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Spike’s Date
By spikeNdru
Season 5, Post ‘Crush’
PG-13
Spike/Other
5085 words
BtVS/Highlander Crossover
Joss owns ‘em, so if he wants to give Little Miss Cookie Dough to Pod-Angel *someday*, I’ll temporarily give Spike to someone who appreciates him, courtesy of Panzer/Davis!
Thanks to The Rice Girl and Nikki for beta reading
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Well, that had ended well! “Good plan, Spike! D’ya think you could have bollixed things up any more?” It had seemed like a good idea at the time—if he killed Dru for her, Buffy would have to realize that he really did love her. . .
Spike tried to figure out how it had all gone so horribly wrong. “Stupid, bloody women!” He was sick to death of the lot of them. “Too human for Dru, not human enough for Buffy. As for Harmony . . .”
Spike savagely kicked the half mannequin he had found at the dump . . . “*she* had more brains than Harm!”
Spike paced like a caged animal. Fourteen steps to the wall of his crypt, slam the wall with the palms of both hands, turn on his heel with a swirl of black leather, fourteen strides to the opposite side of the crypt, slam the wall, repeat . . .
Spike kicked the newspaper lying on the floor, sending the pages floating around him like a swirl of autumn leaves. As he threw himself into the easy chair, hooking one leg over the arm, a section of the newspaper came to rest in his lap. He glanced at the page. “Bloody hell! The personal adverts. The bleedin’ Lonely Hearts Club”—just what he needed right now. “Wait. Hold on a mo’.” Maybe it was just what he needed!
Spike stared at the wall, eyes narrowed, thinking . . . a contemplative glint flashed in his blue eyes as he considered the possibilities. He’d bloody well dump them for a change! Dru could bloody well hook up with a Regurgitating Phrivlops demon for all he cared. The Slayer could keep her little fantasies about sodding Peaches . . . The Big Bad could bloody well get his own date!
He lifted the lid of the sarcophagus he was currently using as a coffee table and retrieved his notebook and fountain pen. He sprawled in his favorite comfy chair and thought about what he wanted to say in his advert. He began to write “Looking for” and stopped. Maybe he should start by describing himself first—get the birds’ attention. Yeah, that’s the ticket. He dropped down to the second line and began again. “Slender, athletic, platinum blonde. Likes to fight.” Wait. Better clarify that. “Good with weapons.” (And she can take THAT any way she wants!) “Likes to wear black, including long, leather coat.” Probably shouldn’t mention the Vampire bit right off. He jotted down possible alternatives: “Dangerous.” “Immortal.” This was turning out really lame. Lame . . . name . . . he needed a name. Should he use Spike or William? And what about a last name? He had a firm rule about keeping William’s last name absolutely private. How about Fang? That’ll be our little secret, won’t it? He jotted down the initials. Address! What could he use for an address? Not his crypt. Not Willy’s—that’s no place to meet a lady. Not the Bronze . . . Hold on! The Magic Box! He could get in through the tunnels, and no one would be the wiser. He added “3:00 AM, The Magic Box” and quickly stuffed the paper into an envelope before he had time to consider all the ways this could go wrong.
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Spike woke on Friday well before the sun went down. He felt a pleasant buzz of anticipation. The personal ads were published on Fridays. “I’ll show you, Slayer! The only chance I had with you was when you were unconscious? Well, there are plenty of conscious ladies who would be more than happy to *date* the Big Bad!” He lit a cigarette as he waited for the microwave to heat his breakfast. He sipped thoughtfully as he descended to his lower level to take a long, hot shower.
Clean and impeccably groomed, he swung by several cemeteries to kill some time, but it seemed to be a quiet night and there was no sign of Buffy.
At 2:00 AM, he headed for the Magic Box and came up through the basement, nicking a handful of burba weed, just on general principle. He entered the shop proper and lit some candles—lemon verbena, vanilla, and attar of roses, deciding to pass on the essence of slug (had to be demon girl who ordered them).
Too nervous to sit, Spike began to pace.
