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It was eight o’clock, so Spike was ready to go to work. The night, just starting, was as fresh as early morning (so he’d been told). He breathed it in, leaning against one of the pillars of his porch while his wife fussed in front of him.
“Remember, honey, Dawn’s coming over on Sunday, so no visible wounds,” Buffy said as brushed some invisible dust from his shoulder.
Spike raised an eyebrow. “She bringing the tykes then?”
A sigh. “You know they’re not that young anymore. And you know Mikey doesn’t like…”
He stopped her with a peck on her lips. “Only teasing, love.” Her mouth quirked. “I’ll humour the little bugger like a good uncle.”
“You’d better,” she said, still smiling. “I’m not gonna have you ruin my status as Bestest Aunt in the World Ever.”
“This what the new do’s in aid of?” He levered himself from the pillar, dropping his hands to her waist to spin her across the decking and up against the other column. “Trying to look more –” He closed the gap between them. “– what’s the word? Wholesome?”
Buffy giggled, touching a hand to the curls just above her shoulders. “It’s kinda mom-ish, isn’t it?”
“It’s kinky,” Spike agreed, sneaking a nibble on her earlobe. “I like it.” He sensed rather than saw the roll of Buffy’s eyes, distracted by the long-unused piercings up her ear as he smoothed his hands down her lower back.
“As if my life could get any kinkier…” she muttered, even as Spike could feel her warming up. A bit more pressure from his leg and she gasped, giving in and smudging her re-plumping lippy all along his jaw. “Thinking about it…” Her voice, suddenly husky, shuddered through him. “Thinking about it, I saw the cutest twin-set at the store last week.”
He could see her in it too, Stepfordian but unrepentantly perverse. “Love, what are you doing to me?” he moaned, moving to find her mouth.
The honk of a car horn blared out from the driveway.
They paused and Buffy giggled into his lips, eyes crinkling. He growled, giving her one last squeeze before he retreated. “I’m coming, Blue!” he shouted over his shoulder. Buffy giggled harder. “And no cheek from you, Miss Desperate Housewife.”
“That’s Mrs. Desperate Housewife to you, buddy.” She licked her thumb and started to clean the pink from his face. “And for God’s sake, Spike, is that what you’re watching when I’m at work? I can’t believe they still show it…”
It took all Spike had not to go straight back to ravishing her. “It’s better than all the drivel they put out nowadays.”
“Oh, please.” Now she was back to smoothing down his jacket. “You just fancy Edie.”
The wood creaked as he eased a step forward, finger slipping under her chin to let him catch her eye. “I’ll have you know I’m very much a Bree bloke these days.”
The car honked again.
“Better not keep her waiting,” Buffy murmured, resting a hand on his lapel. She paused for a moment then, and the night grew very quiet. He breathed deeply, taking in her scent and the beat of her heart. With her own breath she visibly shook herself and raised her eyes back to his. “Now,” she said with a smile. “What do you say to any skanky damsels who try to ‘repay’ you in their skanky ways?”
Spike took one of her hands in his, but he still smirked. “I have a wife who can do nastier things with her little finger than you can even dream of?”
Said finger twitched, and she smirked back. “And?”
“And I don’t do hos, so sod off.”
“Very good.” She gave him a quick, wifely kiss. “Happy hunting!”
Not wanting to say anything, Spike held her eyes and nodded. Abruptly then he turned away, letting her hand slip out of his. His boots crunched past the lawn and their sky-blue SUV, taking the same path they had done for years now. At the end of the drive, Illyria’s convertible hunched by a tree, and with a leap he was in the passenger seat.
“Your continuing obsession with that mortal grows tiresome,” Illyria said as she turned on the engine.
“You were at the ceremony, Blue,” he replied, casting a final glance over his shoulder. “‘To have and to hold, as long as we both shall live.’” Buffy had already gone back inside. “I’m just trying to get my money’s worth.”
“Your rituals do not concern me.” Illyria adjusted the rear-view mirror, looking through the aviators he’d given her last Christmas. He decided it was probably best to ignore that statement.
