Series: Mortal Allies

Story Title: Episode 3, Postcards From the Edge

Chapter 3: CHO-CO-LA-TE

By: Passion4Spike


Author's Notes:

Thanks to everyone who is reading and extra sloppy doggie kisses to everyone who has left a comment or a 'like'/'kudos'. It seriously means a lot to me!

This chapter beta'd by my wonderful friends, Holi117 and Paganbaby. Pre-read by TeamEricNSookie. Wonderful banners by PaganBaby. Thanks so much to all of them not only for catching my mistakes but for their support and encouragement! All mistakes are mine cos I can't stop fiddling.


Mexico.

"Are we nearly there?" Dru asked – again – as they cruised through the touristy parts of Mexico City, looking for a suitable hotel. Spike had a decent wad of pesos he'd pickpocketed off a German tourist the night before, so he could actually pay for a nice room, something that Dru would like, something fit for his princess. And, tomorrow night, he could nick some more, give her all the finest accommodations… or at least less-ratty ones. And this way, they wouldn't be drawing any unwanted attention to themselves by having the former occupants bloating in the corner. Spike had had quite enough unwanted attention for a while. Between the mobs in Prague, running across not just a Slayer he couldn't best but Angelus in Sunnydale, then the Chaos Demon and a gypsy who'd kidnapped Drusilla in Rio, and finally a giant sodding bear who tried to rip his literal guts out – he was more than ready for a nice, quiet trip, sailing happily under the radar.

"No, Dru, we aren't nearly to bloody Brazil," Spike sighed in exasperation. "Thought we decided to bounce about Mexico for a bit, eh? Remember the brochures? Said you wanted t' see the sights."

Dru pouted, folding her arms over her chest. "You decided," she grumbled petulantly.

Spike blew out a breath and ran a hand back through his hair in exasperation. "You bloody well said—" He stopped, clenching his jaw, his head twisting tightly on his neck as he reined in his temper before beginning again more calmly, "Said you wanted to dance on the beach in Cancun and Puerto Vallarta – wanted t' connect the sodding oceans or some rot," he reminded her, picking up the stack of brochures and maps that filled the seat between them and waving them at her. "Said the bloody pixies wanted to run with the jaguar spirits of Chichén Itzá."

"Oh, yeah," she conceded finally, still pouting.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Got plenty o' time to get to Brazil. Got no schedule to keep, nowhere to be, and all the time in the world to get there."

"But I want to go to Brazil. You left Miss Edith there all alone," she continued.

Spike blew out another breath and pulled into what looked like a likely hotel. "Was in a bit of a hurry, wasn't I? Didn't have time to pack the whole kit n' kaboodle. Had to save you from the bloody gypsy git."

"He was nice… a proper gentleman," Dru contended haughtily.

"He drugged you, starved you half to death, and threatened to dust you!" Spike retorted.

"Yeah…" she agreed, a dreamy smile curving her lips. "Charming, he was."

"Charming my aching arsehole," Spike snarled beneath his breath.

"When shall we be in Brazil?" Dru asked again. "Miss Edith needs her mummy. She's quite frightened all alone."

"She's not alone – got all the other dollies with her," Spike argued. "Probably bossin' them about by now, making 'em lick her boots."

"She doesn't wear boots," Dru pointed out.

Spike rolled his eyes. "Her feet, then."

"Ooo, look at the flowers, my Spike," Dru cooed, her eyes going wide as he parked the car alongside a wide expanse of bright red geraniums. "They've been dipped in blood and sing such pretty songs."

Spike snorted and shook his head, giving her an indulgent smile. That was his darling Drusilla, always seeing and hearing beautiful wonders in the everyday world. It was one of the things he loved most about his dark princess. "Sun'll be up soon, don't wander off," he advised as he got out of the car.

"Oh, I shan't… it's so lovely here," she trilled, her eyes closing as she began to sway to the dulcet choir of the geraniums.

** X-X-X-X-X **

Sunnydale.

Buffy could hear music. And singing. Why was there music and singing? Buffy did a mental check, assuring herself that it was, in fact, the right day and that she was in the right place. She looked down at Spike, whose head was tilted at an odd angle, fluffy ears raised, listening. Okay, so it wasn't just her.

She pulled a stake out from her waistband and started down the steps that led to Angel's walled garden on silent feet, her dog just behind her. Something was definitely with the wrongness. She'd never heard Angel play music before, like… ever. Never known him to listen to a radio even. And was he singing? Or was that someone strangling a seal?

Buffy slipped up beside the open doorway without making a sound. The doors had been destroyed in the fight with Gwendolyn Post, as had a lot of things in what Buffy thought of as Angel's living room. The doors were gone, the glass cleared away, and, as she peeked inside, she noted that the rest of the room had been put to rights, as well.

Angel looked fine – perfectly normal – as he moved around the area lighting candles… and, yes, singing! Or, well, trying to sing, she supposed. It was some kind of opera music, and Angel was absolutely not hitting those notes. Not the low ones, not the high ones, not the in-between ones. She thought of the singalongs in the car with Spike and what a rich, velvety singing voice he had. It was something you'd want to roll around in naked. Angel's voice made her want to move to Siberia. Clearly, the ability to sing didn't get passed down in vampire bloodlines.

