FIC: Perfect Vengeance - Chapter Six
Aug. 15th, 2005 09:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shipperxAuthor's Note: Sorry that this took so long.
Thanks so much to my betas![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fenchurche , Kathy/ raif51, rahirah, and fishsanwitt
Written as part of Buffyx's Kinkathon
The Kink: Time travel, specifically S6 Spike and Buffy in 1880s London.
Three other requests: Spike has "replaced" William, but only he and Buffy know; Buffy acknowledges real feelings for Spike (happily or reluctantly; it's your call); and Cecily eats her heart out when she realizes what she could have had.
Previous Chapters Archived Here
Rating: Currently PG
Once, just prior to World War I, Spike had chased a circus freak onto a frozen lake. Dru had developed a thing for midgets, kept saying they were like dolls only they made more noise and you could eat them. She had dressed them in white, frilly outfits and. . . Spike shuddered. It had been oddly disturbing. Even without a soul, he’d thought so. But he’d indulged her fetishes all the same -- anything for his lady.
After following his three-foot-tall quarry onto the ice, Spike had skidded to a halt, realizing that it was late April, the ice was thin, and he outweighed the fleeing midget by at least seven stone. There had been an explosion of sound, a cacophonic hybrid of thunder and fireworks as the ice split beneath his feet. He must have looked like Wile E. Coyote after Road Runner had run him past an Acme sign and off a cliff. There he’d stood, suspended in the middle of a catastrophe already set into motion, waiting for the inevitable crash.
That’s what Spike felt like now, with his mum on one side and Buffy on the other. His mum would have to be daft to accept this lie. Buffy looked about as much like a valet as…
Spike drew a blank, but it would be something very unlike a valet.
“Buford has excellent references,” he asserted.
Anne looked at him doubtfully.
“Excellent,” he repeated. “Most excellent. Remarkable, even.” Bugger. He sounded like a blithering git.
Little frown lines appeared between Buffy’s brows.
“What?” he silently mouthed.
Buffy rolled her eyes and shook her head but stilled when she noticed Anne watching her.
Anne’s gaze darted towards Spike. “Dearest, I was unaware that you were in need of a personal servant.”
Spike scratched the back of his neck. “Uh. . . well. . .” He rocked back on his heels. “You always said I needed a keeper.”
“Yes, but. . .” Anne caught Spike’s sleeve and tugged him toward the corner of the hallway. “This seems most sudden. Who is this person?”
“ ‘s all right. I know what I’m doing.” Preying on his mother’s softer side, he added, “Buford was in a bit of need. ”
His mother became more anxious. Spike knew it because she began toying with the garnet pendant that hung around her neck.
“He’s here now,” Spike said, hoping that would settle the matter.
Anne ran her thumb across the face of the burgundy-colored stone.
“It’s for the best,” he reassured.
Anne continued to look less than convinced, causing Spike to worry that her tugging on the gold chain would cause the necklace to break. His father had given her that piece of jewelry, and it would upset her terribly to lose it.
Conscience reached up and grabbed him, clenching at something deep in his chest and twisting it in a leaden fist. He remembered looping that delicate chain around Drusilla’s neck and bending over her shoulder to admire the way the jewel gleamed in the valley between her breasts.
“Pretty, pretty tears of wine and remorse,” Dru had cooed as she gazed at the stone.
Spike had kissed her neck and breathed in the scent of Absinthe and tea roses. “All for you, Pet.”
She had shaken her head. “No, not for me. Not my tears. ” Dangling the jewel from her fingertips, she had tilted her head to gaze into the refracting light as it cast tiny red-skewed rainbows across her skin. “Does it burn?”
Spike had had no idea what Dru had meant. He had never paused to ask. He’d had other pursuits on his mind.
With his arm wrapped around her waist, he’d whirled Dru in a drunken waltz around the parlor. Dizzy and giggling, they had fallen to the floor with Dru’s skirts rucked up about her hips and his trousers pushed below his knees.
Spike didn’t know what had happened to the necklace.
“William?” Anne brought him back to the moment at hand. “I do not wish to be difficult.”
Of course she didn’t, and of course she wouldn’t be. His mum was giving in. Part of him couldn’t believe it, and another part him had never expected anything else.
He wondered whether Anne was really so naïve as to accept Buffy for a man. Even dressed in his old black serge suit, with her short hair slicked back, Buffy looked about as masculine as a ten-year-old playing dress-up. But a valet required training and would be an adult. No way in hell could Buffy be mistaken for a man, so how could his mum not see what was staring her in the face?
Or was she avoiding looking at all?
People often turned mental backflips to keep their point of view from changing. Change meant uncertainty, and people liked order in their private little worlds.
Angelus had claimed it was a human weakness that predators were meant to exploit. “Their complacency is the shadow within which we hide,” he’d insisted.
“Bollocks,” Spike had scoffed.
Angelus’s face had hardened. “Show them a gentleman and they will continue to believe even as you rip their throats out. None are so blind as those who will not see.”
“And none so deaf as those who quote clichés.” Spike had made a hand pumping, jacking-off gesture. “Christ, Angelus, listen to yourself. I won’t.“
But here Spike stood --souled again-- the picture of Victorian conformity, concerned about scandal, and praying for his mum to overlook the obvious. He could almost feel himself plunging into a pit of Angel-esque self-loathing. His mum was the trusting sort, especially where he was concerned. And he was going to exploit it, not quite shamelessly, but exploit it all the same.
=Bugger.=
Anne glanced anxiously at Spike. “William?”
Desperate to end this, he decided to bluff. “We could have tea.”
Anne’s and Buffy’s eyebrows shot upward simultaneously. “Tea?!”
Buffy coughed and lowered her voice before repeating, “Tea?”
Spike nodded. “If Mother wishes to discuss your references…”
Anne’s hand fluttered to her throat. She had never been comfortable around strangers.
Buffy looked pissed. She was very good at looking pissed. Her upper lip thinned and her lower lip jutted out. Her brows drew together sharply. It was the kind of look that made Xander crack a lame joke then scurry to a corner to hide. Spike usually enjoyed provoking that look, but he noticed his mum sway on her feet.
He hurriedly led Anne to a chair and knelt in front of her. He hated cornering her like this. But... it was for Buffy.
Spike held Anne’s chilled hands between his own. “Trust me.”
“I do, dearest.” Which, to Spike’s ears, sounded more like acceptance than belief, but it would have to do.
Anne smoothed his sleeve, removed an invisible speck of lint, and adjusted his cuff. After a moment, she took a shallow breath and allowed Spike to help her to her feet. His mother might have her doubts, but she trusted him.
Trust.
How strange. It was difficult to recall anyone trusting him. Most instances had faded from memory long ago, leaving only the recent one -- Buffy standing on a stairway saying, “I need you to protect her.”
But he had failed Buffy, and she hadn’t truly trusted him since.
Sex wasn’t trust, at least not between the two of them. It was war and… something else. Something desperate. Need, maybe. Desire even, but not trust.