At exactly 3:00 AM the door crashed open and Spike spun around and stared in shock and consternation at his *date*. His brain tried desperately to process what he was seeing . . . tall, slim, platinum blonde, high cheekbones, black turtleneck, skin-tight black leather jeans, boots and long leather duster. Bloody hell! It was like looking into a mirror (if he’d had both a reflection and a sex-change!) In her right hand she carried a wicked-looking sword; in her left, a copy of the Sunnydale Press. She handed him the paper, opened to the personal ads. Spike looked at his ad and read:
“Looking for slender, athletic, platinum blonde. Likes to fight. Good with weapons. Likes to wear black, including long leather coat. Dangerous. Immortal. SWF. 3:00 AM, the Magic Box.”
Their eyes met, and she smiled at Spike.
“I’m Amanda Montrose. You’re looking for me?”
Spike’s lips curved into a slow, sensual smile of his own. “You know, I think maybe I am, pet.”
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Amanda stretched luxuriously. Well, things have certainly gotten more interesting than she had expected. The cool satin sheet and the cool satin skin of Spike’s back felt so similar she hardly knew where one began and the other left off. And here she had thought this would just be a brief business trip!
The Sunnydale Museum was mounting an exhibition of antique weaponry, including one of Rebecca’s personal swords, and Amanda had come to claim it. Well, not officially, of course. That would actually have been difficult. Stealing the sword had been so embarrassingly easy she felt a bit put out at the waste of her formidable talents as a cat burglar. I mean, really! The museum’s *security system* consisted of a not-too-bright guard named Rusty! She may as well have stayed home and asked them to Fed-Ex the sword to her—and there’s a better than even chance they would have done it! Ah, but if she had stayed home, she would have missed out on this extremely amusing . . . development.
While casing the joint yesterday, she had picked up a copy of the Sunnydale Press to check out the coverage of the exhibit. Upon noticing the personal ad, her first assumption was, of course, that someone in the Game knew she’d be coming for Rebecca’s sword and had come for her. Instead, she found this lovely vampire and quite a different kind of game. And the boy certainly does have stamina! Amanda thought she might just stick around for awhile. After all, she had accomplished her mission and there was no where she needed to be for the immediate future . . .
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Anya arrived at the Magic Box at 8:30 AM and began tidying up in readiness for the nine o’clock opening. Why were there bits of burba weed scattered on the floor like breadcrumbs marking a trail to the training room in back?
And who had lit all those candles in the training room? Honestly, some people have no respect for others! There were puddles of wax and burba weed all over the exercise mats, the vaulting horse, and even the walls! If Willow had been working on a new spell in here, she should at least have had the decency to clean up after herself!
Well, the training room wasn’t her responsibility, so Anya shut the door, and began to tidy the actual shop.
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By the time the sun set, Amanda was ravenously hungry.
“Sorry, luv, *Hotel d’Spike* seems to be lacking in certain amenities,” Spike apologized. “If you fancy anything other than bourbon, smokes and *sangre de swine*, we’ll have to go out. The Espresso Pump features pastries and caffeinated beverages, as the name implies; the Bronze is a sort of dance club renown for its flowering onion blossom, and Luigi’s does a wicked Shrimp Diavalo. There’s several pizza places, but since that wanker Xander quit his job at La Pizzaria, no one else will deliver to my crypt. Oh, if you’re into all that green and healthy stuff, there’s a vegan deli near the campus, but I’ve certainly never eaten there! What’s your pleasure?”
With a wicked grin, Amanda told him.
Much later, they decided to go to the Bronze, but maybe not . . . quite . . . yet . . .
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Xander, Anya and Dawn were at the Bronze waiting for Buffy to join them after her patrol. Xander glanced at the door, blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again.
“Great, galloping galoshes! It’s the Undead Bobbsey Twins!” he exclaimed.
Dawn and Anya swiveled in their chairs to see what Xander was staring at. Dawn’s jaw dropped as she beheld Spike and . . . Spikette? With a synchronized swirl of leather dusters, Spike and Amanda entered the Bronze. They looked like perfectly matched bookends, or maybe the Bobbsey Twins—whoever they were.
“It is rather surrealistic, isn’t it?” Anya commented. “And a bit kinky. It would sort of be like having sex with yourself, but with a whole other person there. Which we could have experienced ourselves, if you had let me take both Xanders home before Willow put you back together.”
“Ahn,” Xander broke in with an obvious look at Dawn.
“Oh, yes, Rule #384. We are not supposed to discuss our rich and varied sex life in front of minors.” Anya replied with just a smidge of snippiness.