She shook all that off and took in the rest of the room. There must've been a heck of a sale at The Pottery Barn, the room was filled with candles! White pillars and tapers of varying heights covered every flat surface, including much of the floor, the table, and the mantle. There was also a fire going in the fireplace, which was weird since it had been one of the hottest Decembers in years.

The problem with Angel looking 'fine' moving around lighting three stores worth of candles while listening to what Buffy now decided was definitely an opera, was they were supposed to do the first 'interview with a vampire' tonight. This looked like… well, it looked like he was waiting for a date. Had he forgotten that she was coming and made plans with someone else? Was he dating someone?! Already?!

A bright spark of green flame burst into life in her belly, making her hands curl into fists and her throat close up with a flash of rage. After all he'd put her through, after all she'd done for him, after nursing him back to health and keeping him a secret from her friends and Giles?! He just moves on? Poof!

Buffy clenched her jaw and forced herself to calm down, uncurling her fists. 'Who cares if Angel has a date? Not me. This is me with the total lack of caring. It's not like we can be together… There lies badness and soul-losses. But… move on quick, much? And is dating anyone a good idea with his condition?'

God… Was everyone dating but her? Oz and Willow, Xander and Cordy, Angel and whatever opera-loving candle-freak he was expecting. Great. That was just great. And what had she been doing? Waiting for stupid postcards from a stupid vampire who was, of course, also paired up with the love of his stupid life.

The coppery shadow next to her leaned against her leg and nuzzled the hand where she held the stake, reminding her of his presence. She sighed. Of course, she didn't really have anything to complain about. She was living with a younger man – a very hairy younger man who had a propensity to drool and eat off the floor.

She sighed and tucked her stake away, turning to leave as silently as she had come. She was drawn up short by Angel's voice calling, "Buffy?" as he appeared in the open doorway.

She turned around, giving him an apologetic smile. Why was she giving him an apologetic smile? They'd had an appointment – she was there, right day, right time – he was the one breaking it! Why was she always the one apologizing? Buffy shook that thought off with a literal shake of her head.

"I, uh… I guess you've got plans," she stuttered, waving a hand at the fire-hazard inside. "We can do the interview another night."

"What? No!" Angel corrected her, coming out into the moonlight. "I mean… my plans… they're with you."

Buffy's brows went up, her gaze flicking to the glowing room behind him which reminded her of the death scene in the 'Romeo + Juliet' movie with Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes. So not a comfort.

"Um," she began, not sure what to say next, the last of her jealousy fizzling out. She swallowed and looked back at Angel, meeting his eyes. "This… this isn't a date," she reminded him. "We aren't, you know, dating."

"Yeah, I know," he agreed, slipping to the side and inviting her in with a wave of his hand. "You made that pretty clear when you ran off with Spike—"

"I didn't run off with Spike!" Buffy exclaimed in exasperation, not accepting the invitation to enter. "It was a mission."

"And defending him when he was being an ass, when he was defying me, was that part of the mission? Was putting him – my grand-childe – under your protection part of the mission? Was breaking my knee part of the mission?" he demanded, his jealousy flaring as well.

The big dog stepped forward, ready to put himself between the brown rabbit and his hooman, a low warning growl beginning to rumble in his chest. Buffy stepped in front of him, stopping his advance, but the snarl continued, dark lips pulled back from brilliantly white teeth, as the Slayer and vampire kept arguing.

"I didn't break your knee," she huffed, crossing her arms. "Just popped a few tendons. Look, never mind, this was a bad idea," Buffy declared, turning to go.

"No, wait. I'm sorry. I just… thinking of you with Spike, it makes my skin crawl and… and I was just worried about you."

"I'm not with Spike," Buffy insisted. "In any sense of the word. There was no 'with-ing' of any sort, form, or fashion."

"I know… I'm sorry," the vampire apologized again. "Look, can we just try this again? Come in… sit down, have a snack."

"This really isn't a social call," Buffy reminded him. "You said you'd answer my questions."

"I know, I just thought we could visit a little first. You know, talk?" he suggested, waving her in again.

"Talk," Buffy repeated as she and Spike stepped past him into the room. The dog's eyes narrowed, giving the vampire a nasty look as he passed, but Angel didn't seem to notice. It was easily ten degrees warmer in here with the fire and the candles, and Spike immediately began to pant from the heat. "Okay, talking is good. Such as talking about yo— about Angelus."

"Sure, yeah, of course," Angel agreed, coming in behind her. He placed a hand on the small of Buffy's back and began to guide her gently toward the couch. "We'll do that. I just thought you could use a break. Just a little while off from everything. I got sodas and some snacks… See?" he urged, picking up a box of crackers.

"Ginger Ale and Triscuits," she observed, noting the lack of anything to go on the crackers, like, say, cheese. She wanted to comment on that, and also wanted to ask, 'In all the time we've spent together, when did I ever drink a Ginger Ale? Never. Not once. Ginger Ale is for, like, upset stomachs or something.' But she didn't. Instead, Buffy said, "Great. Thanks. But, um, I really need to get to work on this project for Giles."

