The Artifact: Chapter Nine
Insert witty opening line here.
Chapter One Here
Chapter Nine: Made to Love
Something soft hit Spike on the face. He jumped in panic. “Wasn’t asleep. I was…” he felt the bed, the sheet, the pillow that had fallen from his face. He smelled earth and mold and cinnamon candlewax. He fell back in relief. He was in Sunnydale. He lived here. That other place was just a dream.
And Buffy was staring at him.
Spike ran a hand through his hair. It was dry and tangled. “What time is it?”
“An hour past sunset.” She shifted, uncomfortable, looking anywhere but at him. “You were crying.”
“Was not!”
“In your sleep. And twitching and… I had to wake you up. Hence, pillow.” She gestured at the square of fluff. “Guess that’s why they call them ‘throw pillows’, huh?”
Spike’s jeans bit into his waist as he sat up. He’d slept fully clothed. He wasn’t used to that. But it had felt so good to wear his own things he hadn’t wanted to take them off again. He shifted to pull the back of his jeans up and relieve the pressure in front. “What do you want?”
“There’s some super-strong girl.” She flicked a thumb back toward the entrance to the crypt. “Attacking random people. Thought you’d want in on it. Could be related to Glory.”
“Glory? That was… wait. Huh. I forgot what life was like around here. Sure just let me… “ He looked down. “…put on some pants. ‘Cept I’m already dressed.” He clapped his hands. He lifted his shirt and sniffed it. Still clean enough. What’s next? Comb. Yeah. “I should do something with this first.” He waved a hand around his head.
Buffy perched primly on his guest chair. “I’m surprised you haven’t cut it.”
Spike stopped on his way to the dresser. He felt his hair. He hated having it this long. Why hadn’t he cut it? Well, he was shagged out the night before, and anyway it was still damp when he fell asleep. He could have cut it. No one to stop him. He opened the top drawer of his dresser and dug around, looking for the clippers. He found them and held them up, staring at them. He wanted to buzz his scalp on the number three setting. He checked the length and switched the clippers on. The buzz was healthy and strong. Good batteries. Of course, they hadn’t really been sitting for ten years. He tried to reach for his head. He couldn’t move his arm. He thumbed the clippers off. He turned to look at Buffy.
She frowned. “What is it?”
“Order me to do something,” Spike said. “Anything. Just… something simple.”
“Why?”
“I can’t.” He waved the clippers up and down. “Maybe I’m just losing my mind.”
“Spike. Jump three times.”
He felt the command of it. He fought it. He felt the constriction, the pain. He jumped three times in place. Then he threw the clippers back in the drawer. And kicked the dresser, which hurt his foot so he slammed the drawer and swept all the junk off the top and stomped his foot. Buffy was staring at him. Spike sighed and pushed the annoying, long hair back from his face. “Well, that answers that.”
“What… what was that?”
“I thought it would stay in the brothel. It came with me. The… whatever the fuck they did to make me mind. Turn me into their little lap-dog.”
“You mean anyone can order you to do anything? Anyone at all? Like Dracula and Xander?”
Spike bit his lip. He’d forgotten about that. Stupid celebrity vampires. Then he scowled. “Bloody hell. I’m Xander in this scenario?”
“That… really shouldn’t be the part you find most wigful.”
Spike nodded. He felt his hair, behind his head. Long enough to pull. That’s what they liked. It would get in his eyes, fighting. He’d need to find some elastics until he could get it chopped off. Or a very very large amount of gel. He sighed. “Bugger it. Let’s go then.”
Buffy gaped at him as he stood in front of her. “Huh?”
“Super strong girl attacking random people? What do you think it is? Demon possession?”
“But what about your… thing? What if super-strong-demon-girl asks you to dance?”
“Be her lucky night then, won’t it?” Spike shouldered past Buffy with more bravado than he felt.
