Mortal Allies Series
Episode 5
War and Roses
By: Passion4Spike
Chapter 16: Council Cash
Chapter Notes:
I again apologize for the super lateness of this chapter. I've forgotten how energetic kittens are! Mad Max is doing fine, but he needs and gets a lot of attention from me, and it's seriously cutting into my time, but I made it... at least by my time, it's before midnight on Sunday.
I haven't had a chance to reply to the comments on the last chapter yet (See above re: time eaten by badass kitty), but I will get to them! I love them one and all!
Thanks to MissLuci and All4Spike for sharing their time and beta-skills with me. All mistakes are mine.
"No, no way..." Buffy said emphatically at dinner just a little while later. Spike was sitting across from her at the dining room table, her mom was to her right at the head of the table.
"Why the bloody hell not?" Spike demanded, pausing the forkful of lasagna he was about to eat in mid-air.
"Because it's yucky," Buffy retorted, her own fork forgotten in her hand.
"And, as you're so fond o' saying, if we were in third grade, that'd matter," Spike argued. "Having a sewer entrance in the basement would be right useful."
"For what? Giving demons a fun new way to attack us? Having smelly fumes fill the house? Being a rat highway leading straight to the stockpile of Gravy Train stored down there?"
"For sun-averse vampires t' move about during the day," Spike explained. "We'd put a sodding door on it—just like Bob Vila's doing over at my place. Keep the varmints and smell out, that would. And having an escape hatch would be dead useful if the house got attacked and overrun, or set on fire. Lotsa places around this town have sewer entrances... don't seem t' have any issues with demons or whatnot."
"Lots of places around town aren't this place, where a Slayer and her family sleep." Buffy shook her head and stabbed a bite of lasagna onto her fork. "And you get around just fine, from what I've seen. Not sure why you need to be going out in the day so much, anyway," she muttered before shoving the pasta goodness into her mouth.
Spike sighed and looked over to Joyce, who had remained silent through the discussion. "What d' you say, Joyce?"
Buffy looked up, her eyes like lasers boring into her mother, imploring her to not give in to this crazy idea of Spike's. Joyce looked between the two blondes and sighed. "I'm sorry, William. I really have to agree with Buffy on this one. It seems... well, even ignoring the cost—" Spike started to speak, to repeat his assertion that he'd pay for it, but she cut him off with a raised hand.
"Ignoring the cost," she repeated before continuing, "I would worry about what it would do to the stability of the foundation of the house. This is earthquake country, after all. Any small defect could turn into a major issue. We also have those lovely trees in the front yard. I wouldn't want to damage their roots and kill them by tunneling beneath them. And... well, Buffy has a point about the fumes. Can't those be dangerous? And what if the sewers flood? I know it doesn't happen often, but it certainly is a possibility. The water would back up into the basement... that would be quite a mess."
Spike scowled and looked down at his dinner. It would be so much easier for him to get around with an entrance in the basement. So much easier to get to the Edna May House during the day to get this interview bollocks over with.
"I'm sorry, William," Joyce repeated. "It just seems like a lot of work and risk to take for something that will only be used for a short time. After all, you'll be moving into your own home soon. How long do you think it will take to get it ready... a few weeks, maybe? Even if it's a few months..." her voice trailed off and she shrugged, stifling the urge to apologize again.
"'S all right, no worries," he muttered dejectedly, dipping a forkful of lasagna into his mug of blood before lifting it to his mouth.
Joyce and Buffy shared a guilty look, as if they'd just kicked a puppy.
"Spike," Buffy began, her voice gentle. "If you need something during the day, just call the library at school and leave a message with Giles. I can get it for you on my way home." A pause. "Unless it's whiskey or... beer, or cigarettes."
Spike snorted derisively and looked up at her. "Right. If I've got a hankerin' for candy floss, I'll give ya a bell."
Buffy frowned. "Flossing with candy is kind of counterproductive, isn't it?"
Spike laughed, the tension and disappointment falling away. He shook his head, a fond expression on his face. "Love you, Slayer."
Buffy smiled, not sure what she'd done, but happy that the mood had suddenly changed. "Love you too, vampire."
As the two blondes went back to eating and chatting about their days, Joyce was frozen in place. Her eyes darted back and forth between them as their words tumbled around inside her head. Finally, she blinked and remembered to breathe.
"You okay, pet?" Spike asked, looking over at her curiously.
Joyce gave him a genuine smile and nodded as she started eating again. "Fine... perfectly fine." These two could dance around their feelings like no one she'd ever known before, ducking and dodging and hiding behind their walls. Apparently, someone had gotten brave. That had to be a step in the right direction.
-X-
Buffy had just handed Spike the last dish to dry and put away when the doorbell rang. The dog, who had been watching carefully, just in case an errant scrap fell on the floor, jumped up and headed for the front door, his deafening bark sounding through the house.
She sighed, wondering who could be here at this hour. She'd been having fun with the doing of dishes—funny how having a partner who kept stealing kisses and bumping his hip against hers could make the chore enjoyable. She'd been looking forward to heading out for patrol, and perhaps more than a little hip-bumping.
"Could hire the great moocher out as an air raid klaxon," Spike suggested as he put the last dish away and handed Buffy the towel to dry her hands.
"Don't tempt me," she teased, hanging the towel back up before they both headed for the door. "Would be nice if he started pulling his considerable weight around here. Pretty soon, we're gonna have to have the Gravy Train delivered on an actual train."
Spike snorted as they heard Joyce call from upstairs, asking if they were getting the door.
"Yeah, we've got it!" Buffy called back as they reached the foyer. She pulled the door open, and her mood plummeted like a rock. "Oh. It's you."
Cujo darted out and began sniffing all around the visitor, beginning with her sensible shoes and ending with her dull, gray tweed skirt.
"Oi! Cujo!" Spike admonished, snapping his fingers at the dog. "Let off."
The dog looked at him with a sour expression in his brown eyes before huffing out a breath and heading down the steps to pee on the bushes nearby. When he was done, he made a show of scratching his back feet, sending clumps of sod and dirt flying across the yard. Unfortunately, no one seemed duly impressed with his display, so he pushed past the woman back into the house and flopped down on the cool floor, panting.
Lydia stepped to the side when the dog bumped her, smiling stiffly, the familiar greeting from the Slayer and her dog wearing on her nerves. "Miss Summers," she said neutrally. "May I come in? I have some, err, business to discuss with you." Her eyes darted to Spike for only a moment, but Buffy saw it, and couldn't stop her expression from darkening.
"We were actually just on our way out—"
"Might want t' see what the bird wants," Spike advised, cutting Buffy off.