“Well then, Highness – let’s ride.”
She sighed, façade of godhood falling away. “Must you say that every time?”
Spike grinned at her. She floored the accelerator.
And so, in the early hours of the night, leaving nothing but exhaust fumes and the echo of Spike’s curses, the car gunned its way, at last, out of the leafy suburbs and into the mean streets of LA.
“All right, Lorne, hit me,” Spike said, his voice travelling up to the phone fixed at his ear. They were off the freeway now, and the streets were beginning to look a lot emptier, but he didn’t stop scanning them for interest.
“And good evening to you too.”
“Sorry, mate.” He forced himself to relax, for the moment. “How’ve you been?” Illyria was obviously starting to rub off on him, which was a slightly worrying thought.
“You know me, sunshine: same old, same old.”
“Zagat published that demon edition yet?”
“We’re still waiting. With bated breath and knocking knees, I’ve gotta say.”
“The hotel’ll be fine and you know it. Both the women liked it and they’re bloody hard to please, the pair of them.” Illyria pulled the car over then, turned the ignition off and leaned an elbow over the door. With the shades and the bright lamplight she looked like a model on a particularly daft photo-shoot.
“You’re right. You’re right. And, hey, who puts on a show better than me?”
Spike shook his head, holding back laughter. He was surrounded by lunatics. “What’ve you got for us, Lorne?”
“Oh, all right, enough chitchat. Some guy called Jemh stopped by – that’s J-E-M-H. He wants you to meet him at that diner two blocks from here.”
“Susie’s?”
“The very same.”
Spike sighed. “Why do these blokes never want to meet anywhere but that grease-pit?”
“Search me, cupcake.”
“Well, cheers anyway.”
“You’re welcome.”
Spike was about to ring off, when a sudden thought came to him. “Hey, Lorne – this sound like a paying sort of customer, or a pain-in-the-arse, shit-we-have-to-sort-for-free sort of customer?”
“Well…”
Spike sighed again. “Brilliant. See you, Lorne.”
“Have a nice night, Spike.”
He tapped his phone off, unhooked it from his ear and shoved it in the glove box. The thing looked bloody stupid, but they didn’t make them handheld anymore. “Come on, pet,” he told Illyria. “No more posing. We’re off to Susie’s.”
“That establishment disgusts me. The furniture adheres to my shell.”
“We’ve all got to make sacrifices for the good fight.”
“I am Illyria: I am the one to whom sacrifices are made.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him that when we get there.”
The demon prattled on from the other side of the booth, apparently unfazed by Illyria’s godhead. “I mean, I wanna praise Porshka as much as the next guy, but enough’s enough, y’know?”
Spike did not know. Nor did he care. And he was beginning to think that if this Jemh, whatever he was (what’s a demon that looks like the Devil with acne?), didn’t get to the point soon, he’d rip his head off himself. He deserved it for wearing an N-Sync t-shirt, as if they were retro-chic.
“And I didn’t know what to do, right, because it’s not like I could tell Tony that human sacrifices aren’t my thing, so I thought I could let you guys in on the plan and you could, I dunno…”
“Fix it?” Spike growled, looking at the clock. It was gone ten already, and they hadn’t done a thing.
“Well, yeah.”
Spike rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Let me get this straight: you used to do some dealing for this Tony git, bit of leg work and so on, but now you’ve seen the error of your ways and want to sort him?”
“No, Spike, no, you’ve got me all wrong. It’s just the killing. I mean, I’m not a killer, I never was.”
The chair made a long sucking sound as Spike tried to shift positions. Jemh’s eyes flicked downwards; Spike ignored it. “Right, because drug-pushing’s the source of many a contented and wholesome life.”
“Hey, hey.” Jemh held up his hands. The middle two fingers formed claws, as big as a raptor’s. “I only deal with demons. No nasty side-effects, just a hell of a good time.” He grinned a toothy grin, seeming to fall into his standard patter. “I’d have thought a vamp of your position would – ”
“I can’t exactly afford to get off my head,” Spike cut him off. “Now back to the point. Why come to me? Why not just skip out?”
