Out of Joint -- Chapter 6 (Part 1)
Apr. 1st, 2005 12:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sharelleWell, here is the first half of the fruits of my weekend's labor -- including one night of very little sleep. Whee! (It actually felt pretty good. I should totally do that again!) The next part should just be a few days, after I've had the chance to re-read and code it.
As usual, all previous parts are here.
Disclaimer: Mine? One of these days I'm going to say "yes." And then won't you all be confused!
Rating: PG-13 (for language and violence)
Setting: Picks up mid-"Destiny" and goes AU from there.
Feedback: I'd love it muchly.
Author's Note: For the purposes of this story, I’m laboring under the assumption that the events of Passion took place over a few more days than were depicted in the actual episode. Also, some events will appear in a different order, or not at all. (The same goes for any references to upcoming televised episodes from BtVS through the end of S2.) ‘Cause, you know, when you mess with time travel, things change! Willing suspension of disbelief is appreciated, as is feedback. Thanks and enjoy!
Credits: A very warm "thank you" to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
makd for all your help. That extra set of eyes really does make a big difference, and, once again, I'm very grateful.
Out of Joint
by Sharelle
Chapter 6 – Unlawful Entries
The late bell was dangerously close when Buffy Summers finally arrived on the campus of Sunnydale High School. Willow watched, with Xander, from the top of the stairs as their friend stiffly exited her mother’s SUV, then turned back again when her mom called out to her. From there, there was a lot of rigid nodding and calmy-type hand gestures and when Buffy finally stepped away from the car Willow could see that Mrs. Summers wasn’t the only one who needed a heavy dose of the calm.
She was about to suggest just that, in the form of a smile and a promise of chocolate vending machine goodness at lunch, when Buffy stalked swiftly past her and into the school without so much as a second glance.
Willow shot a concerned look at Xander, who was busy sucking his carefully planned witty comment back behind his teeth for use at a later date, and the two followed in Buffy’s wake. Both had been around enough badness over the last two years to know that when Buffy got like this, things were definitely wrong. And things had been more than just a little wrong lately. They both had a pretty good idea where the Slayer was headed; so Willow swallowed her late-for-homeroom nerves and followed her friend as Buffy made her way directly to the school library.
Buffy threw the doors open and tromped inside, not even checking for the establishment’s usual occupant before she started speaking. He was there, she knew. He was always there.
“Giles,” she announced; Willow and Xander followed her into the room, looking worried. Buffy’s voice was low and more than a little trembly, not normal for her. “We need to talk.”
Rupert Giles emerged from the side office behind the library’s main counter, his face also a mask of concern at the uncharacteristic stress in his Slayer’s voice. “Buffy,” he greeted, trying to soothe her obvious nerves with a comforting tone. He glanced quickly at Xander and Willow, but they seemed just as confused and concerned as he was. “Is everything alright,” he asked. “Shouldn’t you all be on your way to—”
“This won’t wait,” Buffy interrupted curtly. “We’ve got trouble. Big trouble.”
Giles sighed and removed his glasses, wiping ritualistically at them with his handkerchief. He knew that the girl wouldn’t be calmed until she’d said her piece, nor would she be persuaded to come back later, after class. With a quick glance toward the porthole windows of the library and a slight jerk of his head, he beckoned the threesome to sit at the large table in the center of the room, where much of their slaying-related research was conducted.
Once they were all settled, and Giles was satisfied that Buffy’s breathing had evened out a bit, he nodded. “What happened?”
Buffy had allowed her head to drop into one hand. For a moment, she looked so tired. Then she took a deep breath and straightened, running her hand through her hair as though sweeping her composure back into place. A beat, and her posture was all-business once again. “I need to know anything you can tell me about that spell we used to de-invite Angel,” she said.
“Has something happened?” Giles asked.
Buffy shrugged, grasping for nonchalant. “You mean aside from an evening filled with bloodthirsty, rampaging vampires? Sorry, correction – one particular bloodthirsty, rampaging vampire. What else is there?”
“Did Angel do something?” Willow asked, worrying at her bottom lip as the last bell to signal homeroom echoed through the now-empty halls. But she stayed loyally still in her chair, waiting for Buffy’s explanation.
Buffy shook her head wearily. “What hasn’t Angel done lately?” she mused sadly. “Ever since we locked him out the other day, I’ve been waiting for something terrible to happen. Well,” she sighed as her shoulders sagged, “waiting over. The other stylish-yet-sensible shoe has dropped. Only the vampire in question wasn’t Angel. It was Spike.”
“Spike?” Xander repeated incredulously. “What could he do? Last you saw him wasn’t he Special Olympics bound?”
Buffy shook her head with an ironic quirk to her mouth. “Oh no. He’s definitely back among the bipeds. And apparently using his newfound ability to walk right into my house!”
Giles started, frozen. His hands were still for a moment before slowly reaching back up for his glasses again. “Dear lord,” he breathed.
“Oh, my God. Buffy,” Willow said quietly, placing a gentle hand on her friend’s arm.
“Giles, I’ve got to know,” Buffy said as she turned to him pleadingly. “I have to know all the details of that spell. Why it is that now, with Angel locked out, Spike’s got an all-access pass.”
Giles replaced his glasses without wiping them; he met her gaze steadily from across the table. “Are you sure that’s the case, Buffy?” he asked delicately. “There was that incident with Darla last year. You don’t suppose your mother –?”
Buffy’s eyes hardened and she pursed her lips tightly, a gesture which Giles presumed was to prevent them from trembling. “Don’t you think that was my first thought, Giles?” she grated lowly. “When I turned around and saw him standing at the foot of my stairs, before the ‘Vampire! Vampire! Slay! Slay! Slay!’ instinct even kicked in, my first thought was, ‘Mom’s dead.’ You can’t even begin to know how scared I was.”
“Well,” Giles interjected softly, “I believe that I can.”
Willow felt a rush of relief for a moment, which slightly quelled the stab of fear that had dropped her stomach into her shoes. She remembered seeing Mrs. Summers behind the wheel of her SUV just a few minutes ago. Whatever had happened last night, although it must have been terrible, both Summers women were alive and . . . maybe not well, but intact at least. She gave Buffy’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
“She didn’t invite him in,” Buffy concluded. “She wasn’t even home yet. But since we’re on the topic, that does make for a rather unpleasant segue into Late-Breaking Bad News Item Number Two.” The Slayer nibbled her bottom lip with an awkward expression, not meeting her Watcher’s eyes for a moment.
“That being?” Giles ventured.
“Mom knows,” Buffy replied without preamble. “About the whole Slayer deal. She knows . . . ,” She finally looked at him. “. . . now.”
Giles sighed in frustration and shook his head. “Buffy, we talked about this,” he said gently, though he knew it did little good now. “I thought we decided that the fewer people who know about you--.”
“Well, I tried to keep that in mind while Spike was using my mother as a human shield to get me to back off, Giles, but things just got a little out of hand!” Buffy’s voice had risen dramatically as she exploded out of her chair. Willow retracted her hand abruptly and the Slayer began to pace back and forth. “She came home right in the middle of it. She saw him, Giles; he flashed her the freaking fang. I didn’t think Snyder’s ‘gang members on PCP’ excuse was going to work this time!”
