Roman Holiday
Written for the Spike/Dru Ficathon as a back-up. Written for tobywolf13.
The requirements were:
Name: Tobywolf13
Requirements: Andrew and Tucker Wells' grandfather runs across the two, comic books, Miss Edith gets lost
Restriction: no rape, no slash
Genre: comedy, preferably
Time Setting: 1950s
Rating: R
Many, many thanks for the speedy beta to crazydiamondsue and paynbow. You guys are the best!
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By spikeNdru, October 6, 2004
Written as back-up for the Spike/Dru Ficathon
Rated: soft R
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It was Monday. Grace Tucker Wells sighed as she entered her son’s room to collect the laundry. Tucker was her only child and, in the back of her mind, she knew she babied him, but it was just so difficult to know what to do.
Tucker had only been ten when she’d lost her husband in The War, and she’d clung to him. He’d been her Brave Little Man who promised he’d never leave her. Now, ten years later, in 1954, Tucker was twenty and she was beginning to rethink the vow she’d made him take.
She stripped the bed, picked up his laundry from the floor, straightened his comic books and made a mental note that she needed to dust his Pez collection, lined up like little soldiers with strange heads, marching across the top of his dresser.
Tucker seemed happy enough in his job as a teller at the First National Bank of Sunnydale, but that seemed to be all he did. He didn’t socialize with friends after work, he didn’t play bridge, he’d shown no interest in joining the Elks or the Moose Lodge or even the Junior Chamber of Commerce-and Mayor Wilkins had personally invited him to join the JayCees!
Grace had tried to fix him up with the available daughters of friends or even friends-of-friends, but there was rarely a second date. Tucker just seemed to be in a world of his own so much of the time. . .
Grace straightened her shoulders and picked up the laundry basket. Enough of this lollygagging! The laundry wasn’t going to wash itself! She should just be grateful she had such a fine son. The rest would take care of itself, in time.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker Wells bid his co-workers good evening and left the bank. It was a beautiful late afternoon in Sunnydale, and he removed his seersucker jacket, carefully draping it over his arm as he began to walk home. The sun was warm and he wished he could remove his felt fedora that made his head itch, but a gentleman was never seen on the street without a hat. It was Monday, and that meant meatloaf and mashed potatoes and green beans for supper. He loved meatloaf. He hoped there’d be enough left over for his lunch tomorrow.
Tucker nodded and spoke pleasantly to the people he saw on the streets. He quickened his steps as he neared his home. Perhaps it would come today!
He’d been so excited when he’d gotten the May-June issue of World’s Finest, Issue #70, The Two Faces of Superman. There’d been a contest announced and he’d known every question. He was sure he’d win something! The prizes were wonderful, and the Grand Prize was a trip to Rome. Tucker didn’t care about Rome one way or the other, but Columbia was filming a new Superman movie there with Kirk Alyn and part of the prize was a small role in the movie!
Of course he’d seen Superman and the Molemen with George Reeves when it had come out a few years ago, but to Tucker, Kirk Alyn would always be Superman.
Tucker was surprised to realize he was already home. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts of Superman; he had no memory of walking the last three blocks. Oh, gosh! He hoped he hadn’t cut any of his neighbors who may have spoken to him!
Unlocking the door, he went straight to the basket in the foyer and rifled through the mail. He let out such a high-pitched shriek of excitement when he’d seen the envelope that his mother had dropped the meatloaf on the floor, and for the first Monday in as long as he could remember, they’d had to have grilled cheese sandwiches instead. Tucker didn’t care-he was going to Rome!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike and Drusilla walked hand-in-hand through the soft Roman dusk. Spike hated Rome! Dru wanted to go to La Dolce Mori again. Bunch of pretentious twits that wouldn’t know iambic pentameter if it bit them on the bloody arse. He’d much rather catch some cool jazz or that exciting new sound from across the pond called rock and roll.
He’d been trying to convince Dru to take a trip to America-they hadn’t been since the 20’s, but she liked Rome. Said she could still hear the screams in the Colosseum as the beasts tore their victims apart. Said that music was sweeter to her ears than any rock and roll. Maybe it was-but as he couldn’t bloody well hear it, the comparison was lost on him.
And the Roman food was terrible! Garlic pervaded every meal, sometimes with rosemary or basil or gorgonzola undertones.
Spike’s head came up as he heard the couple in front of them speaking rapidly in French. He met Dru’s eyes and grinned. After a nice meal of French food he thought he just might be able to tolerate the bloody awful poetry at La Dolce Mori.
Staring into Dru’s golden eyes, he grinned again.
“Shall we dine, m’dear?”
“Oh, yes please, I’d just been thinking about water lilies and bullfrogs. . .”
“Right, then.”
They unclasped hands and separated. Dru slipped her hand into the crook of the man’s arm as Spike arm slid around the waist of the woman.
They dined.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker Wells’ eyes were as big as saucers as he got off the plane. A week in Rome! He’d been to Los Angeles twice and San Francisco once, but otherwise, he’d never been out of Sunnydale. In the last 42 hours, he’d flown to Chicago, New York, London, taken a boat across the Channel, a train to Paris and then another aeroplane to Rome.
My gosh! I’m a world traveler! He thought. If only Mother could have come along. She’d have loved this.
He was taken to his hotel to rest up before the start of his wonderful new experiences due to begin the following day. Tucker unpacked his suitcase, but he wasn’t tired. What he wanted was to stretch his legs, so he decided to take a walk.
The very stones underfoot seemed ancient, and Tucker hoped he’d have time to explore Rome while he was here.
He walked aimlessly, finally stopping at a trattoria for a cup of coffee.
“Such naughty boys. Bringing the puppies out to play. Rrrff. Bad dogs! The monkeys wear pants and flap their little wings. I love plays. Sarah Bernhardt had such a lovely voice-like fairy bells.”