“I told you – ”
“More coffee?” came the drawl from beside them. It was Susie herself: fat, middle-aged and as greasy as the table.
Spike pointedly tilted his near-full cup. “No.”
“Hey, yeah, I could go for some of that.” Susie’s stodgy arm passed far too closely in front of Spike’s face as Jemh got his refill.
“How ‘bout you, darlin’?”
Illyria, sullen in the corner, took hold of the rim of her sunglasses and pulled them a centimetre down her nose. She peered over the top for a moment, utterly contemptuous, then replaced them without a word.
Susie trudged away, and Spike shook his head. “What were you saying?”
With a cautious gulp of his coffee, Jemh continued, “I said, I told you, man, I don’t do killing.”
“Pull the other one.”
“I mean it!” Spike raised an eyebrow and the demon leaned in, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “It’s the Slayers, OK?” Another glance. “You do… know the Slayers?”
“I’ve heard of them, yeah,” Spike replied, with just a little sarcasm. Why was it no one did their homework anymore?
“Yeah, well,” Jemh continued to whisper. “Guy like you, you’re a white-hat – and that’s cool, I mean, you’ve got that whole ‘soul’ thing going on.” He laughed nervously. “But you leave us alone, so long as we leave the humans out of it. The Slayers – they don’t know – they’ve got all their ‘holy mission’ shit.” Spike was almost certain the briefing didn’t go like that anymore, but he didn’t think it was worth mentioning. “If this goes down, Tony’ll be dead within a month and we’ll all be goners with him.”
Spike leaned back, raising his arms behind his head and resting said head on his hands. “Right, I think I’ve got it now. You want me to speed up this process, but get you out of it – that what you’re saying?”
“You get to save all the little humans,” Jemh offered.
“Duly noted.” Spike brought his hands down. “So where are we off to?”
“We? I thought, I mean…”
“The god and I, lackbrain.”
“Oh, right.” Spike rolled his eyes. “Well, I don’t know exactly where the sacrifice is happening –”
“Useful of you.”
“– but some of them are meeting at The Pentagon right now, so if you follow them from there...”
The Pentagon. “The club?”
Jemh spread his hands wide. “Are we in Virginia?” The idiot had clearly been waiting all night to make that joke.
“Right. Cheers.” Spike stood up, the bench making another sucking noise with trousers. “You can piss off now.”
Jemh cast an eye to Susie at the counter. “Actually, I might stick around a bit longer. There’s something about this coffee, man…” He slurped some more of it.
Spike ignored him. “Come on, Highness.” Refusing to shuffle out of the booth, Illyria violently pushed the table towards Jemh and stood, using the noise of it all to hide the fact the vinyl had stuck to her as well.
“Have a nice night,” Susie intoned as they left.
The door swung closed behind them, and they left the gloom behind for darkness. They both still had perfect vision, however, so they found the car and climbed in without difficulty.
“The vermin would set us up,” Illyria hissed as she reversed from a sidestreet.
“Gathered that, yeah,” Spike replied, watching the fire-hydrant on his side. “Question is, what’re we going to do about it?”
“I will not retreat from battle.”
They accelerated, and Spike clutched hold of the door with a grin. “Springing the trap it is, then.”
Spike hated stakeouts. Not only were they incessantly boring, but there was this point in the middle of the night when he always got a bit maudlin, and it was always when there was nothing to do but wonder if Buffy was sleeping all right. And that inevitably got him thinking about them, and how badly he missed their schedules being compatible. Back then he could just sling an arm round her and make things better. Now it was a lot trickier.
He sighed. “It was stupid, wasn’t it, me and Buffy shacking up?” He hadn’t meant to say it. It had always been a private issue between Buffy and himself, one that they didn’t really like to share. He wondered now what sort of response he’d get; after all, Illyria was the closest thing he had to a best friend.