Dawn rolled her eyes at them both.
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Invariably, all three sets of eyes were drawn back to the bleached blonde bombshells again and again. Spike ordered something at the bar, then turned to . . . Spikette? holding out his hand. She placed her hand (rather theatrically, Dawn thought) in his, and they began a flawlessly executed tango. Three jaws dropped and three simultaneous thoughts formed:
*Oh, my God! Where did Spike learn to tango? OK, so this is why the tango was called the forbidden dance—getting the visual here. Wait’ll Buffy hears about this.*
*She looks vaguely familiar. Replace the short, platinum hair with long, dark hair . . . yes, definitely familiar. Now where . . .*
*She is really hot! How can she be so hot when she looks exactly like Spike? If Spike was a girl, would I think he was hot? I shouldn’t be thinking anyone is hot. Anyone other than Anya. Anya is my girlfriend and she is definitely hot. Spike and Spikette are not hot. Liar, liar, pants on fire! Spikette is totally hot. Spike is actually, probably room temperature. It’s very hot in this room right now . . .*
“Does anyone want a refill? It’s thirsty in here and I’m hot—thirsty. I’m thirsty. Not hot. The room. The room is hot. I’m just thirsty. Ahn? Dawn? Refill?”
At that moment, the bartender placed three large platters and two beers on the countertop. Resting a slim, pale hand on his shoulder, Spikette leaned close and whispered something in Spike’s ear. Spike flashed a dazzling smile and strode to the bar. The bartender reached under the counter and produced a large, brown paper bag. Spike dumped the curly fries and buffalo wings into the bag, carefully placing the onion blossom on the top, like a crown. Spikette snagged the beers with one hand, Spike’s free hand with the other, and the pair swept out into the night.
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Xander had stopped by the Magic Box to have lunch with Anya, but she was uncharacteristically quiet. Not that it wasn’t nice, for a change; sometimes conversations with Anya were like waking up in the middle of a movie with no clue about the plot, but he was beginning to get concerned.
“Ahn, stop a minute and come sit down.” Xander said, patting the chair beside him. “I only have ten more minutes on my lunch break and you seem to be going all avoidy on me!”
“I’ve been a demon for 1200 years, Xander. I’ve met a lot of people and non-people and I think it’s a little too much to expect me to remember them all!”
“Whoa!” Xander raised both hands in a *back-off* gesture. “Is there a part of this conversation that’s been happening without me actually being in it? Who are you expected to remember?”
Anya began crumbling Xander’s cookie into tiny pieces. “I know I’ve seen Spike’s date before but I can’t remember if it was a good place or a bad place or if I helped her or hurt her and I don’t know why she’s here, and what if I hurt her and she’s here to get back at me and there’s so much going on with Glory and I just don’t think I can take any more stress . . .”
Xander leaned over and kissed her thoroughly, shutting off the torrent of words.
“Breathe!” he instructed. “I’ve gotta get back to work. Just don’t worry about it for now. We’ll talk tonight.”
For the rest of the afternoon, Anya made a determined effort to concentrate on her job. She wasn’t entirely successful, as random images of various vengeances drifted through her mind. A satisfied smile formed as she remembered a particularly appropriate or ironic payback.
“Those were good times,” she sighed.
The shop bell tinkled as Amanda entered the store. Anya and Amanda cautiously appraised each other.
“Do I know you?” “You look familiar” they spoke simultaneously. And then in stereo, “What are you?
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Xander had gone home to shower and shave after work. The budget was a little tight, but Anya had been looking so preoccupied and worried of late, he figured he could manage dinner and a movie for a change. An actual restaurant and movie theater seemed more date-like than take-out and vid rentals.
He was totally unprepared for the sight—and sound—of Anya dancing around the shop singing show tunes while dusting. Problem solved? Spell gone wrong? Bi-polar disorder?
“Uh, Ahn? Are you okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” Anya replied with a blinding smile. “Everything is fine. I’m not worried anymore. I’m very happy. Let’s go home and have lots of sex!”
Xander decided that the details could wait.
