Never Ever Tell by Lilachigh
They come in all sizes!
The Narlexa demons had caught Buffy at the end of her patrol - three of them had been living in the woods - just as Giles had warned her. She’d killed two but the third managed to swipe her with his claws, raking bloody channels down her arm and leg before she dispatched it.
"Oh great," she muttered crossly as she limped through the trees towards town, dripping blood as she went. “It’ll be all glasses-cleaning and tutting and, ‘I told you so-ey’ and ‘why didn’t you wait to catch them one by one like we planned?’ and Mom will freak at the blood - I’ll say I fell down some steps - and I’ve got that big maths test tomorrow and - oh!"
She heard them before she saw them. Laughter and splashing. The hairs on the back of her neck wriggled - vampires! She crept forward through the trees, towards the lake. The moon was full and the little sandy beach was silvered in its light. A black haired girl was dancing on the sand, running in and out of the water, her white dress clinging to her legs. She was laughing. "Come on in, lover, the water’s beuuutifully cold and full of little silver fish and stars."
The man was standing, hands on hips watching her. He’d stripped to the waist and in the moonlight his skin gleamed white.
Buffy bit back a squeak. It was the new vamp, Spike, the one she’d fought with at school. And he was with what had to be a girl friend. She swore a word she hadn’t known she knew. If she hadn’t been injured, she could have dusted both of them without drawing breath, but knew that in her present condition she didn’t dare tackle them.
She realised she’d been standing staring at the slim muscled back and platinum curls for far too long. Maybe she’d lost more blood than she’d thought. She moved slightly, then froze as the leaves of the tree rustled against her hair. For a second, she thought the vampire had heard. He turned in her direction, and even in the moonlight she could see the high cheekbones and the flare of his nostrils as he scented the air. But she was sure she was too far away and the girl was making a lot of noise now, kneeling in the water, lifting it in handfuls above her head, crooning at the moon.
Then - Buffy felt the heat rise in her face. He kicked off his boots and was reaching for the buckle of his belt. She could feel her eyes growing larger and larger as he pushed his jeans down and stepped out of them. Bathed in silver light, he stood, facing her, stark naked, hands on hips with everything – she’d never known they came in that sort of size!
She pushed herself backwards into the undergrowth and fled homewards. The full frontal she could just about cope with - after all, she wasn’t ever going to see all that again unless she had dreams, no nightmares about it - but what had made her spitting angry was that - he’d winked at her!
* * * *
He flung himself in from the dark Los Angeles street and slumped into a chair in the corner of the café. He could feel the weight of the little parcel in his duster pocket as if it was made of lead. Silver bracelets. But would she wear them? He doubted it. He doubted so much these days, including her faithfulness. He shut his eyes and leant back wearily in the chair. God, he needed coffee. He hated L.A. but he hadn’t been able to get what he needed where they were living. He sensed a waitress standing at his side. "Coffee, black, fast, thanks."
“Tonight would be good, sweetheart,” he muttered, then when there was no response, “Come on - don’t tell me you don’t speak English. That’s all I need.” Sodding foreigners. “Coffee - black - fast - thanks.” He said the last four words very slowly and very loudly, as if that was going to make a difference to being understood. You could take the vampire out of England but never take the Englishman out of the vampire.
He opened one blue eye a slit. She was still standing there. He could see her fingers gripping a pencil and order book. That was a weird way to hold a pencil. She’d never write a thing like that. He opened the other eye and squinted at her name badge. ‘Anne’. Nice name. He’d always liked it. His mother had been called Anne. Then an odd thrill ran over his body. The name badge was pinned to material over a breast that his body knew. He stared down swiftly at the table top. He knew that if he once looked up and found a pair of angry green eyes gazing down at him, that pencil would end his unlife once and for all.
"Not hunting. Been buying Dru a present," he muttered. "Driving back tonight."
“Angel’s dead.“ The voice seemed to come from a long way away. “I killed him after you left.”
Spike poured sugar from the container into a pattern on the table top. “So I heard. You or Angelus, luv, heard that, too. No choice. We do what we must. He’d have known that. Wouldn’t hold a grudge. Well, actually Angelus would hold a grudge, Irish as the bogs, hence centuries of fighting over the sodding country. But as he’s gone, you don’t have to worry. That why you’re here playing waitress? Out of guilt?”
“Mom has problems with the whole Slayer scene.”