The Watcher could only stare at his distraught Slayer. “Oh, dear,” he muttered. “Is she . . . are you both all right?”
Buffy clasped both hands together behind her neck; her shoulders sagged as she stared at the library ceiling. “She’s freaked,” the girl admitted, softer than before. “And I’m sorry if I’m punchy. She had me up almost the rest of the night grilling me for answers – most of which I didn’t have to give her. I’m lucky she even let me come to school today. And I swear to God, if I had to hear her ask, ‘Have you tried not being a Slayer?’ one more time . . . .”
She sighed and allowed her arms to swing to her sides like weighted pendulums. “It’s probably for the best, though,” she said. “With everything that’s been going on lately – with Angel – it’s just too dangerous for Mom, or anyone I care about, to go running around town with chronic Sunnydale Head-in-Sand Syndrome. I told you that Angel tried to get to her the other night when Willow and I were doing the de-invite spell?”
Giles nodded, resigned. He had known that Joyce would take the knowledge of her daughter’s Calling badly. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected any less from a woman in her position. Buffy was her only child, after all. Of course, since most potential slayers are removed from their homes at such an early age, women in Joyce’s position were a rarity. He gazed sympathetically at his Slayer as she sank wearily back into her chair. This was going to be a difficult road for both of them now.
“I’ve just got to know what else might have been the cause of Spike’s miracle entry,” Buffy said, looking back up at Giles with her head in her hand as her elbow leaned heavily upon the table. “It’s not possible for a vampire to give another vampire permission to enter a house he’s been in, is it?”
“Not that I’m aware, Buffy,” Giles answered, although his body seemed to move on autopilot to where he kept his occult texts beneath the library counter, where he could double-check his facts. “As far as I know, there’s never been record of a case where one vampire was able to grant access to a private home to others of his ilk, unless, of course, the home’s occupants were already dead.” He added this last part warily. “You say you’re certain that your mother didn’t do it?”
Buffy shrugged. “I asked. She said she’d never seen him before.” A fact that the Slayer knew wasn’t true, since Joyce had threatened Spike with an axe on Parents’ Night. Her mom hadn’t seemed to remember him specifically from that night, however, so Buffy decided not to press the issue. The previous evening’s events had been traumatic enough. There was no need to remind her mother of other dangerous slaying exploits Buffy had undertaken in the past . . . especially those that had taken place right under Joyce’s nose.
“Perhaps, then, you should tell me everything that happened last night,” Giles said as he chose a few large tomes from under the counter and brought them back to the table.
Buffy sat back in her chair and rubbed absently at her upper arms. “I stayed out on patrol a little later than usual,” she began, “because I knew Mom was going to be late at the gallery. At least, that was what she said. But when I got home – I think it was almost 2:00 – the front door was partly open. As soon as I walked in I got the tinglies, like there was something in the house that shouldn’t have been there. I pulled my stake, checked the living room and dining room, walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, and just before I got there, I heard someone say my name. I turned around and -” She made a loud popping sound with her lips and gestured with spread fingers into the open air as though indicating the appearance of some invisible object in the middle of the table “- there he was smack-dab at the foot of my stairs, all leather, pasty skin, and day-glow hair.”
Giles looked thoughtful. “You’re quite certain he was in the house? He wasn’t simply in the doorway?”
Buffy shrugged. “I kicked his ass up and down my dining room,” she said. “I’d say he was inside.” Her face darkened as she recalled what happened next. “I almost had him, Giles, but that’s when Mom came home. I staked him right through the arm, but he managed to get her between us. Then he shoved her at me and took off.”
“Any idea where he might have gone?” Giles asked.
“Probably back to Angel’s,” she replied. “The factory, I guess. I really didn’t have time to worry about it afterward, what with trying to explain everything to Mom and cleaning up the mess he made in the house. You know he totally broke one of the chairs that went with Grandma Summers’ dining room table?”
“Oh,” Willow breathed in sympathy with a tilt of her head. “The ones with the cherry finish and all the little rosy carvings?”
“The leg got majorly loose when he tossed it against the wall.”
“You know, I could probably fix that,” Xander interjected helpfully.
“If you’re finished, children,” Giles interrupted and the three turned back to him with matching sheepish expressions. “Buffy, did Spike say anything else to you, besides your name, that may have explained his presence?”
Buffy looked as though this was the first time she’d really considered some of the things Spike had said to her prior to their fight. “He did say a few things that were definitely of the weird,” she finally answered. “My name was actually one of them. Before, it was always ‘Slayer’ or some stupid froufrou pet name. I don’t think he ever called me ‘Buffy.’ I wasn’t even aware he knew it. And the way he said it.” The Slayer appeared thoughtful as she blankly regarded the table for a moment through narrowed eyes. She glanced back up at Giles. “It was almost like he was trying to get my attention,” she said. “But quiet, like he was afraid I’d actually turn around. Then he said something about the ‘dawn’ . . . wanting to know what had happened to it. Something crazy like that. You can totally tell he’s been with Drusilla for over a century,” she added off-handedly, her earlier confusion over the name matter dissipating.
“The dawn? Sounds like a weird thing for a vampire to be jonesing over,” Xander remarked.
Buffy turned to him with a shrug. “Trust me, if Spike wants to get to know the dawn so bad, I’d be more than happy to arrange an up-close-and-personal introduction.”
“Was there anything else?” Giles asked.
“I’m not sure,” Buffy answered, “but since I’m certain he wasn’t invited, I thought maybe his ability to come in my house had something to do with that spell we used to lock Angel out. If it does, I figure we’re going to have to keep a close eye on Willow’s house, too.” She acknowledged her friend who was seated to her right.
“And, lest we forget, Cordy’s car,” Xander reminded them long-sufferingly as he rubbed harshly at his forehead with his hand.
“Well,” Giles offered as he began to page through some of the dustier texts he had procured from behind the counter, “magic has always been a very delicate medium. There are nearly always consequences or counter-effects to every spell.”
“Like locking the door on one vampire means opening a window for another?” Willow suggested.
“But why Spike?” Buffy said. “Aside from the bad teeth and card-carrying villain status, what can he possibly have in common with Angel?”
“Oh, I know!” Xander’s hand shot up faster than if the cheerleading squad had been asking for volunteers to wash their unmentionables. He pointed at those across the table from him, eyes wide and helpful knowledge all but pouring out his ears. “Angel is Spike’s sire!”
Giles’ eyes also went very wide, and Xander sat back with arms folded, pleased with his contribution.
“His sire? Are you sure?”
Xander nodded. “I remember I heard him say it the night of the Parent/Teacher fiasco.” The boy glanced up at the ceiling with a bewildered expression that only lasted a moment as he added, “Then again, Spike also mentioned something about Angel being Yoda . . . and his Uncle Tom . . . but he definitely said Angel was his sire!”
“This could explain a lot, actually,” Giles remarked, nodding commendably toward Xander before turning to Buffy. “Did you know about this?”
Buffy shook her head. “I knew about Angel and Drusilla. But he never told me about Spike.”
Xander continued to mutter to no one. “Don’t know what scares me more, Spike entering houses willy-nilly, or Spike making Star Wars references. Wouldn’t have pegged him as a fan.”
