His Slayer

CHAPTER 4

Giles was sure he'd misunderstood. "You're calling from where?"

"I told you, Rupert. I'm on a blasted train in the middle of bloomin' Texas. You know, 'Remember the Alamo' and all that."

"Spike--" Giles glanced towards the training room. The door was closed, and he could hear music. Still, he lowered his voice. "I thought you were going to follow the Russians in New York and see to whom they sold the cross."

"Well, it didn't work that bloody way, Watcher! After I got off the horn with you I went back to keep an eye on the blokes at their motel, but nobody went in or out for the day. When housekeeping showed up yesterday morning, the senorita found a bunch of stiffs. Before the police got there I managed to slip in and look about. The cross was gone, and the five bodies looked like they'd been put through a Chop-O-Matic.

"Why didn't you just fly back?"

"Bugger that for a lark! You think I want a bloody body cavity search if the nimrod at the metal detector decides I look like a threatenin' individual? I'll drink Holy Water first!"

"Very well, I see your point." Giles removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "When will you arrive?"

"Well, the train only goes to L.A., so I've got to transfer to another bloody train or take a lorry the rest of the way to Sunnyhell."

"No, Spike. I can't imagine what will happen if you hitch a ride in a truck! I'll come down to the station. Your train arrives tomorrow night after dark, I take it?"

"Of course, mate. 8:48 PM. Amtrak #2303 from the Big Apple Core."

"See you then. And Spike?"

"Yes, 'father' I'll stay out of trouble." *I won't bite anyone that doesn't deserve it.*

Giles walked to the back of the shop and stepped into the training room. Music pounded him as he entered. Buffy was on the pommel horse. Doing a handstand. And inverted, gravity-assisted splits. *Good Lord, that's distracting!* He cleared his throat, hoping to get her attention. No response. "Buffy?" Still nothing. Giles walked over to the boombox and turned it off.

"Hey! What's going on? I must feel the beat!" Buffy dropped to the mat and faced Giles. "Why'd you unplug me? This isn't MTV."

He didn't know if he'd ever get these pop-culture references she was so fond of. It was like Xander and any form of junk food, or Dawn and occasional inventory shrinkage. There were things he put up with because he loved them as if they were his own children.

"Buffy, do you recall the relic we discussed the other day?"

"Of course, Giles." She grinned. "I'm not the one at risk of going senile."

"Yes, well, er...ha, ha. I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with you the other day."

Buffy had been moving about, cooling down before she toweled off. She stopped and stood very still. "Giles. We agreed. No more secrets."

"I know Buffy, it's just that I didn't want to upset you unduly, and I thought the problem would be resolved without...interaction with certain parties."

"Huh?" Buffy's nose scrunched up. "Speak American Giles, were not on a little island."

"Very well, then. Spike has been following the cross for me. He's actually the one that brought it to my attention--"

"Spike. Coming here. I should have known! He just can't keep away." She began pacing. "He just keeps coming back for more. Well, you know what? Fine." She stopped pacing. "He can come here and deal. If he doesn't like how it is here the way we run things, he can kiss my ass!" Buffy grabbed her towel and began to dry off.

Giles left the room quickbefobefore Buffy started to rant again. Now that was not the reaction I expected from her.

Buffy heard the door close. She let out a breath. *Spike. Coming back. What does he want?* She didn't know whether to be curious, excited, pissed off, or scared. She opted for a mix of all four.


* * *

The ride from the train station hadn't been all that bad, Giles reflected. On a scale that included trephination without Novocain and spontaneous human combustion. For the first half hour Giles had been adamant that Spike not smoke in his new-used car. His 'little red number,' as Spike had referred to it, had been sold before he went back to England last year. The dark blue Honda Civic was decidedly smoke-free. They were barely out of the greater L.A. area before Spike's hand tapping and foot stomping to an imaginary beat became unbearable. "Fine, smoke your bloody fags, but keep the window rolled down!"

"'Preciate that, Watcher." Spike smiled as he pulled out his worn Zippo and a cigarette. He knew he could have gone at least another fifteen minutes before he really needed a smoke, but it was fun to screw with stuffy people.