The Slayer arched a brow at him, her arms crossed over her chest. What the hell was with him and Lynnette? There was something up with them, she felt it in her bones, but she just didn't know what. It was like a bothersome niggle at the base of her skull that never quite went away, but didn't grow into anything solid that she could pummel into submission.
"I assure you, you will not regret taking a few minutes for this," Lydia added, still smiling.
Buffy rolled her eyes and stepped back. "What is it now?" she asked as the Council woman came in. "You need to inspect the kitchen to see if I'm eating my Wheaties? Getting my recommended daily allowance of Council Kool-Aid?"
The smile on Lydia's face didn't falter. "No, I'm sure that will not be necessary. May we sit down? Perhaps at a table?" she suggested, looking at the dining room.
"Make yourself comfortable," Spike offered, waving a hand toward the table before Buffy could refuse.
Spike ignored the glare Buffy was shooting him as he followed Lydia into the dining room and pulled a chair out for her. He then darted around the table and pulled one out for Buffy, directly across from the other woman. "Here ya go, luv," he offered.
Buffy's lips pursed and she stubbornly pulled out the chair at the end of the table for herself and plopped down in it. Spike rolled his eyes and took a seat in the chair he'd offered to her as Lydia pulled some papers from the briefcase she'd opened in front of her.
"We, the Council of Watchers, that is, have considered your demands," Lydia began, closing the case and sliding it off to one side, leaving just a stack of papers in front of her. "After some careful contemplation and deliberation, we have decided that you are correct, Miss Summers."
Buffy's brows shot up. "I am? I mean, of course I am." A beat. "About what?"
Lydia slid a packet over to Buffy. "Your employment status and the need for proper compensation for your... labors."
The Slayer looked down at the cover of the booklet. 'Council of Watchers, London. Employment Contract. Buffy Anne Summers, Slayer.' Her eyes got even wider as she opened it and began scanning the pages. "You're going to pay me a salary... this salary?" she asked, pointing to the clause that spelled out her compensation.
"Yes, that was the idea," Lydia agreed.
"Holy shit..." Buffy muttered, dropping her eyes, and reading more. "And insurance... and college?"
"You must receive a 'C' or better in your courses or you will not be reimbursed," Lydia warned.
"AND CLOTHES?" she continued as if the woman hadn't spoken. "Are you serious?"
"As a proverbial heart attack," the woman assured her.
"Vacation! I get a vacation?"
"You must be available at a moment's notice to return if—"
"Spike!" Buffy exclaimed, talking over Lydia. "I can... We can... we can go to London and York Street, and open the time capsule box, and see London Bridge, and go shopping at Harrods! I'll actually have money to buy all the things! Oh! And ride on a double decker bus, and moon the Council building and... Oh my God! Have you seen this?"
Spike shook his head, his best look of surprise plastered to his face. "That's bloody brilliant, luv. About time they appreciated you... gave you your rightful due." He decided not to tell her that the current London Bridge looked like any other modern roadway, that the old London Bridge was in sodding Arizona, and she probably meant 'Tower Bridge' anyway.
"There are severe penalties if—" Lydia began, but she was cut off when Buffy jumped up and enfolded the woman in a bone crushing hug. "Urk," the woman grunted, the air driven from her lungs.
"Oh, my God! Thank you so much! This is amazing!" Buffy gushed, releasing her.
Lydia gasped in a deep breath, wincing and praying that none of her ribs had punctured a lung as Buffy dashed around the table and gave Spike the same treatment. He was fast enough to stand up before she attacked him, and he lifted her off her feet in a joyful embrace. He'd have given a hundred interviews for this right here—his Slayer, laughing and squealing in delight.
"So proud of you, pet," Spike rumbled into her ear. "Deserve all that and more."
Buffy beamed as he set her back on her feet. "I guess getting their asses kicked finally brought them to their senses," she surmised. "Score another one for Team Sunnydale."
Spike grinned at her. "They know a force o' nature when they see one, luv," he agreed.
"Damn right," Buffy concurred haughtily.
"What's going on?" Joyce asked from the foyer. "What's all the yelling?"
"Mom! Look!" Buffy exclaimed, excitedly waving the contract at her. "They're actually going to pay me... like, real money and everything!" She faltered a moment and looked back at Lydia. "This is real money, right—like American dollars, not some weird Council Cash that can only be spent on the fifth Tuesday of February when the moon is full at an army surplus store in Duluth?"
Lydia gave her an indulgent smile. "Real, American money, no restrictions where or when it is spent," she assured her. "Perhaps you should read over the full contract and make sure you understand all the stipulations and benefits, while I check my ribs for fractures."
-X-
Joyce read over the contract and asked Spike to do the same. She couldn't find anything underhanded or shifty about it. Yes, Buffy had to work for them. Yes, Buffy had to continue her Slayer duties. But Buffy had already agreed to do that. The stipulation for Buffy's veto rights for the new Watcher hadn't been in the agreement, but Lydia added an addendum, stipulating to that. Joyce couldn't find anything else to add or object to. Neither could Spike. Lydia said they could take it to an attorney if they wanted, but Joyce really didn't think that would be a good idea—how would they explain what a Slayer was to a lawyer?
In the end, Buffy and Lydia signed the contract and Buffy promised to provide the woman with a bank account and routing number for her checks to be deposited into... right after she opened one. Her first check would be deposited in two weeks. Her first paycheck! Ever! To say Buffy was giddy with excitement would be the understatement of the millennium.
"So, have you gone over this with Faith yet?" Joyce asked after the documents were signed and Lydia was slipping her copy back into her bag.
"Faith?"
"Faith... the other Slayer," Joyce clarified. "I assume she'll be getting a contract as well, seeing as—"
"Oh, I see. No," Lydia cut her off as she stood up. "I'm afraid that there are funds available for only one salaried Slayer. Buffy, being the senior of the two, has been deemed to be the logical recipient of the contract."
The others around the table—Joyce, Buffy, and Spike—stood up also.
"Faith's not getting anything?" Buffy asked, trying her best to look and sound concerned about this development. Deep inside, her heart did a little dance and flipped Faith the bird... metaphorically.
"No, I'm afraid not. If you were to... perish, then that decision might be reevaluated, as she would then be the senior Slayer," Lydia told them. Not exactly a lie—it might be or it might not be. Of course, it would not be. That wasn't the deal. "She would, of course, need to exhibit a willingness to cooperate with the Council and conduct herself with the decorum befitting a Slayer. Thus far, I have not been impressed with her attitude or work ethic."
Joyce nodded, her expression worried. "It might be best if this wasn't mentioned to Faith, then. She's... well, she's always been a bit jealous of Buffy; this could only make that worse."
"She'll not hear a word of it from me. I might suggest that you keep this between yourselves to avoid any... complications," Lydia said.