Tucker turned to see who was speaking. Two tables away, sat the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and she was smiling at him. Sleek dark hair, covered by one of those French beret hats coming into fashion, a black turtleneck sweater, pencil-slim black skirt that came just below her knees, black tights and red shoes with straps across the instep. She must be one of those beatniks he’d heard tell of! Her long fingers, tipped with crimson nails, beckoned.
“That’s right, dearie, come to me. Miss Edith desires to make your acquaintance.”
Edith. Tucker sighed as his heart sped up. What a lovely name.
‘Edith’ took out a cigarette and fitted it to a long holder, looking at him expectantly. He patted his pockets looking for matches, forgetting that he never carried matches, as he didn’t smoke.
Tucker was gathering his courage to join her at her table, when a suave-looking man in an expensively cut Italian suit got there first.
“There you are, Princess! I’ve been looking all over for you. Got right worried when I found you gone, pet.”
‘Edith’ turned her luminous eyes on the newcomer.
“My Spike,” she said in a low, caressing tone that sent shivers up Tucker’s spine. “Will you take your princess to see Sarah Bernhardt tonight?”
“Sarah Bernhardt’s dead, luv.”
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.” Her delicate hands began fluttering and her whole body seemed to vibrate.
“We’ll go to La Dolce Mori instead,” the man suggested rapidly.
A sunny smile immediately transformed ‘Edith’s’ face. “Alright.”
“Bugger! ‘S closed tonight. Don’t worry, pet, we’ll go tomorrow.”
The man had drawn ‘Edith’ out of her chair, and one minute they were standing right there, and the next, they were gone.
Tucker blinked in dismay. Seeing something on the ground near ‘Edith’s’ chair, he got up to look.
It was an antique doll with a bisque china head and hands, long golden curls and. . . a blindfold over its eyes? Tucker picked up the doll. He’d heard the man say they were going to La Dolce Mori tomorrow night. He’d be there, too-wherever it was-and could give the fascinating Miss Edith back her doll.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike leaned against the lamp post watching the cars sweep past. Alfa Romeos, Fiats, Italas. . .
“This is the one, pet.”
Dru stepped out from the shadows and bent to adjust the strap of her shoe. The car screeched to a halt. Dru sashayed over to the car and slid into the passenger seat.
Spike grinned. In lieu of Sarah Bernhardt, he’d promised to take Dru to San Remo to see Maria Callas’ performance, and for that, they needed wheels. The Maserati San Remo was perfect. He couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel of the powerful sports car. . .
Bugger!
Spike took off at a run.
He had no doubts that Dru was more than a match for the driver of the car; the car itself was another matter entirely! He hoped he wasn’t too late! The last time Dru had attempted to drive. . .
He saw the car still parked and heaved a sigh of relief. Dru looked up with a bloodstained grin.
“I didn’t spill a drop on the pretty car. Can we go to hear the songbird now, Spike? I’ve always been partial to birds. When you’re dead, they peck out your eyes.”
“’s good that we’re undead then, pet.”
Depositing the previous owner of the Maserati in the bushes, Spike slid into the driver’s seat.
“I wish Miss Edith could come with us-she’d so enjoy a concert. But she’s a naughty girl; she ran away to have adventures. I shall have to punish her severely when she comes home.”
Spike wasn’t really listening. He was enjoying the rush of wind displaced by the powerful car.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker had enjoyed every minute of his day on the set. It must be wonderful to be a movie star-almost as good as being a superhero. He’d never told anyone, but his fondest wish was to wake up and discover he was invincible, invisible, or able to fly. He’d even settle for X-ray vision, if he had to.
Life in Sunnydale was boring, but here, the possibilities seemed endless. He wanted some excitement in his life. He wanted to save the damsel in distress. He wanted to do something . . . memorable.
Why not? This was his chance! It may not be Metropolis, but he was sure there were people in need of saving in Rome, also. But first, he needed a costume. He searched his luggage. Neither of his suits would do, nor would his blue and white checked cotton pajamas . . . aha! Just the thing! For some reason-probably afraid it would be cold at night-his mother had included his father’s Navy issue Union suit. It was heavy wool and scratchy, but it was a very dark blue and would look almost black at night. It buttoned up the chest and that was alright, but the flap that buttoned over his behind gave him pause. It would be terribly embarrassing to be rescuing a damsel and in the midst of his exertions, possibly expose his drawers. That wouldn’t do at all!
He needed some kind of cape. . . His silk-substitute dressing gown was a dark burgundy with a muted navy and forest green paisley print. That would do! He wished it were real silk, although silk had been in short supply since the beginning of The War. Silk would just be more suave than this-he looked at the tag sewn into the neck of the garment-polyester.
Oh, well, if this worked out-if he was any good at this superhero stuff-he could always get a better costume later. He tied the sleeves of the dressing gown around his neck like a cape and took out his rubbers. He pulled the stretchy rubber coverings over his brown wing-tip shoes. There! The rubber soles would provide traction that the leather-soled shoes didn’t have, in case he had to run or climb.
Tucker Wells, Superhero, was ready to prowl the Roman night. Er . . . maybe it would be a good idea to wait until it actually was night, he thought, as he looked at the late afternoon sun slanting through the blinds covering his window. With a swish of his cape, Tucker sat down to read his comic books and wait.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker woke from his nap. It was nine o’clock, and still not really dark. This Superhero business was harder than he thought it would be, and he was ravenously hungry. Thank goodness, the Italians dined late. At 9:00 p.m. everything in Sunnydale would be shut up tight, but here was a different story. He felt very cosmopolitan at the thought of dining at what would have been bedtime at home.
Perhaps he’d better put off the Superhero business until tomorrow.
