A Mess of Pottage, Commentary, Chapter 2
Chapter Two: Lessons
This was getting to be a bad habit, Spike thought to himself as he swam back to consciousness. Someone had considerately bandaged the antler wound in his shoulder and returned his t-shirt--and he wasn’t restrained. He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a couch in a living room, the Slayer sprawled in a recliner and smoking a cigarette across the coffee table from him. He sat up.
Not much scene-setting here. Kind of an anonymous apartment, I guess. We're more interested in the Slayer than where she lives right now, and honestly, nothing in this apartment would have told us anything interesting about her personality.
“You put on quite a show out there,” she said to him.
“Did I?” He reached for the mug of blood on the coffee table. “You should give me a refund then, ducks. I didn’t pay to be the entertainment, after all.” He sniffed the blood, then sipped from it.
“Sorry, William. No refunds.”
“I was afraid of that. You got a name, pet? Can’t keep callin’ you ‘Slayer’ all the time.”
“Alicia.” Spike gave a snort of laughter at that. She was offended. “What?”
“I used to be a poet, luv. Words were my business. ‘Alicia’ means ‘honest’...and I don’t think it fits you very well.”
I'm pretty sure he'd know something like that.
“This coming from someone who got his nickname from torturing people with railroad spikes,” she said disdainfully, flicking the tip of her cigarette toward the ashtray. “Ever hear the proverb about stones and glass houses?”
He put the cup back down. “Things change.”
She tilted her head at him. “Do they?”
“Apparently. Here you are, the Slayer...working with demons, instead of killin’ us like you ought to be doing. And here I am, a vampire, fighting the good fight and protecting mankind from the likes of, well, you. How many people have you killed, luv? An estimate?” He snagged the pack of cigarettes off the table and lit one, blowing the smoke in her direction.
Not a very big conclusion to jump to, considering the circumstances.
Her gaze slid away from him. “I do what I have to do. They protect me.”
He snorted again. “From what? Each other? You’re the bloody Slayer. You should be having them for breakfast. Er, not literally. But you know what I mean.”
She was puzzled. “But they told me I was supposed to work with them. I’m a weapon in their army. They’re battling, in the arena, for the honor of having me fight for their clan.”
Spike put his head in his hand for a second. The Council of Wankers had been an outdated, stuffy organization, but it had been useful from time to time. This girl had no idea what her purpose was supposed to be, and the company she was keeping wasn’t helping. He looked up at her, his expression resolved. “Is that what they told you? Well. We need to get you out of here, right the bloody hell now. You’re not some sodding prize in a gladiatorial game,” he said with some heat. “Your destiny is to kill demons, not fight for them.”
This is Spike, getting sucked in. He just can't help it.
“What, you think they’ll just let us walk out of here? I have a little freedom. But not that much.” She stubbed her cigarette out furiously.
He gave her a sideways glance. “Freedom enough to get me into your inner sanctum, anyway. I suppose that’s something.”
She looked away from him again. “They think...”
“I know what they think. But if they really believe I’m walking down that road again, they’re completely sack of hammers. Last time I had a relationship with a Slayer, it was a bloody disaster. I’m not willing to play another round of that.”
Shot down! Hands off the hot vampire, missy! This was part of my process of ruthlessly creating an anti-Sue.
She was a little insulted. “What, am I not pretty enough?”
Startled, he said, “Cor, pet, it’s not that at all. You’re what, sixteen?”
Yeah, I made Spike say "Cor." I don't do it often, but if it warrants a beating with a wet noodle, you know where to find me.
“Seventeen.”
I don't think she's been seventeen for very long.
“Too bloody young to be in any kind of relationship with the likes of me, then. Or I’m too old to be in a relationship with you. Either way. Not happening. But...”
“But?”
He sighed. “You can’t stay here and be demon fodder. We have to get you out. Until we come up with some kind of plan, I’ll train you.”
“Train me? I’m the Slayer. I have natural ability.”
Arrogant little chit, isn't she? More de-Sueing. Of course, most Sues are arrogant...but then, most Sues are better Slayers than Buffy. This one *cough* isn't. As we are about to see.