“All your actions are idiotic.” It was as much as could be expected. But then, he supposed, it was a little true.
Spike looked out of the windshield, the club’s sad little back door blurring in and out of focus. Of course he and Buffy had discussed it, dozens of times, with ever more years of wisdom under their belts. They were pretty sure they’d squeezed as much happiness out of their lives as they could, but there was the ever-niggling knowledge that if they were to happen all over again – well, they probably wouldn’t.
Not that either of them wanted to go back. He could hardly believe they’d known each other for over twenty-five years now. That was longer than he’d known Angelus, not that he’d ever understood the git. Spike still couldn’t believe he’d had the nerve to turn up, what was it, six years ago, out of the blue and human, and then ask to speak to Buffy alone. She’d just blinked at him.
Angel was probably living it up these days, with a shiny new wife, two brats and a dog. And, if he wasn’t, he was probably planning to. He could move fast when he wanted, and he probably moved even faster as a mortal.
That was the problem. Humans, they lived like mayflies: beautiful for one devastating instant until they left you mourning forever. Illyria had to understand. She was as immortal as he was, and probably more so. “I feel like she’s slipping through my fingers...” he found himself continuing. “Not second by second, ‘cause half the time I don’t even notice, but every once in a while, you know?” He looked over to her, hoping to see some sort of sympathy.
Her fingers thrummed once on the steering wheel. “Rupert Giles says that age is merely the perspective one takes on one’s consciousness.”
“Does he now.” Of course old Rupert, still doddering away and getting idolised by former gods, would have an opinion. An opinion that seemed pretty irrelevant.
“He calls it remarkable, the way you have matured with your Slayer, when you failed so abominably previously.”
“Don’t call her that.” His hand tensed up a little, at the tone more than anything. “You make her sound like a sideshow attraction.”
She ignored him. “He believes you have found the best of all possible eventualities.”
His anger bled away, and, oddly, he was a little touched. It shouldn’t mean so much, what Giles thought of them. Not after so long.
Illyria went on, naturally, as if her last statement meant nothing, “We were discussing Leibniz, using your relationship as a microcosm.” That disturbed him a little, but he’d long ago learned that he was very much Illyria’s case study of a lower being’s existence. He didn’t like Buffy being part of it, but there wasn’t much he could do. “It was considered that a marriage with both participants working towards its continued success produced more harmony than one without any such effort. Your apparent incompatibility provides immediate drive to effect such work, leading to –”
“The best of all possible worlds,” he finished, mulling it over. He wished it could be true. He was happy, after all, apart from these little episodes of worry.
“I do not agree with Leibniz’s general philosophy, however. My world far surpassed this.”
Spike snorted. “I’m sure it did.” She was a fan of philosophy, Blue, but she always came unstuck when the other gods tried to muscle their way in. He wondered how Giles coped with that. “Shame we gotta live in this one, innit?”
“Do not humour me, vampire. I am well aware of your attachments.”
“Hey, you ship Buffy and me back to your time with some nibbles and some telly and we’d make do.” He thought for a moment. Buffy would probably miss her job. He’d have things to fight, but... “Well, maybe a couple of teenage wankers with a lifetime’s worth of issues to sort out – and absolutely no bloody interest in women outside their own age group, no matter how gorgeous they are.” They wouldn’t know what to do with her anyway. “Gotta keep the missus entertained, after all. ‘Specially when the footie’s on.”
He grinned, but Illyria was doing her Queen Vic impression. “Rupert Giles has failed in his assessment of your maturity.”
The grin fell into a sneer and he felt restless, which at least signalled that he was moving out of the maudlin. “Believe me, back in the old days we’d have trashed the place hours ago.” It had to be nearly ‘sod the plan’ time. “How long’s it been?”
The watch she looked at (elegant, analogue, with three subsidiary dials ticking in harmony with the main) was Giles’ Christmas present to her, a few years back. It really was odd to think how close they were. He supposed the Watchers did have a healthy respect for the old ways, and Giles had needed someone to mentor after he could no longer train Slayers. Poor Blue was going to have to cope with mortality long before he did...