With a sigh, he removed his costume, dressed in his regular clothes and went out to look for the biggest bowl of spaghetti and meatballs that he could find.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Now that he had a plan, Tucker was better able to prepare.
During his time on the set, he carefully watched the stuntmen, taking note of their moves and how they managed to fall without hurting themselves.
As soon as the car returned him to his hotel, he went out in search of a groceria, where he purchased bread, butter, cheese, grapes, a tomato and a bottle of lemon fizz.
Returning to his hotel, he bathed and lay down to sleep.
He awoke at 9:45, ate some bread, cheese and fruit, and dressed in his costume. He was prowling the streets of Rome by 10:30.
His first ‘case’ occurred almost immediately.
Three well-dressed women had left a trattoria and were speaking animatedly, gesturing expansively with their hands. The woman closest to the street flung out her arm, and a Vespa swerved to the curb, the rider snatching her handbag.
Tucker sprang into action. With a flying leap he had copied from the stuntmen, he threw himself at the Vespa, which unfortunately chose that moment to swerve, causing Tucker to bellyflop onto the street, knocking the wind right out of him.
When he got his breath back and was able to stand, he noticed the women staring at him in open-mouthed awe. One woman darted forward and retrieved the handbag, scuffed and with the strap broken, but more or less intact, that he must have managed to dislodge during his flying leap. The women hurried off into the night, gales of laughter drifting back to him.
Tucker felt a momentary twinge of disappointment that they hadn’t thanked him, before he got control of himself. Their hysterical laughter showed how frightened they had been, and the experience had probably been so traumatic they needed to put it behind them immediately. Superheroes didn’t do what they did for the reward or glory-they did it to help the helpless, because it was the right thing to do! If this was his calling, he couldn’t afford to be petty.
Tucker straightened his shoulders, rearranged his dressing gown/cape and re-buttoned the rear flap of his longjohns.
“Onward to victory!”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Drusilla slid over on the butter-soft leather seat of the Maserati, as Spike put his right arm around her, pulling her close. Her fingers played with the buttons of his shirt and he gasped as her long fingers slid across his smooth chest to pinch his nipple.
“Did you enjoy the concert, pet?”
“Oh, yes!” Dru’s eyes glowed, but then her lips formed a pout. “But I didn’t much care for that annoying little Greek man who kept standing up in front! I wish you had let me eat him, Spike.” Her hand moved lower over the sculpted muscles of his stomach.
“He had too much security, luv. Musta been some kind of muckety-muck, havin’ his own bodyguards an’ all. Maybe another time.”
Dru’s hand had reached his crotch, and as she lowered the zipper, his erection sprang free.
“I’ll just pull over then, luv, eh?”
Spike’s eyes searched the road for a turn-off.
“No. I like the wind-it whispers naughty things . . .” Her mouth closed over him and her words degenerated into “glurg mumphel tish . . .”
Spike involuntarily pressed down on the accelerator as the car flew through the night. Oh well, even if they crashed, it wouldn’t kill them. He threw back his head and gave himself up to the pleasure of her cool mouth and wicked tongue as the needle edged past 140 kmh. Live dangerously, that’s the ticket!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker had spent hours prowling the streets of Rome, but he hadn’t found any more miscreants. His wool costume itched horribly and his feet hurt. He decided to call it a night.
He turned in the direction he thought led back to his hotel, but he must have gotten turned around, because he didn’t remember this park area. He could see glittering lights on the far side of the expanse of woodland, so figured if he could cut through the park, he’d find someone to direct him to his hotel.
It was much darker under the trees, and he heard scuffling noises and once, he thought he heard a growl. Probably just a dog, but his fertile imagination pictured jungle cats and other exotic beasts, escaped from the Colosseum and breeding here in the park for centuries . . . there could be lions or tigers or bears, oh my!
Superheroes weren’t afraid of wild animals, he scolded himself, but he picked up a stout tree limb, just in case.
He heard more sounds and then a decidedly human scream.
Brandishing his limb, he hurried toward the sound. In a shaft of moonlight, he saw a large man struggling with a girl against some sort of equestrian statue. With no thought for his own safety, he hurried to save the damsel.
Before he could raise his weapon to strike the bully about the shoulders, the man slumped to the ground and he saw the woman’s face. It was demonic, with heavy brow ridges, glowing yellow eyes and sharp fangs.
As she flung herself at him, faster than any human could move, Tucker raised his branch, hoping to fend her off while he thought what to do next. She seemed to impale herself on the branch and the next second, she had turned to dust!
Coughing and choking as the dust settled around him, he hurried out of the park as fast as his tired legs could carry him.
Maybe he should rethink this whole Superhero idea!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker Wells was practically vibrating with excitement. This was the day he actually got to be on camera.
He was sent to Hair and Make-up, as he’d actually have a close-up! After twenty minutes in the chair, he was ready. The plastic smock was whisked off and he was led to the set and shown his mark. He was positioned in a small group of people and told to look up and to the left when the Assistant Director yelled “Action!”
He could see the wires where Superman would be hoisted with a pulley to ‘fly’ across the scene, but it didn’t make any real difference to Tucker. He believed in Superheroes. Maybe Kirk Alyn was only an actor, but as there were real monsters, there had to be heroes, quietly fighting them, making the world safe for the many who didn’t know about what lurked in the darkness.
The scene was set up, Mr. Alyn was attached to the harness, and the AD called “Quiet on the set!”
Tucker waited with bated breath.
The AD called “Action!”
The group of extras looked up and to the left. Superman came flying into view.
“It’s a bird. . .” called one of the extras.
“No, it’s a plane,” said a woman.
The camera focused on Tucker’s face, shining with wonder and awe. “It’s Superman!” he called decisively.
“Cut!” yelled the AD.
They shot the scene twice more, and then the director, himself, called, “It’s a wrap!”