“Yeah? You think that ‘natural ability’ will keep you alive for longer than five minutes in a bona fide battle?”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “I could lick you in a fair fight without thinking twice about it.”
He was across the room in a heartbeat, pinning her wrists to the chair back, his teeth at her throat. “Could you, now, pet?” he whispered against her rapidly fluttering pulse. “And what makes you think I’d fight fair? Ever been in a real fight, with something that was serious about killing you?”
Whereas this particular Slayer is inexperienced and rather naive. She thinks she's a lot better than she is.
Alicia gulped a little. “No,” she mumbled.
“I could have had you drained and turned in less time than it took to tell it, just now. Never forget that. And I’m by no means the fastest demon out there.” He released her and sat back down on the couch.
“So...you’ll train me...” She leaped over the coffee table, a stake in her hand, only to be met in midair by Spike, who spun her around, pinned her wrists, and had his teeth at her throat again. “I guess I do need it,” she said, deflated.
Take that, girlie! At least she's willing to learn. Arrogant, but not stupid.
“Lesson the First: Natural ability is no match for science. The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”
***
They had a certain amount of independence around the compound. Demons followed, but at a discreet distance, and always watching. Spike took the opportunity to work with her everywhere, from small, low-ceilinged storage rooms, to long, narrow hallways. Cramped, confined places forced her to concentrate on where her weapons were, and to orient herself and use the space she had to her advantage.
That's how I'd do it, anyway.
He used bigger rooms and the arena to go over the basics, such as tumbling moves, swordplay, and martial arts. Taking a breather after one such session, they sat against the wall of an auditorium, smoking. Spike looked at Alicia sideways. “Those things’ll kill you, you know,” he said, idly playing with a knife.
She snorted and took another drag. “I’ll worry about lung cancer if I live that long.”
Now she knows what she doesn't know, and she's a bit...concerned.
“Here, now, none of that. I’m doing everything I can to make sure you live a nice long life.”
“Yeah?” She gave him that appraising stare again. “Why?”
“‘Cause it’s the right thing to do, pet. And I guess I’m trying to make up for being the death of a pair of Slayers, and not doing a very good job of protecting another.” He punctuated that statement by sending the knife into the wood parquet floor with a “thunk,” point-first.
“But...how do you know what the right thing to do is?” She seemed honestly curious.
Here's where I probably get a bit preachy. This girl has no moral compass whatsoever.
The question brought him up short, and he had to think about it for a minute while he worked the blade loose. “Well. I know what the wrong thing to do would be. Now that I have this soul, this moral compass, it generally steers me on the straight and narrow. It sure sets up a ruckus if I go astray, that’s for bloody sure.”
“Hm,” Alicia said pensively. “You sound like my parents. They were always, ‘let your conscience be your guide’ and crap like that.”
Which is all fine and good, if you actually give a kid the moral direction they need in order to be able to let their conscience be their guide. If you don't...you wind up with an Alicia, who thinks that Slayers are demon pawns and it's okay to kill people if they get in your way, if the demons protecting you tell you to.
His turn for the appraising stare. “What happened to your parents? Aren’t they worried about you?”
Her lip curled a little. “They were too busy making sure I never had any fun to worry about me. Do this, do that, be in by ten, don’t do such and such. I finally got sick of it and bailed.”
Cue the Angsty-Past-That-Isn't! My (published) Mom thought I should give her a genuine Angsty!Past, but I was really going out of my way to paint her as a spoiled, amoral brat who really didn't have much to complain about, but thought she did. The subtext here is, they didn't attempt to control her much when she was little, and then they started imposing rules on her when she was a teenager and was used to getting her own way. That never goes well.
“Yeah, they sound like heartless bastards, all right.” Spike’s voice was dry as paper as he stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “Ready for another round?”
***
Lying on the couch later that night, Spike contemplated his predicament. This girl had no bloody clue about right and wrong, about what her destiny was supposed to be, about anything, really. His thoughts turned to the Watcher’s Council again. They may have been a group of right prats, but Spike had to admit that they had served the purpose of finding the Slayers and getting them trained. He wished they’d had something in place to insure their succession, because he was in a brand new situation, and he had no idea how to deal with it.