Joyce nodded again and gave her a tight smile. "Thank you for seeing things from our perspective and putting in a good word for Buffy."
Lydia returned the smile. "Simply doing my job," she dismissed as she headed for the door. "I will start requisitioning weapons and other supplies for the training area tomorrow. You may expect them to begin arriving within a couple of weeks."
"That will be fine," Joyce said as Lydia opened the door to let herself out.
Buffy followed her, stopping on the threshold as the other blonde made her way down the front steps. "Thank you, Lydia," the Slayer called after her, making the woman stop and turn around.
The Slayer gave her a sly smile. "Have a good night, Lydia," she added pointedly.
The Council woman tilted her head in acknowledgement. "You as well, Miss Summers."
"Buffy..." Buffy corrected.
Lydia nodded. "Buffy," she repeated before heading down the front walk.
Buffy stepped back inside and closed the door before letting out an ear-splitting squeal of uncontained delight, her arms up over her head in victory. "I'm rich!"
"I suppose this means you can start paying rent, and half the utilities, and buying the groceries, and dog food, and..." Joyce started teasing.
"I take it back! Not rich! No richness here! Total lack of richness!" Buffy laughed, unable to contain her excitement.
Joyce and Spike both laughed along with her.
-X-
Of course, Buffy didn't keep it just between them. The next day at school, Willow, Oz, and Xander heard about it so often that, anytime Buffy joined them after being parted for a while, they began telling the story to her, verbatim. They were, inevitably, sworn to secrecy, which they all vowed to several times before the day was over.
Buffy was walking on air. She was an actual adult with a paying job with grown-up benefits like health, dental, and vision insurance, and a clothing allowance. Lydia had left brochures for all the insurance policies, but Buffy had been too excited to even look at them. That night, she'd dug up all the cash she could find, including the change in her piggy bank. She even raided the couch cushions so she could open a checking account down at Sunnydale Savings and Loan. It came up to $64.23. She needed $100 to open an account.
"What's the matter, luv?" Spike asked when he came upstairs and saw her sitting in the middle of her bed, surrounded by piles of coins and crumpled paper money, looking dejected.
She looked up at him, all the joy from earlier having drained away, appearing on the verge of tears. "I don't have enough to open an account, and without an account they can't deposit my money, and without my money, I can't have an account, and without an account..."
Spike was next to her in a moment, bending down to touch a kiss to her lips. He found it was the best way to stop one of her rambles. "Start from the beginning, pet, what's the trouble?"
Buffy waved at the money on her bed. "I'm short by $35.77 ... the minimum is $100 to open a checking account," she explained. "I have to give the account number to Lydia tomorrow to get the paperwork done for the direct deposit."
"That's a doddle," Spike assured her, pulling out the wad of cash from his pocket. He dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the bed. "That enough?"
The Slayer's bottom lip extended in a glum moue. "I wanted to do it myself," she pouted, looking back down at the cash-strewn bed. "All adulty and stuff."
Spike's brow furrowed a moment, then he offered, "Adults borrow money all the time, pet. Just consider it a loan, yeah? Tide ya over 'til you get your first check."
Buffy's expression brightened as she looked up at him. "Really?"
He shrugged. "Yeah, no worries. Warning ya, the interest is a bit steep."
She suddenly frowned again. "Oh." She began raking all the bills and coins on the bed into a pile before picking it all up with both hands. She held it out to him like an offering. "How much if I only owe you $35.77?"
Spike's eyes rolled up and to the side as if calculating, after a moment he looked back down at her. "Reckon for two weeks, be 'bout a million snogs."
Buffy grinned, her heart soaring. "Deal!" she agreed, thrusting the pile at him.
The vampire looked at what had to be several pounds of coins and crumpled bills, but didn't reach for it. "Uh..."
She was insistent though, and Spike had to take it to keep her from jabbing him in the stomach with it. "Right," he muttered as she dropped the whole mess into his hands, making sure every penny was there.
"You're the best boyfriend, ever!" Buffy gushed, taking the crisp, hundred-dollar bill and putting it on her nightstand to take with her in the morning.
"'Course I am," he smirked. He would've liked to have started collecting on those kisses right then, maybe even added in a cheeky fondle to the deal, but his hands were full of what was apparently her life savings. "I'll just..." He motioned with his full hands towards his door and headed toward his room. "Back in a mo'."
Buffy beamed, watching him go, her heart once again light as a helium-filled feather.
-X-
Spike had the Glenfiddich bottle on the table in front of him, his feet propped up next to it, a tumbler full of the amber liquid in his hand. A small tape recorder wasn't far from his booted feet, and he considered crushing it, not sure that he wanted such an undeniable record of these interviews, but decided to leave it. For now.
Lydia flipped through her notes, her own glass of whisky untouched. "I thought, perhaps, we could begin with some suppositions and conclusions I had come to during my original research, and have you confirm or negate them," she explained.
"Fine by me," Spike agreed, taking a swallow of his drink. It was ten a.m., which for a vampire was early evening, but might explain why Lydia hadn't touched the drink he'd poured for her. He'd waited a bit after Buffy and Joyce had left for school and work, just in case one of them came back for some forgotten bauble. When they hadn't shown by nine, he made the dash for the sewers, a quilt and his duster tugged up over his head. It was a pain in his arse—a sewer entrance in the basement would've made it a piece o' piss—but it wasn't anything he hadn't done a hundred million times before over the last century. He'd taken a couple of wrong turns getting out to the Edna May House, but once there, he had no trouble getting in through the open door and up the stairs to Lydia's room. The first of their sessions was underway. He'd scarper by two, leaving plenty of time to get home before Buffy. It would take sodding forever to get to sixty hours four hours at a time, but he didn't have any better option at the moment.
Lydia double-checked that the recorder was working, and began, referring to her notes rather than relying on her memory. "My research suggests that you were sired in London in 1880, is that correct?"
"Sounds right."
"There has been considerable debate on who sired you, Angelus or Drusilla. My conclusion was that Drusilla was your sire, is that correct?"
"Two for two."
"The moniker of 'Spike' originated from your predilection to torture and kill victims with railway spikes. Is that accurate?"
"Partly," Spike agreed with a devilish smirk. "Lost your chance t' find out the other reason for the name," he taunted, widening his eyes and letting one hand slide down to his zipper.
Lydia's eyes followed the track of his hand for a moment before training her gaze back on her notes as she tugged self-consciously at the collar of her blouse. "I see..." she mumbled, writing something down in the margins of the papers she was referring to.
Spike grinned to himself and took another drink, trying to sip rather than guzzle. That bottle needed to last the whole four hours. "'Course, the torture bit's overblown. Never was too keen on that, was more Angelus' thing. I was happy with the killing—left the torture to him."