Back at his hotel, Tucker regretfully packed his belongings. It was his last night in Rome and he planned to go to La Dolce Mori. If Miss Edith wasn’t there, he’d leave the doll with the manager, because he guessed she was a regular patron from the way she spoke about the club.
Tucker solemnly placed his #70 The Two Faces of Superman in the bottom of his suitcase, slipping his autographed photo of Kirk Alyn between the pages. He folded his father’s Union suit and placed it on top of the comic. Rolling up his rubber slip-ons, he placed them in the pockets of his robe and added that.
When he had packed everything but his pajamas and the Seersucker suit, he sighed. He’d miss Rome. Nothing ever happened in boring old Sunnydale.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker decided to splurge on a taxi, as he wasn’t sure of the location of La Dolce Mori, and he didn’t want to take a chance on missing the fascinating Edith.
The taxi deposited him at a black door, leading to a basement in a run-down section-he was beginning to have second thoughts.
As he entered the premises, he was somewhat reassured to see a doorman collecting a cover charge.
Tiny tables were scattered throughout the room facing a stage. Since the menu seemed to consist exclusively of coffee and red wine, Tucker ordered a coffee and glanced again at the stage. There she was!
Gliding across the stage in spiked heels, black Capri pants and a blood-red sweater, her beret perched rakishly atop her head, she was a vision of hipness.
The club immediately quieted as she approached the microphone. The man who had collected her from the trattoria stood in the shadows, wearing such a look of love and longing on his face that Tucker knew he didn’t stand a chance with Edith-she was obviously spoken for.
A voice boomed across the stillness.
“Ladies and gents, hep-cats and kittens, I give you the one, the only-Drusilla.”
The patrons immediately began snapping their fingers and Tucker joined in.
The dark goddess inclined her head in acknowledgement, and then began to speak.
“There are worms in my baguette and daddy is gone. Grandmama sent him away. He made my William swim-swim for miles and miles through rivers of blood. My mummy used to brush my hair and sing to me. . . Run and catch, run and catch; the lamb is caught in the blackberry patch. The pixies brought a changeling child and Grandmama was cross. Her bad dog went away. O-o-o-o-o, it burns! Betrayal. Effluvia. Can you see my insides? Miss Edith is lost, but she’ll come back, and so will Angelus.”
She began to laugh wildly, and then sank to the floor.
The snaps were so loud, they hurt Tucker’s ears and he felt funny inside. Couldn’t they see? This wasn’t an avant-garde example of hipster performance art. She had suffered some terrible tragedy at some time in her life and no one cared!
He looked again, and realized he had been wrong, as the man tenderly helped her to her feet and led her off the stage to thunderous applause. The man cared-cared desperately. Tucker hoped someday he’d find someone who cared that much about him, but that someone wouldn’t be Edith-Drusilla or whatever her name was.
He was ready to go home. He carefully placed the doll on his chair and left the club.
Tucker Wells was a man with a mission. He knew what he wanted to do with his life. He wanted to fight injustice wherever he found it, and he wanted a grand, passionate, forever love. Not bad goals on which to base his life. Even if it was in boring old Sunnydale.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Epilogue-49 years later
Andrew felt unsettled. Things were happening at an alarming rate. He’d returned from his road trip with Spike to find Buffy gone. Spike went to look for her, and he didn’t come back either. From the sounds of things, everybody else was having sex! He slipped out of the house, knowing he’d never be missed.
Keeping a wary eye out for Bringers or Ubervamps, Andrew transversed the deserted streets of Sunnydale until he came to his parents’ home. It was dark and deserted like the rest of the houses.
He went in and looked around, feeling the need for some memento, some connection with his past. He was sure he was going to die in the final battle, and he figured he probably deserved to, but snatches of conversations he had heard as a child came back to him. The whispers about his crazy grandfather who thought vampires and demons were real and who went out at night like some kind of superhero, before his parents couldn’t take it any more and put Grandpop in The Home.
Taking the flashlight from the kitchen drawer, Andrew climbed the steps to the attic. Looking around at the detritus of four generations of lives, he had no idea where to start. He moved aside the dressmaker dummy and broken wicker chair, flashing his light along the space under the eaves. A dusty suitcase, blazoned with international stickers caught his eye and he dragged it out.
Opening it, he discovered a shiny old bathrobe, a set of moth-eaten long underwear and Ohmigod! A World’s Finest issue # 70! He reverently lifted it out. Underneath was a blue paper composition book, The Adventures of Tucker Wells written on the front in his grandfather’s handwriting. The cheap paper was starting to crumble, so Andrew opened it carefully.
Taped to the back of the front cover with yellowed cello tape that had long since lost its stickiness, was a picture of his grandfather actually wearing the longjohns with the bathrobe tied around his neck like a cape. No wonder his parents had put him in The Home! Could Grandpop have been any geekier?
The writing was faded, but Andrew began to read.
I was 20 years old when I discovered that monsters exist. From that moment on, I dedicated my life to fighting for truth, justice and the American way of life and to helping the helpless. Sunnydale seems like a nice, normal American town, but it’s built on a Hellmouth. That means vampires and demons and unimaginable evils are drawn here. Most folks don’t want to know about what goes on here after dark, but those that do, can’t turn aside and pretend it doesn’t.
There are three main ways to kill a vampire-sunlight, a wooden stake through the heart or beheading. I’ve never actually beheaded any myself, but when they’re staked, they turn to dust, and sunlight sets them on fire. . .”
Andrew paused to wipe a tear from his eye. Grandpop hadn’t been crazy! He knew what went on and he did something about it! He was a hero.
And Grandpop didn’t have Spike and two Slayers and a witch and a gazillion potential slayers for back-up.
Andrew discovered he wasn’t afraid any more. Oh sure, he’d still probably die, but he’d go out a hero-like Grandpop!