His mum gave a beatific smile and patted his cheek. “You’ll do the right thing, dear. You always do.”
And it struck Spike that he loved his mother. He really loved her -- not in a screwed-up way. Please. He was a lot of things, many of which were unspeakable, but he’d never harbored any desire to imitate Oedipus. Despite what Anne... no, despite what had been left of Anne had said, there had never been any incestuous subtext between them. There had only been love.
How had he forgotten that?
Well, not ‘forgotten’ exactly. He’d remembered. He had always remembered. But time and distance had stolen memory’s pain and much of its joy. Or, at least it had before he’d found himself back where it had all begun.
This was love distilled -- not combined with sex, desire, need, or desperation. It wasn’t tainted with violence or confusion. It just was. That simple. It was the bright thread running through the muddled tapestry of life. Lost in the dark, or snagged by sharp objects, it still held strong. It was something better than the rest, something which should be respected. And -- damn his newly reacquired soul -- he felt bad about lying to his mum.
The moment Spike’s bedroom door closed behind them, Buffy could no longer hold her emotions in.
“Buford?” she demanded. “You named me Buford?! At least Marty McFly got mistaken for Calvin Klein.”
“Could’ve introduced you as ‘Hanes Her Way.” Buffy glared and Spike pushed just a little harder. “Or better yet, ‘Mum, meet ‘Fredericks… of Hollywood.’ ”
“Shut up.”
Spike smirked. After dropping his jacket on the back of a chair, he crossed the room to look out the window, which gave Buffy a chance to examine her surroundings.
The darkly paneled room inspired some kind of dysphoria, something like walking into a Walmart in a strange city and finding everything almost the exactly same but different so that you became lost in the maze of aisles. This room was in London, half a world and more than a century away from a dim cavern beneath Spike’s crypt, yet there was something familiar about the huge four poster bed, goldenrod silk duvet, and dark green comfy chair nestled in the corner.
Buffy grinned and ran across the room, diving onto the bed as if she was seven years old and still prone to using a mattress for a trampoline. The bed made a muffled “whoosh” as she sank into the sensory confection of feathers and silk. She stretched like Miss Kitty Fantastico, when the cat had found a particularly pleasing patch of sunlight.
Spike’s brows rose. “Make yourself at home.”
“I intend to.” She reached out and grabbed a small black and white photograph that sat on the side table. “Who’s this?” She laughed. “That you? With all those curls, you could have given Shirley Temple a run for her money.”
“Buffy,“ Spike warned.
“You were kind of cute in short pants. Your mom was pretty too.” She glanced over at Spike. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“I don’t.” He took the photograph from Buffy.
“But—“
“She died, all right? When I was fourteen. And before you ask, my father too. Influenza epidemic.” He placed the picture frame on the dresser.
Buffy turned her head to gaze at the solemn faces in the photograph. Spike was just a kid – which still blew her mind. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and an intensely earnest expression as he held the hand of a little girl who had blonde ringlets and a frilly, white dress. Beside the children sat Spike’s mother who, as Buffy had noted, had been beautiful in her youth and who still appeared kind. To Anne’s right stood Spike’s father who, beneath a handlebar mustache and muttonchop sideburns, shared the square jaw and scimitar sharp cheekbones that made Spike so striking.
“Should I say I’m sorry?” Buffy asked, acutely aware of the pain her mother’s death had caused. “I know it’s been forever, but it seems like I should say I’m sorry.”
Spike stared at the photograph for a long moment, lines appearing between his brows. Eventually, he shook his head. “It’s been forever.”
The sudden silence in the room wigged her out. “ ‘k.” Buffy squenched her nose. “I stink.”
Spike turned his head to look at her, amusement twitching the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be wallowing in my bed.”
She ‘wallowed’ a little more. “Not a chance. For the last two weeks I’ve been sleeping on a cot-slash-torture device and you’ve had this fluffy, feathery—“ she closed her eyes and wiggled deeper into the mattress “—heaven.”
Spike caught her ankles.
“No.” Buffy gave a giggling squeal and grabbed the bedcovers as Spike dragged her across the bed. “No, no, no. It’s naptime,” she protested.
“In my bed.” He dropped her feet.
“Well, yeah. You need to learn to share.”
Then she realized where he was standing... sort of between her thighs. Her feet dangled off the side of the bed, not touching the floor and causing her to arch back just slightly. Their gazes met, making Buffy aware that the sound of their breathing filled the stillness.
She parted her lips. “I... ”
Was this happening? Again? Did she want it to?
This was supposed to be over. She’d ended it. She’d made sure of that. She’d ended it because it was the right thing to do and because she wanted it...
Wait. No. She didn’t mean that she’d ended it because she wanted it. That would be ridiculous. She’d ended it because she’d wanted it to end... didn’t she?
Buffy didn’t ask herself questions like that very often, but she could read the same question in Spike’s eyes. And part of her wanted him to do something, to take action… and responsibility so that she wouldn’t have to. She could just live in the moment, swept along by the tide.
Spike stepped away, and, suddenly embarrassed, she looked away. She sat up, pulling her legs together before scooting forward until the balls of her feet touched the floor. The silence felt awkward, so she filled it with mindless chatter.
“Did you know they make all the servants share the same bath water?” Buffy asked. “It’s disgusting. And the soap? It’s nothing you’d find at Sephora or the Body Shop is all I have to say.”
Buffy pulled her hand through her recently shortened hair. “Look at this mess. Does it look shiny and bouncy to you?”
Spike watched her in an unnervingly knowing manner. “Might not make a shampoo commercial.”
“And to top it off, I’m dressed like a man!“ She gestured to her gray and black striped trousers and black serge coat. “Sure, it’s more comfortable, but…” She looked down at herself. “You’re just lucky that I don’t have boobs.”
“Don’t see how that makes me lucky.” She shot him a body-piercing glare, which inspired him to hurriedly add, “I prefer to think of them as ‘perky’. ”
Buffy threw a pillow, which Spike caught as he collapsed into the comfy green chair. He braced his feet against the bed rails.
“Thought of a way to find the Council,” he told her.
“Find out who owns the land where the Council is being built?”
Spike looked nonplussed for a moment. “Guess we could.” With an unholy glint in his eyes, he leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, and rubbed his hands together with something that looked like glee. “Was thinking of something a bit more fun though.”
“Why is it always tunnels?” Buffy grumbled as she followed Spike down a spiral staircase whose stone-faced entrance stood on the bank of the Thames opposite the Tower of London.
Spike explained, “It’s damp. It’s dark. It provides a place for a demon to hide.”
“And this finds the Council how?”
Spike paused on the stairs. ”There’s a murdering demon running around London. The Watchers should be watching.”
Buffy pushed by Spike. “Let me take the lead.”
“Wha—“
“I don’t like following, okay? Makes me all itchy.”
“ ’course.” As she moved down the stairs, Spike admired the way her trousers neatly cupped her ass. It was the best fringe benefit of being her backup.
