Buffy would have strenuously, if unconvincingly, denied that she was
hanging around the house and missing two early lectures, just to wait
for the mail to be delivered. But she was. When the mailman walked
straight past her house without pausing, she slumped her shoulders, and
then put on her brave little soldier face.
As she walked down the garden path on her belated way to college, she
noticed that the lawn was torn up in several places, one area looking
almost charred, another covered with a nasty black residue. What had
been going on last night? Frowning, she carried on, flipping open the
mailbox, just in case something had been hand delivered. There was a
crumpled, stained flyer inside, advertising a shoe sale, and she pulled
it out. It was covered with flowing, copperplate writing on the back
and she rolled her eyes as she scanned down and saw the signature. No
valentines, a letter from Spike and it was still only 10.30. The day
could only get better but it probably wouldnât.
“Slayer,” it began tersely. Buffyâs lips tightened as she walked over
to the garden seat and sat down, but curiosity kept her reading. “Just
happened to be in the neighborhood last night and was walking past your
place when -”
***
Spike stood patiently, his back to the large oak tree outside Buffyâs
house. He was watching, he was waiting. He had all the time in the
world.
Like any predator he could blend into his surroundings. His fair hair
might have been a patch of moonlight against the rough bark, his
leather coat a deep shadow. The burning end of his cigarette mimicked a
firefly as it moved up to his mouth and bobbed about, before returning
to his side.
He was waiting for Buffyâs light to dim; he was prepared to wait all
night. He had an errand to run and he would see it done before he
slept. Unconsciously his hand fingered the stiff rectangle within his
pocket and his face was filled with a puzzled, almost resentful
yearning, as Buffyâs silhouette flashed briefly across her window.
She was in pajamas. It couldnât be long, surely, before she went to
sleep. She had had a busy night. He knew - he had trailed her, killing
as many vampires as he could, competing with her for his own amusement,
but failing to match her score. She fought well; he had to give her
that, even though that skill had foiled so many of his plans.
The light finally went out and he waited a few moments more, just in
case. Hurrying never helped. His nanny used to say that to him as she
puttered about the nursery, her stiff white apron rustling, her capable
hands moving slowly about her daily tasks.
Finally he began to move towards the mailbox, his footsteps muffled by
the thick grass of the lawn. He had gone only a few yards when he
hissed, turned and grabbed. “And just what do we have here?” he said in
a silky tone of pure menace. His eyes flicked up and down the wriggling
figure in front of him. A bit of a kid, sixteen at most, all spots and
hormones. Contemptuously he released his hold on the boyâs coat,
secretly grateful that his chip hadnât triggered. Though by the look on
the ladâs face, heâd done some mental damage. Boy looked terrified.
Good. He hadnât quite lost his touch then.
“I just, I didnât mean - wh-who are you?” the boy stammered, his face
pale in the light of the moon.
“A friend of Buffyâs thatâs who,” said Spike sharply, twisting the
truth slightly by the neck, without a twinge of guilt. “And I donât
take kindly to pathetic gits like you hanging around her house.”
The boy straightened up, his eyes shining. “No, you donât understand,”
he said earnestly. “Iâm her friend too, at least, well, she doesnât
know me, except, well, sheâs seen me, of course she has, but I donât
suppose she remembers -” He gave a foolish laugh and then flinched as
Spike looked, if possible, even more dangerous.
“Last chance,” Spike said almost gently, tossing his cigarette down and
grinding it out with the toe of his boot. “Three words or less; what
are you up to?”
The boyâs eyes looked hunted now and he began to blush. “Delivering a
card,” he said finally, nervously producing one from his pocket, his
hand trembling slightly. “You probably donât realise it, but sheâs a
wonderful person. Well, you said you were her friend so you must know
that.”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Spike, his thoughts on a less lofty plane. “Her
hair - the way it glints and sort of bounces. Not to mention her
bouncing -”
The boy looked scandalised by the introduction of such personal
details. “She saved my life from three muggers!” he announced, his
chest swelling, his hand going to a fading bruise on his face. “A tiny,
sweet little girl like that and she just did this punchy, kicky sort of
thing and well, I didnât see all of it, but when I got out -”
“âOutâ? Out of where?”