"I actually came to that conclusion myself," Lydia admitted, flipping through the printout of her thesis. "After having the reports of the deaths which were attributed to you examined by modern doctors, and presenting them with whatever autopsy or witness reports that I could obtain, it was generally agreed that even the spike through the skull was not particularly about pain, but simply about death. Here is the relevant section," she continued and began reading aloud. "'As preposterous as it seems, evidence suggests that William the Bloody does not enjoy, and even avoids, torturing his victims. It has always been an accepted fact that vampires take pleasure in inflicting pain and terror; it is their nature. What is surprising is that there is any evidence at all to provoke questioning or debating this subject. That alone is startling and unique. On the data I have been able to gather, however, William the Bloody appears to differ from the vampiric norm in this respect.'"
She stopped and looked up at him. "Are you saying this supposition was correct? That you do not, as a rule, torture your victims."
"As a rule, no... though I've been known to make the odd exception."
"I see. The Council dogma states that vampires, by their nature—"
"Bollocks," Spike cut her off. "Can't make sweeping statements like that. Be like saying all humans like a bit o' buggering in the bedroom. Some do... some don't. Can't make generalizations like that. Every vampire's different, just like every human is different."
"What is it that makes them different?" Lydia asked, checking the recorder to make sure it was still running.
"Dunno, do I? Who their sire is? If their sire even sticks around, or if they're left to their own devices, like so much flotsam and jetsam, with no understanding of what they are or any hand to guide them. Are they part of a larger family, a clan? What state o' mind they were in when they were turned? Who they were as a human? What experiences and scruples they had, or didn't have?" Spike shrugged. "What makes some humans able t' play piano and others not? What make some people serial killers and others nuns? Probably same thing that makes all vampires different."
"Fascinating," Lydia muttered, continuing to take notes despite the recording device. "Clearly, your sire remained and offered guidance... and you were part of a larger clan. Do you feel that influenced your behavior?"
Spike snorted. "Of course it did. Reckon we wouldn't be sitting here now if I'd just been left to my own devices. Like all the abandoned corpses 'round here, would've likely met with a stake sooner rather than later."
"So, Drusilla... taught you... what?"
Spike paused, his eyes growing distant, considering. Drusilla had fed him his first victim—a young scullery maid—after he'd clawed his way from beneath the ground. Then she'd shagged him right there on the blood-stained ground and let him bite her, feed from her—taught him how to take, sometimes violently, sometimes gently. They fucked and drank until all his hungers were slaked, then she'd shown him the night as he'd never seen it before—vibrant and full of life... life that was theirs to take if they chose. They owned the streets. They were the predators, the top of the food chain, the king and queen of the darkness. She showed him his power and his strength, she freed his long-repressed passion. Drusilla played on, and fed into, his inherent nature to take care of others, and filled his empty heart with a sense of purpose and brilliant love.
And then she cut his glowing heart out and handed it to Angelus to torture.
It wasn't until much later that he realized that he alone amongst his family had a heart capable of true love, and that trait was viewed as a weakness, not a strength.
"Was mostly Angelus providin' the lessons," he answered after a few long moments, refocusing on Lydia. "If it'd been just me and Dru, likely wouldn't have any theses written 'bout me. Was a bit... reckless t' start, and Dru, well... she cheered me on. Was Angelus that was the... disciplinarian."
"In what way?"
Spike gave her a mirthless smile. "Not sure his lesson plans are fit for polite company, pet."
"I see..." she muttered, clearly torn between pressing him for more information and dreading hearing the details. "Angelus is quite notorious himself, of course. You're saying he... what? Taught you restraint?"
Spike wrinkled his nose at that, but finally shrugged. "Reckon so. Taught me how to control my... urges. Mostly my urge t' sodding kill him. If ya get beat down and buggered enough, ya finally give up... give in. What's that thing where people start sympathizing with their kidnappers?"
"Stockholm Syndrome?"
"Yeah... like that. Start wanting to please the bastards... earn their respect or what all. 'Course, the bonus o' not getting your arse handed to you at every sodding turn is a decent incentive as well."
"Simply fascinating," Lydia repeated, taking more notes. "We are taught that vampires are... well, little more than blood-thirsty killers, possessing no restraint at all."
"Need t' watch drinking the Council's Kool-Aid, pet. Got lotsa bullshit floating about in it."
Lydia looked up at him. "Well, that is my aim here... to rectify inaccuracies and dispel useless myths so that Slayers have all the pertinent, and correct information."
"Not telling you your business, but might want to be careful with all that dispelling. Not sure that's the Council's goal."
"What do you mean? Why wouldn't they want to have all the facts? It can only make a Slayer more effective."
Spike shook his head. "Only facts the Council wants the Slayer to know are: vampires—bad. Kill. Demons—bad. Kill. If I'm honest, that mindset is what keeps most Slayers from getting killed in the first five minutes. They can't be blundering about trying to figure out if a vampire is a bloody vegan who drinks pig's blood and spends all his time playing video games instead'a terrorizing the populace. Sure way to end up dead, that."
"I'm fairly certain that vegans do not drink pig's blood," she pointed out.
He rolled his eyes. "Vampire vegans do."
"So, you're saying... what are you saying?"
The vegan vampire shook his head and ran a hand back through his hair. "Just saying, be careful, pet. Not sure this is what the muckety-mucks at Wanker Central want t' hear."
Lydia shook her head slightly, as if trying to clear it. "Perhaps we should return to the agenda... I do have more items to cover," she suggested, scanning back over her notes.
"Fine by me."
Finding her place, she resumed her pre-planned questions. "There were reports of a vampire of your description traveling with the other three Aurelians speaking in a received pronunciation accent, quite different than the one you affect now." Lydia stopped and looked across the table at Spike. "I believe you are not, in fact, cockney at all, but rather from an upper, or at least middle-class family, and likely attended university. Oxford perhaps or—"
"Pffft!" Spike cut her off, dropping his feet off the table and leaning forward. "That's utter bollocks."
"Is it? Please remember that you must answer honestly, or the entire deal is void. Miss Summers seemed quite pleased with her boon. You wouldn't want to have that annulled for your breach of contract, now, would you? That would effectively leave the Slayer with nothing."
Spike scowled at her, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed as if he was contemplating making an exception to his customary lack of torture rule.
Lydia steeled herself against the nonverbal assault and continued, "I noticed that you had no difficulty comprehending the contracts we've entered into, despite the legalese. Additionally, I've been informed that you speak Latin. Both of these observations would dovetail into my supposition of a university education. The Classics, perhaps? Oxford?"