Ugh, a world where Slayers get Chosen and no one trains them, or even knows how to train them, or find them. Spike helped with the Potentials, but they had the impending Apocalypse to concentrate their minds. Alicia really has no such incentive.
He growled to himself and sat up, hunting his cigarettes. He should get out now, before the whole thing came crashing down around his head. But, dammit...he couldn’t. Lighting up and pulling the smoke deeply into his lungs, he pondered just what the soddin’ hell it was about Slayers that got inside him and wouldn’t let him go. Kill them or protect them, two sides of the same passionate coin. And he wondered if part of him wanted to help this one because he’d failed Buffy all those years ago.
And that was the crux of his problem. Two decades, and he still couldn’t get her out of his head. Intellectually, he knew that aiding Alicia wouldn’t make up for Buffy’s death, but emotionally it still felt like the right thing to do.
Spike still has issues.
He had a week and a half to work on her before the Finals of the Glads. He’d better make the most of it.
Gives us a time limit.
***
In the bedroom, Alicia wrestled with her own dilemma. How could he be so sure about what was right and what was wrong? People who had strong opinions made her uncomfortable. Her parents had always taught her--when she bothered to listen--that people with strong opinions were closed-minded, that keeping an open mind about everything was a virtue. That the only sin was judging people.
Why yes, some of these are my pet peeves about society today. Sorry if that's a little preachy.
What she’d told Spike had been true; they had always murmured platitudes like “Let your conscience be your guide.” They’d just never given her a moral compass for her conscience to be guided by. And now she was confused. Confronted by a man--well, vampire--who was so damned sure that she was “wrong” for working with the demons, she didn’t know how to deal with him, or with his judgement.
Not that he had openly condemned her, in so many words. But she could practically feel the disapproval rolling off of him in waves.
She rolled over and frowned at the wall. Like he had anything to talk about. Mr. High and Mighty had killed his share of people. So what if he didn’t do that anymore? He had in the past, and it was hypocritical of him to judge her when he’d done worse. She owed these demons; they’d saved her life when she was first Chosen as the Slayer and had no idea what was going on or why monsters all of a sudden seemed interested in killing her.
And this misplaced sense of loyalty is fixing to get them in all sorts of trouble.
At least, that’s what she kept telling herself as she drifted off to sleep.
***
Dust and smoke. Tired muscles swinging a battleaxe. Slayer at his back. Blood smell, sharp and coppery. Slayer’s frantic voice: “Spike!” Spin around, she’s bleeding, falling. Try to catch her. Blow to his head. Bright stars. Can’t stand. Legs collapse. Darkness-
This is disjointed and choppy, and it's meant to be. The present tense is on purpose too...although maybe I should have italicized that paragraph. Had I done that, however, it would have clued the readers in a bit sooner than I wanted to that this part wasn't actually happening right now. So, it seems like a random tense change, but it's not.
Spike woke, gasping. Just a dream--it was just a dream. “Bloody hell.” He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, hunting his cigarettes, lighting one with a jittery hand.
I've had dreams that woke me up shaking like that. Not too much of a stretch to think Spike has too.
He was so shaken that it took him a minute to notice the two Odobenus demons in the room with him. “Come with us, vampire,” one said gutturally.
Spike dragged smoke deep into his lungs. “Give us a second, all right?” A couple more quick puffs, and he stubbed it out and got to his feet. “Where we going, then?”
“Cain wants to see you.”
Hope I didn't injure anyone too much with the anvil of that name.
“Cain? Can’t these big bads come up with more original names?”
Well, maybe if we authors could come up with more original names...
The demon cuffed him on the head. “Show respect to your betters, leech.”
Spike snorted but kept further comments to himself. They traversed several hallways and went outside to another building at one point, entering another halfway across the compound. Finally they stopped outside a doorway and knocked. “Come!” The voice from the other side of the door was deeper and raspier than those of Spike’s companions, and when they entered, he saw that the Odobenus demon behind the desk was larger, toothier, and hairier than any he’d seen so far. “Leave us,” it said to the minions.