"I know! We will," the vampire assured her as he motioned for her to take a seat. "I thought you'd enjoy…"

"A break," Buffy filled in, repeating what he'd said earlier, as she sat down. Spike sat next to her on the floor, carefully avoiding the candles with this tail. "With… opera."

"It's Romeo and Juliet performed by The Metropolitan Opera," Angel revealed.

Buffy's mouth formed an 'O' as she nodded her head, looking around and taking everything in again as the music and voices continued their stirring performance in the background. She looked back at Angel, who had taken a seat on the couch next to her – not right against her, but close enough to reach out and touch if she – or he – wanted. She put her bookbag down between them, as if it were a forcefield that could be deployed in case of a photon torpedo attack.

"We studied that in World Lit," the Slayer revealed. "You do know it's a tragedy, not a romance, right?"

Angel shrugged. "Can't it be both? Like us?"

'Are we?' Buffy wondered. A romantic tragedy? Or is it more like Macbeth, with the manipulation and backstabbing? 'Did he use me to break the curse or did he really love me?' Were the two mutually exclusive? Did it really matter anymore? Unfortunately, yes. It mattered if he could do it again, if he could use another Slayer next year, or next century, to do the same thing. Plus, Buffy just really wanted to know.

"I'm gonna go with a hard 'no' – romance and tragedy are unmixy," Buffy answered after a moment. "I can testify to the utter lack of romance in killing someone you love. Give me Harry and Sally, Jack and Diane, Buttercup and Westley…"

"Who?" Angel interrupted.

Buffy sighed and waved it off. 'Spike would know… well, maybe not Buttercup and Westley.'

"We are not Romeo and Juliet," she insisted. "And I didn't come here to eat Triscuits and listen to opera. If you aren't going to help me, then I'll just go and start researching on my own," she said, standing up.

"No… don't go! I'm sorry, I just thought..." Angel began, reaching for her hand. He shrugged helplessly and gave her his version of sad puppy-dog eyes, which honestly reminded her so much of Angelus that she had to look away.

'Spike so does the sad puppy-dog eye thing way better.'

"Sit down… ask your questions," he invited, still gripping her hand.

Buffy looked around. "For those of us without enhanced night vision – which I want to point out is grossly unfair – can we turn on an actual light?"

Angel nodded and stood up.

"And lose the tragic music?" Buffy continued.

Angel sighed, but nodded again, heading off to do as she asked. The music ended with a scratching across a vinyl record coming from another room, which made Buffy and Spike both cringe. When had Angel gotten a record player? And what other records did he have? Was it wrong that she knew more about Spike's taste in music than Angel's? Buffy rolled her eyes. A month or so ago, the answer would've been a resounding 'Yes!', but now… not so much. Spike had been right – she and Angel had never been friends.

Angel clicked on a couple of lamps as he came back to the couch, leaving all the candles and the fire burning, as well. Poor Spike was suffering, panting and drooling all over the floor at Buffy's feet. She'd have to get one of those collapsible bowls and bring water with her next time. "Do you have a bowl I can use to give Spike some water?"

"A bowl?" Angel asked as if he'd never heard of such a thing.

"Yeah, like… a bowl… or a bucket or a pot?" she clarified.

"Uh, maybe… in the kitchen," he suggested, heading that way.

Buffy rolled her eyes. The disparity between Angel and his grand-childe continued to grow like Kudzu along the railroad tracks. On their road trip, Spike-the-vampire had actually ordered water for his furry namesake anytime they got food, and he'd thought to grab the dog's bowls from the kitchen, even though Buffy had forgotten them. And Angel didn't know what a freaking bowl was? She sighed, of course he knew what a bowl was, he probably just didn't want Spike drinking out of one of priceless bits of Ming China or something.

He came back with an old, stained, slightly cracked plastic bowl that was barely big enough for Spike to get his tongue in. "Thanks," Buffy said, taking it from him and setting it down for the big dog, who immediately began lapping up the water, spilling more than he actually got in his mouth.

"Sure," the vampire replied. To his credit, Angel didn't actually say anything, he only scowled at the growing puddle on the floor as he took his seat again.

"Okay, let's get started," Buffy began as she sat back down, this time a bit further away from Angel, and pulled a new leather-bound journal from her bookbag. Giles had given it to her for just this purpose. She opened the book to a page where she'd written down some questions she wanted to begin with and grabbed a pen from the bag. "I know your first name is Liam, what was your last name?" she asked first, looking up at the brunette.

"What difference does that make?" he wondered, furrowing his brow and sitting forward as if he was about to bolt from the room.

"Well, none, I guess," Buffy admitted. "I was just trying to be, you know, Watcher-level nitpicky and get a good grade. I don't want Giles to make me to do something even more boring than this. Like write a report on Romeo and Juliet."

Angel scowled. "Next question."

Buffy sighed. "What did Liam do before… as a human? Did you have a job or go to school or…?"

"Next question."

Buffy blew out an impatient breath and looked down at her notes. "Okay, so, you're from Galway, Ireland…"

"How do you know that?" he interrupted sharply.

"Uh… books. Contrary to popular belief, I can read, you know," Buffy retorted.