A nagging and usually-correct voice at the back of his brain said he shouldn’t have shown Buffy his weakness. He could, and should, find a way of undoing the curse without involving the slayer or anyone else who might want to stake him if they found out he was minus one government-issue chip. Just for example. Maybe.
He found himself touching his hair again. Would the spell stop him from asking someone else to cut it?
Buffy caught up to him at the crypt entrance. “Spike, maybe you should sit this one out. It’s just one strong girl. Maybe the guys have already figured out her deal and sent her on her way.”
Spike turned to frown at Buffy. “You don’t think I can do this? Is that it? Can’t watch your back when I’ve spent so much time on mine?”
“That… no. EW. I just… you’re obviously feeling wiggy and I was only asking you along to…” Buffy covered her mouth, cutting herself off.
Spike darted into her personal space. “To what? Throw me a bone?”
She grimaced. “To distract you.”
Spike reeled back. “Don’t need your pity, slayer.” He stormed off, hoping Willy had some good rotgut in stock and some bad customers he could beat to a pulp to pay for it.
He totally wasn’t stopping to see if she was following and he wasn’t disappointed that she wasn’t and he definitely wasn’t standing there, hoping she’d appear behind the Lawson Tomb and he could twirl on his heel and stalk off just as soon as she…
She didn’t appear. He twirled and stalked, anyway.
He didn’t need the slayer or her do-good missions. He was a free vamp. He could bathe in the blood of the innocent! And smoke. Christ, could he use a fag. He felt his jean pockets and cursed himself for storming off without his coat. He bet there were cigarettes still in the pocket. It had been ages since he had a good old-fashioned teeth-yellowing breath-destroying smoke. Heaven forbid you indulge in a vice half your clients used! Last time he’d tasted tobacco, it was on someone else’s tongue.
Spike froze, mid-step. Was the not-smoking a standing order? Like not cutting his hair? Could he even…?
His stomach growled, interrupting his panic. He hadn’t eaten since that morning, when one of the houseboys had brought his daily blood, grimacing as usual. The shite those kids saw every day, and feeding the vampire was what put them off. If it weren’t for the compulsion, he’d have gladly drained every last…
No. No, he had to be able to feed.
Spike didn’t bother being picky. He listened for the nearest heartbeat and ran toward it.
The first pain was when he tried to call forth his demon face. (Not pretty, they said.) The second was when he tried to grab the human by the arm. (The customer initiates contact.) The third was a wall that stopped him dead at the thought of hurting someone.
Spike sank to his knees next to a trashcan. The man in the bus company jacket scooted to the other side of the bench. “The hell is wrong with you? Damn kids, drunk on a school night!”
He couldn’t even draw his fangs. It was worse than the chip. A thousand times worse.
He half-crawled to a fence, which he used to get to his feet. He returned to the crypt. “Buffy?” Her scent was fading. The crypt was emptier for containing it. Probably better that she was gone, though. He could barely stand the humiliation without an audience. He went downstairs and got his coat and wallet.
When he up-ended the leather billfold, a nickel, four ticket stubs, and a receipt for dry cleaning fell out. Damn his past self. Still, the coat had gotten demon-snot on it and only Fairchild Cleaners could get that out.
The concerts had been good, too, but he really should have just vaulted the fence for that last one. Seemed unnecessary at the time and he wasn’t a skinflint. Well, how was he to know he’d end up actually needing his money?
Spike blew the dust out of the bottom of the empty wallet and looked around for something he could sell.
***
Willow and Tara approached softly. Buffy looked away from the still face of April. She was a robot, but she’d been alive. She really had loved her no-good creator. Tara took Buffy’s hand. Buffy let the witches lead her away from the swing set.
“Are you okay?” Willow asked.
Buffy took one last glance back at the still creature on the swing. “That was the single most depressing thing, ever.”
“You were there for her,” Tara said. “That’s what matters.”
“And now we’re here for you!” Willow declared, spreading her arms wide. “Girlfriends and chocolate-based beverages.”
Buffy ducked her head. “Not a bad idea, after the day I’ve had.”