They descended the dingy shaft, which sweated condensation that trickled down the walls to the algae-covered steps. When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, they discovered an opening that looked like an enormous iron pipe. It was large enough for a man to stand upright in it, and it descended further, going beneath the river.
They stood in a pool of weakly flickering gaslight that lost most of its battle against the fog, which floated down the steps in the quickly cooling evening air. The tunnel had an almost palpable sense of unease as the floor swayed and creaked like an old, rusted ship.
“Geez,” Buffy breathed. “You know how to take a girl sight-seeing. I feel like I’m going into the boiler room of the Titanic.” She skidded on the slime-covered floor. “After it sank.”
“Disappointed you can’t find that wanker Leonardo DiCaprio?” Spike approached the tunnel’s entrance.
Buffy touched the water-slicked walls and appeared nervous. “If this thing sprang a leak, it would kill us, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s not gonna spring a leak any time soon.”
She raised her brows. “So speaks the vampire from the future?”
He suddenly focused on her intently. “Not feeling claustrophobic are you?” The tunnel’s ceiling stood barely a foot over his head.
She laughed unconvincingly. “Funny how that happens after you dig yourself out of your own grave.“
He waited, and, after a moment, she stepped forward. He now walked by her side, despite the close quarters… or maybe because of it. “Gets easier,” he said softly.
“With time?”
Spike shook his head. “When you stop letting yourself think about it.” He wished he had a better answer, wished that he knew what to say to make things easier for her. But he could never seem to reach her or say what he wanted to and have the words come out right.
Buffy asked, ”How far does this go, anyway?”
“ ‘bout a mile. Comes out near the Tower. Originally supposed to have a tram in it, but couldn’t make a go of it. Not enough people willing to try the omnibus.” He paused then added, “Or able to pay for it.” He surveyed the tunnel. “This got left to those brave or desperate enough to walk it.”
Buffy squinted as if she was trying to see more deeply into the darkness. “You think we really can find Halfrek’s monster here?”
Spike shrugged. “Here or at either end. Makes a nice trap.”
She paused, then ventured, “Which you know from personal experience?”
He didn’t answer. Goddamned, bloody soul choked him, making him ache… because it was God damned and bloody. He saw it clearly now. He saw himself as the monster Buffy must see. And he recognized how daft he had been to believe that the two of them could somehow come together in any real way.
“I could never be your girl,” she had screamed in a fit of self-loathing.
He hadn’t understood self-loathing then, not what it felt like. He did now, and it left him as mangled inside as he had been on the outside when she had yelled the words.
Spike shook off the pending melancholy before it overtook him. He wasn’t about to become like the poof. He’d be better served fixing what he could than ripping his soul to pieces mourning things he couldn’t change.
Heading the list things to be fixed was finding a way to send Buffy home.
Spike said, “If the red-eyed beastie doesn’t show up here. I have other places to look.”
But a scuttling sound in the shadows gave Spike hope of finding what they searched for.
The gas lamps ahead of them flickered, yellow-orange flames shrinking to pinpoints of light. Then, they went out. Blackness. “Dousing the lights,” Spike observed.
“It’s that smart? How did Goat-beast get to be that smart?”
“Knew enough to jump in the river to get away. Doesn’t take great strategy to turn out the lights. Predators are better in the dark.”
“So speaks a predator,” Buffy breathed.
“Just so.”
“Okay,” Buffy said to herself. “Okay, “ she said more confidently. “I’d say spread out so we could come at it from two sides, but there’s nowhere to go.”
“Always preferred a frontal assault, m’self.”
“You would.”
Spike wished he had retained his vampiric night vision. Light was dim where they stood because the only remaining gas lamps were behind them, ahead of them fog and night formed an illusory raven-colored wall.
“That you with the heavy breathing?” Buffy asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
They stood poised to descend into the obsidian depths, listening for noises to warn them of an attack. But it wasn’t easy with the metal walls amplifying the sounds of dripping water and the scuttling of whatever lurked beyond their sight.
Spike’s eyes strained against the darkness, only to find more dark. But there was something he couldn’t see making low, animalistic noises. The beastie was here, and it was waiting.
“So what do we do? Spook it?” Buffy asked.
“Dunno.”
“I say spook it.”
Suddenly, the goat-thing charged from its hiding place. Its eyes glowed red beneath black, curled horns as viscous drool dripped from its jowls. Spike launched himself at the creature, throwing a hard right punch to its jaw, but the monster countered Spike’s attack with a full-body tackle that sent the erstwhile vampire flying further into the darkness, landing with a thud against the metal floor. Buffy jumped onto the demon’s back.
The were-goat/satyr/whatever-it-was roared as Buffy wrapped her arms around its neck. It stumbled backward, slamming Buffy into the wall. Spike heard her grunt as the air rushed out of her lungs. The creature reared up and slammed her again.
“Buffy!” Spike leapt to his feet, charging the animal, which turned with lightning speed to focus its attention on Spike. “That’s right, goat-beast. Take a shot at the Big Bad.”
It charged, trampling over Spike like some Clydesdale-goat hybrid before it disappeared into the pitch-black darkness, heading towards the Tower.
Buffy moaned and curled into the fetal position, ignoring the puddles of rank water on the floor. “That was successful,” she snarked.
“Which part? You getting your ass kicked or watching mine?” Spike crawled over to where she lay on the floor.
“Couldn’t really see you get your ass kicked. I enjoyed imagining it, though.”
“You would.” Spike climbed to his feet and offered his hand. Belatedly realizing that she couldn’t see it, he blindly found her shoulder and hauled her up. “So what do you want to do now? Retreat and try to think of a new plan?”
Buffy swiped at the muck that ran down her trousers. “What? Us? Are you kidding?”
“Right. We suck at plans.”
“Excuse me? My plans work,” she said indignantly.
“Because you kick ass. Your plans still suck.”
Buffy sniffed. “Yeah, well, all that matters is that they work.” After a moment she asked, “Want to go on the count of three?”
“Sure.”
“One. Two—“
“Three!” Spike charged recklessly through the dark.
“Hey!” she yelled. “I’m supposed to lead!” Their voices echoed down the corridor, the walls reverberating and multiplying the noise until they reached the puddle of weak light spilling down another stone staircase. They took the steps in a run, emerging only yards away from the Tower of London’s outer walls. The were-goat was nowhere in sight.
“Bugger,” Spike cursed.
“Where did it go?” Buffy demanded. “We did not let it get away again.”
“ ‘course we didn’t.”
“We didn’t!” she insisted as she turned around. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”
But all she could see were soot-blackened stonewalls and low-lying fog. Without the tunnel magnifying every sound, the world suddenly became unnervingly quiet. Any noise would have been welcome, even the scurrying of rats as fog glowed blue-white in the moonlight, drifting silently over the ground and water, and seeping through the deserted gate. Visitors to the Tower had left long ago.