"You researched me?" Angel demanded.

"Well, yeah. It's kinda what we do when a new demon comes to town – we research them. Same concept when your vampire boyfriend loses his soul," she pointed out.

Angel sighed. "Right," he muttered, dropping his gaze to the flickering candles that covered the coffee table.

"So," Buffy continued. "If you're from Ireland, why don't you have an Irish accent?"

"I, uh… is that important?"

"Not really, I just wondered. I mean, Spike and Dru still have theirs…"

"Spike?!" Angel scoffed, rolling his eyes. "That isn't even— You aren't falling for that accent of his, are you?"

"Falling—?" she huffed indignantly. "There is no falling! Why do you keep thinking there's falling?"

"It's what he does," Angel explained. "The whole Cockney bad-boy thing… girls fall for it."

"Like the whole tortured soul, Anne Rice thing?" she shot back, her eyes flashing with impatience.

"I do have a tortured soul!" Angel insisted.

"Yeah? Well, you also have weird privacy rules and control issues," Buffy declared. "I didn't do as you wanted, so you tattled to Giles. Spike didn't bow down and lick your boots, so you tried to dust him! While we were in a truce, by the way! I gave my word! How can I do anything if my word as the Slayer means nothing?"

"I didn't make any truce with him," Angel declared. "He's my family – he's supposed to show me proper respect."

"Yeah, well, I'm the Slayer, that should earn some respect, too," she pointed out.

"Well, excuse me for worrying about you and trying to keep you safe. And you think I have control issues," the vampire grumbled.

"I'm the Slayer. I get to have control issues! It's my Calling," Buffy asserted.

Angel snorted and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head. A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by Spike's panting and the crackling of the fire. Finally, Angel looked back at her and asked in a resigned voice, "Can we please stop talking about Spike?"

"I wasn't talking about Spike," she pointed out, trying to keep her annoyance in check. She enunciated slowly, keeping her voice even, "The question was, 'Why don't you have an Irish accent?' Or is that information protected under the 'Angel Privacy Act of 1997', too?"

Angel's lips compressed into a hard line. For a moment Buffy thought he still wasn't going to answer, but finally he said, "I don't have an accent because of all the time I spent with Darla – she was American. Also because of all the time in the States later. Was just easier and… well, honestly, there were lots of people in 'The Colonies' that didn't have the highest regard for 'ignorant bogtrotters'. It was easier to blend in and move around without it."

Buffy took a deep, calming breath and pushed her annoyance and frustration aside, getting back to her inquiries. This was more than she'd gotten out of him since they'd met. She couldn't let her personal feelings get in the way of the mission.

"Can you still do it? Can I hear it?" she wondered. She wasn't really sure why it mattered or why she wanted to hear it, just that she'd thought about ever since learning where he was from. It was silly, but hearing it would be closure of a sort… maybe?

"No," was the short, curt reply.

"C'mon, Angel… Does it sound like Sean Connery?"

"Sean—" Angel started, then blinked at her. "He's Scottish."

"Oh…" Buffy frowned, thinking. Her eyes widened and she held up a finger in an, 'I've got it!' gesture. "The leprechaun in the cereal commercials!" she announced. Buffy put on her best Lucky accent, and recited, 'Can't blame 'em for wantin' me Lucky Charms! They're magically delicious!'"

Spike lifted one ear and whined. Angel stared at her, unblinking, for several long moments.

"Don't ever do that again," the vampire requested flatly. The dog huffed out a breath in agreement. Perhaps the first thing the two had ever agreed on.

Buffy rolled her eyes and shrugged. "Spoilsport," she muttered, looking down at her notes again. "Okay… so, you were turned in 1753. How long had you known Darla before she sired you?"

"Not long," Angel replied.

"Could you vague that up a little more?" Buffy wondered sarcastically. "A day, a week, a month?"

"Not long," he repeated. "Is that really important?"

"I just… never mind," she muttered. "Okay, let's get to Angelus… sired 1753, where?"

"Ireland."

"And, from what I read, you… I mean, Angelus, killed his whole family?"

"If that's what it says."

Buffy rolled her eyes then leveled her gaze on him. "Did Angelus kill his whole family? Did Darla help?"

"You've got the books."

"What about the village? They say…"

"Whatever they say… go with that," Angel interrupted.

Buffy slammed the journal closed. "This is helpful in a way that's not," she informed him, clicking her pen closed and stuffing it, along with the journal, back into her bookbag.

"Wait, Buffy…" Angel started, reaching for her again, but she pulled her hand away before he could catch it.

"You said you'd help… this isn't helping. The only thing I've actually learned is the term, 'ignorant bogtrotters'. Pretty sure Giles already knows that one," she pointed out, standing up and lifting the strap of the bag over her head so it hung across her body.

Angel stood up, too, moving toward her, but she and Spike were already heading for the door. "Buffy – you have to know this isn't easy for me," he admitted.

She stopped and turned around. "Telling me your last name isn't easy for you? Seriously? You know everything about me, and you can't tell me your last name?"

Angel clenched his jaw, staring at her intently.