“We arrived over two hours ago.”
That long? Buffy wouldn’t believe him if he told her. Maybe he actually was maturing. “Reckon I’ll go take a look, then.”
He leapt out, one hand on the door and the other on the frame of the windscreen. It was for stealth more than anything, since it meant he didn’t have to slam the squeaky door of Blue’s car, but it was still fun.
His boots made the slightest of crunches on the gravel, but it seemed to echo round the alley, empty as it was. The blue backdoor was shut with a padlocked deadbolt, and no light leaked from underneath. It was a little fishy for a Friday night.
It was only when he got to the street that he realised the entrance was a lot closer to them than he had thought it had been, and that the club was completely and utterly dead. The piddly little queue (which he’d thought had gone on round the other corner) had seemed reasonable at half ten, but now it was quite clear they’d been sent on a wild goose chase.
“Damn!” he cursed, kicking a beer bottle in the gutter. Seconds later Illyria had revved up beside him and he took his seat back. “It’s a bloody... anti-trap or something. Sticky honey to keep us flies away from the big boys.”
“So we must do our upmost to be pestilential.” She was funny sometimes, but he was never sure whether she meant to be, or whether she simply enjoyed extended metaphor in casual conversation. Her mouth gave nothing away, and her eyes were hidden behind the aviators.
He shrugged. “Well, let’s go then.”
“Two calls in one night, Spike? Don’t tell your honey or my head’ll be on a pike.” There was a flicker of actual fear in Lorne’s voice. “Uh... you two don’t own a pike, do you?”
“I think you’re safe for the moment.” But that was a thought. Was there anywhere you could put a pike, ornamentally? You wouldn’t fit one over the mantelpiece, but it had decorative potential. Maybe a halberd. They could go shopping.
“Remind me not to joke about that – gave myself the shivers.” Spike chuckled, but kept his concentration on the traffic around them. They were flying blind now, and while it was pretty obvious the deed was going down on the other side of town they didn’t have any other clues. “What was it you wanted?”
“Your bloke Jemh. Seems like he just wanted us out the way. Could be the sacrifice he was ragging on about is what’s actually happening, or it could be a cover for something. Was wondering if you got a read on him.”
“I don’t know, Spike – relatively neutral party here. I don’t ask questions, I just point out your card on the counter and say I can get in touch.”
He growled slightly. “You know what I mean, Lorne. Did he smell funny, did he want quarters for the telescope at the pier, did he accidentally flash a membership card for the Acolytes of Porshka with a handy address in bold type?”
“No, no and, for the bonus points, no. But what’s all this got to do with Porshka? That lady wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You know her? She’s s’posed to be the demon they’re sacrificing to.”
“Not the Porshka I know. Old dear runs a pawn shop in Beverlywood, comes by the club sometimes for a gin and soda. Big Sofia Magraz fan. And the stories she tells about the Venice Carnival...”
“Getting a bit off-topic now, Greenie.” He waved at Illyria for her to start listening. “Just sing out this bird’s address and we’ll see if she’s a lead.”
“OK – but don’t you go calling her a bird, chick or any other avian word for woman. She’s Feklat.”
“And so thinks chickens are going to bring about the true apocalypse.” He rolled his eyes. Some demon religions were ridiculous. “Got it.”
“She’s a loyal customer. If we’re gonna have this partnership...”
Spike knew it was a fragile time for Lorne, what with the re-launch of the Hyperion, but did he always have to get so uptight? “I’ll take extra-special care to save her from the demon hordes. But I can’t do much if I never even meet the bint, can I?”
He could almost hear the frown on the ‘bint’, but at last Lorne gave them the address and they were off again.
They leapt out of the car, weapons off the back seat at last.
“Finally the violence begins.” At least when it counted, he and Illyria were on the same wavelength.