“Goody. More sightseeing.” Buffy infused her words with equal parts sarcasm and delight. She glanced back at Spike. “Think we could see the crown jewels?”
“Might have to work our way past a few guards.”
She made a face and shook her head. “Beefeaters and crown jewels. The jokes are just too easy.”
Spike paused, looking a bit like a Golden Lab who had heard a bird in the bushes. “Hear that?” he asked.
She heard a muffled, familiar roar in the distance.
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” she wailed. “It’s inside the Tower?”
Spike gazed at the walls bounding the wide lawn, which, until a few decades earlier, had been the moat. “Looks like we’re going to have to jump the fence.”
Stepping back, he took a running start before leaping to grab the upper rail of the wrought iron gate and swinging himself into the air with the acrobatic grace of an Olympic gymnast. With sure-footed dexterity, he landed on top of the moat’s outer wall.
“I see the vampire is still in there,” Buffy said as she jumped to grasp Spike’s offered hand. He pulled her up beside him.
“Did you ever doubt it?” he asked.
They moved along the wall, looking for a grassy spot to land inside the Tower.
“See anything?” Buffy asked.
“No goats who could be professional wrestlers, if that’s what you’re askin’. ” He dropped inside the Tower. “ ‘spose we walk around and –“
An arrow whizzed past Spike’s ear. “Bollocks!” He dove for the ground.
Buffy couldn’t believe it. “It’s got a crossbow now?” She stepped off the wall to land in a crouch next to Spike. “Goats aren’t supposed to carry weapons. Where did it get a weapon?”
One of Spike’s dark brows lowered in a scowl while the other arched as if he couldn’t believe she’d ask such a question.
“What?” she demanded.
A dark-haired, dark-skinned man (in possession of a very large crossbow) emerged from the shadows. “What do you boys believe you are doing?”
Buffy stood, stretching to her full five-feet-and-almost-nothing in height, to face the stranger with the mellifluous accent. She recognized the accent. It was the same as the T.A. in Calculus 121. This guy was Indian.
“Watcher,” Spike whispered.
Buffy asked, “Are you sure?”
He nodded.
She frowned. “How can you—“
The Watcher strode forward. “Do you know the danger you were in?”
“Got an idea.” Spike stood, brushing himself off. “Bloody well took you long enough.”
The Watcher frowned and raised his crossbow again.
“Way to go, Spike,” Buffy snapped. “Piss off the Watcher.”
The corner of Spike’s mouth lifted in the hint of a smirk. “ ’s what I do.” Then something caught his attention. He pointed to a shadow moving swiftly across the courtyard. “That’s it.” When he moved to chase after the monster, the Watcher cocked his crossbow.
“You blinkered git!” Spike protested. “That’s it! That’s what we’re after.” The Watcher didn’t respond. “Bugger it,” Spike said and took off after his quarry.
“Don’t shoot!” Buffy ordered, suddenly terrified that the Watcher would target Spike. “He’s helping. He—“
She heard the goat-thing bellow, and she was out of words. She chased after Spike aware that the Watcher was running after her. =At least I don’t have an arrow in my back,= she thought.
“Sonofabitch!” Spike cursed. “It bit me!”
When she caught up to Spike, Buffy found him with his hand clamped over the back of his neck. “How bad is it?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine. Go after it.”
“Let me see.” She grabbed Spike’s hand and lifted it to reveal the bloody wound. “You’ll live.”
Spike snorted. “Like I said, go after it.”
“Who are the two of you?” The Watcher demanded breathlessly.
A chill wind blew off the river, whipping Buffy’s clothes around her. “I’m the Slayer.” She was surprised to discover that she was a little proud of that fact.
The Watcher shook his head. “No, you are not.”
“Huh?”
“You cannot be the Slayer.”
“Bloody hell.” Spike paced in a small circle and glared at Buffy. “If you aren’t going after it, I will.”
“I’m going after it,” she insisted... to Spike’s back. “Damnit!” She glowered at the Watcher. “And I am so the Slayer.” She took off after Spike.
The wind lifted the fog and she saw the creature tearing down the courtyard, heading toward the river. Picking up speed, she passed Spike to dive head first at the horned goat, grabbing the creature around its neck and using her full body weight to drive it to the ground. They landed together on the pavement with a fleshy thunk.
Buffy quickly rolled over but the goat-thing was just as fast. As soon as she rose to her feet, it tackled her, driving her down. The beast screamed as one, two, three bolts from the crossbow embedded in its back. The monster contorted, reaching for the projectiles, like Buffy would reach for an ill-placed zipper on the back of a dress.
She kicked the monster off. But, instead of falling back and impaling itself, the goat somehow stumbled until it found its footing. Goat-thing bellowed and started a lumbering run towards a stone-archway, topped at one end by a building made of plaster and aged-wood timbers.
“It’s making a break for the Traitor’s Gate. Gets there and we’ll lose it in the Thames,” Spike said as he ran by Buffy.
Buffy couldn’t believe it. Was this an amphibian goat-thing? “Not again,” Legs pumping, she followed Spike between soot-darkened buildings. “I don’t care if I get typhoid jumping into the river, it’s not getting away!” she yelled.
Hairy, filthy, wounded, and cornered, the beast pulled at the timber crossbars holding the vertical iron bars of the Traitor’s Gate as it screamed in frustration. Then it turned, glaring at her with glowing red eyes and bloody teeth.
“Wait!” the Watcher cried out behind her.
“Are you kidding?!” Buffy looked at the hulking monster. “No easy way to do this, I guess.” With a roundhouse kick, she knocked the creature into the gate, still not impaling it, but the arrows did trap it there.
“You’re ugly.” Hard right punch. “You stink.” Foot stomp on the creature’s instep --uh -- hoof. “And you made me crawl in muck.” Sharp elbow to the solar plexus. “Twice!” And knee to the groin.
The beast howled as it shoved her back. Buffy landed on her butt on the grass. Goat-thing jerked forward, tearing the arrows out of its back, its infuriated scream echoing in the tower as its eyes burned a brighter, demonic red. A whirring sound and another bolt stabbed into its shoulder, then another, and another. Distracted from Buffy, the monster charged the Indian Watcher now tormenting it.
“Run!” Buffy screamed as the Watcher struggled to load another bolt into the crossbow. “You can’t fight it!”
The beast caught the Watcher’s arm, and Buffy heard a crack. She really hoped it was the crossbow that had made that sound.
Spike leapt onto the monster’s back and, with ruthless speed, twisted the creature’s head, snapping its neck, and killing it instantly.
Goat-thing fell with a dull thud onto the sod, a last long sigh of breath dissipating in blue-white mist.
“I could have killed it,” Buffy complained.
“Took too long,” Spike countered. “Got impatient.”
“Yeah, but I’m the Slayer.”
The Watcher, gripping his left shoulder with his right hand, approached them, his gaze never leaving Buffy. “You cannot be the Slayer.”
“Yuh-huh,” she protested. “Well, maybe not the one you know but--“
“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “The Slayer is dead.”
