Even through the closed door of the crypt, Buffy can hear him screaming. "Sod off! I drink chicken blood too, you bloody menace!" Curious, she opens the door with a stealthy turn of the handle rather than her usual slamming bang.
Spike is standing in front of his fridge, gesticulating wildly, trying to frighten something away, but she cannot see what that something is.
"I'm warning you! I'll wring your bloody neck! I'll chop your bleeding head off!"
She creeps inside and stifles a laugh. Perched on top of his fridge, an unimpressed chicken watches Spike's wild antics, her beady black eyes following the vampire's every movement. The hen's own stillness demonstrates just how little she thinks of predator in front of her.
"I'll turn you into spicy Buffalo wings!" Spike shouts, flapping his hands at the offending party.
The hen fluffs out her feathers and settles into a more comfortable position. Buffy cannot hold the laughter in a moment longer. Her loud guffaws do more to startle the chicken than all of Spike's posturing, sending the bird fluttering about the crypt.
The vampire ducks down, yelling, as chicken little flaps by, circling around before coming to roost on his head. Spike, still half-crouched on the grounds, seizes up in terror, and Buffy swears he turns even paler than usual. "Getitoffame!" he pleads through his stiff lips.
Buffy is laughing so hard she can barely speak. "Geez! You big baby!" She strides forward, Slayer on a mission to help the helpless, rescue the less-than-innocent. She reaches out to nab the paltry poultrygeist and…
She freezes too, hands outstretched. "Did that thing just growl at me?"
Spike moans, his eyes wild.
"There's no such thing as demonic poultry," Buffy says, though her voice betrays her uncertainty.
A tiny rivulet of blood trickles down Spike's forehead and drips into his eye. "Claws. Digging. Evil," he whimpers.
Buffy eyes the chicken and it eyes her back.
"Don't move," she says, though she is fairly certain the admonishment is unnecessary. Within seconds she is down below, searching for… "Aha!"
The Slayer stalks her prey from behind, but the hen is not to be fooled. Its head swivels almost completely around, tracking her, but this time Buffy does not falter. She whips a towel out from behind her back and over the chicken, immobilizing the bird, then yanking it off Spike's head. Several strands of platinum hair go with it.
"I'll just go put this outside…"
"Not good enough." Spike sniffs, patting his hair into place, his expression petulant. "Bloody thing'll just come right back. You have to slay it."
"Hello? Buffy the Vampire Slayer, not Martha the Farm Hand. I'm not killing a chicken."
"S'just a chicken," Spike says, and Buffy's eyes narrow.
She thrusts the squawking bundle at him. "Here, you're so Big and Bad, you kill it."
Stumbling backwards, he wards her off, hands up. "It's a chicken," he says, and even in a world which contains Spike, this makes zero sense.
Buffy sighs. "Do you have a box or something? We can take it out to the woods." Moments later Spike is setting a cat carrier on the sarcophagus, and Buffy is trying not to think about why he owns this particular item. She shoves the indignant chicken inside.
"We can take the bike, be quick about it," Spike says, gaze averted, voice hopeful.
She agrees, knowing this will require her to be pressed up against him for the duration of the ride, and they head off, the cat carrier dangling from her hand as the wind whips through her hair. Deep in the woods, miles from town, they set the carrier on the ground and open the door. The chicken struts out, fixes them with a baleful glare, and hisses. Buffy is so surprised she steps backwards, right into Spike's arms.
"Yeah, go on with you," he says to the chicken, all bravery now, as his arms tighten around Buffy. She leans back into him. As far as outings with Spike go, this one isn't so bad. He nuzzles her hair and she turns into him, her body still vibrating from the thrum of the engine between her legs and the feel of old leather against her cheek, the hen forgotten for the moment – until it hisses again. Spike kicks at the bird, but even his steel-toed boots don't dismay it. "Let's get out of here, eh love?"
She snickers and they hop back on the bike, Spike threading the night back to his crypt until they're tumbling inside, hands tearing at clothes, falling to the ground and-
"Spike. How long was your pet chicken here?" He mumbles something, sheepish, and she halts his roving hands. "What was that?"
"Couple of days. The chip, you know. I couldn't..."
"Oh my god." No longer faced with the threat of chicken, Buffy now notices the state of his crypt. There are feathers and chicken shit everywhere, the stuffing has been pulled out of his chair, and the place smells. She springs to her feet, brushing feathers and worse off of her clothes. "Yeah, so uh, I think you need to take care of this. I'd stay and help you, but…"
She's not sure how to finish that sentence. Spike has been terrorized by a chicken of all things, and she can't bring herself to say the cruel things she normally would. Or to abandon him. She sighs. "Do you want help?"
"Guess the moment's lost," he mutters. "Nah," he says, louder. "I got it. You go on, Slayer, I'll catch you another time."
If the chicken doesn't catch you first, she thinks. She leaves, but is back within the hour, plunking a large take-out bag down on his now clean sarcophagus.
He opens the bag warily, nostrils flaring, then grins. He doesn't say anything, and neither does she. Instead they sit together on the blanket covered couch, watching whatever is on the television, eating chicken wing after chicken wing.