Willow looked concerned. “So you think that with Angel locked out of our houses, any vampire he’s sired can come in?”
Giles gave her a calming look. “I’m not saying anything of the sort, Willow,” he replied. “I realize the implications of the trade-off the spell may have created are undesirable at best, but we’re not even certain that the eviction spell is the real reason for Spike’s presence in Buffy’s home. It may be something else entirely. We do, however, need to follow any lead we have.”
“He did say something else,” Buffy suddenly muttered, as though just remembering. Her faraway look was replaced by one of intense trepidation as she lifted her head to meet her Watcher’s gaze, hazel eyes very wide. “I just remembered, as we were fighting, he said something else. It just didn’t really register until now.”
“What did he say?” Giles nudged gently.
Buffy nibbled her lip apprehensively, recalling Spike’s unsettling words. “He said he wasn’t the 'first.'” She crossed her arms over her chest and began rubbing at her shoulders, as if she was suddenly cold. “And he repeated it a few more times, too – ‘I’m not the first.’ What can that mean, Giles? The first what? The first in my house? What if this has nothing to do with the de-invite? What if he or Angel found some spell or artifact that allows vampires to come and go as they please? What if there have been others in my home without me knowing? Or in other people’s houses? How am I supposed to do my job, Giles, if vamps are suddenly able to make house calls?”
She managed to fight off her rising panic at the prospect, but Giles could tell how worried Buffy really was. And rightfully so. If such a thing were possible, there were some very grave problems on the horizon. And the Slayer may not be equipped to deal with them by a mere nightly patrol of the graveyards. He worried his bottom lip between two fingers for a moment.
“There is an artifact in the Council’s records known as the Gem of Amara,” he finally said. “It was documented as being highly sought after by vampires throughout the centuries. It’s also one of the few relics we know exceptionally little about, since it was generally believed to be nothing more than a myth. I haven’t any ideas as to its supposed abilities, but since it’s been the vampire equivalent of the Holy Grail for eons, it may be in our best interest to do a bit of research.”
He didn’t have to say any more to Willow, who was sliding as many books as she could reach toward herself so that she could begin to read up on the subject. Xander also grabbed for one of the tomes, issuing a playful challenge to Willow regarding who would be the first to locate the One Gem.
Buffy glanced back up at Giles, an unspoken plea on her face, and the Watcher quietly conceded with a nod. “Perhaps it would be a good idea for me to speak to her as well,” he said, not needing to delve into who ‘she’ was. Everyone around the table knew quite well. “She was the one who gave me the book that included the eviction spell, after all. If anyone knows the details of its side effects, she would.”
* * *
Standing in what had once been a small office, which had later served as his own sleeping chamber, Spike had no trouble finding the wheelchair. It remained safely folded up and tucked away in the narrow space between the wall and a rusty filing cabinet; where he had always left it when first starting to venture out and stretch his legs. Since Angelus had insinuated himself into the bedroom Spike had previously shared with Drusilla, there had never been any difficulty stashing the bloody thing where no one would come across it.
The seclusion of his own room, bloody pit that it was, was the one thing Spike had going for him once the de-souled bastard had moved in. Too wrapped up in his own plans, Angelus had interacted very little with Spike. So had Dru for that matter, except when she decided to play her own mad version of house like he was one of her sodding dolls. And, of course, during his grandsire’s exhibitionistic displays with her, undoubtedly staged to make Spike’s unlife a hell. Whenever Spike found himself in the main room of the factory, he was subject to Angelus’ taunting, but no one went out of their way to seek him out when he was interred in his own chamber. By the time they all moved to the mansion, Spike saw Angelus and Dru even less. And what he did see always made his blood boil. For as torturous as it was, it had allowed Spike to bide his time, healing in private until he was finally ready to take matters into his own hands.
Unfolding the chair and flattening out the seat, Spike scowled at the damnable, rickety contraption. He had seen his fair share of torture devices in his time, but this was by far the worst he could imagine. A simple apparatus, it was nonetheless capable of bringing so much despair and pain. The feelings of helplessness and worthlessness that resulted from his time in the chair were comparable only to those months spent as a ghost. Blasted invalid twice over. (Not even counting his years with the sodding chip.) And the fact that he had been practically bound to bloody Angel during both these disastrous periods of his life had only served to make them that much worse. Spike wouldn’t have wished what he had gone through on his worst enemy.
Well, maybe his worst enemy. Even souled Spike wasn’t that noble. And thanks to that whole destiny whinge-fest rumpus that had led to this latest fiasco, Angel certainly wasn’t racking up the popularity points as far as Spike was concerned. Especially now that it seemed he was going to be subjected to the joy of being around Angelus until he figured out how to get himself the hell out of here.
Spike growled and settled himself in the chair, his flesh crawling with revulsion as he lowered the footrests and got a feel for working the thing again. Time travel or alternate dimension – whatever the Cup had done to send him here, it was pretty clear by now that there would be no twin version of himself showing up at the factory any time soon, which was probably a good thing. He wasn’t sure how he would explain two Spikes running around. However it had happened, he was the one and only Spike here. Therefore, he was going to have to play this as close to actual history as he could, until he managed to find a way back to where he belonged. And if that meant he needed to be periodically chair-bound . . . .
The entrance to his room creaked open, the bottom of the door dragging and scraping along the dusty concrete floor as it tilted slightly away from its broken top hinge. Spike spun himself around, both surprised and disgusted by the fact that he could still maneuver the chair easily, even after all this time. Drusilla slid lithely through the opening she had made and entered the room, swaying gracefully toward him.
Spike took in the sight of her. Even after everything that had happened between them, she had never stopped being captivatingly beautiful to him. She looked so tall, so regal, especially when looking up at her from below. It was the one vision he never minded from the chair, fleeting as it was, since the vision was usually marred by Angelus’ hands encircling her waist from behind and his grinning face appearing beside hers. Right now, however, she was alone.
Spike’s attention was momentarily diverted by a quick movement at Drusilla’s feet as she turned briefly to slide the door shut. A small brindle puppy sniffed and scampered playfully around her. Spike grinned soberly. Leave it to Dru to charm the purest of creatures into a false sense of security with her façade of mad innocence. Normally, it served her well, since she always had an insatiable appetite for children and other uncorrupted souls. It was what had gotten her into all that trouble in Prague. But Drusilla had always claimed that innocence was what made the hunt worthwhile, believing she could feed upon her victims’ purity along with their lifeblood.
A detached memory suddenly sparked in Spike’s mind, one in which Drusilla had gone after Dawn and very nearly fed off the girl. For a moment he felt sickened, even though he knew quite well that, although the image seemed vividly real, Dru had never actually laid eyes on the Nibblet. Damn, those monks had been thorough.
He watched the dog scamper around for a few more moments. It had extracted itself from Drusilla’s side and was now sniffing around the various dusty corners of Spike’s room. Although it had taken a few seconds, he remembered the animal now. ‘Sunshine,’ Dru had called it upon first bringing it to him, insisting that he needed to eat something to keep his strength up. Spike hadn’t felt much like feeding on the dog at the time – Drusilla’s constant babying nearly sending him into a rage – and the puppy had eventually been left it to its own devices. He would see it from time to time, darting about the factory or being carried around by Dru, until one day . . . when it just wasn’t there any more.