TBC...
Thanks so much to my betas
fenchurche , Kathy/ raif51, rahirah, and fishsanwittWritten as part of Buffyx's Kinkathon
The Kink: Time travel, specifically S6 Spike and Buffy in 1880s London.
Three other requests: Spike has "replaced" William, but only he and Buffy know; Buffy acknowledges real feelings for Spike (happily or reluctantly; it's your call); and Cecily eats her heart out when she realizes what she could have had.
Previous Chapters Archived Here
Rating: Currently PG
CHAPTER SIX
Once, just prior to World War I, Spike had chased a circus freak onto a frozen lake. Dru had developed a thing for midgets, kept saying they were like dolls only they made more noise and you could eat them. She had dressed them in white, frilly outfits and. . . Spike shuddered. It had been oddly disturbing. Even without a soul, he’d thought so. But he’d indulged her fetishes all the same -- anything for his lady.
After following his three-foot-tall quarry onto the ice, Spike had skidded to a halt, realizing that it was late April, the ice was thin, and he outweighed the fleeing midget by at least seven stone. There had been an explosion of sound, a cacophonic hybrid of thunder and fireworks as the ice split beneath his feet. He must have looked like Wile E. Coyote after Road Runner had run him past an Acme sign and off a cliff. There he’d stood, suspended in the middle of a catastrophe already set into motion, waiting for the inevitable crash.
That’s what Spike felt like now, with his mum on one side and Buffy on the other. His mum would have to be daft to accept this lie. Buffy looked about as much like a valet as…
Spike drew a blank, but it would be something very unlike a valet.
“Buford has excellent references,” he asserted.
Anne looked at him doubtfully.
“Excellent,” he repeated. “Most excellent. Remarkable, even.” Bugger. He sounded like a blithering git.
Little frown lines appeared between Buffy’s brows.
“What?” he silently mouthed.
Buffy rolled her eyes and shook her head but stilled when she noticed Anne watching her.
Anne’s gaze darted towards Spike. “Dearest, I was unaware that you were in need of a personal servant.”
Spike scratched the back of his neck. “Uh. . . well. . .” He rocked back on his heels. “You always said I needed a keeper.”
“Yes, but. . .” Anne caught Spike’s sleeve and tugged him toward the corner of the hallway. “This seems most sudden. Who is this person?”
“ ‘s all right. I know what I’m doing.” Preying on his mother’s softer side, he added, “Buford was in a bit of need. ”
His mother became more anxious. Spike knew it because she began toying with the garnet pendant that hung around her neck.
“He’s here now,” Spike said, hoping that would settle the matter.
Anne ran her thumb across the face of the burgundy-colored stone.
“It’s for the best,” he reassured.
Anne continued to look less than convinced, causing Spike to worry that her tugging on the gold chain would cause the necklace to break. His father had given her that piece of jewelry, and it would upset her terribly to lose it.
Conscience reached up and grabbed him, clenching at something deep in his chest and twisting it in a leaden fist. He remembered looping that delicate chain around Drusilla’s neck and bending over her shoulder to admire the way the jewel gleamed in the valley between her breasts.
“Pretty, pretty tears of wine and remorse,” Dru had cooed as she gazed at the stone.
Spike had kissed her neck and breathed in the scent of Absinthe and tea roses. “All for you, Pet.”
She had shaken her head. “No, not for me. Not my tears. ” Dangling the jewel from her fingertips, she had tilted her head to gaze into the refracting light as it cast tiny red-skewed rainbows across her skin. “Does it burn?”
Spike had had no idea what Dru had meant. He had never paused to ask. He’d had other pursuits on his mind.
With his arm wrapped around her waist, he’d whirled Dru in a drunken waltz around the parlor. Dizzy and giggling, they had fallen to the floor with Dru’s skirts rucked up about her hips and his trousers pushed below his knees.
Spike didn’t know what had happened to the necklace.
“William?” Anne brought him back to the moment at hand. “I do not wish to be difficult.”
Of course she didn’t, and of course she wouldn’t be. His mum was giving in. Part of him couldn’t believe it, and another part him had never expected anything else.
He wondered whether Anne was really so naïve as to accept Buffy for a man. Even dressed in his old black serge suit, with her short hair slicked back, Buffy looked about as masculine as a ten-year-old playing dress-up. But a valet required training and would be an adult. No way in hell could Buffy be mistaken for a man, so how could his mum not see what was staring her in the face?
Or was she avoiding looking at all?
People often turned mental backflips to keep their point of view from changing. Change meant uncertainty, and people liked order in their private little worlds.
Angelus had claimed it was a human weakness that predators were meant to exploit. “Their complacency is the shadow within which we hide,” he’d insisted.
“Bollocks,” Spike had scoffed.
Angelus’s face had hardened. “Show them a gentleman and they will continue to believe even as you rip their throats out. None are so blind as those who will not see.”
“And none so deaf as those who quote clichés.” Spike had made a hand pumping, jacking-off gesture. “Christ, Angelus, listen to yourself. I won’t.“
But here Spike stood --souled again-- the picture of Victorian conformity, concerned about scandal, and praying for his mum to overlook the obvious. He could almost feel himself plunging into a pit of Angel-esque self-loathing. His mum was the trusting sort, especially where he was concerned. And he was going to exploit it, not quite shamelessly, but exploit it all the same.
=Bugger.=
Anne glanced anxiously at Spike. “William?”
Desperate to end this, he decided to bluff. “We could have tea.”
Anne’s and Buffy’s eyebrows shot upward simultaneously. “Tea?!”
Buffy coughed and lowered her voice before repeating, “Tea?”
Spike nodded. “If Mother wishes to discuss your references…”
Anne’s hand fluttered to her throat. She had never been comfortable around strangers.
Buffy looked pissed. She was very good at looking pissed. Her upper lip thinned and her lower lip jutted out. Her brows drew together sharply. It was the kind of look that made Xander crack a lame joke then scurry to a corner to hide. Spike usually enjoyed provoking that look, but he noticed his mum sway on her feet.
He hurriedly led Anne to a chair and knelt in front of her. He hated cornering her like this. But... it was for Buffy.
Spike held Anne’s chilled hands between his own. “Trust me.”
“I do, dearest.” Which, to Spike’s ears, sounded more like acceptance than belief, but it would have to do.
Anne smoothed his sleeve, removed an invisible speck of lint, and adjusted his cuff. After a moment, she took a shallow breath and allowed Spike to help her to her feet. His mother might have her doubts, but she trusted him.
Trust.
How strange. It was difficult to recall anyone trusting him. Most instances had faded from memory long ago, leaving only the recent one -- Buffy standing on a stairway saying, “I need you to protect her.”
But he had failed Buffy, and she hadn’t truly trusted him since.
Sex wasn’t trust, at least not between the two of them. It was war and… something else. Something desperate. Need, maybe. Desire even, but not trust.
