Chapter 2
At 11:13 p.m. Buffy waved to Millie and exited by the front door. The air was crisp and Buffy could see her breath. The main strip was peppered with a few pick-up trucks at the far end. They hovered around the 24-hour truck stop. That was Millie’s only competition in the town.
It was always a brisk walk down the road to her room at the local motel. Her legs were bare but she couldn’t stand nylons working next to that kitchen. It was as hot as a forge.
Spike stepped lazily out from the alley beyond the small tailor’s shop and dry cleaners. She stopped abruptly and looked at him. Stakes were no longer part of her wardrobe accessories. She wondered whether or not she could decapitate him with just her elbow.
“What now? You want your tip back?” She spoke with contempt.
“No pet, that’s yours. You getting stock options to put up with those yokels?” His voice was neutral. A snort escaped Buffy’s nostrils. She sighed deeply wondering how long she’d have to soak in her tub after beating his ass into pulp.
“That was one terrific piece of pie, Anne,” he said with satisfaction and a step toward her.
“Shut up,” Buffy twisted her lips sourly.
“I know the world didn’t end and all Slayer but there’s still lots more evil doers out there. I don’t think sleepy little Mayberry here quite reaches the heights of Angelus.” Buffy shot her fist at him and he dodged it easily. “Ooh, reflexes are a bit rusty. What do you know? How convenient for me.” Spike bounced on the balls of his feet, lithe and loose, dancing like a prizefighter.
Buffy swung again and clocked him. He fell back and giggled, shaking his head.
“I stand corrected, apparently thick polyester and slinging lard doesn’t quite dim the Slayer’s fists.”
“Shut your stupid mouth!”
“Ooh Slayer, please, such rough talk. I ‘d almost think you weren’t happy to see me.” Buffy remembered that sneer. She wanted to peel it from his lips and grind it under her waitress footwear.
“Aaagghh!” It wasn’t the most coherent response but it was the quickest off her tongue. He countered with a giddy giggle.
They began to fight in earnest. Spike blocked her first few jabs. Her hand found a loose metal garbage can lid and smashed it into his face. Blood trickled down his nose and over a boyish grin.
He licked the blood slowly from his lips. “And here I thought we had a truce, Slayer. Didn’t we do a pinky shake and everything?” Buffy kicked him in the head, pivoted and smashed his cheek with her elbow. “Oooh, yeah, kitty wants to play, that’s my kitty.” Spike kicked her solidly in the ribs.
“I’m not your kitty. I’m not your friggin’ anything. Just crawl back to wherever you and Drusilla slithered off to and STAY DEAD!”
Something volatile flared behind Spike’s eyes. He grabbed her lapels and head butted her. Roaring with rage he threw her to the end of the alley. She got to her feet dazed and slipped over the low fence and down into a rear parking lot. Spike flew after her in pursuit.
“Oh, is that it Spike?” Buffy taunted with an expression of faux sincerity on her face. “Drusilla pick some other shmuck to go to the formal with?” A quick left jab followed by a solid right hook collided with his head.
“Shut up, bitch.” He countered with a furious arching left hook, which she dodged.
“Hit a nerve huh? Dumped by Drusilla? I never figured she’d have taste after all.”
Spike’s eyes flashed yellow. He flew at her snarling, feet flying into her chest and fists clawing at her torso.
“If you tear my uniform I’ll never get my deposit back.” Buffy’s face seethed in a molten undulation.
“And it would be such a shame to deny the world the pleasure of seeing you wearing that fetching potato sack.” The demon’s face smirked at her as his fists found her chin and cheek in rapid succession.
“SHUT UP!” Buffy stood toe to toe with him trading hateful crushing blows.
“Nice to see some things never change, your verbal jousting is just as dismal as I recall.” Buffy kicked at him but Spike grabbed her foot and twisted it, spinning her sideways. She rolled on the pavement and scrambled to her feet, quickly checking her skirt.
“That’s motor oil, you used bag of blood. I’ll NEVER get that stain out!” Her upper lip quivered vigorously. Spike could barely contain his amusement. He was practically at gleeful.
It had been a while since he had such an enjoyable encounter. Toe to toe with the Slayer, dancing and dodging with feints and fists and feet. Yeah, this is what he yearned for, what he got up off the sarcophagus for, what he was bloody well made for. Smashing and bashing and relishing that delightful look of repulsed exasperation on her teeny tiny face.