Continued >>
Chapter One Here
Chapter Nine: Made to Love
Something soft hit Spike on the face. He jumped in panic. “Wasn’t asleep. I was…” he felt the bed, the sheet, the pillow that had fallen from his face. He smelled earth and mold and cinnamon candlewax. He fell back in relief. He was in Sunnydale. He lived here. That other place was just a dream.
And Buffy was staring at him.
Spike ran a hand through his hair. It was dry and tangled. “What time is it?”
“An hour past sunset.” She shifted, uncomfortable, looking anywhere but at him. “You were crying.”
“Was not!”
“In your sleep. And twitching and… I had to wake you up. Hence, pillow.” She gestured at the square of fluff. “Guess that’s why they call them ‘throw pillows’, huh?”
Spike’s jeans bit into his waist as he sat up. He’d slept fully clothed. He wasn’t used to that. But it had felt so good to wear his own things he hadn’t wanted to take them off again. He shifted to pull the back of his jeans up and relieve the pressure in front. “What do you want?”
“There’s some super-strong girl.” She flicked a thumb back toward the entrance to the crypt. “Attacking random people. Thought you’d want in on it. Could be related to Glory.”
“Glory? That was… wait. Huh. I forgot what life was like around here. Sure just let me… “ He looked down. “…put on some pants. ‘Cept I’m already dressed.” He clapped his hands. He lifted his shirt and sniffed it. Still clean enough. What’s next? Comb. Yeah. “I should do something with this first.” He waved a hand around his head.
Buffy perched primly on his guest chair. “I’m surprised you haven’t cut it.”
Spike stopped on his way to the dresser. He felt his hair. He hated having it this long. Why hadn’t he cut it? Well, he was shagged out the night before, and anyway it was still damp when he fell asleep. He could have cut it. No one to stop him. He opened the top drawer of his dresser and dug around, looking for the clippers. He found them and held them up, staring at them. He wanted to buzz his scalp on the number three setting. He checked the length and switched the clippers on. The buzz was healthy and strong. Good batteries. Of course, they hadn’t really been sitting for ten years. He tried to reach for his head. He couldn’t move his arm. He thumbed the clippers off. He turned to look at Buffy.
She frowned. “What is it?”
“Order me to do something,” Spike said. “Anything. Just… something simple.”
“Why?”
“I can’t.” He waved the clippers up and down. “Maybe I’m just losing my mind.”
“Spike. Jump three times.”
He felt the command of it. He fought it. He felt the constriction, the pain. He jumped three times in place. Then he threw the clippers back in the drawer. And kicked the dresser, which hurt his foot so he slammed the drawer and swept all the junk off the top and stomped his foot. Buffy was staring at him. Spike sighed and pushed the annoying, long hair back from his face. “Well, that answers that.”
“What… what was that?”
“I thought it would stay in the brothel. It came with me. The… whatever the fuck they did to make me mind. Turn me into their little lap-dog.”
“You mean anyone can order you to do anything? Anyone at all? Like Dracula and Xander?”
Spike bit his lip. He’d forgotten about that. Stupid celebrity vampires. Then he scowled. “Bloody hell. I’m Xander in this scenario?”
“That… really shouldn’t be the part you find most wigful.”
Spike nodded. He felt his hair, behind his head. Long enough to pull. That’s what they liked. It would get in his eyes, fighting. He’d need to find some elastics until he could get it chopped off. Or a very very large amount of gel. He sighed. “Bugger it. Let’s go then.”
Buffy gaped at him as he stood in front of her. “Huh?”
“Super strong girl attacking random people? What do you think it is? Demon possession?”
“But what about your… thing? What if super-strong-demon-girl asks you to dance?”
“Be her lucky night then, won’t it?” Spike shouldered past Buffy with more bravado than he felt.
A nagging and usually-correct voice at the back of his brain said he shouldn’t have shown Buffy his weakness. He could, and should, find a way of undoing the curse without involving the slayer or anyone else who might want to stake him if they found out he was minus one government-issue chip. Just for example. Maybe.
