild, primeval dance, at least until the roaches took to the air. Then it looked like a mass exodus. There was more profuse and bountiful screaming than there had been with the rats, approximating what would happen if they were being chased by a dozen ax-wielding mass-murderers. There was also a liberal amount of ducking, spinning, and swatting at the airborne attackers as the larger, more evolved, and clearly freaked-out bipeds fled from the room.
Meanwhile, the dog thought it was a game, and happily chased the fleeing hoomans, barking and bouncing joyfully in their wake. Clearly it was the best fun he'd had all night!
Out on the front walk, with everyone panting and swatting at unseen and mostly imaginary bugs, Xander proclaimed, "Fumigate. Tomorrow, make with... the fumigation."
Everyone gave him a scathing look, as if he should've thought of this and done the fumigating already. "What?" Xander demanded at their incredulous looks. "How was I supposed to know? Anyway, he just bought the stupid place three hours ago!"
"Demoted to 'shoddy', you git," Spike announced as they warily made their way back into the house.
"So unfair!" Xander argued, following at a safe distance in case another swarm of arthropods decided to attack.
"Master." Spike said, pointing to himself. "Minion," he continued, pointing to Xander, turning the tables from what the boy had said to him when they were working on Buffy's staircase. "Get sodding used to it."
-X-
After the ruckus of roaches died down, they ventured back in to finish up. As the others took the last few small things out to the curb, Spike stopped Buffy from following. "Whaddya think, luv?" he asked, pulling her to him. He turned her, putting her back to his front and wrapped his arms around her as the glowing orbs bounced around the ceiling of the family room / kitchen area.
Buffy leaned back against him and laid her grimy hands over his where they encircled her waist, a contented sigh slipping from her lips. "I love it. It's gonna be great... once the demon roaches are gone," she gushed. "I can't wait to get to the shopping and decorating part."
He chuckled. "How did I know that'd be your favorite bit?"
"Because I am a professional shopper, board-certified, and was inducted into the Macy's Hall of Fame in 1997?" she guessed cheekily.
Spike rumbled another deep laugh. "Don't mind all the work 'fore we get to your speciality?" he wondered, dipping his head to touch a soft kiss to her neck, just behind her ear. Possibly the only clean spot on her entire body.
She moaned lightly and tilted her head to give him better access. "I don't mind the work as long as I'm paid in kisses," she teased.
He grinned. "Well, that works out nicely, cos I give great kisses and I've got an unlimited supply."
"Good thing, cos I'm not cheap. I think you owe me about... eleventy million already."
"Well, I best get on that, then," he purred. "Wouldn't want to be accused of welching on my debts."
Buffy turned in his arms, grinning. "It might take a while for you to pay me back," she pointed out, wrapping her arms around his neck.
"Long as it takes, pet, I'll repay every bloody one. Year, two years, ten years... hundred years. Be right here, snogging you wild," he promised, brushing a stray lock of hair that had come down from her ponytail back from her face.
Buffy's smile widened. If he kept saying stuff like that, he might actually drown out the voice of her doubt-demon. "I like the sound of that. Now, less with the talky, more with the smoochies. It's time for you to pay up. Kiss me."
And so he did.
-X-
Chapter End Notes:
Hawley mausoleum was crypt in the Restfield Cemetery that canon-Spike made his home circa 2000–2002. It was the mausoleum for the tombs of Ethel, James, and other members of the Hawley family. I thought it fitting that this Spike would be living in their house.
More on Thursday!