“The dumpster. She sort of, well, threw me in. But I donât blame her or
anything,” he added hastily. “And when I came out, theyâd gone
somewhere, just vanished, and she was standing there, in this pool of
light, like an angel -”
“Donât use that word,” said Spike gloomily. “Itâs nothing like her and
it brings back bad memories.”
“Huh? Anyway, it was amazing. She wouldnât let me thank her; thatâs the
kind of girl she is, but I, well, I followed her home once or twice
trying to get up the nerve to say something but, well, she walks fast,
you know, and well, with tomorrow being such a special day I decided to
come back and, well -”
“If you say, ‘wellâ one more bloody time -” said Spike through gritted
teeth as the babbling began to grate on him unbearably. He moodily
chalked up another benefit of being chipless. In the old days he killed
them before they had chance to bore him. Ah, happy times!
“What did you say?”
“Nothing,” Spike sighed, wondering what it took to dam this river of
repetition.
“Well, thatâs about it. S-so if itâs all the same to you, Iâll just put
this in her mailbox and well - why does your face look different?”
Spike growled at him, game face on, and watched with satisfaction as he
screamed high and long before scurrying off on wobbly legs, the card
fluttering to the ground, forgotten. “Told him not to use that word,”
he thought virtuously, bending to pick it up. He glanced at Buffyâs
window and saw her appear for an instant, drawn by the scream. He faded
back into the darkness until she finished scanning the street, now
silent once more.
Moving into the moonlight, he studied the card from the youngster,
tearing open the envelope with scant regard for etiquette. He frowned.
The card was nothing special, all roses and kittens, but what was
written inside made his fangs ache with the urge to bite. The
predictably fervent outpouring of frenzied devotion was rendered still
more hideous by being in verse. That was bad enough but the last lines
read, “We were meant to be lovers but fate dealt me a blow/ Cursed
me
so cruelly, more than youâll ever know/So to make you be mine, my
darling Valentine/ Iâll bite you when next the full moon doth shine.”
Spike winced at the limping scansion. Once a poet, always a
critic. So Buffy had rescued a werewolf looking for some company
had she? Explained his chip not triggering too. He made a mental note
to track the boy down and take care of him before he went all hairy in
a few days and came after his rescuer. Shouldnât be too hard. He hadnât
signed the card but he had stuck an address label on the back of the
envelope. Plonker.
***
“After I saw off Mr Furry, I was going to push off, because, as I said,
I was just passing by for no particular reason. Wasnât like I
had a
card or anything. Huh. Thatâd be a laugh, right? I didnât get far,
though -”
***
Spike turned towards the mailbox and paused. More rustling in the
bushes? What the hell was this? How many more grateful, lovelorn,
homicidal teenagers were going to need thwarting?
A figure emerged from the shrubbery and Spikeâs eyes widened as his
gaze moved up - and up. No skinny youth, but a seven foot Graklar
demon, ivory tusks sharp, clawed hands deadly.
“Whatâs up, mate?” he said smoothly, sliding into game face again in a
bid for demon solidarity.
The demon growled at him automatically but didnât attack, all his
limited attention focused on the house in front of him. “Slayer lives
here?” he demanded.
“Yes, but -” Spike began.
“She killed my mate last night.”
“Ah. Sorry to hear that. Sounds just like her though. Got a mean streak
if you ask me. Should see the way she punches me for no good reason -”
“We were to have bonded tomorrow. I would have eaten her shortly after,
of course, but thatâs not really the point, is it?”
“Does tend to muck up the natural order of things if they die first,”
Spike agreed, edging round to the demonâs side.
“So I will kill the Slayer in memory of my beloved. And because she
looked rather tasty I will stretch a point and eat her instead, even
though she is human and they tend to repeat on me.”
“Good plan. Worth the indigestion. Need a hand? I can point you to her
room.”
The demon looked down at the vampire and nodded. “That would be kind,
yes.”
He took three steps before it occurred to him that a guide should be in
front of him, not behind, and he began to turn around, suspicion
flaring in his blood red eyes.