After glaring at Spike and giving him a little shove, they did. Spike sprawled himself insolently in the seat in front of the desk, hooking his leg over the chair arm and crossing his arms over his chest. “Right then. What in bloody hell is going on around here?”
Not one to mince words, our Spike. Not that he's the one to be asking questions...
Cain tented his fingers and gazed at Spike, his red hair ridge rising just a little. “I believe I’m the one asking the questions.”
“Haven’t heard one yet.”
“What’s your game? Why are you training the Slayer?”
Spike shrugged. “It’s what I do. God knows she needs help, and I don’t see any of your lackeys jumpin’ in. You do want her to be of some use to you, don’t you?”
Also not one to show all his cards. He wants Alicia out of there, but he's not going to tell Cain that, at least, not yet.
“There is that,” Cain allowed. “I’m still left with the question of why you’re helping her help us. Aren’t you all ‘good’ and soul-having now? Why help us in our clan wars?”
“‘m not helping you. I’m helping her. If I help you in the process, then that’s the way the cookie crumbles.” Spike cocked an eyebrow. “Clan wars? Is that what all this is about?” For the first time, he realized that the demons’ ridge hair came in different colors, and that different colors denoted different clans. “And, since I’m helping you and all, let me reiterate: you mind tellin’ me just what in soddin’ hell is going on?”
Having Spike realize about the ridge hair himself saved me some annoying exposition. I don't mind exposition in other people's fic, but I hate writing it.
“We captured her in San Antonio. She doesn’t know any Slayer history--in fact, as far as she knows, Slayers have always helped demons.”
“Remember the Alamo,” Spike muttered. Then his head came up. “San Antonio? Was it seven months ago? I thought you wankers smelled familiar. Bloody hell.” Wheels turning, he started thinking aloud. “So, you captured her, brought her here, told her a bunch of lies about Slayerness...Nice plan.”
Nice plan indeed. Where's the Watchers' Council when you need it? Oh, yeah, it got obliterated...and Spike hasn't tried to revive it, even though he's got Giles' books. Heh.
“Yes, well. You seem to have thrown a monkey wrench into that.” Cain tilted his head at Spike. “It will be interesting to see which side she chooses.”
Cain's not stupid; he realizes that Spike wants more than just to train the Slayer. Sides are being drawn up here, and not just sides in the Clan Wars.
“You willin’ to gamble on that?” Spike asked warily.
Cain grinned around his tusks. “Yes. I have confidence in this girl. She’s ours.” The grin became feral. “We had to kill a few squatters to make this place suitable for our purposes. She participated.”
And thus the gauntlet is thrown.
***
Alicia leaped to her feet from the sofa when he walked back into her apartment. “I thought they’d taken you,” she said awkwardly.
“They did. Brought me back, though.” Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Nice of you to be all concerned over my welfare.”
She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “So what did Cain want?”
She's not going to dignify that comment with an answer.
“Wanted to know what I’m playing at. Why I’m helping them.”
“Why are you?”
He gave her an enigmatic stare and lit a cigarette, sitting the on the arm of the recliner. “I’m not. I’m helping you get in touch with your inner Slayer.”
“Well, what the hell does that mean, Spike?”
“Do you have dreams? Dreams that you’re someone else, in another time and place?”
Alicia didn’t uncross her arms. “Sure, doesn’t everyone?” Then she frowned. “Wait a minute...I’ve dreamed about you.”
Spike’s mouth twitched, and he slid into the seat of the chair, putting his smoke out and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Nice to know I’ve made an impression.”
'Scuse me while I drool over the mental for a minute...
She sank slowly back down onto the couch. “No. Before we even met. I was a Chinese girl. And an African-American girl. And a blonde girl. The Boxer Rebellion, a subway car, and the California Hellmouth. Acathla.” Her eyes widened. “How do I know all that?”
Whee! for continuity again.
“All Slayers have a mystical connection. They usually get snippets, in dreams. Sounds like that’s what’s been happening to you, pet. Nothing to be worried about. All that being said--” He pulled the lever and reclined the chair back. “I’ve not been sleeping too well myself these last few nights, so if you’ll excuse me...”
Alicia huffed at him. “See you in the morning, then.”
TBC...
