Chapter 3
Nicotine scented fingers snapped in front of her face.
“Hey– You in there? Slayer?” He peered into her impenetrable human mask. “This is pathetic. You’re a fucking basket case. Have some pride for fuck’s sakes,” his voice grated, bitter with disgust. “Yep, that’s bloody well perfect that is, just the kind of fucked up bitch I’d be saddled with…” His voice trailed off into grumbling indecipherable speech.
Unable to think of a quick solution, he pulled a flask of whiskey from beneath his coat lining. He unscrewed the lid and took a long needed draw. The liquid sliced down his throat on a familiar serpentine pathway. Yes, okay, that was something that made sense. Alcohol was not the best solution, but it could help pass the awkward and lengthening lull in the would be slaughter.
His irritability found a balm in agitated pacing and intermittent muttering. The click of his boots on the pavement was little help to his current problem. He stopped, twisted his mouth and offered Buffy the alcohol. She regarded him warily.
“Twelve year old whiskey pet, not cyanide,” he held the bottle out and waited for a decision. Buffy stood there staring. She finally blinked and accepted his offering. A mouthful of burning liquid bled slowly down her throat. She convulsed, opened her mouth and took in a huge gasp of air.
“Okay. That’s better, into the land of the living, good.” Spike took the flask and another drink. What the fuck was wrong with her? This was not working out at all the way he had thought. He stepped back and leaned casually against a low stone wall that bounded one side of the small parking lot. His jaw flexed as the perfect opportunity passed. Maybe he could get drunk with her and bitch about all their bad old times together. Spike did not have clue one of how to spend an evening in a town that tucked into bed at eleven o’clock. There wasn’t even the hope of a midnight snack. The streets were deserted in a way that disturbed even Spike. He held out the flask. Buffy stood dumbly and took the silver bottle and another swig.
“You want to continue, pet? Because I can put this off for a while until you’re you again, unless you particularly want to die in this fabulous fuel and piss soaked parking lot.” He looked to her for any reaction at all. “It’s up to you, Slayer. As for myself, I’m not really that interested in drowning a kitten in a puddle, to tell the plain truth of it. Couldn’t really brag about that now, could I?” He offered a tight sour smile that looked more like a fist.
He could kill her so easily. She was pitiable and out of condition. All he need do was edit out a few details and become an even greater legend than he already was and no one would be the wiser. But that was the sticking point. He would always know the truth.
He wanted her blood, he wanted her death, but he had standards. A clean kill was what he wanted. There would be no asterisk beside Buffy Summers’ name on his dance card. She was his and he would have her right and proper.
Spike wasn’t Angelus, he with the narcissistic masturbatory world domination fixation. Spike was a sportsman: clean kills were the object and not slayers in a barrel. His first two slayers were worthy opponents. They knew how to die. This sorry excuse in front of him? He’d teach her himself if he had to, make her worthy of her own death. This one needed proper training from a master who could keep her corralled and not some Watcher windbag who misplaced her so easily.
Buffy’s head began to swim. She came in early that day to cover Jolene’s shift and then did her own. She had an egg salad sandwich on her break but that was hours ago. It was almost eleven thirty. She felt the alcohol flush her cheeks in the cool air.
She saw his lips moving. He was still talking. God, does he ever shut up? Pure demon, through and through, that’s what he was. Talking her to death would be the messier, pain filled option. At last she heard her own empty voice.
“I need to sleep,” she said absently and stood up, seemingly oblivious to the vampire who had offered her death. Mentally assessing the correct direction she started walking out of the parking lot. Spike stood to accompany her.
“Where are we hanging our polyester these days, Slayer?” His tone shifted to conversational.
“Go away. Come back tomorrow. I’ll stake you then,” she tried to achieve her old sassy slayer vocal arrogance. Nothing registered on his face so she had no reflection of how she actually came across. Her balance wavered and she put her hands out to steady herself. Alcohol never had been much of a factor in her life and Spike’s whiskey churned wickedly in her empty stomach.
His strong hand found her shoulder in an attempt to steady her. “Get off, you idiot!” Buffy jerked herself away from him with considerable force and fell back hard on the pavement. “Ow.” There was some pain in her voice but mostly the sudden shock of a loss of balance.
“Fuck, this is a public place,” Spike complained. “I can’t be seen with a half-assed slayer. What the bloody hell is wrong with you, Summers? Suck it up already.” He yanked her to her feet and clamped an arm securely around her waist. They began walking. “One foot in front of the other,” he said with icy condescension. “That’s right, pet, your Mom would be so proud.” They wound themselves back onto the street.
“Where?” Spike asked. Buffy started walking. She had little choice but to accept the muscular form next to her as he held her with an iron grip. She concentrated on getting back to her room. It was the only solution that entered her mind. All would be well if she could only get to her room. Then she would figure out what to do with this growth on the side of her body.
“You got any booze, Slayer? ‘Cause I figure we’re gonna need some more alcohol right quick.”