"Fine… You won't have to worry about my 'control issues.' I won't be back," she declared, turning and stepping out into the garden.

"I'm sorry, I just—" he started again, but Buffy spun around, cutting him off.

"Angel, the Council wants to document dates, towns, kills… whatever, anything else there is, into one Encyclopedia Britannica report on the legendary Angelus. If I can't get it from you, then I'll just have to try and piece it together myself from the diaries and stuff. I asked those other questions cos I thought they'd be easier to start with than, 'How many people did you kill in your village?' Clearly, I was wrong."

"Okay… just… let me get used to the idea," he requested. "I haven't shared anything with anyone in so long, it just… makes me uncomfortable."

"Fine. Let me know when you get comfortable," she retorted, turning and heading for the stairs, Spike on her heels. "Until then, I won't be around," she said again as she began jogging up the steps to the street level. "We aren't Romeo and Juliet."

Angel sighed, looking back at the romantically lit room, at all the flickering flames and thoughtfully provided refreshments which had done nothing to thaw Buffy's attitude toward him.

"Hey! You didn't eat any of the snacks," he called after her, but she and the dog were already gone.

** X-X-X-X-X **

Mexico.

Spike set the bags on the small writing table in their room as Drusilla began to explore the small space, as was her way. She looked in corners, beneath the bed, in the shower, under the sink, even moved furniture and opened every drawer checking for lurking Boogeymen. Thus far in their century of travel, she'd only ever found sprites and a few stray elves.

As she did that, Spike pulled a postcard from his pocket that he'd picked up in the hotel lobby. He found the pen he'd started keeping in an inner pocket, and began to scribble a note to Buffy.

"My dark knight sends off little morsels of himself like peppermint candies at Christmas," Dru said coolly as she continued her Boogeyman search, sliding the dresser away from the wall to check behind it. "They fly away on the backs o' pigeons, 'round the moon to melt in the bright sunshine 'til there's nothing left."

"They're just postcards, Dru, not sending any sodding candies," Spike asserted, as he continued writing. "Just keeping her off her guard, yeah? Won't know what hit her next time I lay eyes on the bint."

"Her sunbeams reach for you, but I shan't let them snare my knight. Rook takes queen and the kingdom falls," she muttered moving back over to him. She reached for the postcard, but Spike grabbed it up before she could touch it.

"Give it a rest, Dru – they're just postcards, for fuck's sake," he grumbled.

"With bits of darkness spilled in the ink," she lamented, reaching for it again. Spike let her take it, his lips pursed in agitation as she read it.

"Satisfied?" he asked, arching a brow at her. "No darkness, no sunbeams, no sodding candies."

"Would Pinocchio's nose grow if 'is heart lied to his head, but his mouth didn't know?" she wondered.

"Nothing's lying to anything, you dozy bint!" Spike asserted angrily, snatching the card back from her fingers.

"Then rip and rend and crush the candies! Show your princess that her dark knight still stalks the shadows!" she demanded.

"Oh, for fuck's—" he started, clenching his jaw. "Fine!" he agreed, ripping the card in two and then in two again and then into smaller and smaller bits until they were barely more than confetti as Dru giggled and clapped her hands gleefully. He let the pieces fall to the carpeted floor, holding up his empty hands. "Happy now?"

"My dark prince…" she purred, fisting her hands in his t-shirt and jerking him forward. Her mouth crashed into his, brutal and demanding, and he returned the kiss in equal measure. They began to move as one, turning in a slow spiral, shedding clothes, revealing smooth, pale skin. Hands roamed, lips burned, and teeth nipped. As they tumbled onto the bed, all thoughts were surrendered to need, to passion, to lust.

** X-X-X-X-X **

"Not comin' out, luv?" Spike asked that night as he got dressed.

Dru was still in bed, pressing random buttons on the television remote and watching the screen flicker and change and sometimes go black before clicking back on. "I'm all floaty and my feet won't touch the floor," she hummed dreamily. She stopped changing the TV as children began singing and clapping in time, repeating the words of a man leading the song, "Uno, dos, tres, CHO! Uno, dos, tres, CO! Uno, dos, tres, LA! Uno, dos, tres, TE! CHO-CO-LA-TE! CHO-CO-LA-TE!"

Dru sat up in the bed and began to sing and clap along with the children, her face awash in giddy innocence.

Spike's eyes softened as he watched her, a loving smile curing his lips, all anger from that morning gone. "Bring ya something back t' eat, pet," he said as he stepped over the colorful bits of postcard that littered the floor. He closed the door quietly behind himself, her lyrical voice following him down the hall, "CHO-CO-LA-TE!"

** X-X-X-X-X **

Sunnydale.

Buffy needed to let off some steam, so she and Spike headed for Restfield. A fledge or two was always a good way to de-stress. She lifted her shoulders and rolled her head around, trying to loosen up her tight muscles as they made their way through the empty graveyard. Or, as it turned out, not too empty.

"Hello, stress-relief," she caroled as the first fledge appeared several yards ahead. Unfortunately, it either heard or sensed her, and began to run.

"Oh, a chase!" the Slayer declared with glee as she began to follow. "I can deal with that."