Spike shrugged. “Nice lady, your mum. She’ll come round. Bet she’s worried about you. I’d go home, if I was you, Slayer. L.A.’s a dump. Can’t imagine who’d want to live here.“
He couldn’t help it - he risked a flashing upward glance, then wished he hadn’t. She was gazing into nothing and the green eyes were awash with tears. Deep, deep inside him, passion stirred, yawned and woke up. No! The feelings he was having were ridiculous. He was just tired from Dru’s behaviour, that was all. He pushed his chair back with a screech on the tiled floor. “So, don’t worry about the coffee, then,” he said. “I’ll be off.” He edged round her and dived out of the door, back into the night where he belonged.
Buffy wiped her face with the back of her hand. It was trembling, she noticed, absentmindedly. Was he right? Should she go home? She smiled. Fancy seeing Spike of all people. And what was really ridiculous was that when she’d first seen him sitting there, she’d been pleased. How weird was that? All her feelings of homesickness had vanished at the sight of a platinum head and a black leather coat that meant home. Obviously she was far more tired than she’d thought.
She put her pad and pencil away and frowned down at the mess Spike had made on the table. Then she froze. He’d been drawing with his finger in the spilt sugar. A heart with a B and a S and an arrow linking them together.
This next meeting was a Christmas story that has also been posted by itself on other sites as FIGHTING ON. We are in Season 3. Spike and Dru have left town and Angel wants to kill himself.
Somewhere close by a radio was playing a very upbeat version of Joy to the World. Sunnydale was getting in the Christmas spirit with a vengeance. And today was the biggie, the day when all children and parents bonded together - the buying of The Tree. But this year, even that seemed doomed to failure. The circle of dead Christmas trees for sale in the vacant lot was weird, Buffy thought as she pushed her way through skeletal brown branches, the needles catching in her coat and hair.
The ground felt spongy beneath her feet and there was a hideous smell - decay and death. Not at all festive! She pulled a face as dead needles tried to force their way into her mouth. She sighed and wondered why she was here amongst the petrified forest and Cordy was going skiing in Aspen.
Although she couldn’t see her, Buffy could hear her mom, only feet away. It was amazing how quickly you could get turned round and loose sight of people in this maze.
Joyce was exclaiming over the size and price of a spruce that would only last a few days in the warmth of their living-room, anyway. But at least the trees in her part of the lot would start out semi alive - where Buffy was walking was obviously a resting place for everything old and dead and -
- and to her astonishment and anger, the deadest of the dead was standing in the centre of the withered circle, black leather coat shiny in the winter sunlight, platinum hair slick, eyes - well she’d forgotten because Angel’s were so dark and soulful just how startlingly blue and sparkling Spike’s eyes were.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed at him.
“Oh great, the bloody Slayer! Just what I need. How do you do it? Do you have some sort of built in radar that picks me out?”
Buffy wondered why this vampire always managed to irritate her so much. “Strangely enough, Spike, I’m visiting a Christmas tree lot to buy a Christmas tree! I appreciate that takes a lot of working out, but even you - ” She stopped. Why on earth was she talking to him? “Does Angel know you’re in town?”
Spike raised a scarred eyebrow and lit a cigarette. He blew smoke towards her and grinned as she coughed dramatically. He flicked the lighter again and watched as the flame flicked over a branch of brown pine needles near him.
Buffy scowled and batted out the little sparks with her fingers. “Stop that! ”
Spike shrugged. “No, Lover Boy doesn’t know and I have no intention of telling him. And if you want a nice cosy Christmas with Peaches, then I suggest you keep quiet as well.”
“Then get out of Sunnydale. Go back to - well, wherever you’re lurking now. Go back to Dru. Just - ” she waved her hands and caught a tree which immediately toppled over. She dived to catch it at the same time as Spike. For a second their hands caught and tangled until they pulled free, pushing the tree to one side. Buffy stepped back, trying to catch her breath. She was going down with a cold - this tightness in her chest was an obvious sign.
“You all right, Buffy?” she heard her mother call.
“Yes, Mom, I’m fine. Still looking for the perfect tree.”
“Oh, is that Joyce? Shall I stop and say hello?” Spike ground out his cigarette and started to push his way through the trees.
Buffy pulled a stake from her pocket. “Take one more step - just one step, Spike and you’re dust. Now, what is it about the words ‘go away’ you don’t understand?”