Spike felt Drusilla’s eyes on him and he broke from his reverie and glanced up at her again. Her face appeared to be filled with sympathy and affection, while her eyes danced with ubiquitous mischief. “My Spike,” she said softly, “aren’t you feeling better, sweet?”
Spike glanced down the length of his own body from his position in the chair, thinking again that it was probably lucky that she’d found him in the battered state he’d been in. If he’d been at the top of his form, it would have been a lot harder to convince both her and Angelus that he was only just healing. He shrugged. “Still not a hundred percent, pet.”
“Oh,” she murmured as empathetically as a mother comforting a child with a scraped knee, elongating the syllable as she drew closer to his right side and knelt beside his chair. On impulse, Spike turned his head away from her, partly because it was what he would have done at the time, and partly because of everything that had changed between them since then. Even if Dru was completely unaware of those changes yet.
Drusilla tsked her tongue against her upper teeth and made a wounded whimper as she reached a hand toward his averted face. She lightly caressed the cheek that was farthest away from her, tracing her fingers down the sharp plane and sliding along his neck before settling in the curved hollow of his throat. She briefly toyed inside the crevice with her fingernails, scratching softly against his skin, then brought her hand up the right side. There, she lovingly stroked her porcelain knuckles against his temple.
“My dear, strong boy,” she fussed a bit, “we’re all so happy to see you getting well again. Aren’t we, Miss Sunshine?” Her words were a caress as soft as the one gliding along his face. The dog didn’t seem to be paying much attention as it made its way back over to the door and started prodding its nose around the crack at the base, apparently looking for a way out.
Spike turned to stare straight ahead, though he still avoided looking directly at Drusilla. He felt the back of her fingers repeatedly stroke over the same area near his temple and she drew closer to his ear. He could sense her unneeded breath tickling the flesh there. “Your face is a perfect poem again,” she said and Spike abruptly recalled that she must have been referring to the disappearance of the cluster of scars he’d been graced with during the weeks and months following the accident with the organ. Unwilling to allow her to question their sudden departure, he finally turned, drawing her focus fully with his eyes.
“Still won’t be up to fighting form for a while, apparently,” he grumbled, carefully considering the disappointment and gruffness he ought to inject into both his words and his expression.
Her gaze glided over his face as softly as her fingers had done. “Taking backward steps is foolish, Spike,” she cooed. “If you’re strong enough to walk, you’ll soon be strong enough to rush and rage. No need to fret. One hurt by the wicked Slayer girl doesn’t mean you won’t soon be yourself again.”
Spike cast his eyes downward, remembering the confrontation at Buffy’s house. A house which, now that he’d thought about it, he should have never been able to enter in the first place. At this point in his history with the Slayer, he hadn’t received his first invitation yet. Not until the truce, and if he and the other vampires were still living in the factory, that was still several weeks in coming at least. A shot of pain lanced through him to recall the furious hatred shining in Buffy’s eyes a few hours ago, so unlike the last time he had seen them.
That last time, the shine had been a film of tears – a few of which, he still dared to hope, might have actually been for him.
For a moment Spike was so lost in his own thoughts, he almost missed Drusilla’s next words. “I see her blood in you.”
Spike’s eyes shot up to meet Drusilla’s again, probably a mistake if he’d taken the time to think about it. She tilted her head with that absorbing look of hers and seemed to draw all of him into herself. “Oh, yes,” she said, beaming proudly. “She’s all around you, waiting for your strength to return. And you'll have her blood -- your third Slayer.” Then Drusilla’s eyes narrowed; she looked mildly confused. “You’re stronger than you think, Spike,” she added. “There’s a light in you that wasn’t there before.”
Shit.
Spike abruptly broke contact with her, wheeling away from her touch, her gaze. If he could place the distance of the entire town between them, it still probably wouldn’t be far enough.
Shit, shit, shit.
He’d forgotten that Drusilla, the real Drusilla and not just a shadow of The First, had never seen him after he’d received the soul. It hadn’t occurred to him right away that she might be able to see, or at the very least, sense it. Harris’ demon girl had noticed it right away, and Spike was willing to bet that Dru was far more sensitive to these things than Anya.
Shit.
If he didn’t find a way out of here as soon as bloody possible, things were going to go to hell pretty damn fast. Odds were, he would only be able to keep the soul hidden from Dru for so long.
Drusilla, on the other hand, didn’t seem overly suspicious of his actions, at least not yet. She whimpered woundedly at his rejection as he distanced himself from her. Except for the occasional bark from Sunshine as the dog failed to nudge the heavy door open enough to squeeze through, the room was utterly silent.
After a few seconds of holding his unneeded breath, Spike felt Drusilla approach his chair from behind. She crouched down beside him, aligning her head beside his and sliding her hand through the collar of his t-shirt, raking her nails down the bare flesh of his chest. She seemed as playful as ever, oblivious to what Spike was really trying to hide . . . for the time being.
“No need to be cross, my Spike,” she said as she nuzzled her cheek into his. “Mummy knows you’re frustrated. But you’ll be well soon, I promise. And when you are, we’ll bathe in the blood of this town. You . . . ,” She circled the tip of her nose along the outer shell of his ear. “. . . me . . . ,” She made a gruff and mischievous growl as she snapped playfully at him with blunt teeth. “. . . and Angel.” She dragged her fingers up his chest as she removed her hand from the front of his shirt. “You’ll see.”
Drusilla rose to her feet and stepped around him toward the door. Giving Spike a sultry smile, she turned her attention to the small animal on the floor. “You stay here and keep Daddy company, Miss Sunshine,” she said, giving the dog a gentle nudge away from the door with her foot. “He needs to keep up his strength.” Then she flashed him another wicked smile, and slid out of the room.
Spike watched the empty space where Drusilla had been for a few moments. When he regained his presence of mind, he became aware of sharp canine whimpering at his feet. Glancing down, he saw Sunshine scratching at the base of the door, crying softly. Spike regarded the dog, then rose out of his chair and walked over to where the animal pawed at the cold metal of his room’s exit. Crouching to its level, he stared at the puppy until it ceased its whimpers and looked back at him. Spike reached forward and caught the dog in his hands. It squirmed slightly at first, then relaxed as he drew it toward him and rose back up to his feet, holding it close to his chest.
Dru was right about one thing. He was going to need to keep his strength up, especially after his fight with Buffy. He’d lost a lot of blood, hadn’t fed on anything since yesterday, and had been running on nothing more than bloody fumes for a good few hours now. He knew the others would go out hunting once the sun set, though he hardly thought it was likely he’d be able to convince them to stop at the local butcher shop for a pint or two of the pig variety for the souled vamp. If he was going to keep up appearances, he’d have to make it look convincingly good.
He’d also need to find a way out of here and back to where he belonged. Or, at the very least, he’d need to figure out if this was all just part of the prophecy he and Angel’d been fighting over all along. Either way, he’d need to talk to someone in the know. And, since he didn’t have the first idea where to look for poncey Percy Wyndam-Pryce at this particular point in time, right now there was only one person who might have access to the information Spike needed.
Someone who, regardless of the time period, would be less than happy to see him.