The fledge was deceptively fast, and seemed to know his way around the cemetery, ducking behind crypts, leaping over headstones, and crashing through narrow openings in the tall hedges. Buffy and Spike followed, the wind on their faces, their own steps fast and sure.

Spike seemed to know that Buffy needed this, because he never raced ahead of her, just let her set the pace as they trailed after the fleeing vampire. Buffy had started breathing harder, her muscles warming and loosening after the tension of the non-interview with Angel. She even let out a little yip of joy as she vaulted a particularly tall sarcophagus, landing in a forward roll and coming up without missing a step.

The vampire was nearly to the far end of the cemetery, though, and she didn't want to let him get out into the streets. Too many variables there, not to mention willfully-ignorant eyes that could see her. She'd started to tell Spike to go ahead of her and grab him, when a dark shape came out of the shadows, interspersing itself between her and the fleeing fledge.

Spike let out a bellowing bark and surged forward, slamming into the newcomer and driving it into a granite headstone. Buffy heard a cry of pain from the demon, but knew Spike had it under control. She continued on, putting on a burst of speed and catching the fledge just at the cemetery wall. She drove into him with a shoulder, slamming him face-first into the stonework. Buffy had planned on taking her frustrations out on him, but she heard Spike growling and tussling with the other adversary behind her, so she drew her stake and plunged it into the vamp's back without even time for a pun.

The Slayer turned, straightened her bookbag, and hurried back to her dog, who was standing over the dark-clad interloper growling intently. His powerful, slavering jaws hovered menacingly over the demon's throat… a demon she now recognized. "Angel," she moaned, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. "What. The. Hell?"

"Get this dog off me before I kill it!" he demanded from the ground.

Buffy's brows went up. "Big talk for someone flat on his back with jaws ready and willing to rip his head off," she noted, shaking her head. "Release, Spike," she commanded, though it was said more reluctantly than normal.

Spike backed up, leaving a trail of drool from Angel's neck all the way down his shirt, his trousers, and ended with a lovely gob on his shiny shoes.

"How can you not know it's me?" he demanded, pushing himself up. He groaned, gripping his ribs as he tried to straighten.

Buffy rolled her eyes. This was getting too regular. "How many times do I have to tell you to not interfere with slayage?" she shot back.

"I wasn't!" he said, looking around and finally finding a bag he'd dropped. "I was just going to bring you the snacks," he insisted, leaning down gingerly to pick the bag up. "I didn't want them to go bad."

"Pretty sure Ginger Ale and Triscuits have shelf lives that rival Twinkies," she pointed out, taking the proffered bag from him. He looked confused, but Buffy didn't explain her joke. "Is that it?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," the big vampire replied, wrinkling his nose as he tried to wipe the dog slobber from his neck.

"Then don't come looking for me again unless you're ready to talk about Angelus," she advised, turning and beginning to walk away.

"Buffy… I… you can't mean that," he prodded, taking a step to follow her.

She stopped and looked back at him. "Stop following me. Go home. When you're ready to discuss the past, then we can talk. Otherwise, leave me alone. Even Spike knows that 'no means no'," she pointed out, before turning her back on him and stalking away.

"The dog?" he called after her.

"Him too."

** X-X-X-X-X **

Mexico.

Spike unlocked the hotel room door, juggling cups of hot cocoa along with a heavy bundle on his shoulder, and hurried in. Wouldn't do to be seen delivering Dru's meal. "Dinner, pet," he said as he turned and quickly got the door closed behind him.

When he turned back around, he froze, all the borrowed blood in his body draining away, as if he'd been gutted. Which is exactly what had happened. His throat closed up and his unbeating heart died just a little more as he took in the scene. Dru. On her knees. Straddling a dark-skinned local, riding him with a slow, sensuous undulation of her hips, her modest breasts swaying with the motion, her smooth, porcelain skin a sharp contrast to the hairy, mocha-toned man beneath her.

She turned then, a slow, languid movement, her hips never stopping their movement, each rise revealing the man's thick, dark erection, coated in her juices. He was moaning beneath her, but it sounded pained rather than pleasurable. Puncture marks leaked blood from his neck, his chest, his arm, and likely more places Spike couldn't see, bright red pools of it staining the white sheets beneath him. The shredded uniform of a porter, or perhaps a room service worker from the hotel lay on the floor next to the bed.

"My Spike," she breathed dreamily, running her hands up her body to cup her breasts, her fingers closing on her taught nipples as she groaned and bucked harder against her lover, making him gasp. "I found the CHO-CO-LA-TE. Isn't he lovely? Furry all over, like my other deadly boy," she purred, lowering her hands to run it through the thick curls covering the man's chest and abdomen. "And he tastes of fluffy clouds and devil's food. Have a nibble, my Spike. I saved you some."

Spike tried to speak, but the lump in his throat wouldn't allow it. He swallowed and tried to find a drop or two of blood to help form his words. "I – I thought you weren't going out," he finally managed, still standing frozen by the door.

"I needed CHO-CO-LA-TE," she excused childishly, her body still taking the man, who was barely conscious, unmoving beneath her, yet still hard. "May I keep him?"

