Secrets and Lies

Patrolling

Spike woke with the realization that he was not alone in his crypt; his vampiric senses told him so. Not only was someone else there, but that someone was a woman – and not just any woman, Buffy. The slayer was in his crypt?! He could have sworn his undead heart had started pounding at the thought of Buffy willingly visiting him, but then he remembered that she only came to him when she needed a favor.

Dragging on his jeans and a clean t-shirt, he hurried into the upper level of the crypt to find Buffy sitting on the couch fiddling with the hem of her sweater. At his approach, she simply glanced up from her position and offered a small smile of apology.

“Somethin’ I can do for you, pet?” he inquired as he took a seat in the chair.

“It’s after dark,” she replied. “Tara and Willow have taken Dawn to see the new Lord of the Rings movie. Didn’t they just make one last year?”

Laughing softly, the vampire answered, “It’s a trilogy, Buffy. You should read it sometime, or at least watch the movies.”

“You do remind me a little of the elf,” she teased, waiting for an explosive reaction. She was not disappointed.

“Bloody Hell! I don’t look anythin’ like that buggering ponce Legolas! He nances like a faerie! That’s it! I’m dyin’ my hair black, I swear to –”

“It was a joke, Spike!” the slayer giggled, bringing his rant to a crashing halt. “I just wanted to see how you would react.”

“Oh. Good. Still might have to dye my hair, though.”

Shyly, Buffy said, “I like it. It suits you.”

Spike’s scarred eyebrow nearly reached his hairline at that comment. She liked his hair? Bloody… “Is somethin’ wrong? Not that I’m not glad you’re here, but you usually only come here when you need help or someone to watch Dawn.”

“I was just thinking… I’d like to try that primal scream thingy, and I can’t do it here.”

“I can take you somewhere,” the vampire offered.

“After patrol,” Buffy agreed. “Which you’re welcome to help with. What was it… a spot of violence before bedtime?”

He could only stare slack-jawed for a moment. Buffy had invited him to accompany her on patrol… and she wanted him to drive her somewhere afterward. He hadn’t yet gotten used to the abrupt halt to her seemingly never-ending game of kick-the-Spike, and now this. “Sounds good,” he said finally.

For her part, Buffy was shocked that Spike hadn’t made any of his trademark quips, nor had he made any overtly sexual comments. It was as though he had changed overnight – the night of the musical. She wondered if it was residual magic, or if he genuinely cared as much as he said he did.

Without another word, the vampire pushed to his feet and pulled on his coat, glancing at Buffy as though to ask if she was ready. When she stood, he opened the door of his crypt and held it open, shuddering inwardly when he recalled the first time he had held a door for her and her violent reaction to it. This time she merely smiled and stepped outside.

Buffy pressed a wooden stake into the vampire’s hand and told him to try not to fall on it. Glancing over her shoulder with an enigmatic smile, she turned the corner and studied the line of tombstones and crypts, waiting for her first kill.

“I didn’t know you cared, pet,” he called after her as he closed the door to his crypt and jogged to catch up with her.

Oh, shit. That had sounded like concern, and as soon as she realized it, Buffy cursed inwardly. Scoffing, she replied, “As if.”

“What’s with the valley-girl speech?” Spike questioned.

“Um, hello, I’m from LA. We all talk like that there.”

“Just another face in the crowd, then? You’re not like them.”

“No,” she said wearily. “I’m the slayer.”

“Yeah, but ‘s not what I meant. You’re Buffy Summers, the one an’ only sister to a key that doesn’t open anythin’, friend to lesbian witches, a whelp, an ex-demon, and a watcher who got sacked because he loved you too much. You’re that Buffy first.”

“And a vampire.”

“Eh?”

“I’m a friend to a vampire, too.”

“Told you once, pet, whatever you an’ Peaches are, ‘s not friends.”

“I didn’t mean Angel.”

Spike gaped openly, but he was saved the moment of awkwardness when a newly risen vampire made the grave mistake of rushing Buffy’s back. He flung to stake before the slayer could turn full-circle, and by the time she had, ashes were at her feet.

“Damnit, Spike!”

The vampire winced. He should have known she was building up his confidence only to crush it again. To his surprise, she only handed him the stake and pouted.

“I wanted to get the first one,” she griped. “That totally wasn’t fair, I didn’t even see him!”

Shocked nearly to the point of speechlessness, Spike nodded dumbly. “Right. You can get the next one.”

“Good… and thanks.”

Spike could only nod again because… she hadn’t meant Angel.