‘Course, he’d have to wait until sunset.
And – he glanced down at the contented bundle in his arms as the puppy turned its large eyes up to him – he was going to have to eat something.
* * *
To be continued . . .
As usual, all previous parts are here.
Disclaimer: Mine? One of these days I'm going to say "yes." And then won't you all be confused!
Rating: PG-13 (for language and violence)
Setting: Picks up mid-"Destiny" and goes AU from there.
Feedback: I'd love it muchly.
Author's Note: For the purposes of this story, I’m laboring under the assumption that the events of Passion took place over a few more days than were depicted in the actual episode. Also, some events will appear in a different order, or not at all. (The same goes for any references to upcoming televised episodes from BtVS through the end of S2.) ‘Cause, you know, when you mess with time travel, things change! Willing suspension of disbelief is appreciated, as is feedback. Thanks and enjoy!
Credits: A very warm "thank you" to
makd for all your help. That extra set of eyes really does make a big difference, and, once again, I'm very grateful.by Sharelle
Chapter 6 – Unlawful Entries
The late bell was dangerously close when Buffy Summers finally arrived on the campus of Sunnydale High School. Willow watched, with Xander, from the top of the stairs as their friend stiffly exited her mother’s SUV, then turned back again when her mom called out to her. From there, there was a lot of rigid nodding and calmy-type hand gestures and when Buffy finally stepped away from the car Willow could see that Mrs. Summers wasn’t the only one who needed a heavy dose of the calm.
She was about to suggest just that, in the form of a smile and a promise of chocolate vending machine goodness at lunch, when Buffy stalked swiftly past her and into the school without so much as a second glance.
Willow shot a concerned look at Xander, who was busy sucking his carefully planned witty comment back behind his teeth for use at a later date, and the two followed in Buffy’s wake. Both had been around enough badness over the last two years to know that when Buffy got like this, things were definitely wrong. And things had been more than just a little wrong lately. They both had a pretty good idea where the Slayer was headed; so Willow swallowed her late-for-homeroom nerves and followed her friend as Buffy made her way directly to the school library.
Buffy threw the doors open and tromped inside, not even checking for the establishment’s usual occupant before she started speaking. He was there, she knew. He was always there.
“Giles,” she announced; Willow and Xander followed her into the room, looking worried. Buffy’s voice was low and more than a little trembly, not normal for her. “We need to talk.”
Rupert Giles emerged from the side office behind the library’s main counter, his face also a mask of concern at the uncharacteristic stress in his Slayer’s voice. “Buffy,” he greeted, trying to soothe her obvious nerves with a comforting tone. He glanced quickly at Xander and Willow, but they seemed just as confused and concerned as he was. “Is everything alright,” he asked. “Shouldn’t you all be on your way to—”
“This won’t wait,” Buffy interrupted curtly. “We’ve got trouble. Big trouble.”
Giles sighed and removed his glasses, wiping ritualistically at them with his handkerchief. He knew that the girl wouldn’t be calmed until she’d said her piece, nor would she be persuaded to come back later, after class. With a quick glance toward the porthole windows of the library and a slight jerk of his head, he beckoned the threesome to sit at the large table in the center of the room, where much of their slaying-related research was conducted.
Once they were all settled, and Giles was satisfied that Buffy’s breathing had evened out a bit, he nodded. “What happened?”
Buffy had allowed her head to drop into one hand. For a moment, she looked so tired. Then she took a deep breath and straightened, running her hand through her hair as though sweeping her composure back into place. A beat, and her posture was all-business once again. “I need to know anything you can tell me about that spell we used to de-invite Angel,” she said.
“Has something happened?” Giles asked.
Buffy shrugged, grasping for nonchalant. “You mean aside from an evening filled with bloodthirsty, rampaging vampires? Sorry, correction – one particular bloodthirsty, rampaging vampire. What else is there?”
“Did Angel do something?” Willow asked, worrying at her bottom lip as the last bell to signal homeroom echoed through the now-empty halls. But she stayed loyally still in her chair, waiting for Buffy’s explanation.
Buffy shook her head wearily. “What hasn’t Angel done lately?” she mused sadly. “Ever since we locked him out the other day, I’ve been waiting for something terrible to happen. Well,” she sighed as her shoulders sagged, “waiting over. The other stylish-yet-sensible shoe has dropped. Only the vampire in question wasn’t Angel. It was Spike.”
“Spike?” Xander repeated incredulously. “What could he do? Last you saw him wasn’t he Special Olympics bound?”
Buffy shook her head with an ironic quirk to her mouth. “Oh no. He’s definitely back among the bipeds. And apparently using his newfound ability to walk right into my house!”
Giles started, frozen. His hands were still for a moment before slowly reaching back up for his glasses again. “Dear lord,” he breathed.
“Oh, my God. Buffy,” Willow said quietly, placing a gentle hand on her friend’s arm.
“Giles, I’ve got to know,” Buffy said as she turned to him pleadingly. “I have to know all the details of that spell. Why it is that now, with Angel locked out, Spike’s got an all-access pass.”
Giles replaced his glasses without wiping them; he met her gaze steadily from across the table. “Are you sure that’s the case, Buffy?” he asked delicately. “There was that incident with Darla last year. You don’t suppose your mother –?”
Buffy’s eyes hardened and she pursed her lips tightly, a gesture which Giles presumed was to prevent them from trembling. “Don’t you think that was my first thought, Giles?” she grated lowly. “When I turned around and saw him standing at the foot of my stairs, before the ‘Vampire! Vampire! Slay! Slay! Slay!’ instinct even kicked in, my first thought was, ‘Mom’s dead.’ You can’t even begin to know how scared I was.”
“Well,” Giles interjected softly, “I believe that I can.”
Willow felt a rush of relief for a moment, which slightly quelled the stab of fear that had dropped her stomach into her shoes. She remembered seeing Mrs. Summers behind the wheel of her SUV just a few minutes ago. Whatever had happened last night, although it must have been terrible, both Summers women were alive and . . . maybe not well, but intact at least. She gave Buffy’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
“She didn’t invite him in,” Buffy concluded. “She wasn’t even home yet. But since we’re on the topic, that does make for a rather unpleasant segue into Late-Breaking Bad News Item Number Two.” The Slayer nibbled her bottom lip with an awkward expression, not meeting her Watcher’s eyes for a moment.
“That being?” Giles ventured.
“Mom knows,” Buffy replied without preamble. “About the whole Slayer deal. She knows . . . ,” She finally looked at him. “. . . now.”
Giles sighed in frustration and shook his head. “Buffy, we talked about this,” he said gently, though he knew it did little good now. “I thought we decided that the fewer people who know about you--.”
“Well, I tried to keep that in mind while Spike was using my mother as a human shield to get me to back off, Giles, but things just got a little out of hand!” Buffy’s voice had risen dramatically as she exploded out of her chair. Willow retracted her hand abruptly and the Slayer began to pace back and forth. “She came home right in the middle of it. She saw him, Giles; he flashed her the freaking fang. I didn’t think Snyder’s ‘gang members on PCP’ excuse was going to work this time!”
The Watcher could only stare at his distraught Slayer. “Oh, dear,” he muttered. “Is she . . . are you both all right?”
