Ch-ch-changes - Part Two
In five years of Sunnydale misadventures, never before had Spike been so glad to see 1630 Revello Drive. The ride home had been nasty: Xander in the back alternately murmured to the unconscious Willow or tossed foul remarks to and about the evil undead and those humans who abandoned responsibility. The front seat had been quiet-- poor old Giles was likely about to drop in his bloody tracks, while HE certainly wasn't going to say anything. And Buffy sat beside him, tense, trying not to touch him but with every failure (a brush of the hand, a slide against his thigh) setting off alarms of desire. In him, at least. He couldn't pretend to know what was in her mind or heart or body any more.
He pulled into the driveway and began "We're here--"
Then Dawn exploded out of the front door and toward the car, followed more sedately by Clem. "Are you all right, there are strange news reports of lightning and wind and it felt like a portal or something opened, please tell me you're..." She stopped when she saw Spike and Giles get out of the car. Then she turned away from them both to hurry toward where Buffy and Xander were discussing unconscious-Willow transportation.
Spike and Giles exchanged nods. Apparently there would be no fatted calf roasting on that backyard grill deserted long ago by the first of their number, Mr. Hank Summers. The Summers women wished no joy for men who left, even when they returned in time, even if one of 'em had been gone just long enough to get all conscienced-up in order to be more worthy of his girls. Verily, O Gods and Goddesses, the men who left deserved no welcome back. Spike sighed.
But he had business. Spike turned to shake Clem's hand (as best he could, what with all the loose skin). "Mate, good to see you, 'preciate all the help with the car and the crypt and everything." When Clem mumbled a ritual don't-mention-it, Spike brought Giles forward so that the two could also shake hands. Flippers. Whatever the bloody hell you wanted to call it.
Giles said, "Clement? Rupert Giles. Pleasure-- did Spike tell you that I've met your cousin Jez? There's a, well, strong family resemblance..."
"Is that enough of the Insane Good Manners Hour? 'Cause we need some help here." Buffy was snapping, never a good sign. Spike hurried over, only to hear her queenly "Door, Spike, get the front door." God, she was difficult. He opened the door for Xander and his armful, resisting the evil impulse to trip the puffy git. Dawn swanned in after him-- still not speaking, of course.
Clem looked at the three people remaining. Giles wearily sagged on the porch post, while Buffy stood sentinel at the top of the steps. Spike figured that he himself was conveying either boot-licking adoration or murderous rage, or possibly an unsavory combination of the two. At any rate Clem seemed ready to flee. "Well, I'm sure you all have lots to talk about!" he said with forced cheer. "I'll see you later, Spike. The crypt's ready for you to move back in, blood in the fridge and everything--"
"Before you go, I just want to say thank you. For taking care of Dawn," Buffy said. Clem nodded, waved a flipper at them, then trotted off.
And then the three stood there. Awkward. Now what.
Spike couldn't stand it. She wouldn't look at him, wouldn't acknowledge his presence beyond commanding his obedience-- it was a dead cert she wouldn't invite him in. He went past her, but stopped at Giles's side. Rupert looked at him sympathetically. "Going somewhere, Spike?"
He turned and looked back at Buffy. All he could read from her expression was 'no'. His heart broke a little more, but bloody buggering hell, it wasn't as if he was surprised. He deserved it. "Just leaving the Scoobies to themselves, mate. As a wise girl just said, demons can't be Scoobies. Right, love?"
"Why would you want to be one of us?" Buffy asked. Her voice was surprisingly soft.
"Because..." He had to take a breath. Which was sodding stupid, since his 'conscience' didn't actually change his vampire perquisites like not-breathing. And not-breathing meant he couldn't literally drown in her hazel eyes or in his love for her, so why did he feel as if he was slipping below the waves for the last time? Right. Now what was her bloody question again? "Er, because. Because I want to help."
"We don't help people any more. We get them killed. Just ask Tara-- oh, but you can't, she's dead. Get out while you can, Spike." She turned and went into the house.
He took two swift steps after her, longing to comfort, but he was stopped by a quiet "Spike. It's not a good idea right now. Let me talk to her first." Giles managed a half-smile, adding, "Besides, how much do you really want to spend time with Xander anyway?"
"A hit, Rupes, a palpable hit. But damn it, I want to see you beat him up for mistreating Anya. 'S not fair to make me miss it."
"I'm too tired tonight. But I promise you will be present for my take- down of the little bastard." Giles hesitated, then said gently, "I'll take care of her for you tonight. And I won't mention any... changes. That'll be your job."