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Three dusted vamps apiece under their belts, the vampire and the slayer soon found themselves in the wooded area not far outside the city limits of Sunnydale. It had taken ten minutes of arguing on Spike’s part to persuade Buffy that she had to wear a helmet. Finally, she had consented, but only after Spike had gunned the engine and threatened to leave without her.

“So, what now?” Buffy asked as she swung one leather-encased leg over the side of the motorcycle.

“Now,” said Spike, silencing the purr of the motor, “you scream.”

“Nuh uh, I’m not doing it alone,” she protested. “And… do you have to scream anything in particular?”

“It’s not a test, pet, it’s therapy. You scream whatever you want, like this.” To drive the point home, the vampire shouted wordlessly.

“Oh. In that case…” Buffy released a blood-curdling scream not unlike the one she had used to defeat the Gentlemen, and Spike’s cringe was lost on her. Once she started, however, she couldn’t seem to stop.

She shouted her pain to the moonless skies, kicked at the dirt and grass with pointed heels, and slammed her fist into the bark of a fragile tree. It snapped in half at the punishment, and Buffy’s knuckles came away bloody.

It was only when the slayer’s hand darted out for a second blow that Spike caught her wrist. “You’re bleeding, Buffy,” he said quietly. “And you killed the bad tree.”

The hand in Spike’s grip trembled, and Buffy noted with amazement that his eyes were locked on hers rather than the blood that trickled from her knuckles. Without thought as to what it meant, she wrenched her hand free of Spike’s grasp and held it up. “My mom always used to kiss my cuts and bruises. It makes them better,” she told him confidently.

“Do you know what it means, pet? Offerin’ your blood to a vampire, that’s… it’s like a blood oath. No matter what happens, we’ll always be there for each other.”

“Friends ‘til the end?” she asked lightly in a show of acceptance. “I guess I won’t need a friendship bracelet. It’s going to heal soon.”

Sucking in a breath he didn’t need, Spike lowered his mouth to the bleeding wound, laving the ragged edges of flesh with his tongue. As he struggled to keep his features from shifting, he noticed that Buffy was watching him intently, and as her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, he groaned. It would be difficult enough to keep from ravaging her as it stood, and for the first time, he hated that the blood of a slayer was such an aphrodisiac.

Angel hadn’t been able to stop. The thought came unbidden to Buffy’s mind as she watched Spike clean the wound of blood. After the first taste, the love of her life, the one who vowed to keep her safe, who insisted he wanted only to hold her heart, had not been able to stop from drinking deeply. Spike, her once arch-nemesis, on the other hand, hadn’t even lost his human guise. She was astounded.

Spike shifted long enough to slice his tongue on his fang, but then his features reverted to normal, and he used the tiny droplet to heal the slayer’s knuckles and seal the pact. It wasn’t a claim, but it was an oath that they would always come to the aide of the other; for now, it was enough. Lifting his head, he nodded his approval when the skin knitted back together. “There, it’s better.”

“Thank you,” she said simply.

“You’re welcome,” he answered, studying the tree Buffy had killed. He picked up the top half and drew a knife from his boot, cutting off the branches quickly.

“What are you doing?” she asked curiously as she sat down on a nearby stump to watch him.

“Makin’ a stake,” he replied. “‘S only fair that the poor tree didn’t die in vain, after all.” The comment elicited a laugh from the slayer, but after that, she fell silent. Spike didn’t try to force her to speak – it was a comfortable silence. After he finished the stake, he offered it to her proudly; it was wicked looking with a point sharp enough to pierce even the thickest of hides.

“It kind of puts Mr. Pointy to shame,” she admitted, tucking the stake into the sleeve of her sweater. “Thanks.”

“It’s gettin’ late.”

“I don’t feel like going home yet, but we could go back to your place. It’s not as cold as it is here.”

“I’ve got one of those space heaters,” he replied with an affirming nod as he straddled the motorcycle and kicked the brake off. Only when Buffy strapped on her helmet did he scoot forward to make room for her.

“This stupid thing is giving me helmet-hair,” she complained, her arms encircling his waist firmly. Why did he smell so good? Shouldn’t he start to smell… well, dead? “And why do you have a heater if you don’t feel cold?”

“With the Bit droppin’ by all the time, I didn’t want her to be cold.”

Again, Buffy was stunned. Spike, whom she had always believed to be the most thoughtless and selfish of his kind, was turning out to be the most considerate man she had ever met – humans included. Ugh, bad Buffy. She shouldn’t even be going there, but she had to admit that she felt at home around him, the slayer of slayers.