Buffy clasped both hands together behind her neck; her shoulders sagged as she stared at the library ceiling. “She’s freaked,” the girl admitted, softer than before. “And I’m sorry if I’m punchy. She had me up almost the rest of the night grilling me for answers – most of which I didn’t have to give her. I’m lucky she even let me come to school today. And I swear to God, if I had to hear her ask, ‘Have you tried not being a Slayer?’ one more time . . . .”
She sighed and allowed her arms to swing to her sides like weighted pendulums. “It’s probably for the best, though,” she said. “With everything that’s been going on lately – with Angel – it’s just too dangerous for Mom, or anyone I care about, to go running around town with chronic Sunnydale Head-in-Sand Syndrome. I told you that Angel tried to get to her the other night when Willow and I were doing the de-invite spell?”
Giles nodded, resigned. He had known that Joyce would take the knowledge of her daughter’s Calling badly. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected any less from a woman in her position. Buffy was her only child, after all. Of course, since most potential slayers are removed from their homes at such an early age, women in Joyce’s position were a rarity. He gazed sympathetically at his Slayer as she sank wearily back into her chair. This was going to be a difficult road for both of them now.
“I’ve just got to know what else might have been the cause of Spike’s miracle entry,” Buffy said, looking back up at Giles with her head in her hand as her elbow leaned heavily upon the table. “It’s not possible for a vampire to give another vampire permission to enter a house he’s been in, is it?”
“Not that I’m aware, Buffy,” Giles answered, although his body seemed to move on autopilot to where he kept his occult texts beneath the library counter, where he could double-check his facts. “As far as I know, there’s never been record of a case where one vampire was able to grant access to a private home to others of his ilk, unless, of course, the home’s occupants were already dead.” He added this last part warily. “You say you’re certain that your mother didn’t do it?”
Buffy shrugged. “I asked. She said she’d never seen him before.” A fact that the Slayer knew wasn’t true, since Joyce had threatened Spike with an axe on Parents’ Night. Her mom hadn’t seemed to remember him specifically from that night, however, so Buffy decided not to press the issue. The previous evening’s events had been traumatic enough. There was no need to remind her mother of other dangerous slaying exploits Buffy had undertaken in the past . . . especially those that had taken place right under Joyce’s nose.
“Perhaps, then, you should tell me everything that happened last night,” Giles said as he chose a few large tomes from under the counter and brought them back to the table.
Buffy sat back in her chair and rubbed absently at her upper arms. “I stayed out on patrol a little later than usual,” she began, “because I knew Mom was going to be late at the gallery. At least, that was what she said. But when I got home – I think it was almost 2:00 – the front door was partly open. As soon as I walked in I got the tinglies, like there was something in the house that shouldn’t have been there. I pulled my stake, checked the living room and dining room, walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, and just before I got there, I heard someone say my name. I turned around and -” She made a loud popping sound with her lips and gestured with spread fingers into the open air as though indicating the appearance of some invisible object in the middle of the table “- there he was smack-dab at the foot of my stairs, all leather, pasty skin, and day-glow hair.”
Giles looked thoughtful. “You’re quite certain he was in the house? He wasn’t simply in the doorway?”
Buffy shrugged. “I kicked his ass up and down my dining room,” she said. “I’d say he was inside.” Her face darkened as she recalled what happened next. “I almost had him, Giles, but that’s when Mom came home. I staked him right through the arm, but he managed to get her between us. Then he shoved her at me and took off.”
“Any idea where he might have gone?” Giles asked.
“Probably back to Angel’s,” she replied. “The factory, I guess. I really didn’t have time to worry about it afterward, what with trying to explain everything to Mom and cleaning up the mess he made in the house. You know he totally broke one of the chairs that went with Grandma Summers’ dining room table?”
“Oh,” Willow breathed in sympathy with a tilt of her head. “The ones with the cherry finish and all the little rosy carvings?”
“The leg got majorly loose when he tossed it against the wall.”
“You know, I could probably fix that,” Xander interjected helpfully.
“If you’re finished, children,” Giles interrupted and the three turned back to him with matching sheepish expressions. “Buffy, did Spike say anything else to you, besides your name, that may have explained his presence?”
Buffy looked as though this was the first time she’d really considered some of the things Spike had said to her prior to their fight. “He did say a few things that were definitely of the weird,” she finally answered. “My name was actually one of them. Before, it was always ‘Slayer’ or some stupid froufrou pet name. I don’t think he ever called me ‘Buffy.’ I wasn’t even aware he knew it. And the way he said it.” The Slayer appeared thoughtful as she blankly regarded the table for a moment through narrowed eyes. She glanced back up at Giles. “It was almost like he was trying to get my attention,” she said. “But quiet, like he was afraid I’d actually turn around. Then he said something about the ‘dawn’ . . . wanting to know what had happened to it. Something crazy like that. You can totally tell he’s been with Drusilla for over a century,” she added off-handedly, her earlier confusion over the name matter dissipating.
“The dawn? Sounds like a weird thing for a vampire to be jonesing over,” Xander remarked.
Buffy turned to him with a shrug. “Trust me, if Spike wants to get to know the dawn so bad, I’d be more than happy to arrange an up-close-and-personal introduction.”
“Was there anything else?” Giles asked.
“I’m not sure,” Buffy answered, “but since I’m certain he wasn’t invited, I thought maybe his ability to come in my house had something to do with that spell we used to lock Angel out. If it does, I figure we’re going to have to keep a close eye on Willow’s house, too.” She acknowledged her friend who was seated to her right.
“And, lest we forget, Cordy’s car,” Xander reminded them long-sufferingly as he rubbed harshly at his forehead with his hand.
“Well,” Giles offered as he began to page through some of the dustier texts he had procured from behind the counter, “magic has always been a very delicate medium. There are nearly always consequences or counter-effects to every spell.”
“Like locking the door on one vampire means opening a window for another?” Willow suggested.
“But why Spike?” Buffy said. “Aside from the bad teeth and card-carrying villain status, what can he possibly have in common with Angel?”
“Oh, I know!” Xander’s hand shot up faster than if the cheerleading squad had been asking for volunteers to wash their unmentionables. He pointed at those across the table from him, eyes wide and helpful knowledge all but pouring out his ears. “Angel is Spike’s sire!”
Giles’ eyes also went very wide, and Xander sat back with arms folded, pleased with his contribution.
“His sire? Are you sure?”
Xander nodded. “I remember I heard him say it the night of the Parent/Teacher fiasco.” The boy glanced up at the ceiling with a bewildered expression that only lasted a moment as he added, “Then again, Spike also mentioned something about Angel being Yoda . . . and his Uncle Tom . . . but he definitely said Angel was his sire!”
“This could explain a lot, actually,” Giles remarked, nodding commendably toward Xander before turning to Buffy. “Did you know about this?”
Buffy shook her head. “I knew about Angel and Drusilla. But he never told me about Spike.”
Xander continued to mutter to no one. “Don’t know what scares me more, Spike entering houses willy-nilly, or Spike making Star Wars references. Wouldn’t have pegged him as a fan.”
Willow looked concerned. “So you think that with Angel locked out of our houses, any vampire he’s sired can come in?”