Commentary, Chapter Three
This was getting to be a bad habit, Spike thought to himself as he swam back to consciousness. Someone had considerately bandaged the antler wound in his shoulder and returned his t-shirt--and he wasn’t restrained. He opened his eyes and found himself lying on a couch in a living room, the Slayer sprawled in a recliner and smoking a cigarette across the coffee table from him. He sat up.
Not much scene-setting here. Kind of an anonymous apartment, I guess. We're more interested in the Slayer than where she lives right now, and honestly, nothing in this apartment would have told us anything interesting about her personality.
“You put on quite a show out there,” she said to him.
“Did I?” He reached for the mug of blood on the coffee table. “You should give me a refund then, ducks. I didn’t pay to be the entertainment, after all.” He sniffed the blood, then sipped from it.
“Sorry, William. No refunds.”
“I was afraid of that. You got a name, pet? Can’t keep callin’ you ‘Slayer’ all the time.”
“Alicia.” Spike gave a snort of laughter at that. She was offended. “What?”
“I used to be a poet, luv. Words were my business. ‘Alicia’ means ‘honest’...and I don’t think it fits you very well.”
I'm pretty sure he'd know something like that.
“This coming from someone who got his nickname from torturing people with railroad spikes,” she said disdainfully, flicking the tip of her cigarette toward the ashtray. “Ever hear the proverb about stones and glass houses?”
He put the cup back down. “Things change.”
She tilted her head at him. “Do they?”
“Apparently. Here you are, the Slayer...working with demons, instead of killin’ us like you ought to be doing. And here I am, a vampire, fighting the good fight and protecting mankind from the likes of, well, you. How many people have you killed, luv? An estimate?” He snagged the pack of cigarettes off the table and lit one, blowing the smoke in her direction.
Not a very big conclusion to jump to, considering the circumstances.
Her gaze slid away from him. “I do what I have to do. They protect me.”
He snorted again. “From what? Each other? You’re the bloody Slayer. You should be having them for breakfast. Er, not literally. But you know what I mean.”
She was puzzled. “But they told me I was supposed to work with them. I’m a weapon in their army. They’re battling, in the arena, for the honor of having me fight for their clan.”
Spike put his head in his hand for a second. The Council of Wankers had been an outdated, stuffy organization, but it had been useful from time to time. This girl had no idea what her purpose was supposed to be, and the company she was keeping wasn’t helping. He looked up at her, his expression resolved. “Is that what they told you? Well. We need to get you out of here, right the bloody hell now. You’re not some sodding prize in a gladiatorial game,” he said with some heat. “Your destiny is to kill demons, not fight for them.”
This is Spike, getting sucked in. He just can't help it.
“What, you think they’ll just let us walk out of here? I have a little freedom. But not that much.” She stubbed her cigarette out furiously.
He gave her a sideways glance. “Freedom enough to get me into your inner sanctum, anyway. I suppose that’s something.”
She looked away from him again. “They think...”
“I know what they think. But if they really believe I’m walking down that road again, they’re completely sack of hammers. Last time I had a relationship with a Slayer, it was a bloody disaster. I’m not willing to play another round of that.”
Shot down! Hands off the hot vampire, missy! This was part of my process of ruthlessly creating an anti-Sue.
She was a little insulted. “What, am I not pretty enough?”
Startled, he said, “Cor, pet, it’s not that at all. You’re what, sixteen?”
Yeah, I made Spike say "Cor." I don't do it often, but if it warrants a beating with a wet noodle, you know where to find me.
“Seventeen.”
I don't think she's been seventeen for very long.
“Too bloody young to be in any kind of relationship with the likes of me, then. Or I’m too old to be in a relationship with you. Either way. Not happening. But...”
“But?”
He sighed. “You can’t stay here and be demon fodder. We have to get you out. Until we come up with some kind of plan, I’ll train you.”
“Train me? I’m the Slayer. I have natural ability.”
Arrogant little chit, isn't she? More de-Sueing. Of course, most Sues are arrogant...but then, most Sues are better Slayers than Buffy. This one *cough* isn't. As we are about to see.