"Cambridge," he admitted angrily, considering and rejecting the option of using one of his 'right of refusals' so early in the game. It wasn't exactly a secret—he'd told Joyce—but it wasn't something he wanted spread about, either. It occurred to him that anything he told her about himself in this interview could be used against him by the Council in the future. He hadn't actually thought about that before; he'd honestly assumed he'd be able to bullshit his way through this like he did most things, but, clearly, he was mistaken.
Her brows went up, apparently pleased and surprised, and she made another note on her papers. "See, that wasn't so bad now, was it?"
Spike barely stopped himself from growling. This bint had apparently done her research on William the Bloody for that sodding thesis. He swallowed the rest of the scotch in his glass and poured himself another. This was gonna be a bloody minefield, and he had no desire to traverse it completely sober.
Lydia continued, undeterred. "I had a few guesses as to your identity pre-vampirism. Perhaps you could confirm your human name for me?"
"Pass," Spike rumbled. "Next question."
Lydia frowned, but didn't give up. "One possibility was William Carnarvon, a Franciscan monk who died in 1877," she offered.
Spike stopped himself from snorting, but it was a near thing. He forced his face into a mask of neutrality and remained silent, taking another swallow of whisky, ignoring her.
"He attended Cambridge, so that lines up, but you've confirmed your year of turning to be 1880, so that seems to rule him out," Lydia continued. "Another possibility is 'Black' Bill Wilkes, a cracksman of no small repute, who died in January of 1880. Wilkes was known for his volatile temper and willingness to settle disputes with his fists, which seems to fit in well with your reputation for violence. He, however, most assuredly did not attend any university, let alone Cambridge."
Spike continued drinking, refilling his glass, and remaining silent. He wondered if keeping his gob shut would cause any permanent harm to his jaw or vocal cords.
"Another William of note was one William James Pratt," Lydia revealed, glancing at her notes. "He and his mother both vanished in the summer of 1880. The mother's cousin, Franck Edwin Davy, posted a plea in the agony column for some weeks, asking for information on their whereabouts, apparently to no avail. This alone was not enough to add him to my list, however after some further digging, I found an association between William Pratt, Reginald Finley, and Bradford Donovan." She paused and looked across the table at the silent vampire. "Do those names ring any bells with you?"
After forcing himself to be silent and disinterested, it was all Spike could do now to speak. Bugger it all! He didn't want his family name known far and wide, not by evil law firms or possibly more evil Watchers. He wasn't sure what they could do with that bit of information at this point—it wasn't like he had any direct descendants they could threaten—but his gut just told him it would be a bad idea. He took another drink of his Glenfiddich, trying to untwist his gut, before answering. "Should they?"
"Well, you killed them with railway spikes in the summer of 1880 and left their bodies propped up outside their gentleman's club in a quite... risqué pose, their genitals exposed."
"Who says I killed 'em? Railway spikes aren't exactly rare. Maybe whoever killed those blokes did in this Pratt fella too," Spike suggested. "Said he knew them, yeah?"
"Eyewitness accounts of the abduction of Mr. Finley were reported in the Pall Mall Gazette. The description of the abductor bore a striking resemblance to you—slight build, average height, middle-length, sandy-blond hair, striking blue eyes, and a long, angular face with pronounced cheekbones."
"Could be a hundred blokes. And posing bodies? That's an Angelus thing, not me."
"I would find it an unlikely coincidence for it to be anyone but you from that description. And the posing of the bodies... perhaps Angelus was tutoring you, or you were seeking his approval... as you noted earlier you had been impelled to do."
Spike rolled his eyes. He had a bloody big mouth—stepped right into that one. "Is there a point t' this? Already passed on this question. Move the hell on."
"Are you saying that you don't know these men? Reginald Finley and Bradford Donovan?"
"I'm saying, move the fuck on."
"So, you do know them?"
Spike glared at her. "You remember the name o' every cow you've ever eaten?"
"There were no bite marks on their necks; they were not drained, simply killed. They were not a meal. It seemed... personal."
"Move. The. Fuck. On."
"You know, it will be quite simple for me to check the rosters at Cambridge for a William Pratt and—"
Spike shot to his feet. "Now who's breaching the bleedin' agreement?" he demanded, waving his empty glass at her. "Supposed t' have three questions I can sodding veto. Would you let it go? You're like a dog with a bone!"
"I simply want to be as thorough as possible. The more information I can include in my report, the more my chances for advancement, and the more valuable the promised favors for the Slayer will be. I don't understand why this is an issue."
"It's an issue cos it's my fucking bone. You can get your bloody promotion without it. Now, just drop it! The subject is closed." Spike glanced at the bedside clock and cursed. He was going to be late getting back to the house if he didn't hurry. "Pick this up t'morrow," he promised, banging his empty glass down on the table and heading for the door. "Find a new sodding topic," he advised just before the door slammed closed behind him.
-X-
Buffy was practically skipping when she came out of the bank that afternoon after school. She had a checking account! She had a book of temporary checks—plain except for her account number. Real checks were on order and would be there in a couple of weeks. She was excited for them, all decked out with pretty daisies and tulips and sunflowers, as well as her name and address. It had taken her almost as long to decide on the design of the checks as it had to open the account.
She was so adulting! She wanted to write a check that minute! But she couldn't, because the minimum balance was $100 and that's all she had in there. She'd have to wait for her first deposit from the Council. By then, she'd have her pretty checks, too. It would be perfect.
When she got home, excited to show Spike her achievement for the day, she found Spike alone—no vampire sitting on the couch watching Sesame Street. She frowned, walking into the kitchen to check the board, but there was no note there from her boyfriend either. Buffy let the dog out into the backyard to do his business and picked up the phone to call Spike's cell. She didn't hear it ringing upstairs, at least, but it went straight to voicemail. She hung up, not leaving a message.
By the time the dog whined at the door to be let back in, her good mood had started to wane considerably. Why hadn't he left a note? Where could he have gone in the middle of the afternoon? Back to Willy's? Maybe she should just stop in at the demon bar and see... make sure he was okay. She rolled her eyes at herself. Of course Spike was okay. He was Spike! She had just been looking forward to seeing him and sharing her excitement with him, and now he wasn't here for the checkbook show-and-tell.
No sooner had her furry companion finished splashing water all over the floor as he got a drink, than the front door opened and closed. The dog barked in excitement and, water still dripping liberally from his jaws, beat Buffy to the door.
"Oi! Give a bloke a break, why don't you?" Spike objected, stumbling under the happy assault of the eager dog.
"Have a nice walk in the afternoon sun?" Buffy asked sarcastically, coming in to find the vampire giving the dog his rightful scratches and pats. She stopped and leaned against the doorjamb between the dining room and the foyer, her arms crossed over her chest.