His mum gave a beatific smile and patted his cheek. “You’ll do the right thing, dear. You always do.”
And it struck Spike that he loved his mother. He really loved her -- not in a screwed-up way. Please. He was a lot of things, many of which were unspeakable, but he’d never harbored any desire to imitate Oedipus. Despite what Anne... no, despite what had been left of Anne had said, there had never been any incestuous subtext between them. There had only been love.
How had he forgotten that?
Well, not ‘forgotten’ exactly. He’d remembered. He had always remembered. But time and distance had stolen memory’s pain and much of its joy. Or, at least it had before he’d found himself back where it had all begun.
This was love distilled -- not combined with sex, desire, need, or desperation. It wasn’t tainted with violence or confusion. It just was. That simple. It was the bright thread running through the muddled tapestry of life. Lost in the dark, or snagged by sharp objects, it still held strong. It was something better than the rest, something which should be respected. And -- damn his newly reacquired soul -- he felt bad about lying to his mum.
The moment Spike’s bedroom door closed behind them, Buffy could no longer hold her emotions in.
“Buford?” she demanded. “You named me Buford?! At least Marty McFly got mistaken for Calvin Klein.”
“Could’ve introduced you as ‘Hanes Her Way.” Buffy glared and Spike pushed just a little harder. “Or better yet, ‘Mum, meet ‘Fredericks… of Hollywood.’ ”
“Shut up.”
Spike smirked. After dropping his jacket on the back of a chair, he crossed the room to look out the window, which gave Buffy a chance to examine her surroundings.
The darkly paneled room inspired some kind of dysphoria, something like walking into a Walmart in a strange city and finding everything almost the exactly same but different so that you became lost in the maze of aisles. This room was in London, half a world and more than a century away from a dim cavern beneath Spike’s crypt, yet there was something familiar about the huge four poster bed, goldenrod silk duvet, and dark green comfy chair nestled in the corner.
Buffy grinned and ran across the room, diving onto the bed as if she was seven years old and still prone to using a mattress for a trampoline. The bed made a muffled “whoosh” as she sank into the sensory confection of feathers and silk. She stretched like Miss Kitty Fantastico, when the cat had found a particularly pleasing patch of sunlight.
Spike’s brows rose. “Make yourself at home.”
“I intend to.” She reached out and grabbed a small black and white photograph that sat on the side table. “Who’s this?” She laughed. “That you? With all those curls, you could have given Shirley Temple a run for her money.”
“Buffy,“ Spike warned.
“You were kind of cute in short pants. Your mom was pretty too.” She glanced over at Spike. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”
“I don’t.” He took the photograph from Buffy.
“But—“
“She died, all right? When I was fourteen. And before you ask, my father too. Influenza epidemic.” He placed the picture frame on the dresser.
Buffy turned her head to gaze at the solemn faces in the photograph. Spike was just a kid – which still blew her mind. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and an intensely earnest expression as he held the hand of a little girl who had blonde ringlets and a frilly, white dress. Beside the children sat Spike’s mother who, as Buffy had noted, had been beautiful in her youth and who still appeared kind. To Anne’s right stood Spike’s father who, beneath a handlebar mustache and muttonchop sideburns, shared the square jaw and scimitar sharp cheekbones that made Spike so striking.
“Should I say I’m sorry?” Buffy asked, acutely aware of the pain her mother’s death had caused. “I know it’s been forever, but it seems like I should say I’m sorry.”
Spike stared at the photograph for a long moment, lines appearing between his brows. Eventually, he shook his head. “It’s been forever.”
The sudden silence in the room wigged her out. “ ‘k.” Buffy squenched her nose. “I stink.”
Spike turned his head to look at her, amusement twitching the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be wallowing in my bed.”
She ‘wallowed’ a little more. “Not a chance. For the last two weeks I’ve been sleeping on a cot-slash-torture device and you’ve had this fluffy, feathery—“ she closed her eyes and wiggled deeper into the mattress “—heaven.”
Spike caught her ankles.
“No.” Buffy gave a giggling squeal and grabbed the bedcovers as Spike dragged her across the bed. “No, no, no. It’s naptime,” she protested.
“In my bed.” He dropped her feet.
“Well, yeah. You need to learn to share.”
Then she realized where he was standing... sort of between her thighs. Her feet dangled off the side of the bed, not touching the floor and causing her to arch back just slightly. Their gazes met, making Buffy aware that the sound of their breathing filled the stillness.
She parted her lips. “I... ”
Was this happening? Again? Did she want it to?
This was supposed to be over. She’d ended it. She’d made sure of that. She’d ended it because it was the right thing to do and because she wanted it...
Wait. No. She didn’t mean that she’d ended it because she wanted it. That would be ridiculous. She’d ended it because she’d wanted it to end... didn’t she?
Buffy didn’t ask herself questions like that very often, but she could read the same question in Spike’s eyes. And part of her wanted him to do something, to take action… and responsibility so that she wouldn’t have to. She could just live in the moment, swept along by the tide.
Spike stepped away, and, suddenly embarrassed, she looked away. She sat up, pulling her legs together before scooting forward until the balls of her feet touched the floor. The silence felt awkward, so she filled it with mindless chatter.
“Did you know they make all the servants share the same bath water?” Buffy asked. “It’s disgusting. And the soap? It’s nothing you’d find at Sephora or the Body Shop is all I have to say.”
Buffy pulled her hand through her recently shortened hair. “Look at this mess. Does it look shiny and bouncy to you?”
Spike watched her in an unnervingly knowing manner. “Might not make a shampoo commercial.”
“And to top it off, I’m dressed like a man!“ She gestured to her gray and black striped trousers and black serge coat. “Sure, it’s more comfortable, but…” She looked down at herself. “You’re just lucky that I don’t have boobs.”
“Don’t see how that makes me lucky.” She shot him a body-piercing glare, which inspired him to hurriedly add, “I prefer to think of them as ‘perky’. ”
Buffy threw a pillow, which Spike caught as he collapsed into the comfy green chair. He braced his feet against the bed rails.
“Thought of a way to find the Council,” he told her.
“Find out who owns the land where the Council is being built?”
Spike looked nonplussed for a moment. “Guess we could.” With an unholy glint in his eyes, he leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, and rubbed his hands together with something that looked like glee. “Was thinking of something a bit more fun though.”
“Why is it always tunnels?” Buffy grumbled as she followed Spike down a spiral staircase whose stone-faced entrance stood on the bank of the Thames opposite the Tower of London.
Spike explained, “It’s damp. It’s dark. It provides a place for a demon to hide.”
“And this finds the Council how?”
Spike paused on the stairs. ”There’s a murdering demon running around London. The Watchers should be watching.”
Buffy pushed by Spike. “Let me take the lead.”
“Wha—“
“I don’t like following, okay? Makes me all itchy.”
“ ’course.” As she moved down the stairs, Spike admired the way her trousers neatly cupped her ass. It was the best fringe benefit of being her backup.