“Yeah? You think that ‘natural ability’ will keep you alive for longer than five minutes in a bona fide battle?”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “I could lick you in a fair fight without thinking twice about it.”
He was across the room in a heartbeat, pinning her wrists to the chair back, his teeth at her throat. “Could you, now, pet?” he whispered against her rapidly fluttering pulse. “And what makes you think I’d fight fair? Ever been in a real fight, with something that was serious about killing you?”
Whereas this particular Slayer is inexperienced and rather naive. She thinks she's a lot better than she is.
Alicia gulped a little. “No,” she mumbled.
“I could have had you drained and turned in less time than it took to tell it, just now. Never forget that. And I’m by no means the fastest demon out there.” He released her and sat back down on the couch.
“So...you’ll train me...” She leaped over the coffee table, a stake in her hand, only to be met in midair by Spike, who spun her around, pinned her wrists, and had his teeth at her throat again. “I guess I do need it,” she said, deflated.
Take that, girlie! At least she's willing to learn. Arrogant, but not stupid.
“Lesson the First: Natural ability is no match for science. The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”
***
They had a certain amount of independence around the compound. Demons followed, but at a discreet distance, and always watching. Spike took the opportunity to work with her everywhere, from small, low-ceilinged storage rooms, to long, narrow hallways. Cramped, confined places forced her to concentrate on where her weapons were, and to orient herself and use the space she had to her advantage.
That's how I'd do it, anyway.
He used bigger rooms and the arena to go over the basics, such as tumbling moves, swordplay, and martial arts. Taking a breather after one such session, they sat against the wall of an auditorium, smoking. Spike looked at Alicia sideways. “Those things’ll kill you, you know,” he said, idly playing with a knife.
She snorted and took another drag. “I’ll worry about lung cancer if I live that long.”
Now she knows what she doesn't know, and she's a bit...concerned.
“Here, now, none of that. I’m doing everything I can to make sure you live a nice long life.”
“Yeah?” She gave him that appraising stare again. “Why?”
“‘Cause it’s the right thing to do, pet. And I guess I’m trying to make up for being the death of a pair of Slayers, and not doing a very good job of protecting another.” He punctuated that statement by sending the knife into the wood parquet floor with a “thunk,” point-first.
“But...how do you know what the right thing to do is?” She seemed honestly curious.
Here's where I probably get a bit preachy. This girl has no moral compass whatsoever.
The question brought him up short, and he had to think about it for a minute while he worked the blade loose. “Well. I know what the wrong thing to do would be. Now that I have this soul, this moral compass, it generally steers me on the straight and narrow. It sure sets up a ruckus if I go astray, that’s for bloody sure.”
“Hm,” Alicia said pensively. “You sound like my parents. They were always, ‘let your conscience be your guide’ and crap like that.”
Which is all fine and good, if you actually give a kid the moral direction they need in order to be able to let their conscience be their guide. If you don't...you wind up with an Alicia, who thinks that Slayers are demon pawns and it's okay to kill people if they get in your way, if the demons protecting you tell you to.
His turn for the appraising stare. “What happened to your parents? Aren’t they worried about you?”
Her lip curled a little. “They were too busy making sure I never had any fun to worry about me. Do this, do that, be in by ten, don’t do such and such. I finally got sick of it and bailed.”
Cue the Angsty-Past-That-Isn't! My (published) Mom thought I should give her a genuine Angsty!Past, but I was really going out of my way to paint her as a spoiled, amoral brat who really didn't have much to complain about, but thought she did. The subtext here is, they didn't attempt to control her much when she was little, and then they started imposing rules on her when she was a teenager and was used to getting her own way. That never goes well.
“Yeah, they sound like heartless bastards, all right.” Spike’s voice was dry as paper as he stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “Ready for another round?”
***
Lying on the couch later that night, Spike contemplated his predicament. This girl had no bloody clue about right and wrong, about what her destiny was supposed to be, about anything, really. His thoughts turned to the Watcher’s Council again. They may have been a group of right prats, but Spike had to admit that they had served the purpose of finding the Slayers and getting them trained. He wished they’d had something in place to insure their succession, because he was in a brand new situation, and he had no idea how to deal with it.