"More of a mad dash," Spike corrected, ignoring her tone. He should've been back an hour ago; he'd have to be more careful in the future, not get distracted and lose track of time. "Jus' needed some smokes," he continued, holding up a new pack of Morley's as proof.
The Slayer frowned. Hadn't she seen a nearly full carton in his room just the other day? Or had it been longer than that? Maybe it was last week. She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Those things'll kill you," she chided, pushing off the jamb and walking toward him. "And I don't mean from cancer," she continued when he opened his mouth to object. "I mean from running around in the sun, Mr. Daylight-Allergy-Guy."
Spike snorted and wrapped his arms around her as she came within reach. "Never happen," he assured her, pulling her body against his. "Building up an immunity from being around you, Sunshine."
She huffed, shaking her head against his shoulder, her arms clasping at his lower back as she leaned into him. "Did you take your phone with you?"
"As instructed," he confirmed.
"Might help to turn it on," she griped, looking up at him.
Spike released her with one arm and pulled the phone out of his pocket. "Bugger... battery must'a run down," he observed, dropping it back into his pocket.
"Maybe you're just too old to adapt to new concepts... like charging batteries and leaving notes and not worrying your girlfriend."
"Thought I'd be back before you. Got a bit turned around in the sewers, took me longer to get to the Mini Mart than I thought. Won't happen again, pet. Forgive me?"
Buffy scowled up at him. "I think you said that yesterday," she reminded him.
He sagged, his eyes dropping, unable to hold her gaze. "It won't happen again. I'm sorry, luv. Really thought I'd be right back, ten minutes tops. Just got turned around. Need a bloody map of the sewers, or a guided tour... maybe by someone who knows 'er way around them?" he suggested sheepishly.
Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes. "It'll cost you."
"Yeah? How much, then?"
Her eyes drifted up and to the left as if calculating. "About a million brain-melty kisses."
Spike grinned as her gaze met his again. "Best get on that," he rumbled, lowering his mouth to hers.
-X-
"That one leads to downtown, right along State Street. It goes all the way to the Bronze," Buffy explained later during her guided tour of the glamorous Sunnydale sewer system. She gave her dog a pat on the head as he returned from chasing off a rat which had blundered too close for her comfort. Thankfully, he didn't catch the thing, so he didn't bring it back and present it to her like an offering.
They'd gone to Hawley Manor to get Spike-the-dog into the sewers, since there was a direct connection from the basement there—no ladder required. As talented as the Guardian was, he had not mastered climbing up and down rungs on one of those ladders. In the past, she'd had to take him to one of the retention ponds scattered around town to get into the runoff system, and hope they weren't too wet and muddy. They were the only entrances where you could just walk in... or slog in, if there had been rain recently.
Of course, Spike, the vampire, had used the opportunity to point out that if she had a connection to the sewers from her basement, they wouldn't have to use his to get the mutt down into the underbelly of Sunnydale. Buffy had just smiled at him sweetly and pointed out that since he had one that she could use anytime, she didn't need one, and that ended that. For now.
The vampire shook up the can of neon orange spray paint and marked the wall, with 'Bronze' and an arrow in the right direction. "What about that way?" he asked, indicating a bisecting tunnel a few feet along.
"To the right will take you to Union Street. Willy's is about half a mile down. To the left, it hits Crawford Street in about a mile. Pretty sure you remember what's there."
Spike rolled his eyes and moved up to the intersection, adding the markings to the old, brick walls.
"You know," Buffy mused, walking up to him, the dog right on her heels. "Maybe we could paint some bogus signs... something like, 'Free Blood' or 'Virgin Sacrifice Party' and just have all the vampires come to us instead of us traipsing all over town looking for them."
Spike arched a brow, looking back at her as he pressed the cap back on the can. "Hanging about with me too much, Slayer. Getting right devious, you are."
She beamed at him, keeping her flashlight trained on the floor of the cavern-like space. She'd worn her old boots, hoping there would be water and muck so she could make her first 'clothing replacement' claim and get some new ones, but no such luck. The tunnels were dry as the proverbial bone... which Buffy wondered at. She'd seen bones, too many lately, and they were anything but dry. Mostly they were bloody and gooey and nothing you'd want to touch. Was there some kind of creature that had dry bones? Or a demon maybe? She rolled her eyes, shaking it off. Where do they get these sayings, anyway?
"Can tell you from experience that vampires can't resist a virgin blood party," he related as she started walking down the tunnel towards Crawford Street, her Spike-entourage following automatically. "Brilliant way to trap 'em."
"Do I want to know how you know that?" Buffy wondered as Spike caught up to her, taking up a position on her left with his namesake on her right side.
He chuckled, catching her eye. "Pro'ly not."
She laughed. "That's what I thought."
After they'd walked a ways, marking a couple of other bisecting tunnels, Spike asked, "Where are we going, anyway?"
"I thought we'd go see Angel," Buffy related, sweeping her flashlight in front of them, hoping to scare off any other rampaging sewer rats.
Furry Spike growled low under his breath.
Blond Spike arched his scarred brow at her, barely repressing a growl of his own. "Just the thing a bloke wants t' hear—why don't we go visit the ex. Sounds like a slap an' a tickle. Thought you'd had enough o' him the other night at the party."
"I still need to talk to him about the expired blood from the hospital," she reminded her companion. "I assume you still want half of it?"
"Could just take it. Not like he has a sodding legal claim on it," he suggested dourly.
Buffy gave him a doubtful look. "It's only polite."
Spike did growl then. "Like he was fucking polite to you the other night?"
She sighed. "I feel kinda bad for not making sure he knew who was poisoning me. He did get pretty beat up trying to solve the mystery," Buffy reminded him.
"And then blamed me for it! As if I'd poison you and the flea bag!" Spike reminded her right back. "Bloody wanker."
"I... I'm a little worried about him hanging around with Faith," she admitted.
"Jealous, are you?" he suggested, though it sounded more like an accusation.
Buffy stopped and turned to face him. She shone her light on the ground between them, it reflected up, making eerie shadows on their faces. "You can't possibly be serious."
Spike shrugged a shoulder, looking down the tunnel towards Crawford Street. "Were with him a good while... only logical."
"There is no logical here, that is anti-logical in the extreme. I'm not in love with Angel, I... God, I don't think I even like Angel. I know I don't like things he's done and... and I still don't know for sure if he just used me to—" Her voice broke, cutting her words off.
"Oh, kitten," Spike sighed, pulling her into a hug. The flashlight bobbed around as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. Behind her, the dog whined softly and leaned against the back of her legs, making both blondes take a small step to keep their balance. "I'm sorry. Seems like all I do is worry ya or hurt ya... didn't mean to. Just... concerns me, is all. You have no idea what it's like to have that tosser take everything from you."