However, as they crashed through the door of this Porshka’s shop, it became clear that the violence had already begun. The original setup seemed to have been Jemh and some of the other acne-devils taking over Porshka’s shop floor (stock piled up against the walls, pentagram on the floor), with the sacrifice of Porshka herself and several girls, possibly virgins, tied up in the centre of the room. They should have been about halfway through the ritual.
As it was, two of the acne-devils lay dead on the floor, while the three left over were running around like headless chickens. One was chanting, book in hand, the other was waving incense like there was no tomorrow and Jemh himself (still wearing that god-awful t-shirt) was getting all manner of shit kicked out of him by the Slayer they’d managed to bag as a sacrifice.
He shook his head and left the Slayer to it, freeing the other sacrifices while Illyria made short work of the ritual twins. Porshka turned out to be an elderly Srassops, all velvet and pearls and wrinkled grey skin.
“You all right, ducks?” he asked, helping her up to her feet.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she replied with a soft, withered voice, shooing his attentions away. “Don’t worry about me – worry about the young lady fighting the Krakyl.” So that was what they were...
He glanced over at the Slayer, just to see her put a well-aimed stake through the Krakyl’s neck. It gurgled and slid to the floor.
“Think she’s got it handled.”
“Goodness!” Porshka agreed.
“These creatures insult my intelligence,” Illyria stated as she joined them, sword dripping by her side. Spike lifted his unused axe. He knew how she felt.
The Slayer, stake retrieved from the Krakyl’s neck now stared at them with wide eyes, taking in the lack of fellow sacrifices and decapitated demons. “Is it too much to ask for you guys to be white-hats?”
“Don’t worry, pet,” he said. “We were here for the big rescue, but it looks like you had most of it done yourself.”
She blushed then, ducking her eyes and pushing blonde hair behind ears with bloodied hands. He got an odd, proud feeling in his chest. Possibly paternal. Definitely weird.
“Here,” he continued, offering her the handle of his axe. “You get yourself home safe.”
“I...” She looked at her stake, red and blunt to the point of uselessness. “Thank you,” she replied with some finality, before tucking the stake into her back pocket and taking the axe. “And thanks for the rescue – I hadn’t quite worked out what I was going to do with those last two.”
“You’d have figured it out.” What was he doing, smiling encouragingly like some Watcher-prat?
She smiled back, before blushing again as she dashed out the door.
“Well, now all that excitement’s over...” Porshka said, bustling over to the counter to check the till, lifting her skirts away from a puddle of blood. She looked at them with beady eyes, busy fingers counting money in front of her. “If you wouldn’t mind leaving my shop, I have some tidying up to do.”
He touched a couple of fingers to his forehead in near-salute. “Right you are, ma’am. We’ll get out of your hair.”
Like any good husband on a 9-til-5, he was always home by six. Buffy never had to worry about him going to the pub, because there weren’t any open at that hour in the morning.
And even if there were, he thought as he shucked off his clothes, clambered into bed and pulled her warm body to his, why on earth would he delay the best part of his day?
“Mm...” Buffy purred as she nuzzled into his chest, leg hooking between both his. “Good day at the office?”
“So so,” he replied, fingers beginning to play with her hair. “Helped a Slayer stop a demon cult trying to do a sacrifice, but they were lame to the nth. Blue bitched all the way home.”
“That’s the fight against evil for ya.” Her voice was too bright for the likes of him. Still, he hadn’t been immolated in a long time, and wasn’t about to stop playing. “It’s not all apocalypses and rad handguns – it’s about trying to stop your everyday loser getting people hurt.”
“It is the little things,” he agreed, tickling golden hair along her spine. “But what’s with the aphorism, love? The Council commission you for a book?”
The back of her hand rapped lightly on his chest, Slayer-strength adding that little extra sparkle. “Cheeky.”
He slipped a hand between them, wondering if he’d come up to room temperature yet. “You know me, Slayer – always trying to see how far I can push.”
She reacted, stretching out so her toe ran down his leg and his mouth could meet hers. He rolled them onto her back and thought idly through his options. Whatever he chose, it was going to be a good day.