The End
4,630 words
The requirements were:
Name: Tobywolf13
Requirements: Andrew and Tucker Wells' grandfather runs across the two, comic books, Miss Edith gets lost
Restriction: no rape, no slash
Genre: comedy, preferably
Time Setting: 1950s
Rating: R
Many, many thanks for the speedy beta to crazydiamondsue and paynbow. You guys are the best!
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By spikeNdru, October 6, 2004
Written as back-up for the Spike/Dru Ficathon
Rated: soft R
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It was Monday. Grace Tucker Wells sighed as she entered her son’s room to collect the laundry. Tucker was her only child and, in the back of her mind, she knew she babied him, but it was just so difficult to know what to do.
Tucker had only been ten when she’d lost her husband in The War, and she’d clung to him. He’d been her Brave Little Man who promised he’d never leave her. Now, ten years later, in 1954, Tucker was twenty and she was beginning to rethink the vow she’d made him take.
She stripped the bed, picked up his laundry from the floor, straightened his comic books and made a mental note that she needed to dust his Pez collection, lined up like little soldiers with strange heads, marching across the top of his dresser.
Tucker seemed happy enough in his job as a teller at the First National Bank of Sunnydale, but that seemed to be all he did. He didn’t socialize with friends after work, he didn’t play bridge, he’d shown no interest in joining the Elks or the Moose Lodge or even the Junior Chamber of Commerce-and Mayor Wilkins had personally invited him to join the JayCees!
Grace had tried to fix him up with the available daughters of friends or even friends-of-friends, but there was rarely a second date. Tucker just seemed to be in a world of his own so much of the time. . .
Grace straightened her shoulders and picked up the laundry basket. Enough of this lollygagging! The laundry wasn’t going to wash itself! She should just be grateful she had such a fine son. The rest would take care of itself, in time.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker Wells bid his co-workers good evening and left the bank. It was a beautiful late afternoon in Sunnydale, and he removed his seersucker jacket, carefully draping it over his arm as he began to walk home. The sun was warm and he wished he could remove his felt fedora that made his head itch, but a gentleman was never seen on the street without a hat. It was Monday, and that meant meatloaf and mashed potatoes and green beans for supper. He loved meatloaf. He hoped there’d be enough left over for his lunch tomorrow.
Tucker nodded and spoke pleasantly to the people he saw on the streets. He quickened his steps as he neared his home. Perhaps it would come today!
He’d been so excited when he’d gotten the May-June issue of World’s Finest, Issue #70, The Two Faces of Superman. There’d been a contest announced and he’d known every question. He was sure he’d win something! The prizes were wonderful, and the Grand Prize was a trip to Rome. Tucker didn’t care about Rome one way or the other, but Columbia was filming a new Superman movie there with Kirk Alyn and part of the prize was a small role in the movie!
Of course he’d seen Superman and the Molemen with George Reeves when it had come out a few years ago, but to Tucker, Kirk Alyn would always be Superman.
Tucker was surprised to realize he was already home. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts of Superman; he had no memory of walking the last three blocks. Oh, gosh! He hoped he hadn’t cut any of his neighbors who may have spoken to him!
Unlocking the door, he went straight to the basket in the foyer and rifled through the mail. He let out such a high-pitched shriek of excitement when he’d seen the envelope that his mother had dropped the meatloaf on the floor, and for the first Monday in as long as he could remember, they’d had to have grilled cheese sandwiches instead. Tucker didn’t care-he was going to Rome!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike and Drusilla walked hand-in-hand through the soft Roman dusk. Spike hated Rome! Dru wanted to go to La Dolce Mori again. Bunch of pretentious twits that wouldn’t know iambic pentameter if it bit them on the bloody arse. He’d much rather catch some cool jazz or that exciting new sound from across the pond called rock and roll.
He’d been trying to convince Dru to take a trip to America-they hadn’t been since the 20’s, but she liked Rome. Said she could still hear the screams in the Colosseum as the beasts tore their victims apart. Said that music was sweeter to her ears than any rock and roll. Maybe it was-but as he couldn’t bloody well hear it, the comparison was lost on him.
And the Roman food was terrible! Garlic pervaded every meal, sometimes with rosemary or basil or gorgonzola undertones.
Spike’s head came up as he heard the couple in front of them speaking rapidly in French. He met Dru’s eyes and grinned. After a nice meal of French food he thought he just might be able to tolerate the bloody awful poetry at La Dolce Mori.
Staring into Dru’s golden eyes, he grinned again.
“Shall we dine, m’dear?”
“Oh, yes please, I’d just been thinking about water lilies and bullfrogs. . .”
“Right, then.”
They unclasped hands and separated. Dru slipped her hand into the crook of the man’s arm as Spike arm slid around the waist of the woman.
They dined.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker Wells’ eyes were as big as saucers as he got off the plane. A week in Rome! He’d been to Los Angeles twice and San Francisco once, but otherwise, he’d never been out of Sunnydale. In the last 42 hours, he’d flown to Chicago, New York, London, taken a boat across the Channel, a train to Paris and then another aeroplane to Rome.
My gosh! I’m a world traveler! He thought. If only Mother could have come along. She’d have loved this.
He was taken to his hotel to rest up before the start of his wonderful new experiences due to begin the following day. Tucker unpacked his suitcase, but he wasn’t tired. What he wanted was to stretch his legs, so he decided to take a walk.
The very stones underfoot seemed ancient, and Tucker hoped he’d have time to explore Rome while he was here.
He walked aimlessly, finally stopping at a trattoria for a cup of coffee.
“Such naughty boys. Bringing the puppies out to play. Rrrff. Bad dogs! The monkeys wear pants and flap their little wings. I love plays. Sarah Bernhardt had such a lovely voice-like fairy bells.”