They descended the dingy shaft, which sweated condensation that trickled down the walls to the algae-covered steps. When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, they discovered an opening that looked like an enormous iron pipe. It was large enough for a man to stand upright in it, and it descended further, going beneath the river.
They stood in a pool of weakly flickering gaslight that lost most of its battle against the fog, which floated down the steps in the quickly cooling evening air. The tunnel had an almost palpable sense of unease as the floor swayed and creaked like an old, rusted ship.
“Geez,” Buffy breathed. “You know how to take a girl sight-seeing. I feel like I’m going into the boiler room of the Titanic.” She skidded on the slime-covered floor. “After it sank.”
“Disappointed you can’t find that wanker Leonardo DiCaprio?” Spike approached the tunnel’s entrance.
Buffy touched the water-slicked walls and appeared nervous. “If this thing sprang a leak, it would kill us, wouldn’t it?”
“It’s not gonna spring a leak any time soon.”
She raised her brows. “So speaks the vampire from the future?”
He suddenly focused on her intently. “Not feeling claustrophobic are you?” The tunnel’s ceiling stood barely a foot over his head.
She laughed unconvincingly. “Funny how that happens after you dig yourself out of your own grave.“
He waited, and, after a moment, she stepped forward. He now walked by her side, despite the close quarters… or maybe because of it. “Gets easier,” he said softly.
“With time?”
Spike shook his head. “When you stop letting yourself think about it.” He wished he had a better answer, wished that he knew what to say to make things easier for her. But he could never seem to reach her or say what he wanted to and have the words come out right.
Buffy asked, ”How far does this go, anyway?”
“ ‘bout a mile. Comes out near the Tower. Originally supposed to have a tram in it, but couldn’t make a go of it. Not enough people willing to try the omnibus.” He paused then added, “Or able to pay for it.” He surveyed the tunnel. “This got left to those brave or desperate enough to walk it.”
Buffy squinted as if she was trying to see more deeply into the darkness. “You think we really can find Halfrek’s monster here?”
Spike shrugged. “Here or at either end. Makes a nice trap.”
She paused, then ventured, “Which you know from personal experience?”
He didn’t answer. Goddamned, bloody soul choked him, making him ache… because it was God damned and bloody. He saw it clearly now. He saw himself as the monster Buffy must see. And he recognized how daft he had been to believe that the two of them could somehow come together in any real way.
“I could never be your girl,” she had screamed in a fit of self-loathing.
He hadn’t understood self-loathing then, not what it felt like. He did now, and it left him as mangled inside as he had been on the outside when she had yelled the words.
Spike shook off the pending melancholy before it overtook him. He wasn’t about to become like the poof. He’d be better served fixing what he could than ripping his soul to pieces mourning things he couldn’t change.
Heading the list things to be fixed was finding a way to send Buffy home.
Spike said, “If the red-eyed beastie doesn’t show up here. I have other places to look.”
But a scuttling sound in the shadows gave Spike hope of finding what they searched for.
The gas lamps ahead of them flickered, yellow-orange flames shrinking to pinpoints of light. Then, they went out. Blackness. “Dousing the lights,” Spike observed.
“It’s that smart? How did Goat-beast get to be that smart?”
“Knew enough to jump in the river to get away. Doesn’t take great strategy to turn out the lights. Predators are better in the dark.”
“So speaks a predator,” Buffy breathed.
“Just so.”
“Okay,” Buffy said to herself. “Okay, “ she said more confidently. “I’d say spread out so we could come at it from two sides, but there’s nowhere to go.”
“Always preferred a frontal assault, m’self.”
“You would.”
Spike wished he had retained his vampiric night vision. Light was dim where they stood because the only remaining gas lamps were behind them, ahead of them fog and night formed an illusory raven-colored wall.
“That you with the heavy breathing?” Buffy asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
They stood poised to descend into the obsidian depths, listening for noises to warn them of an attack. But it wasn’t easy with the metal walls amplifying the sounds of dripping water and the scuttling of whatever lurked beyond their sight.
Spike’s eyes strained against the darkness, only to find more dark. But there was something he couldn’t see making low, animalistic noises. The beastie was here, and it was waiting.
“So what do we do? Spook it?” Buffy asked.
“Dunno.”
“I say spook it.”
Suddenly, the goat-thing charged from its hiding place. Its eyes glowed red beneath black, curled horns as viscous drool dripped from its jowls. Spike launched himself at the creature, throwing a hard right punch to its jaw, but the monster countered Spike’s attack with a full-body tackle that sent the erstwhile vampire flying further into the darkness, landing with a thud against the metal floor. Buffy jumped onto the demon’s back.
The were-goat/satyr/whatever-it-was roared as Buffy wrapped her arms around its neck. It stumbled backward, slamming Buffy into the wall. Spike heard her grunt as the air rushed out of her lungs. The creature reared up and slammed her again.
“Buffy!” Spike leapt to his feet, charging the animal, which turned with lightning speed to focus its attention on Spike. “That’s right, goat-beast. Take a shot at the Big Bad.”
It charged, trampling over Spike like some Clydesdale-goat hybrid before it disappeared into the pitch-black darkness, heading towards the Tower.
Buffy moaned and curled into the fetal position, ignoring the puddles of rank water on the floor. “That was successful,” she snarked.
“Which part? You getting your ass kicked or watching mine?” Spike crawled over to where she lay on the floor.
“Couldn’t really see you get your ass kicked. I enjoyed imagining it, though.”
“You would.” Spike climbed to his feet and offered his hand. Belatedly realizing that she couldn’t see it, he blindly found her shoulder and hauled her up. “So what do you want to do now? Retreat and try to think of a new plan?”
Buffy swiped at the muck that ran down her trousers. “What? Us? Are you kidding?”
“Right. We suck at plans.”
“Excuse me? My plans work,” she said indignantly.
“Because you kick ass. Your plans still suck.”
Buffy sniffed. “Yeah, well, all that matters is that they work.” After a moment she asked, “Want to go on the count of three?”
“Sure.”
“One. Two—“
“Three!” Spike charged recklessly through the dark.
“Hey!” she yelled. “I’m supposed to lead!” Their voices echoed down the corridor, the walls reverberating and multiplying the noise until they reached the puddle of weak light spilling down another stone staircase. They took the steps in a run, emerging only yards away from the Tower of London’s outer walls. The were-goat was nowhere in sight.
“Bugger,” Spike cursed.
“Where did it go?” Buffy demanded. “We did not let it get away again.”
“ ‘course we didn’t.”
“We didn’t!” she insisted as she turned around. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”
But all she could see were soot-blackened stonewalls and low-lying fog. Without the tunnel magnifying every sound, the world suddenly became unnervingly quiet. Any noise would have been welcome, even the scurrying of rats as fog glowed blue-white in the moonlight, drifting silently over the ground and water, and seeping through the deserted gate. Visitors to the Tower had left long ago.
“Goody. More sightseeing.” Buffy infused her words with equal parts sarcasm and delight. She glanced back at Spike. “Think we could see the crown jewels?”
