The End of the Rainbow

TITLE: The End of the Rainbow [Part 1/1]
AUTHOR: Virtual Void
GENRE: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
RATING: R for violence, language, and sexual situations.
SETTING: FutureFic
PAIRINGS: Spike/OFC
SUMMARY: Spike has a soul, and now his chip has stopped working. The result is a dilemma that threatens to tear him apart.
DISCLAIMER: Some of the characters and ideas in this story were taken directly from the television series “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” (BTVS), which is owned, copyrighted and trademarked by Twentieth Century Fox, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the WB Television Network, and/or their related entities. No profit is being made from this story, and no copyright infringement is intended. The copyright owners of BTVS have not endorsed or authorized this story, and the author of this story is not affiliated with the copyright owners of BTVS. The fictional/generic product “Cheese Whiz” mentioned in this story is in no way related to the real/specific product “Cheez Whiz”, which is a registered trademark of Kraft Foods, Inc. This story itself is copyright 2002 by the author. All rights reserved. Enjoy.
ARCHIVE: Please ask first.
FEEDBACK: [e-mail]. Feedback, criticism, and MiSTing are welcome. “Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich staerker.“

* * * * *

Spike decided he would let the girl sleep a bit longer. He rubbed the corner of his mouth and sucked the blood off his fingers.

His senses alive, Spike smelled traces of the room’s last dozen guests. He listened to the drip of the leaky faucet--the soft hiss and clank of the radiator.

This bird traveled light. No suitcase, no backpack, nothing. She did have a nice purse, though. He thought about taking a peek inside--see what other interesting toys she had--but then, he’d probably wake her, and then, he’d have to kill her. Spike had no desire to spoil the mood. He wished this simple blood-buzz could last forever. There was at least an hour left before sunrise called his hand.

Spike brushed the hack-cut, cranberry-black hair from the girl’s face. Her eyelids were twitching: she was dreaming.

He’d seen that often enough. Drain just enough blood from a girl to make her pass out, they almost always dream. Nightmares usually--you can tell by the whimpering. But this one was all peaceful-like. Dreaming of home and mummy’s cherry pies, no doubt.

Cherry pies, food, meat, blood.

Inhaling deeply, Spike savored the girl’s body musk, the smell of her blood, and even the scent of bourbon that whispered from her lips.

“Sleep, little Jennifer,” he said, and he kissed her forehead. Her skin felt hot against his mouth.

“I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

* * * * *

The car slowed and moved onto the exit ramp.

“What the fuck! I thought you said you were going to Fresno.”

The driver shrugged with his hands. “I am going to Fresno. We’re just not gonna make it today.”

Jennifer was so frustrated she could scream. She needed to get to Fresno by tonight so she could crash in her cousin’s living room. Nevertheless, she did her best to swallow her anger.

“Look, why don’t we just gas up here and let’s go on to Fresno. It’s only a couple hours away.”

“Gas up,” the driver muttered. “So, Miss Creepy, you gonna spring for gas this time?”

Jennifer shut up and stared out her window. “I told you I couldn’t pay.”

The driver pulled into a gas station. Instead of stopping at the pump, he drove to the back and parked beside a dumpster. He got a packet of tissues from the glove compartment and dropped it in Jennifer’s lap.

“Clean yourself up. That stuff runs.”

Jennifer looked at herself in the visor mirror. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying. With a tissue, she dabbed at the mess, but she didn’t have the heart to do a thorough job.

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I blew up like that,” she said. “It’s just, I don’t have any money. I don’t have anywhere to stay.”

The man glanced in the rear and side-view mirrors. “It’s ok,” he said. “I know the deal.”

There was a long silence. Jennifer placed the soiled tissues into a used paper cup.

“Look, I’ll be getting a room tonight,” the man said, covering Jennifer’s hand with his own. “There’ll be two beds. It’ll be ok.”

Jennifer withdrew her hand, shuddering at the dampness of the man’s skin. “Thanks, but I’ll just sleep in the car.”

The man’s cheeks went mottled red. “You’ll sleep in the damned street,” he said. “I’m sick of messing with you. Get out of my car.”

“Wait!” Jennifer squealed. “I can’t. Please!”

“Cripes, lady, keep it down,” the man said. “Look, just get out of the car. You are freaking me out.”

Jennifer put her hand on the door handle, but then she said, “Can you give me some money?”

“What did you say?”

“Can you give me some money.”

The man inhaled as if he’d just remembered to breathe. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Jennifer watched him open his wallet and draw out one twenty dollar bill from a sheaf that looked as if it must be at least 50 thick. She wished she had the guts to just grab the wallet and run. No use even thinking about it, though. She knew she’d be as good at theft as she’d been at everything else in life.

The man put the twenty in Jennifer’s hand, and she gripped it with a weak feeling of relief and gratitude.

But he didn’t let go of the bill. “You gotta do me a favor.”

Jennifer’s heart sank. She despised herself for having been tricked into a moment of hope. This was her punishment, and she would accept it with no further tears.

She reached over and did the man a favor.

* * * * *

Sunset came too bloody early on the nights of obligation.

The air was warm for this time of year. The ash leaves crackled as Spike trudged out of the cemetery toward town.

He could feel his stomach snarling. Damn, it was bad tonight. On the plus side, his hunger would soon be satisfied. On the minus, he’d have yet another murder on his conscience.