It was too late. Spike leaped up and buried a stake in his only
vulnerable spot; the third eye, low on his thick neck. The demon fell
to the floor, thrashed around for a mercifully brief time, and died,
slain by Cupidâs arrow in a rather more literal way than usual.
***
“If you remember, that would be about the time you decided to give me a
refreshing drink after all my hard work. Much appreciated. Nice to see
thereâs still some gratitude and good manners left in the world. Iâm
being sarcastic here, pet, but I suppose you got that, didnât you.
Sorry if the inkâs smudged. Iâm still a little bloody damp. Do you know
how long it takes leather to dry?”
***
Spike dusted his hands off, starting to feel a little exasperated. It
was turning out to be more of an epic quest than a simple errand.
Buffyâs window slammed up suddenly, startling him, and she leaned out
looking annoyed and tired. “Whatâs going on down there?” she hissed.
“Iâm trying to get some sleep here, people. Spike, is that you?”
Spike swaggered forward, tempted to quote from the equally immortal
Bard, but wisely restraining the words that trembled on his lips about
light softly breaking and all that. “Hello, Slayer,” he said easily.
“Just tidying up a bit down here. Seems youâve had some unwelcome
visitors. A stalker whoâll turn into a werewolf in a couple of days and
a demon with a grudge. I sorted them out of course. Glad to be able to
help out.”
The thick silence that poured down as Buffy processed this was one
thing. The jug of water she emptied on him a minute later was quite
another. Cursing and spitting, he backed away, looking up in disbelief.
“If you think stalker demons donât go with the landscape, I suggest you
go home,” she hissed unkindly, shutting the window with a decisive bang.
Spike stared up at her window, mouth open with amazement. “Women,” he
said with deep, if transient, loathing. Shoving his Valentine into the
gaping jaws of the demon, already beginning to dissolve into oily mush,
he started to move away, squelching slightly. He got a few yards before
the bushes rustled again. Sighing, he turned around…
***
“Slayer, got to go now as itâs nearly sunrise and Iâm bloody knackered.
After the werewolf and the Graklar demon there was a steady stream of
vampires, demons and even a couple of zombies. You really donât want to
know what theyâd brought you as a Valentine gift. I killed them,
naturally. Got a few bruises but not to worry, a good time was had by
all. Well, I had fun, anyway. Around five, there was a bit of a lull,
and I finally spotted the demonic love charm nailed to the gate and
realised why the sudden interest in you, which, to be honest, I found
strange, as demons tend to stick to their own kind. Those compulsion
spells never work well. Attract all sorts of nutters. Hate to tell you,
but I think thatâs down to the witch you pissed off last week. You
know; the one who wanted to dig up that grave so she could get the bone
of a murdered child for her spell, but you wouldnât let her. Her way of
saying ‘thank youâ I suppose. Donât mess with a witch, thatâs my
advice. For what itâs worth. Not that you ever listen to me. After all,
Iâm just the one who - oh, sod it. Iâm off home.
Spike.
P.S. I took the charm down. Tempted to stick it up over at Harrisâ
basement but knew youâd get all unreasonable if I did. Ever thought of
getting a sense of humour? Or would it clash with your -”
The writing tailed off because Spike had run out of paper. Buffy stared
around the garden in disbelief. She had heard some scuffling after
sheâd poured the water over him, but if Spikeâs account was correct it
had been a war zone here last night. Pushing the letter into her bag,
she set off for college, deciding to call Xander and warn him to look
for the charm, in case Spike had changed his mind.
“And I do so have a sense of humour,” she muttered as she walked down
the road. “What about my puns and witty word play as I slay? That
vampire was giggling when I staked him last week!”
***
“So, did you get any Valentines?” Willow asked a few hours later,
fingering a hand embroidered cushion that looked new, with an oddly
tender smile on her face.
Buffy glanced over at the table where Rileyâs roses stood stiffly in a
vase, tight buds with no scent that would fade before they unfurled.
She thought back to a crumpled piece of paper, marked with water and
stained with blood.
“I think I got two,” she said, rolling her eyes. Then she smiled.
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