Spike shrugged, his blue eyes guarded. “Much as I love to obey your every word, Slayer, I can’t go until I find Matilda.”
Buffy felt sick. “Not another girl you’ve turned! Isn’t Dru enough for you?”
Spike hesitated, gazing at her horrified face, the green eyes wide with horror and disgust. There was so much he could have said about Dru, but not to the Slayer. He wished - but only for a second or two - that Angel wasn’t his hated grandsire, but a real mate. The sort of guy you could confide in, have a drink or five with, explain that you were doing your best but your crazy girlfriend whom you’d loved for so many, many years, was slowly driving you as mad as she was. That he might be wrong, but he had the nasty feeling she was having it off with someone - something - else and what did Angel think he should do. A real mate would have sympathised, then told him he was imagining it. Mind you, Angel had bonked Dru himself, so perhaps he would just have laughed and told Spike that he was a weak, feeble idiot who couldn’t keep his own woman in check.
It must be rather nice in some ways, he thought wistfully, to be the Slayer. Oh not for killing vampires and demons, of course, but to have Red around and, god help us, the Whelp and even old tweedy knickers, Giles; all friends, all there for support. And she’d even got Mr Big and Broody as well for a little love and affection, although hey, they couldn’t go the whole way and shag each other silly apparently, so a plus there. He shivered, which was ridiculous because he didn’t feel the cold. It was all the Slayer’s fault. He’d probably caught some Slayer disease off her. The tightness he felt in his chest was probably the start of some soddin‘ cold.
Sometimes he realised just how alone in the world he was, but there was no way he was going to let the Slayer realise he was tired and feeling down on his luck.
“Matilda isn’t a girl, Slayer, she’s a soddin’ doll. One of Dru’s babies. Got left behind when we scarpered. I said I’d buy her another one, the finest in Mexico, but no, she has to have Miss Matilda. She completes the rotten circle or some such rubbish, so I’ve got to find her, haven’t I?”
Buffy bit her lip and tried very hard not to laugh. Oh the Big Bad was so under his lady’s thumb, even if it was the thumb of a merciless mass killer. "And, er, do you know where Miss Matilda is now?” It was so hard to keep the tremble out of her voice.
Spike looked at her suspiciously. If the Slayer was laughing at him, he would risk getting staked so he could bite her. Sink his fangs into that luscious soft neck. Just once. It would be worth it. He could die happy. “Got a good idea. Old church over by Forest Drive. Dru thinks she left Miss Matilda in the bell tower when she killed the guy playing the organ a couple of months ago.”
“Oh gross, Spike. How can you kill someone inside a church?”
The vampire looked puzzled, then shrugged. “It’s easy. As long as you don’t touch any of the crosses, it’s fine, Slayer. Don’t worry.”
She felt her fingers itch to reach for her stake. Why was she standing here, trading words with this evil - thing?
"Buffy!” Joyce’s voice came clearly to them.
“I’ve got to go.” She stared at the vampire in horror. “Just get the stupid doll and go, Spike. Or - or I’ll tell Angel!”
She whirled round and dived back through the dead trees. Spike stared after her. She wasn’t going to tell lover boy, he could sense that. So, they shared a secret. And for some reason that cheered him up immensely. He’d find the church and the rotten doll then get the hell out of Sunnydale again. Surely if he tried a bit harder with Dru, she’d stop - well, whatever it was she did when she left their bed and vanished for days on end.
And he flicked his lighter and set a tree ablaze.
The night was just ending when Buffy left Angel at the corner of Main Street. He’d held her tight, his dark eyes full of concern and love and all the things they couldn’t say and couldn’t do were there between them. She walked on home, the weird, unexpected snow crisp under her boots. Angel was staying in Sunnydale, for now, at least. He wasn’t going to let the sun do its dirty work on him after all. She was so glad, really pleased, couldn’t have been happier. I mean, hey, you knew you were loved and wanted when your guy preferred to commit suicide rather than fight against what was stopping you being together! She tried a joyful skip in the snow and slid over onto her bottom.
Grumbling she stood up, brushing off the snow, wondering why the joyful skip had seemed so difficult. She did feel joyful, didn’t she? The man she loved was still in her life.
