it's like a buddy movie (only without the buddy part)
Chapter Two: Size Does Matter
Stakes, stakes, where had he left his stakes? The somewhat novel irony of a vampire searching desperately for his collection of the very thing that killed his own kind was the last thing on Spike’s mind as he rummaged through the cluttered mess of his crypt. Other things – missing the last few minutes of “The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai” on TNT, wondering idly if the niblet was doing any better coping today than she had been yesterday, and the near-constant image of Buffy’s crumpled body lying amongst rubble and debris – were more on his mind at present.
Of course, he wouldn’t give the boy the satisfaction of voicing any of these.
Let Xander think he still stuck near the hellmouth for the satisfaction of knowing where to get in the most fights he could. If the damn little Scooby gang chose to ignore his protectiveness of Dawn, so be it. They might not want him around, but they were stuck with him, and Spike was oddly fine with the strange arrangement.
Except for Wednesdays. Rupert on Mondays was vaguely tolerable. With the Watcher, Spike could slip into a somewhat companionable, if uneasy, silence, or at least talk about football. But nothing beat Wednesdays for the sheer mental torment of pounding the cemetery paths with old monkey boy.
Spike suspected they both knew why it was so difficult for both of them, but he’d rather rip his own lungs out than discuss the deeper reasons behind their mutual loathing.
Once again, the Slayer sprang to mind as if on cue, veritably proclaiming herself to be that very reason. Spike growled to himself, desperate to shake loose the sight of Buffy’s windblown hair and all-too-fragile body as she leapt from the tower to her death.
Shoving aside far too many empty beer bottles from the floor beside his recliner, Spike finally found his small stash of weapons and shoved two stakes into each of his coat pockets.
“Whelp better be packin’ his own, too,” he muttered as he stalked back toward the door.
Xander was leaning against the side of the crypt with his eyes half-shut when Spike emerged. “Don’t tell me you’re fallin’ asleep on the job, mate. God, it constantly amazes me you’ve managed this long without becoming someone’s dinner.”
Spike smirked before feigning a lunge at Xander, who merely rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated yawn.
“Time was that would’ve scared the daylights out of you,” Spike grumbled as they fell into step beside each other, proceeding down the path toward the south end of the graveyard.
“Yeah, well, big yay for modern technology,” Xander countered. “Have I told you lately how much I love that chip of yours? Go Initiative!”
“Stick it.”
“Bite me.” Xander chuckled to himself. “Oh, wait, that’s right, you can’t.”
“Clever, very clever,” Spike said flatly. “God, but your erudite wit just keeps getting more and more impressive. However do you keep it up?”
Xander opened his mouth, but Spike stopped walking and held up an index finger. “Know what you’re about to say, and I’ve warned you. No more bleedin’ Anne Rice jokes. ‘Specially not about that.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you left that one wide open,” Xander grinned. “Sometimes it’s just too easy.”
“Yeah, well…”
A barely-perceptible scuffling noise sounded off to their left. Spike immediately tensed and peered through the gloom, but couldn’t spot anything. He cocked his head at Xander and pointed toward a copse of shrubbery. Immediately, Xander pulled a short-handled axe from the bag slung over his shoulder and nodded at Spike.
You could say a lot of things about Harris, Spike realized, but the bloke knew when to get down to business.
The scuffling grew louder until a staccato pop abruptly split the silence of the night. Only a few yards away, a bright orange glow sprang up, accompanied by the distinctive crackling sounds of a bonfire.
And then the chanting began. Low at first, then more and more audible. Spike crept closer, sensing Xander just a few feet behind him.
“What is it?” Xander whispered.
Spike listened a moment. “Latin,” he replied. “Something something… ‘death’… something something… ‘plague of…’” Spike racked his brain, puzzling over bits of half-remembered university lectures over a century ago. “‘Plague of…’ oh, sod it. Beats me. Don’t matter much the particulars, I’d wager. Whoever that is, they’re up to no good.”
“Okay, so ritual-ness. We should go call Giles and Wil and --”
Spike peered over his shoulder and shot Xander a glare. “Bugger that. Only hear one voice over there. We got ‘im outnumbered right and proper. Say we go in there swingin’, right?”
Xander looked dubious. “Sure, one of them. Fine. But one WHAT?”
Spike sighed and turned back to the scene just beyond the bushes. He squared his shoulders and stood up as straight as possible.
Oh, for God’s sake, he thought bitterly.
Reluctantly, he swatted Xander on the arm. “You look.”
“Huh? Why, what is it? What’d you see?”
Spike cringed. “Just look,” he hissed angrily.
Xander frowned slightly, then glanced toward the fire. “Yeah, it’s one guy. He’s reading out of a big book, and he’s got…” Xander paused briefly. “He’s got ANTLERS. Huh.”
“Antlers?” Spike asked. “You sure?”
“See for your --” Suddenly Xander stopped, then slapped his hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh.
Spike balled his hands into tight fists, reminding himself that hitting the boy would only result in a migraine. But it was times like this he almost didn’t care.
“Fine, you git, you win. You’re taller than me. Can’t see a bloody thing over the shrubs there. Happy now?”
Xander beamed. “You have no idea.”
“Still stronger than you,” Spike pointed out indignantly.
“And yet I could totally kick your ass. Funny how that works out.”
Spike grit his teeth. “Let’s focus here, Harris. Antlers, you say?”
Xander nodded. “Big. Like he’s Deer Man or something. Which, I gotta say, would’ve been the lamest superhero ever.”
Spike raised an eyebrow. “He’s not, by any chance, really horribly dressed, is he?” He briefly scanned Xander’s outfit-of-choice. Baggy khakis and an Oakland A’s jacket over a faded green T-shirt. “Perhaps you’re not the man to ask.”
“Hey!”
“At any rate,” Spike continued, “think I know that fellow. Nasty thing. Chaos demon.” He held out his hand. “Gimme the axe, then. I’ll take care of it.”
“Uh… vampire strength aside, man, that guy’s HUGE,” Xander pointed out. “Either we get back up, or I’m going in with you."
“To get yourself skewered on our boy’s headgear there? I don’t bleedin’ think so. Hand it over.”
A huge grin spread across Xander’s face. He gripped the axe handle and held it defiantly over his head. “Sure, dead boy. Go ahead and take it.”
Spike’s eyes narrowed. “I hate you,” he spat out. “Fine. We ring Giles, rally the troops and whatnot.”
As he followed Xander out of the cemetery, Spike seethed inside.
He could’ve taken that guy. He SHOULD have. Alone.
After what happened three years earlier in Mexico, Spike deserved a little good, old-fashioned revenge.