Giles gave her a calming look. “I’m not saying anything of the sort, Willow,” he replied. “I realize the implications of the trade-off the spell may have created are undesirable at best, but we’re not even certain that the eviction spell is the real reason for Spike’s presence in Buffy’s home. It may be something else entirely. We do, however, need to follow any lead we have.”
“He did say something else,” Buffy suddenly muttered, as though just remembering. Her faraway look was replaced by one of intense trepidation as she lifted her head to meet her Watcher’s gaze, hazel eyes very wide. “I just remembered, as we were fighting, he said something else. It just didn’t really register until now.”
“What did he say?” Giles nudged gently.
Buffy nibbled her lip apprehensively, recalling Spike’s unsettling words. “He said he wasn’t the 'first.'” She crossed her arms over her chest and began rubbing at her shoulders, as if she was suddenly cold. “And he repeated it a few more times, too – ‘I’m not the first.’ What can that mean, Giles? The first what? The first in my house? What if this has nothing to do with the de-invite? What if he or Angel found some spell or artifact that allows vampires to come and go as they please? What if there have been others in my home without me knowing? Or in other people’s houses? How am I supposed to do my job, Giles, if vamps are suddenly able to make house calls?”
She managed to fight off her rising panic at the prospect, but Giles could tell how worried Buffy really was. And rightfully so. If such a thing were possible, there were some very grave problems on the horizon. And the Slayer may not be equipped to deal with them by a mere nightly patrol of the graveyards. He worried his bottom lip between two fingers for a moment.
“There is an artifact in the Council’s records known as the Gem of Amara,” he finally said. “It was documented as being highly sought after by vampires throughout the centuries. It’s also one of the few relics we know exceptionally little about, since it was generally believed to be nothing more than a myth. I haven’t any ideas as to its supposed abilities, but since it’s been the vampire equivalent of the Holy Grail for eons, it may be in our best interest to do a bit of research.”
He didn’t have to say any more to Willow, who was sliding as many books as she could reach toward herself so that she could begin to read up on the subject. Xander also grabbed for one of the tomes, issuing a playful challenge to Willow regarding who would be the first to locate the One Gem.
Buffy glanced back up at Giles, an unspoken plea on her face, and the Watcher quietly conceded with a nod. “Perhaps it would be a good idea for me to speak to her as well,” he said, not needing to delve into who ‘she’ was. Everyone around the table knew quite well. “She was the one who gave me the book that included the eviction spell, after all. If anyone knows the details of its side effects, she would.”
Standing in what had once been a small office, which had later served as his own sleeping chamber, Spike had no trouble finding the wheelchair. It remained safely folded up and tucked away in the narrow space between the wall and a rusty filing cabinet; where he had always left it when first starting to venture out and stretch his legs. Since Angelus had insinuated himself into the bedroom Spike had previously shared with Drusilla, there had never been any difficulty stashing the bloody thing where no one would come across it.
The seclusion of his own room, bloody pit that it was, was the one thing Spike had going for him once the de-souled bastard had moved in. Too wrapped up in his own plans, Angelus had interacted very little with Spike. So had Dru for that matter, except when she decided to play her own mad version of house like he was one of her sodding dolls. And, of course, during his grandsire’s exhibitionistic displays with her, undoubtedly staged to make Spike’s unlife a hell. Whenever Spike found himself in the main room of the factory, he was subject to Angelus’ taunting, but no one went out of their way to seek him out when he was interred in his own chamber. By the time they all moved to the mansion, Spike saw Angelus and Dru even less. And what he did see always made his blood boil. For as torturous as it was, it had allowed Spike to bide his time, healing in private until he was finally ready to take matters into his own hands.
Unfolding the chair and flattening out the seat, Spike scowled at the damnable, rickety contraption. He had seen his fair share of torture devices in his time, but this was by far the worst he could imagine. A simple apparatus, it was nonetheless capable of bringing so much despair and pain. The feelings of helplessness and worthlessness that resulted from his time in the chair were comparable only to those months spent as a ghost. Blasted invalid twice over. (Not even counting his years with the sodding chip.) And the fact that he had been practically bound to bloody Angel during both these disastrous periods of his life had only served to make them that much worse. Spike wouldn’t have wished what he had gone through on his worst enemy.
Well, maybe his worst enemy. Even souled Spike wasn’t that noble. And thanks to that whole destiny whinge-fest rumpus that had led to this latest fiasco, Angel certainly wasn’t racking up the popularity points as far as Spike was concerned. Especially now that it seemed he was going to be subjected to the joy of being around Angelus until he figured out how to get himself the hell out of here.
Spike growled and settled himself in the chair, his flesh crawling with revulsion as he lowered the footrests and got a feel for working the thing again. Time travel or alternate dimension – whatever the Cup had done to send him here, it was pretty clear by now that there would be no twin version of himself showing up at the factory any time soon, which was probably a good thing. He wasn’t sure how he would explain two Spikes running around. However it had happened, he was the one and only Spike here. Therefore, he was going to have to play this as close to actual history as he could, until he managed to find a way back to where he belonged. And if that meant he needed to be periodically chair-bound . . . .
The entrance to his room creaked open, the bottom of the door dragging and scraping along the dusty concrete floor as it tilted slightly away from its broken top hinge. Spike spun himself around, both surprised and disgusted by the fact that he could still maneuver the chair easily, even after all this time. Drusilla slid lithely through the opening she had made and entered the room, swaying gracefully toward him.
Spike took in the sight of her. Even after everything that had happened between them, she had never stopped being captivatingly beautiful to him. She looked so tall, so regal, especially when looking up at her from below. It was the one vision he never minded from the chair, fleeting as it was, since the vision was usually marred by Angelus’ hands encircling her waist from behind and his grinning face appearing beside hers. Right now, however, she was alone.
Spike’s attention was momentarily diverted by a quick movement at Drusilla’s feet as she turned briefly to slide the door shut. A small brindle puppy sniffed and scampered playfully around her. Spike grinned soberly. Leave it to Dru to charm the purest of creatures into a false sense of security with her façade of mad innocence. Normally, it served her well, since she always had an insatiable appetite for children and other uncorrupted souls. It was what had gotten her into all that trouble in Prague. But Drusilla had always claimed that innocence was what made the hunt worthwhile, believing she could feed upon her victims’ purity along with their lifeblood.
A detached memory suddenly sparked in Spike’s mind, one in which Drusilla had gone after Dawn and very nearly fed off the girl. For a moment he felt sickened, even though he knew quite well that, although the image seemed vividly real, Dru had never actually laid eyes on the Nibblet. Damn, those monks had been thorough.
He watched the dog scamper around for a few more moments. It had extracted itself from Drusilla’s side and was now sniffing around the various dusty corners of Spike’s room. Although it had taken a few seconds, he remembered the animal now. ‘Sunshine,’ Dru had called it upon first bringing it to him, insisting that he needed to eat something to keep his strength up. Spike hadn’t felt much like feeding on the dog at the time – Drusilla’s constant babying nearly sending him into a rage – and the puppy had eventually been left it to its own devices. He would see it from time to time, darting about the factory or being carried around by Dru, until one day . . . when it just wasn’t there any more.