Tucker turned to see who was speaking. Two tables away, sat the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and she was smiling at him. Sleek dark hair, covered by one of those French beret hats coming into fashion, a black turtleneck sweater, pencil-slim black skirt that came just below her knees, black tights and red shoes with straps across the instep. She must be one of those beatniks he’d heard tell of! Her long fingers, tipped with crimson nails, beckoned.
“That’s right, dearie, come to me. Miss Edith desires to make your acquaintance.”
Edith. Tucker sighed as his heart sped up. What a lovely name.
‘Edith’ took out a cigarette and fitted it to a long holder, looking at him expectantly. He patted his pockets looking for matches, forgetting that he never carried matches, as he didn’t smoke.
Tucker was gathering his courage to join her at her table, when a suave-looking man in an expensively cut Italian suit got there first.
“There you are, Princess! I’ve been looking all over for you. Got right worried when I found you gone, pet.”
‘Edith’ turned her luminous eyes on the newcomer.
“My Spike,” she said in a low, caressing tone that sent shivers up Tucker’s spine. “Will you take your princess to see Sarah Bernhardt tonight?”
“Sarah Bernhardt’s dead, luv.”
“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o.” Her delicate hands began fluttering and her whole body seemed to vibrate.
“We’ll go to La Dolce Mori instead,” the man suggested rapidly.
A sunny smile immediately transformed ‘Edith’s’ face. “Alright.”
“Bugger! ‘S closed tonight. Don’t worry, pet, we’ll go tomorrow.”
The man had drawn ‘Edith’ out of her chair, and one minute they were standing right there, and the next, they were gone.
Tucker blinked in dismay. Seeing something on the ground near ‘Edith’s’ chair, he got up to look.
It was an antique doll with a bisque china head and hands, long golden curls and. . . a blindfold over its eyes? Tucker picked up the doll. He’d heard the man say they were going to La Dolce Mori tomorrow night. He’d be there, too-wherever it was-and could give the fascinating Miss Edith back her doll.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Spike leaned against the lamp post watching the cars sweep past. Alfa Romeos, Fiats, Italas. . .
“This is the one, pet.”
Dru stepped out from the shadows and bent to adjust the strap of her shoe. The car screeched to a halt. Dru sashayed over to the car and slid into the passenger seat.
Spike grinned. In lieu of Sarah Bernhardt, he’d promised to take Dru to San Remo to see Maria Callas’ performance, and for that, they needed wheels. The Maserati San Remo was perfect. He couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel of the powerful sports car. . .
Bugger!
Spike took off at a run.
He had no doubts that Dru was more than a match for the driver of the car; the car itself was another matter entirely! He hoped he wasn’t too late! The last time Dru had attempted to drive. . .
He saw the car still parked and heaved a sigh of relief. Dru looked up with a bloodstained grin.
“I didn’t spill a drop on the pretty car. Can we go to hear the songbird now, Spike? I’ve always been partial to birds. When you’re dead, they peck out your eyes.”
“’s good that we’re undead then, pet.”
Depositing the previous owner of the Maserati in the bushes, Spike slid into the driver’s seat.
“I wish Miss Edith could come with us-she’d so enjoy a concert. But she’s a naughty girl; she ran away to have adventures. I shall have to punish her severely when she comes home.”
Spike wasn’t really listening. He was enjoying the rush of wind displaced by the powerful car.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker had enjoyed every minute of his day on the set. It must be wonderful to be a movie star-almost as good as being a superhero. He’d never told anyone, but his fondest wish was to wake up and discover he was invincible, invisible, or able to fly. He’d even settle for X-ray vision, if he had to.
Life in Sunnydale was boring, but here, the possibilities seemed endless. He wanted some excitement in his life. He wanted to save the damsel in distress. He wanted to do something . . . memorable.
Why not? This was his chance! It may not be Metropolis, but he was sure there were people in need of saving in Rome, also. But first, he needed a costume. He searched his luggage. Neither of his suits would do, nor would his blue and white checked cotton pajamas . . . aha! Just the thing! For some reason-probably afraid it would be cold at night-his mother had included his father’s Navy issue Union suit. It was heavy wool and scratchy, but it was a very dark blue and would look almost black at night. It buttoned up the chest and that was alright, but the flap that buttoned over his behind gave him pause. It would be terribly embarrassing to be rescuing a damsel and in the midst of his exertions, possibly expose his drawers. That wouldn’t do at all!
He needed some kind of cape. . . His silk-substitute dressing gown was a dark burgundy with a muted navy and forest green paisley print. That would do! He wished it were real silk, although silk had been in short supply since the beginning of The War. Silk would just be more suave than this-he looked at the tag sewn into the neck of the garment-polyester.
Oh, well, if this worked out-if he was any good at this superhero stuff-he could always get a better costume later. He tied the sleeves of the dressing gown around his neck like a cape and took out his rubbers. He pulled the stretchy rubber coverings over his brown wing-tip shoes. There! The rubber soles would provide traction that the leather-soled shoes didn’t have, in case he had to run or climb.
Tucker Wells, Superhero, was ready to prowl the Roman night. Er . . . maybe it would be a good idea to wait until it actually was night, he thought, as he looked at the late afternoon sun slanting through the blinds covering his window. With a swish of his cape, Tucker sat down to read his comic books and wait.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker woke from his nap. It was nine o’clock, and still not really dark. This Superhero business was harder than he thought it would be, and he was ravenously hungry. Thank goodness, the Italians dined late. At 9:00 p.m. everything in Sunnydale would be shut up tight, but here was a different story. He felt very cosmopolitan at the thought of dining at what would have been bedtime at home.
Perhaps he’d better put off the Superhero business until tomorrow.