* * *

The Sunnydale phone book was nearly useless. Half the entries were disconnected or had new subscribers due to deaths, business fires, and general Flight From the Hellmouth. Spike resisted the temptation to throw the book through the nearest glass display case. *Sodden thing may as well have been put out by Qwest.* "Oi, Rupert, you gonna ski the net, mate?"

Giles looked up from the computer screen, willing Spike to be struck mute. "No, Spike." *Bloody infernal machine! No words on the screen that said 'internet,' just a bunch of stupid little pictures. What the blazes was a 'Network Neighborhood'?* "I'm afraid if you can't use this piece of shite, either, we'll have to resort to more, ah, traditional means."

"Great! I've missed ol'ly tly the Snitch. "And I 'aven't 'ad a decent spot o' violence in..." Spike stopped talking as he realized the Watcher was looking at him peculiarly. *Bloody hell. Can't let him know 'bout the chip and have him go off half-cocked.* "...well, not for two years if you count people. A month if you figure that African clicky-name demon I saw..."

"Spike, perhaps we should talk now." Giles looked concerned. "You've told me bugger-all about what you were even doing in...Africa? I had understood that you'd been in Europe."

'Sorry, mate." Spike looked as if he was going to take out a smoke, then resisted the urge. "Russian ship. Picked me up in Somalia."

"And what the blazes were you doing there?"

"Getting a soul, mate."

Giles was about to call Spike a liar. Then he paused, reconsidering. "Really?"

"Bloody right, Watcher. Went through the Trials and all. Came out all soul-y."

"I'm sorry if I don't believe you Spike, but you don't exactly seem all..."

"What? Broody and mopey like the nancy pouf."

"Well, yes. Quite." Giles tried not to smile. "Don't you have guilt over the people you've killed?"

"Course I do, it just don't eat at me like it does the bad-haired boy scout. See, way I've got it figured, it's related to your soul before you gets turned. Angel was a right bloody bastard, he was. And when he gets resouled, the soul tries to--"

"Overcompensate? But Spike, how do you fit in? You seem to be the same pain in the arse as always. Didn't getting re-souled change you?"

"Sure enough, but like I said, I think it's how you were 'fore you got demonically upgraded." He looked at Giles, willing that the Watcher not make him say it.

"And before you were turned Spike, you were, that is, you weren't..."

"No. I was a decent bloke. Figure you actually would have gotten along with me back then. But, here I am now."

"Excuse me if I don't throw a parade past Buckingham Palace with the Queen's Guards, Spike, but I need more that your say so. If you don't mind..."

"A test? Knock yourself out, mate." At Giles sharp look, he grinned. "Not literally, of course."


* * *

"That's fascinating, Spike." Giles had done a second spell to confirm the findings. He wanted to be sure that the vampire hadn't just had some sort of soul-mkingking glamour put upon himself.

"If you say so, Watcher."

"But Spike, forgive me for asking, but why did you want a soul?"

"Didn't."

Giles grew still. "But the demon..."

"Grants requests. I didn't ask for a bloody Jimney Cricket, I asked for the Slayer to get what she deserved."

"Good God!"

"Just so, Watcher, just so." Spike lit a cigarette. Giles was too amazed by Spike's revelation to even notice. "The only thing is, mate..."

"Er, yes, Spike?"

"I'd like to tell Buffy myself, when I think the time is right."

"Certainly, Spike. Of course." Giles was still trying to comprehend the ramifications of Spike's request being granted in such a fashion.

"Drink?"

"What's that, Spike?"

"Got anything for a bloke to drink 'round 'ere."

"Of course." Giles went to the locked drawer behind the front counter, and returned with a triangular green bottle.

"Glenfiddich! Oi, mate, glad you've not been completely corrupted by the bloody colonials." Spike stood and pulled two matching pewter goblets off one of the shelves, then set them on the table. "What shall we drink to then, Rupert?"

"Ah, if you don't mind? To Buffy?" *I hope she can deal with this.*

"Right 'nuff. To Buffy!" *Hope she don't stake me before we get to talk.*


* * *