Ugh, a world where Slayers get Chosen and no one trains them, or even knows how to train them, or find them. Spike helped with the Potentials, but they had the impending Apocalypse to concentrate their minds. Alicia really has no such incentive.
He growled to himself and sat up, hunting his cigarettes. He should get out now, before the whole thing came crashing down around his head. But, dammit...he couldn’t. Lighting up and pulling the smoke deeply into his lungs, he pondered just what the soddin’ hell it was about Slayers that got inside him and wouldn’t let him go. Kill them or protect them, two sides of the same passionate coin. And he wondered if part of him wanted to help this one because he’d failed Buffy all those years ago.
And that was the crux of his problem. Two decades, and he still couldn’t get her out of his head. Intellectually, he knew that aiding Alicia wouldn’t make up for Buffy’s death, but emotionally it still felt like the right thing to do.
Spike still has issues.
He had a week and a half to work on her before the Finals of the Glads. He’d better make the most of it.
Gives us a time limit.
***
In the bedroom, Alicia wrestled with her own dilemma. How could he be so sure about what was right and what was wrong? People who had strong opinions made her uncomfortable. Her parents had always taught her--when she bothered to listen--that people with strong opinions were closed-minded, that keeping an open mind about everything was a virtue. That the only sin was judging people.
Why yes, some of these are my pet peeves about society today. Sorry if that's a little preachy.
What she’d told Spike had been true; they had always murmured platitudes like “Let your conscience be your guide.” They’d just never given her a moral compass for her conscience to be guided by. And now she was confused. Confronted by a man--well, vampire--who was so damned sure that she was “wrong” for working with the demons, she didn’t know how to deal with him, or with his judgement.
Not that he had openly condemned her, in so many words. But she could practically feel the disapproval rolling off of him in waves.
She rolled over and frowned at the wall. Like he had anything to talk about. Mr. High and Mighty had killed his share of people. So what if he didn’t do that anymore? He had in the past, and it was hypocritical of him to judge her when he’d done worse. She owed these demons; they’d saved her life when she was first Chosen as the Slayer and had no idea what was going on or why monsters all of a sudden seemed interested in killing her.
And this misplaced sense of loyalty is fixing to get them in all sorts of trouble.
At least, that’s what she kept telling herself as she drifted off to sleep.
***
Dust and smoke. Tired muscles swinging a battleaxe. Slayer at his back. Blood smell, sharp and coppery. Slayer’s frantic voice: “Spike!” Spin around, she’s bleeding, falling. Try to catch her. Blow to his head. Bright stars. Can’t stand. Legs collapse. Darkness-
This is disjointed and choppy, and it's meant to be. The present tense is on purpose too...although maybe I should have italicized that paragraph. Had I done that, however, it would have clued the readers in a bit sooner than I wanted to that this part wasn't actually happening right now. So, it seems like a random tense change, but it's not.
Spike woke, gasping. Just a dream--it was just a dream. “Bloody hell.” He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair, hunting his cigarettes, lighting one with a jittery hand.
I've had dreams that woke me up shaking like that. Not too much of a stretch to think Spike has too.
He was so shaken that it took him a minute to notice the two Odobenus demons in the room with him. “Come with us, vampire,” one said gutturally.
Spike dragged smoke deep into his lungs. “Give us a second, all right?” A couple more quick puffs, and he stubbed it out and got to his feet. “Where we going, then?”
“Cain wants to see you.”
Hope I didn't injure anyone too much with the anvil of that name.
“Cain? Can’t these big bads come up with more original names?”
Well, maybe if we authors could come up with more original names...
The demon cuffed him on the head. “Show respect to your betters, leech.”
Spike snorted but kept further comments to himself. They traversed several hallways and went outside to another building at one point, entering another halfway across the compound. Finally they stopped outside a doorway and knocked. “Come!” The voice from the other side of the door was deeper and raspier than those of Spike’s companions, and when they entered, he saw that the Odobenus demon behind the desk was larger, toothier, and hairier than any he’d seen so far. “Leave us,” it said to the minions.