With a sigh, he removed his costume, dressed in his regular clothes and went out to look for the biggest bowl of spaghetti and meatballs that he could find.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Now that he had a plan, Tucker was better able to prepare.
During his time on the set, he carefully watched the stuntmen, taking note of their moves and how they managed to fall without hurting themselves.
As soon as the car returned him to his hotel, he went out in search of a groceria, where he purchased bread, butter, cheese, grapes, a tomato and a bottle of lemon fizz.
Returning to his hotel, he bathed and lay down to sleep.
He awoke at 9:45, ate some bread, cheese and fruit, and dressed in his costume. He was prowling the streets of Rome by 10:30.
His first ‘case’ occurred almost immediately.
Three well-dressed women had left a trattoria and were speaking animatedly, gesturing expansively with their hands. The woman closest to the street flung out her arm, and a Vespa swerved to the curb, the rider snatching her handbag.
Tucker sprang into action. With a flying leap he had copied from the stuntmen, he threw himself at the Vespa, which unfortunately chose that moment to swerve, causing Tucker to bellyflop onto the street, knocking the wind right out of him.
When he got his breath back and was able to stand, he noticed the women staring at him in open-mouthed awe. One woman darted forward and retrieved the handbag, scuffed and with the strap broken, but more or less intact, that he must have managed to dislodge during his flying leap. The women hurried off into the night, gales of laughter drifting back to him.
Tucker felt a momentary twinge of disappointment that they hadn’t thanked him, before he got control of himself. Their hysterical laughter showed how frightened they had been, and the experience had probably been so traumatic they needed to put it behind them immediately. Superheroes didn’t do what they did for the reward or glory-they did it to help the helpless, because it was the right thing to do! If this was his calling, he couldn’t afford to be petty.
Tucker straightened his shoulders, rearranged his dressing gown/cape and re-buttoned the rear flap of his longjohns.
“Onward to victory!”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Drusilla slid over on the butter-soft leather seat of the Maserati, as Spike put his right arm around her, pulling her close. Her fingers played with the buttons of his shirt and he gasped as her long fingers slid across his smooth chest to pinch his nipple.
“Did you enjoy the concert, pet?”
“Oh, yes!” Dru’s eyes glowed, but then her lips formed a pout. “But I didn’t much care for that annoying little Greek man who kept standing up in front! I wish you had let me eat him, Spike.” Her hand moved lower over the sculpted muscles of his stomach.
“He had too much security, luv. Musta been some kind of muckety-muck, havin’ his own bodyguards an’ all. Maybe another time.”
Dru’s hand had reached his crotch, and as she lowered the zipper, his erection sprang free.
“I’ll just pull over then, luv, eh?”
Spike’s eyes searched the road for a turn-off.
“No. I like the wind-it whispers naughty things . . .” Her mouth closed over him and her words degenerated into “glurg mumphel tish . . .”
Spike involuntarily pressed down on the accelerator as the car flew through the night. Oh well, even if they crashed, it wouldn’t kill them. He threw back his head and gave himself up to the pleasure of her cool mouth and wicked tongue as the needle edged past 140 kmh. Live dangerously, that’s the ticket!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker had spent hours prowling the streets of Rome, but he hadn’t found any more miscreants. His wool costume itched horribly and his feet hurt. He decided to call it a night.
He turned in the direction he thought led back to his hotel, but he must have gotten turned around, because he didn’t remember this park area. He could see glittering lights on the far side of the expanse of woodland, so figured if he could cut through the park, he’d find someone to direct him to his hotel.
It was much darker under the trees, and he heard scuffling noises and once, he thought he heard a growl. Probably just a dog, but his fertile imagination pictured jungle cats and other exotic beasts, escaped from the Colosseum and breeding here in the park for centuries . . . there could be lions or tigers or bears, oh my!
Superheroes weren’t afraid of wild animals, he scolded himself, but he picked up a stout tree limb, just in case.
He heard more sounds and then a decidedly human scream.
Brandishing his limb, he hurried toward the sound. In a shaft of moonlight, he saw a large man struggling with a girl against some sort of equestrian statue. With no thought for his own safety, he hurried to save the damsel.
Before he could raise his weapon to strike the bully about the shoulders, the man slumped to the ground and he saw the woman’s face. It was demonic, with heavy brow ridges, glowing yellow eyes and sharp fangs.
As she flung herself at him, faster than any human could move, Tucker raised his branch, hoping to fend her off while he thought what to do next. She seemed to impale herself on the branch and the next second, she had turned to dust!
Coughing and choking as the dust settled around him, he hurried out of the park as fast as his tired legs could carry him.
Maybe he should rethink this whole Superhero idea!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker Wells was practically vibrating with excitement. This was the day he actually got to be on camera.
He was sent to Hair and Make-up, as he’d actually have a close-up! After twenty minutes in the chair, he was ready. The plastic smock was whisked off and he was led to the set and shown his mark. He was positioned in a small group of people and told to look up and to the left when the Assistant Director yelled “Action!”
He could see the wires where Superman would be hoisted with a pulley to ‘fly’ across the scene, but it didn’t make any real difference to Tucker. He believed in Superheroes. Maybe Kirk Alyn was only an actor, but as there were real monsters, there had to be heroes, quietly fighting them, making the world safe for the many who didn’t know about what lurked in the darkness.
The scene was set up, Mr. Alyn was attached to the harness, and the AD called “Quiet on the set!”
Tucker waited with bated breath.
The AD called “Action!”
The group of extras looked up and to the left. Superman came flying into view.
“It’s a bird. . .” called one of the extras.
“No, it’s a plane,” said a woman.
The camera focused on Tucker’s face, shining with wonder and awe. “It’s Superman!” he called decisively.
“Cut!” yelled the AD.
They shot the scene twice more, and then the director, himself, called, “It’s a wrap!”