"I kinda do," she murmured, blinking back moisture from her eyes.
Spike's shoulders sagged and kissed the top of her head. "I suppose you do. Just... God, Buffy, I couldn't stand it if I lost you. Just found ya, pet. It'd shatter me."
"You aren't going to lose me, not to Angel, not to anyone," Buffy assured him, looking up into his blue eyes, which seemed to shimmer, like liquid under glass, in the odd light. "I—I just think I should check on him and let him know we're taking half the blood. I don't know what's up with him and Faith, but that buddy system could lead to major badness."
Spike sighed heavily, clearly not convinced a visit was in order.
"There's something else too. I never got to finish my documentation of Angel's travels after the 1930s. With this new information, you know, about him being able to read that book..." Buffy seemed to slump visibly before continuing. "I want to try and smooth things over with him so I can know for sure about the curse."
"How is that gonna prove it one way or the other?" Spike wondered.
Buffy chewed her lip and looked away, down the tunnel in the direction of Angel's mansion. "I don't know," she admitted. "But I feel like I want to finish this and see..." Her shoulders sagged more, looking back at Spike. "You're right, it won't prove anything. It wouldn't really prove anything unless it happens again, I guess. But I sooo don't want an Angelus encore—ever. Which brings me back to the worry-wagon about him and Faith palling around. I just feel like if I could finish this timeline, maybe something definitive would show up and I could... I don't know, show it to Faith and talk some kind of sense into her before she does something majorly nonsensical."
"You don't want it to be true... that he knew all along, that he planned it," Spike said gently.
The Slayer huffed and rolled her eyes. "No," she agreed. "What happened is bad enough without it being somehow... orchestrated like a Romeo and Juliet opera."
Spike pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay," he agreed. "We can pay a house call. Reckon I can play nice."
She gave him a watery, grateful smile as they both stepped back from the embrace. "Thank you."
"No guarantees on the mutt's manners, mind," Spike pointed out as they began walking toward Crawford Street, his namesake falling in step beside Buffy. "Might be golden showers in Angel's future."
Buffy snorted out a laugh and reached down to ruffle her dog's floppy ears. "Well, that's a chance I'm willing to take."
-X-
Buffy raised her hand to knock on the glass doors at Angel's mansion, but Spike just brushed past her, swinging the door open, and striding in, the dog right on his heels.
"Yo, gramps!" the vampire called out. "Put your knickers on, got company! Don't want to scar my delicate eyeballs with your wee dangly bits."
Buffy rolled her eyes and followed. "That's not exactly how I was gonna start this conversation," she hissed.
The cheeky vampire looked back over his shoulder at her and smirked. "Figured as much," he admitted as he made his way to the kitchen while the dog began sniffing around the floor, searching for shoes to pee in, no doubt.
"Where are you going?" Buffy whispered.
"See what the wanker's got in the fridge to offer his guests," he explained, sauntering away.
The Slayer rolled her eyes and looked around the room. There were several empty liquor bottles scattered around on tables, the floor, and the mantle. Buffy had never known Angel to drink, though Spike had said Liam, as a human, had been known to imbibe heavily, and he'd certainly had a drink at the Bronze. Faith's influence, no doubt.
"Angel?" she called, starting for the hallway that led to his bedroom "Are you here?"
"Want a ginger ale, pet?" Spike called from the kitchen.
Buffy shook her head in exasperation. "A big 'no' to the refreshments," she answered, approaching the hallway on the other side of the room. She jerked back in surprise as Angel appeared in the door looking disheveled and sleepy... or hungover? He was shirtless, and barefoot, but did have on sweatpants.
The brunette swayed a bit in place as he blinked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. "Buffy," he muttered, pushing past her into the great room. "Come to gloat some more?" he asked as he started picking up bottles and checking to see if there was anything left in them.
"Gloat? There was no gloating," Buffy insisted, turning to watch him as he meandered from bottle to bottle, not finding any with any booze remaining.
"Sure there was," Spike disagreed with a smirk, coming in from the kitchen empty-handed. "And you've got a piss poor selection o' refreshments. Ginger ale and stale Triscuits. Sodding pathetic, if ya ask me."
Angel turned angry eyes on his grand-childe. "Pretty sure no one asked you."
"Angel, I'd really appreciate it if we could all just get along. I'm with Spike now but that doesn't mean we can't work together, be... um, friends."
The brunette rolled his eyes, his balance wavering with the gesture. He steadied himself on the arm of the couch before settling his gaze back on Spike, who had come up closer behind Buffy.
"I got the message the other night. You're with Wee-Willie-Winkie. So, what are you doing here? Thought you'd come over and rub my nose in it some more?" Angel accused.
"There is no nose rubbing!" Buffy protested in exasperation.
"Sure there is," Spike disagreed, tucking his thumbs over his belt buckle and rolling up onto his toes, his trademark smirk still in place.
Buffy shot him a disapproving look over her shoulder before turning back to Angel. "Look, I really do appreciate what you tried to do and I'm sorry you got hurt."
"So you brought your new boyfriend over with you to tell me that?" Angel snarked as he turned and started looking around for more bottles that might not be empty. He finally found a bottle of Four Roses Kentucky Bourbon that was still half full. He opened it and took a long swig from the bottle before turning back to the two blondes. "Was that it? I've got things to do."
"Like get drunker?" Buffy accused.
"For one," he agreed, taking another swallow of the amber liquid.
"Angel..." Buffy entreated, moving up to him, reaching for the bottle.
The dark vampire turned and lifted it out of her reach. "What do you care!?" he demanded. "You've made it perfectly clear that you don't!"
"That's not true, I do care about you. I'll always care about you—"
"But you don't love me anymore."
Buffy took a deep breath. "No, I don't. I don't really even know you. I've figured out that love, lasting love, needs more than... than what we had."
"What do you want to know? I'll tell you anything!" Angel insisted.
"What's your last name?"
Angel glared at her, his jaw clenched tight.
"How long have you known how to read that old Romani language that Giles can't even read?" she tried.
"Not sure. A while."
"Wow. Specific much? This is exactly what I'm talking about. You're... you're all mystery and vagueness. It's like trying to love a... a ghost with amnesia."
"You don't know him either!" Angel insisted, shooting a hand out and jabbing a finger at Spike, who was still standing behind Buffy making faces at Angel over her shoulder.
"Well, at least I know his last name," she defended. "I know when I ask him a question, he'll give me a fucking answer! I may not like it, but he'll tell me, which is a lot more than I can say for you."
"You have no idea the things he's done, Buffy. What he's capable of."