Spike clenched his jaw and dropped her meal off his shoulder. The semi-conscious man crumpled into a pile on the floor, letting out a low moan. "No, you sodding well can't. And I brought you bloody 'CHO-CO-LA-TE'," he growled, pronouncing the word like she'd been, like they had on the song earlier that night. He lifted the tray that held two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in demonstration before setting it down on the table. "And dinner," he continued, waving a hand at the man he'd dropped.

Dru wrinkled her nose. "Don't want leather an' gristle, nor beans an' cream," she sniffed derisively.

"Yeah, well, I wanted t' stay in this hotel a bit longer, but seeing's as how you've decided to sup on the help, I reckon that won't happen either," he growled, taking two long strides up to the bed. He gripped her by the shoulders hard enough to bruise and pulled her off the man. "Did you learn nothing from that mob in Prague!?" he demanded, shaking her. "You don't hunt where you sleep, for fuck's sake, Dru!"

Dru growled and snapped at him, yanking free of his grasp. "I follow the pixies!" she declared angrily, glowering at him. "And they wanted CHO-CO-LA—"

"Yeah? Good job they did in bloody Prague, eh?" he yelled, interrupting her. "Have your fucking hairy chocolate, then," he sneered, getting ready to turn away from her, but she grabbed his belt, stopping him.

"Come play, Spike," she invited, her hands already unfastening the buttons on his jeans. "He's ever so warm and sweet," Dru purred, "But only you know how mummy needs to be hurt."

Spike scowled at her, grabbing her hands and pulling them free of his jeans. "I'm going out," he informed her, spinning on his heel, rebuttoning his pants at the same time.

A pout formed on Dru's lips a moment, but no longer. She shrugged and turned back to her plaything, climbing back onto the bed. She leaned over him and slapped his face a couple of times until he opened his eyes. Glazed as they were, she caught his gaze and began swaying like a snake charmer, her fingers pointing into his eyes, then into hers. "Be... in my eyes. Be... in me," she hummed, still swaying above him.

Spike hefted the old man he'd brought up off the floor and back onto his shoulder, tears welling in his traitorous eyes. He hazarded a glance back over his shoulder at the sound of bedsprings creaking. The man was suddenly animated to the point of mania, propped up on straight arms atop Dru, his cock driving into her cunny like a rutting pig as she giggled and crooned beneath him.

Spike closed his eyes, wished he hadn't looked. Wished he couldn't hear the man's grunts, or Dru's moans, or the wet squelch and slap as he took what was Spike's. What should be Spike's. What had never been Spike's. He clenched his jaw and yanked the door open, slamming it behind him hard enough to rattle the walls. It didn't help. He could still hear it.

** X-X-X-X-X **

Sunnydale:

Buffy was still fuming by the time they turned onto Revello Drive. "He totally lied," she groused to Spike. It was a refrain she'd said repeatedly on the walk from Restfield. "He wasn't going to answer any questions! What did he think? A few candles and some Canada Dry, and I'd totally forget why I was there? That I'd fall back into his arms and eat dry crackers in his bed?

"And that crap about bringing me the snacks? Total bullshit. I guess he thinks if he asks enough, I'll change my mind. Which is totally not happening. But, goddammit! How am I gonna figure out if Spike was right about the curse?"

Her furry friend whined and nudged the bookbag slung across her chest.

"I was bluffing. There isn't enough in those books about Angel to fill a… a really small container that doesn't hold much," she admitted. "Yeah, there's stuff about Angelus, but I really need Angel's info – from after he was cursed. I just didn't want him to know that, thus, the starting from the start."

Spike sighed. Buffy did too.

"Plain Triscuits and Ginger Ale don't really spell 'true love'," she muttered to herself, rolling her eyes as she stomped up the steps to 1630. "The more I find out about Angel, the more afraid I am that Spike was right."

The dog looked pointedly up at her, lifting his brows, making the hair above his eyes twitch and quiver.

"Oh, don't start with me, buster. The whole 'I told you so,' thing is beneath you," she asserted, opening the door.

Spike sneezed, rattling his tags, and padded off toward the kitchen. Buffy sighed and took her bookbag off, setting it on the table by the door along with the bag of food Angel had given her. She dropped her stakes into the basket beneath the table and picked up the mail. It only took a moment for her to find it, the bright, glossy colors drawing her eyes and fingers to the postcard.

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It was a map of Mexico, only instead of roads and most of the cities, it had drawings of foods and buildings and even people from the various regions that made the area famous. There were avocados and tequila and chili peppers, cocoa and burritos and queso. There were pictures of folk dancers and a mariachi band, of butterflies and a pyramid, of churches, prize fighters, and masked wrestlers. Buffy smiled at it – now she could follow where he was, get an idea of how far he'd traveled, and –

'Not 'he',' she reminded herself dourly. ''They'. Drusilla and Spike... 'They.''

Buffy rubbed her eyes tiredly. It seemed like everyone was a 'they' these days. Everyone but her. And, apparently Angel, but that was a good thing. She sooo didn't need to find out if his curse could be broken by sharing soda and crackers with any random girl.

