His Slayer

CHAPTER 1

"How was patrol?" Dawn was still awake when Buffy came in the front door. *At least she doesn't come home smelling like a DoubleMeat Combo anymore.* Not that her attitude had improved much when she was able to quit the nottaburger place.

At Giles' rather vehement insistence, the council had eventually agreed to pay Buffy a rather generous stipend. Dawn wouldn't have minded had they still needed to watch every penny, but she was glad her sister wasn't quite so miserable. About work, anyway. The older Summers hadn't been on a date in months. Not for lack of prodding from her friends. But after a single disastrous date with one of Xander's coworkers and a stunningly boring outing with a former classmate from UCSD, Buffy hadn't even pretended to put any effort into the dating scene.

Dawn never gave any indication that she thought Buffy should be dating anyone. She heard when her sister had restless nights, tossing and turning in her sleep, periodically calling out something that sounded suspiciously like a peroxide-blonde vampire's name. Dawn knew about the 'incident' that resulted in the vampire leaving, but she also knew Spike. Buffy had a lot of issues when she had gotten back from... gotten back, and she hadn't made it easy for Spike. So Dawn figured that there was some kind of Hellmouth-inspired misunderstanding in there that had led to the badness. If only Spike would come back, she was sure he and Buffy could work it out. And even if they didn't, Dawn needed Spike.

Sure, her sister was a super-hero, but when you're a former glowy key-thing thousands of years old, it takes more than that to impress a younger si. Be. Besides, Buffy was required to look out for Dawn, since now she was a real person and part of the family. Spike had stayed for her when he didn't have to. Sure, he made a promise to Buffy, but name one evil, soulless vampire that would have kept that promise. Spike knew she needed him when she had no family except a battery-powered Slayer doll, so he had stayed. And, of course, the whole 'Big Bad' persona did nothing to make him less exciting. So Dawn said nothing whenever the topic of Buffy and dating ever arose, but every night she prayed Spike would come back to them.

"How was patrol?" Dawn repeated, when the first question had elicited some kind of half-hearted grunt.

"You know, fledgling here, sewer monster there, no big." Buffy had dropped her sweatshirt and two stakes on the floor in the entry, and proceeded into the living room to flop on the couch. "Why are you still up?"

"Well, you know. It is Saturday night. There's nothing good on 'till nine, then I figured I'd just stay up a little longer and wait. Didn't think you'd be this late."

Buffy hauled herself up off the couch and headed towards the kitchen. "Is there any 'Very Cherry' left?"

"Um, actually I kind of finished it. Besides, we shouldn't really be eating it anyway. I heard that there's some hydrogenated artificial stuff in there, that it's not all natural like it says on the label."

"Great," Buffy grumbled. "Save the world from the forces of darkness again, and no ice creamy goodness." *Oh well.* She pulled a soda from the fridge and leaned against the sink. Not that they used to have ice cream in the fridge all the time. That was something Spike had done for her. Always kept a pint or two of Ben and Jerry's in the freezer box of his little fridge. God, she was so not going to go there. Thinking of Spike led to thoughts of badness. And ice cream. *Spike licking ice cream oh, so slowly from her body, then-- Whoa! Bad thoughts.* Time for a cold shower, since neither of her post-slaying needs had been met. *I wish we'd hear from him. I know Dawn really misses him, even though she never says it.* Buffy ignored the little voice in the back of her mind saying that she missed him, too. It was second nature to ignore that little voice. She'd been practicing for months.


* * *

The helicopter sat on the deck of the ship, main rotor spinning in the sunlight. Half a dozen men in suits, most with automatic weapons, had gotten out of the helicopter as soon as its wheels touched the deck. One of the passengers from the helicopter, a large man with a briefcase, was speaking in Russian to Sergey, the first mate of the ship.

Sergey appeared to be quite irate and was shouting loudly. The crewmen behind the first mate kept their weapons more or less pointed at the rest of the helicopter's armed passengers. One of the ship's crew opened a duffel bag to show the men in suits that it was full of green American money. Then the big man in the suit opened his briefcase to show the contents.

A hundred feet away and through a window Spike flinched. *I'm on a ship in the middle of the bloody ocean, and a bunch of Russian mafia bring the biggest gold and gem-encrusted cross I've seen in my whole bleedin' unlife!*

Out on the deck things took a turn for the worse. The crewman holding the duffel full of money was apparently unsatisfied with the negotiations. When he turned and started to head for the superstructure one of the suits opened up with his submachinegun. The others started up almost immediately.

In the first few seconds, half a dozen of the ship's crew were down. One of those still standing grabbed the duffel bag from his dead comrade's hand and ran sternwards. He took a round in the back, but managed to make it to the door in the bulkhead only a dozen feet from Spike's vantage point. One of the men in suits wasn't far behind.

The sailor fell through the doorway as it opened, landing face-down on the floor. The money slid several feet down the hall. The Russian mafioso leapt over the body and landed in the hall. He looked around, and spotted Spike only spitting distance away, and began to raise his weapon.

Time slowed for Spike. Years ago he had seen a show on the telly where psychologists and FBI instructors talked about a phenomenon. Those that were well trained and alert, the philosophy went, were able to use skills at the reflexive level. They knew what to expect, and it made their opponents seem slow by comparison. And then 'The Matrix' came out.

The muzzle of the submachinegun started to rise as Spike leapt forward. By the time the hole in the end of the barrel was at waist height, Spike's right foot had caught it and knocked it to his left. Spike continued to rotate, using the momentum from his crescent kick. Another half turn, and Spike kicked out sideways, catching the gunman in the stomach. The Russian gangster flew back and hit the wall. Spike finished his turn and moved forward again, then wrapped his right arm around his foe's neck. Left hand clasped right, and Spike leaned back. The snap was muffled by layers of muscle and fat.

Time resumed its normal pace. Spike looked around, waiting for something he couldn't put his finger on. Outside, the gunfight was over. All the suited gunmen were down, and not a few of the ship's crew, as well. The first mate came trotting towards Spike, the briefcase with the cross in one hand, a pistol in the other. Spike stepped back from the sunlight in the doorway--and only incidentally the gun and the money on the floor--with his hands at shoulder height.

Spike finally realized what he was waiting for. *I made out like a bloody bandit! A shiny new soul and chipless, to boot. The Big Bad is back!* His laughter surprised Sergey, who was careful to keep out of what he perceived to be Spike's lethal range.


* * *

Spike sat in a chair in the officer's mess. Sergey faced him across the small table bolted to the deck. One of the crew Spike didn't know stood at the door with a rifle. They'd brought Spike here even as the remaining portion of the crew was busy cleaning up after the firefight. The helicopter would be dumped over the sid the the ship using the deck crane. The bodies were searched, then tossed overboard. Between the losses on both sides, the sharks would eat well.

Sergey looked intently at Spike. "You help us. You want money, yes?"

Spike considered. If he said no, he was dead. If he said yes... Almost a century of killing and poverty under Communism had bred trust and compassion out of all these folks. Greed was almost all that was left. Kind of like vampires. These blokes would think he was up to something if he took the money, but they'd be sure of it if he didn't.
"Yeah, mate. What's it worth to keep my trap shut?"

Sergey looked thoughtful. "Five hundreds American dollars."

Spike laughed. If he took too low a bribe, they'd be almost as likely to kill him as if he took nothing. "C'mon, you think I'm a bloody ponce? Two thousand."

Sergey didn't even pretend to be annoyed "Last offer. One thousands. Take or not."

"Yeah, mate, I'll take it." *And both of us think we got the sweet side of the deal. Now, if I can just get to New York without gettin' killed...*


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