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Buffy was in a very bad mood and was itching to find something big, ugly and nasty to pummel. Of course, no nasties were to be found. Why should the universe cooperate with her? She had spent the last five years fighting the forces of darkness at the most personally inconvenient times imaginable, so now that she was ready, willing and able to kill something, the baddies all go on vacation.
“Couldn’t have scheduled this little break during, oh, say, parent-teacher night? Homecoming? Prom? Graduation? College finals? Nooooo! That would actually be helpful! And evil things can’t be helpful!”
Except, sometimes, some of them were. Helpful. Okay, one. One was helpful. Until he went all psycho-stalker, that is. And aren’t psycho-stalkers actually supposed to . . . stalk? She hadn’t seen leather hide nor bleached blonde hair of Spike for days. Was she like a magnet for love ‘em and leave ‘em types? Did every male in the universe who decided he loved her then automatically disappear? Was there some cosmic computer program out there stuck in some repeato loop? Not that she wanted Spike following her around like a stray puppy, or lurking everywhere she went! Did she?
Of course not! But you’d think he’d at least make some effort to see if she was still among the living! And Dawn! If he didn’t care if she was alive and kicking, wouldn’t you think he’d be a little concerned about Dawn? They were *best buds* weren’t they? They had *bonded*? He knew Glory was jonesing to stick Dawn into some cosmic lock. If he cared about her and Dawn as much as he said he did, why wasn’t he hovering around protecting them? He was such a . . . guy! Tell him to get lost and never darken her door again and he actually does it? How irresponsible is that?
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Buffy figured she may as well stop by Spike’s crypt, just to check up on him. She hadn’t seen him in a week or so. Had it been that long? She should check to make sure he wasn’t doing anything evil, or that Dru hadn’t come back, or that he wasn’t dead—er.
Buffy shifted her sword from right to left hand and back again. When she finally tracked down that peroxided pest, she’d . . . she’d give him *what for*, she would! How dare he do this to her? As if she didn’t have enough to worry about!
As she neared Spike’s crypt, the gleam of moonlight on platinum hair caught her eye. She had spent the last hour building up a full steam-head of anger, and where better to release it than on Spike? She leaped at him, left hand grabbing his shoulder to spin him around, completely forgetting the sword held high in her right. The figure spun toward her and Buffy felt an unexpected shockwave travel the length of her arm, as her sword was deflected by another.
“I’m Amanda Montrose and this is holy ground,” the not-Spike figure informed her.
“Yeah, like demons care about anything holy!”
For the next five minutes, the only sounds in the quiet cemetery were grunts and gasps and exhalations of breath and, over it all, the unremitting clash of steel blades. This Spike-clone demon was damn good! Buffy was impressed. She was also tiring—the sword was never her weapon of choice, and she was hindered by memory flashes of the last prolonged battle she had engaged in . . . with Angelus. She so did not want to go there! She did not want to remember the look of surprise and betrayal on his face when she ran him through.
This was all Spike’s fault! Teaming up with her to fight Angelus, then disappearing with Dru, chaining her up and offering to kill Dru, telling her he loved her when he couldn’t possibly love, and now this . . . this female Spike-twin-demon thingy! He was responsible for this! She just knew it! When she finally got hold of him she was so going to kick his ass!
But she couldn’t think about that at the moment. She needed to end this, now! Seeing an opening, she slipped through the demon’s guard and stabbed her in the heart.
The demon’s sword dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers as she collapsed. Feeling rather unsteady on her own feet, Buffy leaned back against the side of a crypt, then slowly sank down into the dewy grass. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed out all the overload of emotions she had been carrying around: fear of Glory, anger at Spike, guilt over killing Angel—it all washed out of her, leaving her lighter and freer than she had felt in a long while.
Sensing another presence, she opened her eyes to find Spike staring at her with a strange mixture of horror and compassion on his face.
“Slayer. Buffy. What have you done?”
Buffy pushed herself to her feet, swiping a hand across her eyes. “Killed a demon?”
“Amanda wasn’t a demon. She was more than human, but not demon. Not evil. A little morally ambiguous, p’rhaps. But not evil.”
Seeing the look of horror on Buffy’s face, Spike tentatively reached out a hand toward her. With a small shake of her head, negating his offer of comfort, Buffy raced out of the cemetery.