“Might have to work our way past a few guards.”
She made a face and shook her head. “Beefeaters and crown jewels. The jokes are just too easy.”
Spike paused, looking a bit like a Golden Lab who had heard a bird in the bushes. “Hear that?” he asked.
She heard a muffled, familiar roar in the distance.
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” she wailed. “It’s inside the Tower?”
Spike gazed at the walls bounding the wide lawn, which, until a few decades earlier, had been the moat. “Looks like we’re going to have to jump the fence.”
Stepping back, he took a running start before leaping to grab the upper rail of the wrought iron gate and swinging himself into the air with the acrobatic grace of an Olympic gymnast. With sure-footed dexterity, he landed on top of the moat’s outer wall.
“I see the vampire is still in there,” Buffy said as she jumped to grasp Spike’s offered hand. He pulled her up beside him.
“Did you ever doubt it?” he asked.
They moved along the wall, looking for a grassy spot to land inside the Tower.
“See anything?” Buffy asked.
“No goats who could be professional wrestlers, if that’s what you’re askin’. ” He dropped inside the Tower. “ ‘spose we walk around and –“
An arrow whizzed past Spike’s ear. “Bollocks!” He dove for the ground.
Buffy couldn’t believe it. “It’s got a crossbow now?” She stepped off the wall to land in a crouch next to Spike. “Goats aren’t supposed to carry weapons. Where did it get a weapon?”
One of Spike’s dark brows lowered in a scowl while the other arched as if he couldn’t believe she’d ask such a question.
“What?” she demanded.
A dark-haired, dark-skinned man (in possession of a very large crossbow) emerged from the shadows. “What do you boys believe you are doing?”
Buffy stood, stretching to her full five-feet-and-almost-nothing in height, to face the stranger with the mellifluous accent. She recognized the accent. It was the same as the T.A. in Calculus 121. This guy was Indian.
“Watcher,” Spike whispered.
Buffy asked, “Are you sure?”
He nodded.
She frowned. “How can you—“
The Watcher strode forward. “Do you know the danger you were in?”
“Got an idea.” Spike stood, brushing himself off. “Bloody well took you long enough.”
The Watcher frowned and raised his crossbow again.
“Way to go, Spike,” Buffy snapped. “Piss off the Watcher.”
The corner of Spike’s mouth lifted in the hint of a smirk. “ ’s what I do.” Then something caught his attention. He pointed to a shadow moving swiftly across the courtyard. “That’s it.” When he moved to chase after the monster, the Watcher cocked his crossbow.
“You blinkered git!” Spike protested. “That’s it! That’s what we’re after.” The Watcher didn’t respond. “Bugger it,” Spike said and took off after his quarry.
“Don’t shoot!” Buffy ordered, suddenly terrified that the Watcher would target Spike. “He’s helping. He—“
She heard the goat-thing bellow, and she was out of words. She chased after Spike aware that the Watcher was running after her. =At least I don’t have an arrow in my back,= she thought.
“Sonofabitch!” Spike cursed. “It bit me!”
When she caught up to Spike, Buffy found him with his hand clamped over the back of his neck. “How bad is it?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine. Go after it.”
“Let me see.” She grabbed Spike’s hand and lifted it to reveal the bloody wound. “You’ll live.”
Spike snorted. “Like I said, go after it.”
“Who are the two of you?” The Watcher demanded breathlessly.
A chill wind blew off the river, whipping Buffy’s clothes around her. “I’m the Slayer.” She was surprised to discover that she was a little proud of that fact.
The Watcher shook his head. “No, you are not.”
“Huh?”
“You cannot be the Slayer.”
“Bloody hell.” Spike paced in a small circle and glared at Buffy. “If you aren’t going after it, I will.”
“I’m going after it,” she insisted... to Spike’s back. “Damnit!” She glowered at the Watcher. “And I am so the Slayer.” She took off after Spike.
The wind lifted the fog and she saw the creature tearing down the courtyard, heading toward the river. Picking up speed, she passed Spike to dive head first at the horned goat, grabbing the creature around its neck and using her full body weight to drive it to the ground. They landed together on the pavement with a fleshy thunk.
Buffy quickly rolled over but the goat-thing was just as fast. As soon as she rose to her feet, it tackled her, driving her down. The beast screamed as one, two, three bolts from the crossbow embedded in its back. The monster contorted, reaching for the projectiles, like Buffy would reach for an ill-placed zipper on the back of a dress.
She kicked the monster off. But, instead of falling back and impaling itself, the goat somehow stumbled until it found its footing. Goat-thing bellowed and started a lumbering run towards a stone-archway, topped at one end by a building made of plaster and aged-wood timbers.
“It’s making a break for the Traitor’s Gate. Gets there and we’ll lose it in the Thames,” Spike said as he ran by Buffy.
Buffy couldn’t believe it. Was this an amphibian goat-thing? “Not again,” Legs pumping, she followed Spike between soot-darkened buildings. “I don’t care if I get typhoid jumping into the river, it’s not getting away!” she yelled.
Hairy, filthy, wounded, and cornered, the beast pulled at the timber crossbars holding the vertical iron bars of the Traitor’s Gate as it screamed in frustration. Then it turned, glaring at her with glowing red eyes and bloody teeth.
“Wait!” the Watcher cried out behind her.
“Are you kidding?!” Buffy looked at the hulking monster. “No easy way to do this, I guess.” With a roundhouse kick, she knocked the creature into the gate, still not impaling it, but the arrows did trap it there.
“You’re ugly.” Hard right punch. “You stink.” Foot stomp on the creature’s instep --uh -- hoof. “And you made me crawl in muck.” Sharp elbow to the solar plexus. “Twice!” And knee to the groin.
The beast howled as it shoved her back. Buffy landed on her butt on the grass. Goat-thing jerked forward, tearing the arrows out of its back, its infuriated scream echoing in the tower as its eyes burned a brighter, demonic red. A whirring sound and another bolt stabbed into its shoulder, then another, and another. Distracted from Buffy, the monster charged the Indian Watcher now tormenting it.
“Run!” Buffy screamed as the Watcher struggled to load another bolt into the crossbow. “You can’t fight it!”
The beast caught the Watcher’s arm, and Buffy heard a crack. She really hoped it was the crossbow that had made that sound.
Spike leapt onto the monster’s back and, with ruthless speed, twisted the creature’s head, snapping its neck, and killing it instantly.
Goat-thing fell with a dull thud onto the sod, a last long sigh of breath dissipating in blue-white mist.
“I could have killed it,” Buffy complained.
“Took too long,” Spike countered. “Got impatient.”
“Yeah, but I’m the Slayer.”
The Watcher, gripping his left shoulder with his right hand, approached them, his gaze never leaving Buffy. “You cannot be the Slayer.”
“Yuh-huh,” she protested. “Well, maybe not the one you know but--“
“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “The Slayer is dead.”
TBC...