As she looked up, she realised she was standing outside a church, its tower reaching up into the pre-dawn sky. There was a life-size Christmas crib on the sidewalk outside and now there was a most unlikely layer of snow on top of the figures surrounding baby Jesus in the manger. She stood admiring it for a while, then something caught her attention and she stiffened. There was a light flickering inside the church. Someone robbing a church, just before Christmas? Well, in Sunnydale it wouldn’t surprise her.
She crept up to the door and pushed it open. It creaked violently and she winced. “Come in if you’re coming in, Slayer. God, woman, do you want the whole of Sunnydale to join us!”
“Spike? Why on earth are you still here?” Buffy stepped up the aisle to where he knelt besides the font. He’d lit a couple of candles and his blond hair gleamed almost gold in the light from their flames. “Anyway, how did you know it was me?”
He glanced up from his position on the black and white tiled floor. “Smelt you and heard you, Slayer. Vampire, remember? You should do, you’ve got Peaches pong all over you. It’s the hair gell, you know, he buys it by the gallon. He didn’t top himself, then?”
She stared at him, horrified. “How did you - no, he’s OK. It - it started to snow.”
Spike shrugged. “Word gets around, pet. I never thought he’d go through with it, mind, otherwise I might have wandered up and put in the odd word of encouragement myself.”
Buffy tried to ignore him. “You still haven’t said what you’re doing here.” She took another step forward, then stopped. “Oh!”
In front of Spike on the floor lay a Victorian china doll, dressed in white lace, her head smashed into myriad pieces. The eyes had rolled out and stared up from the floor, like two hideous little blue marbles. From somewhere in the church, Spike had found a tube of glue and was trying to stick the bits back together.
“It’s Miss Matilda,” he said desperately, trying to hold one china cheek still whilst he pressed a piece of forehead against it. “She was up in the bell tower, like Dru said, but I slipped in the soddin’ snow coming down the steps and dropped her.”
Buffy knelt down beside him. “Spike - stop. She’s in too many bits. You’ll never get her back together. She’ll look - well, she won’t look good.”
“Promised Dru I’d find Miss Matilda. She’s relying on me.”
The sapphire eyes stared straight at her and for a weird moment she felt herself lost in his gaze. “You don’t understand, she’s not herself, Slayer. She’s...well, I have to be strong for her. I have to fight for her. It’s hard and it’s painful and it’s every bloody day. But it’s what I have to do. I won’t let her down.”
Buffy sat back on her heels and stared at him, her cheeks burning. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d said almost the same things to Angel, only an hour or so ago.
And even as spoken, she’d known in her heart that he didn’t understand. Angel had thought he was saving her from a dreadful future, but all he really wanted to do was escape from the problem, escape from the world and enjoy his brooding somewhere that wasn’t Sunnydale.
Spike was far more evil than Angel. He had no soul, nothing decent or redeeming in his whole being. But he was kneeling in a church, trying to mend a china doll because his mad partner was relying on him. She realised with a shock of understanding that he would never give in, no matter how hard it was. Buffy tried to picture Spike waiting for the murderous sunrise to finish him off and knew it would never happen. He would fight to the end; find a way, somehow, because the woman he loved needed him. Because strong meant fighting. This vampire knew that — but not her one. But that was impossible. Angel had a soul. He had to understand that the woman he loved needed him, just as much as Dru needed Spike.
Spike was just a - a thing! An evil, dead thing. How could he fight for love when Angel couldn’t? Without saying another word, she lurched to her feet and evading the hand that automatically reached out to her, ran from the church, sliding and slipping in the wet snow, desperate to get home, to push these thoughts from her head and pretend everything was all right in her world this Christmas.
Behind her, a slim figure in a black leather coat walked out of the church and paused to watch her go. Then he stopped, sighed and stared at the broken pieces in his hand. He clenched his fist round them and watched as a few drops of blood dripped into the snow at his feet. Then he shrugged and threw the remains of the doll to one side.
He gazed round and lit a cigarette. So, that was it then. Dawn was coming and he would have to go back to Mexico and admit he’d failed. Then saw the crib. A slow, triumphant smile crossed his face and being careful to avoid all crosses, he gently lifted the doll like model of Jesus from the manger.
Sod it, so it wasn’t Miss bleedin’ Matilda, but he had the feeling he could persuade Dru it was a good alternative. It was worth a try, anyway. And stuffing the baby safely inside his duster, he strode off into Christmas to continue his fight.
More meetings on the way soon