Back at his hotel, Tucker regretfully packed his belongings. It was his last night in Rome and he planned to go to La Dolce Mori. If Miss Edith wasn’t there, he’d leave the doll with the manager, because he guessed she was a regular patron from the way she spoke about the club.
Tucker solemnly placed his #70 The Two Faces of Superman in the bottom of his suitcase, slipping his autographed photo of Kirk Alyn between the pages. He folded his father’s Union suit and placed it on top of the comic. Rolling up his rubber slip-ons, he placed them in the pockets of his robe and added that.
When he had packed everything but his pajamas and the Seersucker suit, he sighed. He’d miss Rome. Nothing ever happened in boring old Sunnydale.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Tucker decided to splurge on a taxi, as he wasn’t sure of the location of La Dolce Mori, and he didn’t want to take a chance on missing the fascinating Edith.
The taxi deposited him at a black door, leading to a basement in a run-down section-he was beginning to have second thoughts.
As he entered the premises, he was somewhat reassured to see a doorman collecting a cover charge.
Tiny tables were scattered throughout the room facing a stage. Since the menu seemed to consist exclusively of coffee and red wine, Tucker ordered a coffee and glanced again at the stage. There she was!
Gliding across the stage in spiked heels, black Capri pants and a blood-red sweater, her beret perched rakishly atop her head, she was a vision of hipness.
The club immediately quieted as she approached the microphone. The man who had collected her from the trattoria stood in the shadows, wearing such a look of love and longing on his face that Tucker knew he didn’t stand a chance with Edith-she was obviously spoken for.
A voice boomed across the stillness.
“Ladies and gents, hep-cats and kittens, I give you the one, the only-Drusilla.”
The patrons immediately began snapping their fingers and Tucker joined in.
The dark goddess inclined her head in acknowledgement, and then began to speak.
“There are worms in my baguette and daddy is gone. Grandmama sent him away. He made my William swim-swim for miles and miles through rivers of blood. My mummy used to brush my hair and sing to me. . . Run and catch, run and catch; the lamb is caught in the blackberry patch. The pixies brought a changeling child and Grandmama was cross. Her bad dog went away. O-o-o-o-o, it burns! Betrayal. Effluvia. Can you see my insides? Miss Edith is lost, but she’ll come back, and so will Angelus.”
She began to laugh wildly, and then sank to the floor.
The snaps were so loud, they hurt Tucker’s ears and he felt funny inside. Couldn’t they see? This wasn’t an avant-garde example of hipster performance art. She had suffered some terrible tragedy at some time in her life and no one cared!
He looked again, and realized he had been wrong, as the man tenderly helped her to her feet and led her off the stage to thunderous applause. The man cared-cared desperately. Tucker hoped someday he’d find someone who cared that much about him, but that someone wouldn’t be Edith-Drusilla or whatever her name was.
He was ready to go home. He carefully placed the doll on his chair and left the club.
Tucker Wells was a man with a mission. He knew what he wanted to do with his life. He wanted to fight injustice wherever he found it, and he wanted a grand, passionate, forever love. Not bad goals on which to base his life. Even if it was in boring old Sunnydale.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Epilogue-49 years later
Andrew felt unsettled. Things were happening at an alarming rate. He’d returned from his road trip with Spike to find Buffy gone. Spike went to look for her, and he didn’t come back either. From the sounds of things, everybody else was having sex! He slipped out of the house, knowing he’d never be missed.
Keeping a wary eye out for Bringers or Ubervamps, Andrew transversed the deserted streets of Sunnydale until he came to his parents’ home. It was dark and deserted like the rest of the houses.
He went in and looked around, feeling the need for some memento, some connection with his past. He was sure he was going to die in the final battle, and he figured he probably deserved to, but snatches of conversations he had heard as a child came back to him. The whispers about his crazy grandfather who thought vampires and demons were real and who went out at night like some kind of superhero, before his parents couldn’t take it any more and put Grandpop in The Home.
Taking the flashlight from the kitchen drawer, Andrew climbed the steps to the attic. Looking around at the detritus of four generations of lives, he had no idea where to start. He moved aside the dressmaker dummy and broken wicker chair, flashing his light along the space under the eaves. A dusty suitcase, blazoned with international stickers caught his eye and he dragged it out.
Opening it, he discovered a shiny old bathrobe, a set of moth-eaten long underwear and Ohmigod! A World’s Finest issue # 70! He reverently lifted it out. Underneath was a blue paper composition book, The Adventures of Tucker Wells written on the front in his grandfather’s handwriting. The cheap paper was starting to crumble, so Andrew opened it carefully.
Taped to the back of the front cover with yellowed cello tape that had long since lost its stickiness, was a picture of his grandfather actually wearing the longjohns with the bathrobe tied around his neck like a cape. No wonder his parents had put him in The Home! Could Grandpop have been any geekier?
The writing was faded, but Andrew began to read.
I was 20 years old when I discovered that monsters exist. From that moment on, I dedicated my life to fighting for truth, justice and the American way of life and to helping the helpless. Sunnydale seems like a nice, normal American town, but it’s built on a Hellmouth. That means vampires and demons and unimaginable evils are drawn here. Most folks don’t want to know about what goes on here after dark, but those that do, can’t turn aside and pretend it doesn’t.
There are three main ways to kill a vampire-sunlight, a wooden stake through the heart or beheading. I’ve never actually beheaded any myself, but when they’re staked, they turn to dust, and sunlight sets them on fire. . .”
Andrew paused to wipe a tear from his eye. Grandpop hadn’t been crazy! He knew what went on and he did something about it! He was a hero.
And Grandpop didn’t have Spike and two Slayers and a witch and a gazillion potential slayers for back-up.
Andrew discovered he wasn’t afraid any more. Oh sure, he’d still probably die, but he’d go out a hero-like Grandpop!
The End
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