After glaring at Spike and giving him a little shove, they did. Spike sprawled himself insolently in the seat in front of the desk, hooking his leg over the chair arm and crossing his arms over his chest. “Right then. What in bloody hell is going on around here?”
Not one to mince words, our Spike. Not that he's the one to be asking questions...
Cain tented his fingers and gazed at Spike, his red hair ridge rising just a little. “I believe I’m the one asking the questions.”
“Haven’t heard one yet.”
“What’s your game? Why are you training the Slayer?”
Spike shrugged. “It’s what I do. God knows she needs help, and I don’t see any of your lackeys jumpin’ in. You do want her to be of some use to you, don’t you?”
Also not one to show all his cards. He wants Alicia out of there, but he's not going to tell Cain that, at least, not yet.
“There is that,” Cain allowed. “I’m still left with the question of why you’re helping her help us. Aren’t you all ‘good’ and soul-having now? Why help us in our clan wars?”
“‘m not helping you. I’m helping her. If I help you in the process, then that’s the way the cookie crumbles.” Spike cocked an eyebrow. “Clan wars? Is that what all this is about?” For the first time, he realized that the demons’ ridge hair came in different colors, and that different colors denoted different clans. “And, since I’m helping you and all, let me reiterate: you mind tellin’ me just what in soddin’ hell is going on?”
Having Spike realize about the ridge hair himself saved me some annoying exposition. I don't mind exposition in other people's fic, but I hate writing it.
“We captured her in San Antonio. She doesn’t know any Slayer history--in fact, as far as she knows, Slayers have always helped demons.”
“Remember the Alamo,” Spike muttered. Then his head came up. “San Antonio? Was it seven months ago? I thought you wankers smelled familiar. Bloody hell.” Wheels turning, he started thinking aloud. “So, you captured her, brought her here, told her a bunch of lies about Slayerness...Nice plan.”
Nice plan indeed. Where's the Watchers' Council when you need it? Oh, yeah, it got obliterated...and Spike hasn't tried to revive it, even though he's got Giles' books. Heh.
“Yes, well. You seem to have thrown a monkey wrench into that.” Cain tilted his head at Spike. “It will be interesting to see which side she chooses.”
Cain's not stupid; he realizes that Spike wants more than just to train the Slayer. Sides are being drawn up here, and not just sides in the Clan Wars.
“You willin’ to gamble on that?” Spike asked warily.
Cain grinned around his tusks. “Yes. I have confidence in this girl. She’s ours.” The grin became feral. “We had to kill a few squatters to make this place suitable for our purposes. She participated.”
And thus the gauntlet is thrown.
***
Alicia leaped to her feet from the sofa when he walked back into her apartment. “I thought they’d taken you,” she said awkwardly.
“They did. Brought me back, though.” Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Nice of you to be all concerned over my welfare.”
She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “So what did Cain want?”
She's not going to dignify that comment with an answer.
“Wanted to know what I’m playing at. Why I’m helping them.”
“Why are you?”
He gave her an enigmatic stare and lit a cigarette, sitting the on the arm of the recliner. “I’m not. I’m helping you get in touch with your inner Slayer.”
“Well, what the hell does that mean, Spike?”
“Do you have dreams? Dreams that you’re someone else, in another time and place?”
Alicia didn’t uncross her arms. “Sure, doesn’t everyone?” Then she frowned. “Wait a minute...I’ve dreamed about you.”
Spike’s mouth twitched, and he slid into the seat of the chair, putting his smoke out and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Nice to know I’ve made an impression.”
'Scuse me while I drool over the mental for a minute...
She sank slowly back down onto the couch. “No. Before we even met. I was a Chinese girl. And an African-American girl. And a blonde girl. The Boxer Rebellion, a subway car, and the California Hellmouth. Acathla.” Her eyes widened. “How do I know all that?”
Whee! for continuity again.
“All Slayers have a mystical connection. They usually get snippets, in dreams. Sounds like that’s what’s been happening to you, pet. Nothing to be worried about. All that being said--” He pulled the lever and reclined the chair back. “I’ve not been sleeping too well myself these last few nights, so if you’ll excuse me...”
Alicia huffed at him. “See you in the morning, then.”
TBC...
Commentary, Chapter Three