"I have some ideas. I have some ideas of the things you're capable of, too."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Buffy pursed her lips and shook her head. "Nothing. Forget it. This... I didn't mean for this to turn into another debate on my competency in choosing boyfriends. I just wanted to check on you, make sure you're all right, and apologize again for getting you hurt. I really am concerned about you, Angel. I do want for us to stay friendly."
"Right, which is why your fucking dog just peed on my shoes and you brought your soulless, mass-murdering, unrepentant boyfriend to my house," Angel shot back. "Just get out!"
The Slayer sighed. This hadn't gone anything like she'd hoped. In retrospect, she should've known that bringing either of her two Spikes with her to talk to Angel was a mistake, though the mood Angel was in, she wasn't sure coming alone would've gone much better.
She capitulated with a nod and headed for the door, calling, "C'mon, Spike," as she went. Though which one she was talking to wasn't clear, they both followed, both seeming pleased with themselves. At the door, the two Spikes kept going out into the garden, but she stopped and turned back to Angel, almost forgetting the main part of her mission here. "I'll be handling the blood bank deliveries from now on," she informed him. "I'll bring you half and keep half for Spike."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot—you think he's gonna keep up the goody-two-shoes routine after he gets his prick inside you. You forget, lover, that I've been inside your cunt, and you just aren't all that good. Don't come crying to me when he dumps you for someone who can actually satisfy a man. Of course, you'll probably be dead by then—as soon as he figures it out, all this truce shit will evaporate faster than your spit on his dick."
Buffy stiffened, her heart twisted and the small bit of confidence she'd gained in the last few days plummeted like a rock into a dark abyss. All of Angelus' words on that horrible night flooded back into her. 'Like I'd really want to stay after that.'
From outside the open door, Spike growled—both of them. She could hear her vampire's footsteps approaching the door, fast and angry. He no doubt had mayhem in mind. She blocked her boyfriend's advance by stepping in front of him, and halted the dog with a quick snap of her fingers.
"You sodding bastard! I'll rip your fucking head off—" Spike threatened as he tried to push past her.
"Enough!" Buffy demanded, turning and shoving him hard, back out into the walled garden.
As her dark knight stumbled back and crashed against the fountain, Buffy turned around and faced her tormentor. She fought hard to keep her voice even, and the tears from her eyes as she said calmly, "Goodnight, Angel."
Then she was out the door, had Spike by the arm, and was dragging him up the stairs; the furry Spike following along obediently.
"Why didn't you let me at him? Why didn't you slap his fucking face? Or use that engraved stake the boy gave ya?"
Buffy shook her head, desperately blinking back her tears, trying to keep her heart from shattering all over again. Now Spike knew how terrible she was for sure!
"It's not worth it," she contended.
"Like hell, it's not! He's a sodding pathetic excuse for a—"
"Spike, please, just let it go," she begged as she released his arm and marched resolutely down the street, her voice full of pain, despite her best efforts to hide it. Buffy blinked back the new flood of tears that had welled in her eyes, but they would've been obvious even to a casual observer. And her boyfriend was anything but a casual observer.
Spike pulled her around to face him, stopping her fleeing feet. His eyes went from furious to concerned in a blink, his head canted to one side, studying her. "You all right, luv?" he asked gently.
"I'm fine. Can we just go?"
"Rather ram a stake into that wanker's heart. Why d' ya keep stopping me?" he asked, pulling her into a tender hug, letting her hide her emotions against his chest.
"I don't know," she answered. It was the truth, mostly. The true-truth was so complicated it defied unraveling.
"You don't believe him, do you? Buffy... pet, tell me you don't—" he began, pressing her away so he could look into her eyes.
Buffy shook her head, swiping at her damp cheeks. "No. I... I know you wouldn't..." But she didn't know, did she? Not that she thought he would just turn on her like Angel kept saying, but that he'd regret saying the pretty words, making the promises, once they— What if she really wasn't good? "I just... it's Angel. He's done good... he's helped me..." she stammered.
Spike snorted. "Sounds like Angel's helped himself, which is what he's bloody good at."
Buffy sighed, her wounded heart twisting with uncertainty. "It's complicated."
"That's not an answer."
"I know, but it is... complicated, I mean." She looked up at him with shimmering eyes, her deflection shield now in place. "I loved him, Spike. He was my first everything. Can you understand that? What if... what if I wanted to dust Dru for hurting you? How would you feel?"
Spike pursed his lips and looked away, off down the street. "Conflicted," he admitted. "It's complicated."
She snorted a soft laugh and wiped her eyes again. "Yeah."
"Angel's bloody jealous, is all. He's spouting bollocks, trying t' make you doubt me, doubt how much I love you."
Buffy pulled her lips between her teeth and nodded, reaching out to touch his face assuringly. "It's not working. I don't doubt you at all." 'I doubt myself.' "I love you."
Spike let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding and pulled her into another hug. "Need t' stay away from the wanker for a while. He'll cool off."
"How long do you think that'll take?" she asked against his strong chest.
"One or two decades, I reckon'll do it."
Buffy laughed despite herself. "Seems reasonable."
They both turned as one and began walking toward home, his arm over her shoulder, hers around his waist. Their furry companion trailed along on Buffy's other side. Her hand reached out and petted his soft ears, silently praising him for minding her when she knew he'd have eagerly joined Spike in the dusting mission. She wasn't sure what would've happened if she'd had to physically stop both of her chivalrous knights.
"Ya know," Spike said after a couple of minutes of silence. "The Waffle House has cheeseburgers."
The dog made an interrogative sound, which Buffy interpreted as, 'They do?'
"And it's not far outta the way... just a coupl'a blocks in the other direction," he continued.
More noises from the dog as he looked between Buffy and Spike. 'It is?'
"You know what else they have?" Buffy asked, happy for the change in mood and topic. She soo didn't want to talk any more about what Angel had said about her lack of proficiency in the bedroom, and it seemed like Spike was up for being ignore-o guy, too. "Waffles."
"Fancy waffles, do you?"
"Waffles are magical. They're like pancakes, but better. First, they've got the crispy goodness going on. Second, waffles hold syrup WAY better than pancakes. The squares trap all the yum, so you get maximum and equal portions of maple-ness in every bite. They are a true gift from the breakfast gods."
Spike chuckled. "Sounds like we're making a bit of a detour. Whaddya say, Cujo?"
The dog began to dance happily around his companions, urging them to hurry it along. 'Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy!'
-X-
Chapter End Notes:
Song Buffy is talking about: Sting: If You Love Somebody, Set them Free
Quotes, suppositions, and ideas from Lydia's thesis are used by permission and based on this multi-authored fic: "Lydia Chalmers' Thesis on William the Bloody". You can find it at on AO3. I may, at times, alter or add some things to the thesis to make it fit better with my story.