Oh yeah, this was living.
Charging with histrionic possession like some demented banshee, Buffy tackled him and began pummeling him from a position perched on his chest. “You stupid, stalking vampire! Take your stupid face and go be dead somewhere ELSE.” Spike reared up and threw her off of him with a tidy snicker. That only increased her rage. She flew back at him with a vengeance. The heel of her palm smashed his chin. He countered with a solid punch to her ribs and then another to her cheek.
“I’m flattered Goldilocks, didn’t know you missed me so much.” Buffy’s head snapped sideways, she shook herself to maintain focus. She gritted her teeth in mindless fury and punched him. Hard concussive blows hit their target periodically. Spike dodged several blows with a self satisfied grin on his lips.
Buffy kept her facial expression clenched with rage in order not to betray her own emotions. She was enjoying herself as well. It had been a long time since she’d had a good fight and pummeling Spike was always enjoyable.
Spike watched her closely. Her movement fascinated him. Spike noticed before Buffy was aware. Her swings slowed slightly and her angles of trajectory were haphazard at best. She was out of shape. Her shoulders and hip ached and her big toes were pounding a percussive rhythm that would rival any marching band.
No training made the Slayer a tasty target. She was fighting on the fumes of pure adrenalin: fast and hard and petering down to honest non supernatural exhaustion. Spike figured he was probably the first demon ever to pass through this dusty town. That meant the Slayer hadn’t met a combatant since Angelus.
A moment’s miscalculation caused Buffy to slip on a lump of something gooey. For the first time since she began slaying her storied reflexes faltered almost imperceptibly. Spike caught her fiercely and held her up off the ground. He didn’t anticipate this result so soon but he wasn’t going to squander it either. This one was a competent adversary, and well worthy of the death he would give her.
He wanted to enjoy his victory and he thought briefly about crowing into the wind. This was an achievement. This was a pinnacle most demons never even imagined, another slayer was his. His pompous self congratulatory celebration stopped when he looked into her eyes.
They were clouded and far away, her breaths heavy and slowing. There was no surrender in her countenance, just exhaustion. Spike had tasted acquiescence from two slayers. He remembered that look, the yen for death, the deep and intimate yearning to discover the answers to their questions. There had been an acceptance, an embrace even, of what he could offer them shining in their defeated eyes. They were the two most intimate experiences of his life. He wanted to feel that again.
Buffy gave him nothing but the sigh of a tired waitress, the silent cliched mantra of ‘I’ll be right with you’. She wouldn’t even let him kill her properly. There were rules to this game, even Spike knew that. She raised her heavy hands and merely touched him above his waist, her breath the only sound between them in the night air.
She waited for the final strike but it did not come. What could he possibly be waiting for? Unbeknownst to Spike at that moment Buffy was truly ready to close her eyes and rest. The darkness wasn’t calling to her so much as the quietness. The feeling didn’t last long but it happened and she tasted it. It had the flavor of refuge, of home and her mother’s forgiving arms. Just then she would have welcomed his embrace and his fangs and the blessed silence with gratitude.
For his part Spike was thrown off by her utter lack of enthusiasm for her own death. He was stunned by the dreary state of her defenses. This was the slayer he’d fantasized killing over and over again? It did not reflect well on Spike that his nemesis was in less than top form. In this, as in most matters, ego considerations were paramount. This bitch was the most diabolical creature ever devised.
“What the fuck is this?” Spike spat with disgust. “You need to fight me Slayer so I can conquer you, not wipe you away like soddin’ pie crumbs.” He dropped her to her feet like she was so much garbage. The demon visage faded to a façade of bitter dregs.
See Spike? You’ll never kill her. She’s nothing, helpless in your grasp, and still you can’t do it. Drusilla’s torturous voice grated through his mind.
“Can too, you fucking bitch. I’ll drain her. I’ll–” Spike saw an absent tear drop from Buffy’s dulled right eye. He morphed and realigned his human face almost in one stroke. “FUCK!” His roar echoed off the surrounding buildings. He couldn’t do it. His mind raced. A near catatonic slayer really disrupted Spike’s world view.
He knew the way of the world, how things worked and revisions were especially unwelcome. The slayer was a summit to be conquered, end of story. His fingers began to twitch. He needed to snap her out of whatever uninteresting crap had possessed her. She wasn’t going to weasel out of her own death, not if he had anything to say about it.