Buffy shook off her melancholy and looked back down at the postcard, letting her smile return. Spike may be a 'they', but he was still her friendliest enemy and he was still thinking about her. Just knowing that made her tummy feel fluttery. Which was wrong. And bad. And it should totally stop doing that. But it never listened to her before, why should it start now?

She turned the card over and snorted out a laugh. "Really, Spike? To my mom?" she asked incredulously. "How lame is that?" She shook her head, still smiling as she read his note aloud, "'Had a cuppa hot cocoa today. Made me think of you. No marshmallows, but had chili peppers. Bloody brilliant! You should try it. Take care! –S'"

Buffy shook her head, chuckling. Spike, the soulless Slayer of Slayers, her sworn frenemy, had cocoa and thought of her mom, had even remembered the marshmallows. Angel, the souled one who purportedly loved her, managed to find two of the least appealing foods ever to try and woo her. What's wrong with this picture?

Buffy's smile widened and that quivery feeling in her stomach rose into her chest as she got to the very bottom of the card. Crammed in beneath the note and her address he'd written, 'PS. Slayer, HYYF –S'

"Hate you too, Spike – you strange, strange vampire."

** X-X-X-X-X **

Mexico.

Spike came back. He always came back. He cleaned up Dru's mess. He cleaned up Dru. He got rid of the body. He made sure it wouldn't rise. He packed their things. He moved them across town. He put her to bed. He left her there. But he'd come back. He always came back.

The hotel bar wasn't officially open at nine a.m., but that didn't matter if you had a bit of dosh. He sat in the corner with the bottle of tequila and looked at the postcard. Buffy'd like it, he thought, with all the drawings on it, the burritos and nachos and queso. Even showed Chihuahua and Mexico City on it – she could see where he'd been – and Chichén Itzá – she could see where he'd be later. That gave him an oddly tingly feeling in his gut. Not fear of the Slayer, but a warmth, almost as if she could watch over him through the postcard, like a… like a friend. Cos that's what they were, right? More or less? Friends? Until one killed the other, anyway.

"How bloody pathetic are you?" Spike mumbled to himself. "Only sodding friend is your mortal enemy? Wanker."

He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, turning the card over and considering what to write. Pathetic or not, it's all he had, and Dru could sod off with her candies and sunshine bollocks. She just shagged a hairy chocolate bar six ways from Sunday, so yeah, he could send the Slayer a bloody postcard. Nodding confidently to himself, Spike went back to pondering what to say.

"Should I tell ya that Dru killed a bellboy t'day? Said he tasted of devil's food and clouds," he muttered bitterly, tapping the pen on the table. "She fucked him t' death. Not as much fun as it sounds, that."

He scowled at the empty expanse of white paper and took another swig of tequila – forgoing the salt and lime – then another inhalation of nicotine. "Brought her sodding chocolate. Cocoa with chilis in it – spicy and sweet. Bloody brilliant, it was. Didn't have to shag the git, she didn't. I took care of her good and proper, always do – anything she wants, Spike gives it. Dunno what she wants from me… never enough. Never …"

Spike stopped talking, blinking his eyes to keep the shimmering tears from falling. He took another drink. "Don't reckon you want to hear that," he reasoned, setting his cigarette in the ashtray, and leaning forward, preparing to write. The corners of his mouth turned up into a small smile as he began addressing the card, 'Joyce Summers.' He snorted, wondering if that would brass the Slayer off or just make her laugh. Either one would do.

'Had a cuppa hot cocoa today. Made me think of you. No marshmallows, but had chili peppers. Bloody brilliant! You should try it. Take care! –S'

Spike stared at it for several long moments, taking another drink, another hit of nicotine. "Sod it," he swore, adding, 'PS. Slayer, HYYF –S' into the small space left at the bottom.

He sat back, his smile widening, thinking of the fiery blonde, a force of nature with flashing green eyes and a pouty lip that would bring empires of warriors to their knees. He thought of how she blushed when he teased her, how she laughed when he said something that tickled her, how she burned with righteous indignation, and how she kept her word.

His smile faded and the little glimmer of light that had sparked in his chest faded back to cold, hard ice. What kind of world was it where he could trust the word of a Slayer over his own sire? Over the woman he loved more than anything? Who he'd sacrificed for? Who he'd protected and taken care of? Who he'd healed and rescued more than once?

Spike blew out a long breath and shook his head. He lifted the bottle in salute, mimicking touching it to another. "Hate you, Slayer," he toasted, lifting the bottle to his lips.

It burned like liquid sunshine all the way down.


End notes:

Thank you so much for reading! It looks like posting on this will be on Saturdays and Thursdays, so more soon! There are links to the CHO-CO-LA-TE song as well as storyboard pictures, an image of the postcard, and banners you can see on AO3 or Elysian Fields.

References:

Twinkies: A common urban legend claims that Twinkies have an infinite shelf life, and can last unspoiled for a relatively long time of ten, fifty, or one hundred years due to the chemicals used in their production. A homage to the unlimited shelf life urban myth appears in the film WALL-E, where the title character's pet cockroach is shown eating its way into the cream filling at one end and emerging out the other none the worse for wear. -Wikipedia

The idiom 'six ways from Sunday' means in every way possible, having done something completely, having addressed every alternative.