A sudden intake of breath drew Spike’s eyes to Amanda. She gingerly sat up, pulling the sword from her chest. Eying Spike speculatively, she commented, “You certainly do have some interesting friends, Spike! Never a dull moment around here!”
With a brilliant smile on his lips and relief in his eyes, Spike gestured at the wound in her chest. “We’d better get you inside and put something on that, pet.”
Amanda reached out and caressed Spike’s own chest. “What did you have in mind?” she countered, with a devilish glint in her dark eyes.
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Buffy dreaded facing her friends, but she needed their help. She had to know what she had just killed. She had to know if it was a demon or if it . . . she . . . was a person. Spike said she wasn’t a demon. Yes, and we all know evil, bloodsucking fiends are so truthful, don’t we? Not as a rule, no, but Spike usually was. She tried to think if there was a time he had actually lied to her . . . couldn’t think of even one, offhand. So, research was the first order of business.
Spike said the woman was *more than human*. So was she. So was Dawn. Buffy’s stomach clenched at the thought that she may actually have killed a human being (and wouldn’t the Council just have a field day with that? Two slayers in prison for murder! Quentin Travers would have a conniption!)
She had to face the music sooner or later, so, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, Buffy entered the Magic Box.
Everything looked so normal. Giles was behind the counter, doing something with the inventory and polishing his glasses. Anya was at the cash register with a calculator, comparing figures. Willow and Tara were sitting cross-legged on the floor by the stacks, foreheads touching, whispering together. Xander and Dawn were sitting at the table, playing Parcheesi. A preoccupied chorus of greetings drifted her way.
Willow was the first to realize that something was wrong. Coming to her feet in one fluid motion, she approached Buffy and took both her hands. “Is everything OK, Buff?”
With a harsh sob, Buffy leaned into Willow’s embrace. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I need to know.”
Straightening her back, Buffy took a deep breath and faced them all.
“I was out patrolling and I swung by Spike’s crypt.”
Willow looked up sharply, concern in her eyes.
Buffy continued, “I thought I saw Spike and he turned around and it wasn’t Spike. I had a sword and she had a sword and we were fighting and she was really good! I stabbed her and then Spike was there and he said she wasn’t a demon, and if she really wasn’t . . . I killed her.”
“No, you didn’t,” Anya interjected.
“Yes, I did!” Buffy shot back. “I was there!”
“Did you cut off her head?”
“No, I told you. I stabbed her in the heart.”
“Then you didn’t kill her.”
All eyes swung toward Anya, who appeared to have the definitive take on the situation.
“Her name is Amanda, she is immortal, and she can’t die unless you take her head. There are others like her, and they have some ritual where they fight each other because *in the end there can be only one*. Which doesn’t seem to me to be a very cost effective way of managing a race! Some are good, some are evil—just like humans. It’s a separate race, but definitely humanoid, not demon.” Anya finished brightly.
“And you know all this, how?” Xander questioned.
“She came to see me today at the shop. I thought I recognized Spike’s date when we saw then at the Bronze.”
“Spike’s dating her?” Buffy broke in.
Dawn added her two cents. “Oh, yeah. You should have seen them dance. Definitely dating!”
The quelling look Buffy sent her would have stopped a bull elephant at fifty paces.
Anya continued, “Well, it turns out she recognized me, too, and we worked it out this afternoon. We met in Sjornjost in 880, before D’Hoffryn made me a demon. I was living with this big, dumb guy . . .”
“The troll!” Willow broke in.
“Well, he wasn’t a troll then, I told you that! He cheated on me with this trashy barmaid with hips the size of the QE2 . . .”
Off Dawn’s puzzled glance, Xander whispered, “It’s a boat. A really big boat.”
“I wreaked some vengeance on him, made him a troll, and D’Hoffryn elevated me and took me to Arashmahar, so I never did get to find out what happened to that man-stealing, load-bearing, trollop Rannveig---until this afternoon! It turned out that Amanda had experienced her temporary death 30 years before we met . . .”
“Temporary death?” Willow mouthed.
“Don’t ask!” Xander mouthed back.
“She had been training with her friend Rebecca, who decided she was ready to go out on her own. Amanda left Gaul, visited Sweden, and we met when she admired the . . . livestock I was raising.” Anya smiled lovingly at Xander. “I was Aud then.”
Willow smirked.
Xander muttered, “Not touchin’ that. Nuh-uh. No how. No way!”