He found himself touching his hair again. Would the spell stop him from asking someone else to cut it?
Buffy caught up to him at the crypt entrance. “Spike, maybe you should sit this one out. It’s just one strong girl. Maybe the guys have already figured out her deal and sent her on her way.”
Spike turned to frown at Buffy. “You don’t think I can do this? Is that it? Can’t watch your back when I’ve spent so much time on mine?”
“That… no. EW. I just… you’re obviously feeling wiggy and I was only asking you along to…” Buffy covered her mouth, cutting herself off.
Spike darted into her personal space. “To what? Throw me a bone?”
She grimaced. “To distract you.”
Spike reeled back. “Don’t need your pity, slayer.” He stormed off, hoping Willy had some good rotgut in stock and some bad customers he could beat to a pulp to pay for it.
He totally wasn’t stopping to see if she was following and he wasn’t disappointed that she wasn’t and he definitely wasn’t standing there, hoping she’d appear behind the Lawson Tomb and he could twirl on his heel and stalk off just as soon as she…
She didn’t appear. He twirled and stalked, anyway.
He didn’t need the slayer or her do-good missions. He was a free vamp. He could bathe in the blood of the innocent! And smoke. Christ, could he use a fag. He felt his jean pockets and cursed himself for storming off without his coat. He bet there were cigarettes still in the pocket. It had been ages since he had a good old-fashioned teeth-yellowing breath-destroying smoke. Heaven forbid you indulge in a vice half your clients used! Last time he’d tasted tobacco, it was on someone else’s tongue.
Spike froze, mid-step. Was the not-smoking a standing order? Like not cutting his hair? Could he even…?
His stomach growled, interrupting his panic. He hadn’t eaten since that morning, when one of the houseboys had brought his daily blood, grimacing as usual. The shite those kids saw every day, and feeding the vampire was what put them off. If it weren’t for the compulsion, he’d have gladly drained every last…
No. No, he had to be able to feed.
Spike didn’t bother being picky. He listened for the nearest heartbeat and ran toward it.
The first pain was when he tried to call forth his demon face. (Not pretty, they said.) The second was when he tried to grab the human by the arm. (The customer initiates contact.) The third was a wall that stopped him dead at the thought of hurting someone.
Spike sank to his knees next to a trashcan. The man in the bus company jacket scooted to the other side of the bench. “The hell is wrong with you? Damn kids, drunk on a school night!”
He couldn’t even draw his fangs. It was worse than the chip. A thousand times worse.
He half-crawled to a fence, which he used to get to his feet. He returned to the crypt. “Buffy?” Her scent was fading. The crypt was emptier for containing it. Probably better that she was gone, though. He could barely stand the humiliation without an audience. He went downstairs and got his coat and wallet.
When he up-ended the leather billfold, a nickel, four ticket stubs, and a receipt for dry cleaning fell out. Damn his past self. Still, the coat had gotten demon-snot on it and only Fairchild Cleaners could get that out.
The concerts had been good, too, but he really should have just vaulted the fence for that last one. Seemed unnecessary at the time and he wasn’t a skinflint. Well, how was he to know he’d end up actually needing his money?
Spike blew the dust out of the bottom of the empty wallet and looked around for something he could sell.
***
Willow and Tara approached softly. Buffy looked away from the still face of April. She was a robot, but she’d been alive. She really had loved her no-good creator. Tara took Buffy’s hand. Buffy let the witches lead her away from the swing set.
“Are you okay?” Willow asked.
Buffy took one last glance back at the still creature on the swing. “That was the single most depressing thing, ever.”
“You were there for her,” Tara said. “That’s what matters.”
“And now we’re here for you!” Willow declared, spreading her arms wide. “Girlfriends and chocolate-based beverages.”
Buffy ducked her head. “Not a bad idea, after the day I’ve had.”
Continued >>