Spike felt Drusilla’s eyes on him and he broke from his reverie and glanced up at her again. Her face appeared to be filled with sympathy and affection, while her eyes danced with ubiquitous mischief. “My Spike,” she said softly, “aren’t you feeling better, sweet?”
Spike glanced down the length of his own body from his position in the chair, thinking again that it was probably lucky that she’d found him in the battered state he’d been in. If he’d been at the top of his form, it would have been a lot harder to convince both her and Angelus that he was only just healing. He shrugged. “Still not a hundred percent, pet.”
“Oh,” she murmured as empathetically as a mother comforting a child with a scraped knee, elongating the syllable as she drew closer to his right side and knelt beside his chair. On impulse, Spike turned his head away from her, partly because it was what he would have done at the time, and partly because of everything that had changed between them since then. Even if Dru was completely unaware of those changes yet.
Drusilla tsked her tongue against her upper teeth and made a wounded whimper as she reached a hand toward his averted face. She lightly caressed the cheek that was farthest away from her, tracing her fingers down the sharp plane and sliding along his neck before settling in the curved hollow of his throat. She briefly toyed inside the crevice with her fingernails, scratching softly against his skin, then brought her hand up the right side. There, she lovingly stroked her porcelain knuckles against his temple.
“My dear, strong boy,” she fussed a bit, “we’re all so happy to see you getting well again. Aren’t we, Miss Sunshine?” Her words were a caress as soft as the one gliding along his face. The dog didn’t seem to be paying much attention as it made its way back over to the door and started prodding its nose around the crack at the base, apparently looking for a way out.
Spike turned to stare straight ahead, though he still avoided looking directly at Drusilla. He felt the back of her fingers repeatedly stroke over the same area near his temple and she drew closer to his ear. He could sense her unneeded breath tickling the flesh there. “Your face is a perfect poem again,” she said and Spike abruptly recalled that she must have been referring to the disappearance of the cluster of scars he’d been graced with during the weeks and months following the accident with the organ. Unwilling to allow her to question their sudden departure, he finally turned, drawing her focus fully with his eyes.
“Still won’t be up to fighting form for a while, apparently,” he grumbled, carefully considering the disappointment and gruffness he ought to inject into both his words and his expression.
Her gaze glided over his face as softly as her fingers had done. “Taking backward steps is foolish, Spike,” she cooed. “If you’re strong enough to walk, you’ll soon be strong enough to rush and rage. No need to fret. One hurt by the wicked Slayer girl doesn’t mean you won’t soon be yourself again.”
Spike cast his eyes downward, remembering the confrontation at Buffy’s house. A house which, now that he’d thought about it, he should have never been able to enter in the first place. At this point in his history with the Slayer, he hadn’t received his first invitation yet. Not until the truce, and if he and the other vampires were still living in the factory, that was still several weeks in coming at least. A shot of pain lanced through him to recall the furious hatred shining in Buffy’s eyes a few hours ago, so unlike the last time he had seen them.
That last time, the shine had been a film of tears – a few of which, he still dared to hope, might have actually been for him.
For a moment Spike was so lost in his own thoughts, he almost missed Drusilla’s next words. “I see her blood in you.”
Spike’s eyes shot up to meet Drusilla’s again, probably a mistake if he’d taken the time to think about it. She tilted her head with that absorbing look of hers and seemed to draw all of him into herself. “Oh, yes,” she said, beaming proudly. “She’s all around you, waiting for your strength to return. And you'll have her blood -- your third Slayer.” Then Drusilla’s eyes narrowed; she looked mildly confused. “You’re stronger than you think, Spike,” she added. “There’s a light in you that wasn’t there before.”
Shit.
Spike abruptly broke contact with her, wheeling away from her touch, her gaze. If he could place the distance of the entire town between them, it still probably wouldn’t be far enough.
Shit, shit, shit.
He’d forgotten that Drusilla, the real Drusilla and not just a shadow of The First, had never seen him after he’d received the soul. It hadn’t occurred to him right away that she might be able to see, or at the very least, sense it. Harris’ demon girl had noticed it right away, and Spike was willing to bet that Dru was far more sensitive to these things than Anya.
Shit.
If he didn’t find a way out of here as soon as bloody possible, things were going to go to hell pretty damn fast. Odds were, he would only be able to keep the soul hidden from Dru for so long.
Drusilla, on the other hand, didn’t seem overly suspicious of his actions, at least not yet. She whimpered woundedly at his rejection as he distanced himself from her. Except for the occasional bark from Sunshine as the dog failed to nudge the heavy door open enough to squeeze through, the room was utterly silent.
After a few seconds of holding his unneeded breath, Spike felt Drusilla approach his chair from behind. She crouched down beside him, aligning her head beside his and sliding her hand through the collar of his t-shirt, raking her nails down the bare flesh of his chest. She seemed as playful as ever, oblivious to what Spike was really trying to hide . . . for the time being.
“No need to be cross, my Spike,” she said as she nuzzled her cheek into his. “Mummy knows you’re frustrated. But you’ll be well soon, I promise. And when you are, we’ll bathe in the blood of this town. You . . . ,” She circled the tip of her nose along the outer shell of his ear. “. . . me . . . ,” She made a gruff and mischievous growl as she snapped playfully at him with blunt teeth. “. . . and Angel.” She dragged her fingers up his chest as she removed her hand from the front of his shirt. “You’ll see.”
Drusilla rose to her feet and stepped around him toward the door. Giving Spike a sultry smile, she turned her attention to the small animal on the floor. “You stay here and keep Daddy company, Miss Sunshine,” she said, giving the dog a gentle nudge away from the door with her foot. “He needs to keep up his strength.” Then she flashed him another wicked smile, and slid out of the room.
Spike watched the empty space where Drusilla had been for a few moments. When he regained his presence of mind, he became aware of sharp canine whimpering at his feet. Glancing down, he saw Sunshine scratching at the base of the door, crying softly. Spike regarded the dog, then rose out of his chair and walked over to where the animal pawed at the cold metal of his room’s exit. Crouching to its level, he stared at the puppy until it ceased its whimpers and looked back at him. Spike reached forward and caught the dog in his hands. It squirmed slightly at first, then relaxed as he drew it toward him and rose back up to his feet, holding it close to his chest.
Dru was right about one thing. He was going to need to keep his strength up, especially after his fight with Buffy. He’d lost a lot of blood, hadn’t fed on anything since yesterday, and had been running on nothing more than bloody fumes for a good few hours now. He knew the others would go out hunting once the sun set, though he hardly thought it was likely he’d be able to convince them to stop at the local butcher shop for a pint or two of the pig variety for the souled vamp. If he was going to keep up appearances, he’d have to make it look convincingly good.
He’d also need to find a way out of here and back to where he belonged. Or, at the very least, he’d need to figure out if this was all just part of the prophecy he and Angel’d been fighting over all along. Either way, he’d need to talk to someone in the know. And, since he didn’t have the first idea where to look for poncey Percy Wyndam-Pryce at this particular point in time, right now there was only one person who might have access to the information Spike needed.
Someone who, regardless of the time period, would be less than happy to see him.
‘Course, he’d have to wait until sunset.
And – he glanced down at the contented bundle in his arms as the puppy turned its large eyes up to him – he was going to have to eat something.
To be continued . . .