Anya cast a puzzled glance at Xander.
“To continue my story . . . it appears that Rannveig was of the same sword-fighting race as Amanda. She challenged Amanda, Amanda won, and Rannveig is dead!”
Anya flashed a brilliant smile at Xander.
“Which makes me very happy. Also Anyanka. And Aud.”
Anya turned to Buffy, concluding, “So don’t worry. You didn’t kill her. She and Spike are probably shagging like . . . livestock, right now. Glad I could be of help. Xander and I have to leave now. Come, Xander.”
Willow smirked.
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It took two whole days before Dawn got the opportunity to sneak off on her own. Geez, it was like being under house arrest! She knew everyone was only trying to keep her safe, but there are times when a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do!
Wielding misdirection with the skill of a seasoned stage magician, Dawn *reminded* Buffy that she was going to play miniature golf with Xander after school, they’d grab burgers after, and she would be home late. She then convinced Xander that they had actually scheduled the mini-golf thing for the following day, and she couldn’t go today because she had made plans with Willow and Tara. Tara was going to teach her to tie-dye, and had spent a lot of time setting things up.
Free and unencumbered by babysitters at last, Dawn headed directly for Spike’s crypt after school. She was sort of glad it had taken two days to set up. She had watched enough Discovery Channel and Animal Planet to be very sure that *shagging like livestock* was not something she wanted to walk in on! Whatever it was, she figured they couldn’t still be doing it two days later!
Dawn knocked loudly and called Spike’s name before inching open the door of his crypt and peeking in. All clear, in fact, Spike didn’t even seem to be home.
She idly checked the cupboard in Spike’s *kitchenette*. Pastel colored miniature marshmallows, Tabasco sauce, a bottle of bleu cheese dressing, Weetabix. Weird. Looked like huge shredded wheat without the powdered sugar frosting. She’d have to remember to bring him a box of the real stuff. He had such a sweet tooth, he’d love the kind with the sugar already on! A-ha!! Microwave popcorn. Movie theater style with extra butter!
Dawn put a bag in to pop and checked the ancient fridge. Two jugs of blood, a half pint of cream, a six-pack of Diet Coke behind the blood. Grabbing a soda and her popcorn, Dawn curled up in the comfy chair to watch TV and wait for Spike.
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Spike pulled the DeSoto into the impound lot behind his crypt that he had been using as his personal parking lot for years. He vaulted the fence and strolled through the cemetery with a wistful smile on his face. He was sorry to see Amanda go. The past fortnight had been bloody brilliant! They got on well together, had a lot in common, and he hadn’t once felt like an evil, disgusting, neutered *thing*. He had gotten his rocks back! They had both known it was a temporary interlude. Even if he hadn’t loved the Slayer with every fiber of his being, Amanda wasn’t a long-haul type of girl. Which worked out perfectly. A plan of Spike’s had actually come off! No harm, no foul! And she had promised to come back and see him again!
He had driven her to the airport to catch a commuter flight to L.A. She had some business there, then off to Cannes where she had a date with *Harry Winston*. He had briefly considered going with her. He missed the roving adventures of the last century, but he was held here as securely as a butterfly pinned to a mounting board. Pinned here by three sets of hazel eyes, and it was his choice. He wasn’t here by default, because he had nowhere else to go. Amanda had shown him that. He belonged here, belonged to the three Summers women, belonged to them body, mind and heart. And they belonged to him, too. They were his to care for, to protect, to love.
Spike reached into his inner pocket for the business card Amanda had given him. If he ever needed her, he could get a message to her through this bar in Seacouver. He tucked the card securely away, blew a kiss to the sky in the direction of Los Angeles and, filled with new strength and purpose, prepared to get on with his un-life.
Opening the door of his crypt, he scented her immediately.
“Hullo, Nibblet. What’s up?”
Dawn patted the ottoman beside her chair and offered him the bag of popcorn.
“Hey, Spike,” she greeted him, with as much sophistication as it was humanly possible for a 14 year old to muster. “I wanna know all about your date! What was she like? Where did you meet her? Let’s dish . . ."
The End
Note: I happened to catch a Highlander: The Raven repeat on Sci-Fi, and just couldn’t resist hooking her up with Spike. This is the result.
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