Spike swallowed hard. "I appreciate it. I really do." Before the moment could become mawkish and embarrass them both no end, he ran down the steps and toward the car. Then, reminded: "Do you need the use of the car, old man? I can grab my bag out of the boot, walk on home. If you need it, that is."
Giles nodded, and Spike went to get his duffle. "Thanks. I'll need transport tonight at least, so I can get to the hotel when I'm done here. I can meet you at the Magic Box tomorrow to give back--" he snagged the keys Spike threw at him "--these."
"No worries." Spike hefted his bag, then halted. "Well, maybe one. You do remember which side of the road the Yanks drive?"
"I'll just drive straight down the yellow line, like you do. Wanker."
***
The two dust-devil creatures had been busy. Their first stop had been a mom-and-pop convenience store, where they had fed on the store's electricity, water, and proprietors. Leaving the store, they found a transient lying in the gutter, clutching a lottery ticket and a tallboy and muttering prayers to the spirit of Adolph Coors.
The red-white demon kicked at the man, sending a high-voltage shock through the figure. "Ah God no!" the transient cried, spasming once.
"Worth our while?" the white-red demon asked. The other demon shrugged. White-red nodded; he bent down and placed his hand over the man's ear. The man writhed, and blood and water poured out, absorbed by the demon's hand. This only lasted a few seconds, then the human's body collapsed in on itself with a loud crack.
The white-red demon stood, looking at his clean and unmarked hand. The red-white demon moved closer and delicately extended a finger to touch the other's palm. Again, the sky above lit with fire, and a boom of thunder shattered the windows in the store behind them.
"Yeah, not bad," the red-white demon said.
***
Surprised, Spike stared around at the upper level of his crypt. It was demonically neat: magazines arranged in a fan shape on the end table, books artfully stacked on ledges, candles trimmed, floor swept, duvet decoratively laid over the sarcophagus, the leopard- print pillows he'd jokingly asked for piled with care. He wasn't entirely sure, but he rather thought there had been some furniture rearranged as well.
Dropping his bag, he went over to the fridge. Blood-n'-burba was a definite priority after 24 hours without feeding. On the refrigerator door was a note, held by his Shakespeare and Sex Pistols magnets: "Spike, welcome back. Hope you don't mind, Sophie and I took the liberty of rearranging your upper crypt according to the principles of feng-shui, emphasizing relationships and prosperity. Dawn helped too. Sincerely, Clement. P.S. Poker on Tuesday at the regular time. You owe me three tabbies." There was a different scrawl at the bottom of the page, reading only "Beast." That was Dawn's handwriting.
He fixed his late supper, then took it over to his armchair. "Beast." Yes, you could always count on Dawnie for cutting to the heart. He turned the word over and over in his mind while he sipped. Beast indeed: he knew what lived within him, what helped drive him. He remembered with pain the horrors he had perpetrated, the lives he had ended, the viciousness that affected even those he loved. Even his golden goddess, even Buffy. He-- bloody hell, he wasn't brooding. He wasn't, wasn't, wasn't. He was... musing in a melancholy way, he decided.
Finishing his blood, he went over to one of the book-laden ledges. Dawn's word, besides almost triggering that thing he'd sworn never to do, had touched a memory of a short story by Saki. He finally found his collection on the third shelf he tried-- see, here was the bother of crypt-sitters, they moved your sodding stuff-- and flipped pages to the story.
'The Penance'. That's right, he remembered now. The protagonist had killed his neighbors' kitten (not for a game of cards either), and to save his daughter from the angry and bereaved neighboring children, he had to stand in front of his house in a sheet, holding a candle and repeating "I'm a miserable Beast" for thirty minutes. This earned the protagonist the epithet of "Un-beast."
Spike knew he was stuck with "Beast" forever.
On a whim, though, he went to the door and opened it to the night. He snagged a candle from the nearest surface, lit it with his Zippo, then walked outside. He opened his mouth to say the penance, but before he could, a flash of lightning ignited the shrubbery by the crypt. The air concussed. At the sonic blow Spike fell back against his door, striking his head hard. He went down, unconscious, half in and half out of the crypt.
***
A quarter-mile away, the two dust-devil demons pulled their hands apart. "That one really traveled, didn't it?" the red-white one said.
"Yeah, I'm thinking we can open that Hellmouth right up," the other agreed.
"Let's do that tomorrow then, okay?"