The dog collar “chip” implanted in his brain by the Initiative had stopped working a year ago. That’s when his life became really difficult. His vampiric nature pressed him for nightly slaughter. On the other hand, his recently regained soul stifled him with guilt for all the lives he’d devoured over the years.

As a compromise, he limited himself to one human kill a month. The rest of the time, it was cold pig’s blood from a plastic udder. Someday, he’d stop killing altogether. That’s what he told himself. Twelve murders over the past year were testimony to his lack of resolve.

Tonight would make it thirteen.

He could try fighting the need to kill. Perhaps this would be the night he’d succeed.

The one thing he knew that could dull the hunger--at least for a while--was a good, stiff whiskey. O’Fallon’s Bar was just up ahead. Spike reached into his pocket to make sure he’d remembered to stuff in a few bills.

Let’s see if Eddie’s still got some of that Maker’s on the shelf.

* * * * *

Jennifer was stifling in her heavy, woolen greatcoat. She’d never have believed the weather would change so quickly going south. She’d chosen the coat for its heft and its pockets. Besides that, dark navy was as close to black as she could find in her parents’ closet. She hoped her father smashed something when he realized the coat was gone.

Darkness came too soon for Jennifer. At sunset, she was still on the state highway, two miles away from “Sunnydale”. God, that name gave her the creeps. “Hell’s Kitchen”--now there was a name she could warm up to. She just hoped Sunnydale turned out to be something more than a hardware store and a post office on the side of the road.

After walking in the dark for a half hour, she finally came to the edge of town and--thank God--a sidewalk. The houses she passed were small, dark, and depressing.

Depressing. Sure. Get used to it, bitch.

She really wished she’d been able to get more than twenty dollars out of that guy. Looks like the happy days of Holiday Inn Express were over for good.

She walked along looking for a public building, a shed, any place she could curl up for the night. As luck would have it, at the intersection with West Jordan Street, she came to a ramshackle motel called “The End of the Rainbow”. Apparently, their main selling point was the free in-room movies. It certainly wasn’t the concrete block exterior or the chicken-wired windows.

The place looked nasty, but it also looked like more than twenty bucks a night. Still, she might as well ask. The Middle Eastern cashier behind the bullet proof glass told her she could get a room for twenty, but it wouldn’t have a TV. Jennifer pushed the bill through the slot and was given a big key in return.

Her room had a sharp, mysterious reek that Jennifer forced herself not to analyze. God, that bed looked fucking great, though. She fell face down onto it without bothering to take off her shoes. She was asleep after one deep sigh.

Thump.

Thump. Thump. Bang!

Jennifer opened her eyes. It sounded like someone was going berserk with a baseball bat.

A scream jolted her fully awake. She groped around for the light switch and found it. Her door was still closed and locked, thank God. The ruckus was apparently in the next room.

She grabbed her purse with shaking hands and sat back down on the bed. She knew she was out of smokes, but she hoped she was mistaken. No, there were no cigarettes, but she did find a silver dollar. It was the last thing she’d grabbed before leaving home. Thanks, Dad. Maybe she could trade it for a pack of Marlboros.

There was a cigarette machine in the lobby, but, of course, a silver dollar was useless in it. Jennifer tried to bargain with the cashier, but he didn’t seem to have a very good grasp of English.

There had to be a drug store or gas station somewhere nearby. Jennifer stepped outside into the mild evening air. It felt a lot better out here without that heavy coat.

A block away, a flickering neon sign caught her eye. It looked like a bar: O’Fallon’s. Jennifer crossed the street and walked toward the sign.

* * * * *

A rotating pie case full of pretzels. Now there’s a bloody stupid idea. The bags just fall out whenever anybody opens it.

Spike turned the display case idly, feeling the whiskey and vampirism fight it out in his gut.

As always, O’Fallon’s was quiet. The few patrons were mostly neighborhood regulars with nothing much to say. The place was dark, too. The wall of windows opposite the bar was painted over in black. A couple of broken windows had been boarded up.

The negative atmosphere appealed to Spike. Uptown, there were dance clubs good for scaring up a skirt, but O’Fallon’s felt like home.

Spike tapped his glass on the linoleum bar, which had been a lunch counter once upon a time. The bartender looked up from his crossword puzzle.

“I’m off, sport,” Spike said. “Thanks much for the attitude adjustment.”

Spike slid off the barstool just in time to hear the front door squeak open. A young woman stepped in cautiously and looked about. What the hell planet had she fallen from? Shove a crow in a blender, stick on a pair of ridiculous white Chuckies, you’d have her bleeding twin sister.

She walked over to the bar and held up a silver dollar. “You got smokes?”

“You got ID, I got cigarettes.”

The girl slapped the coin onto the counter and rummaged through her purse. She held her driver’s license two inches from the barkeep’s nose, as if giving him the finger.

“Ok, young lady, but cigarettes cost more than a buck. What kind you want?”

“What? It’s a fucking silver dollar,” the girl said, gesticulating with her palms. “It’s worth a carton of smokes at least.”

Up for a bit of fun, Spike slid into a booth. He waggled his pack of Camels and said, “Hey, little one. I’ll treat you for free.”

She was such an easy catch. She picked up her coin and pinched off a nasty glare at the bartender. Fuming over to Spike’s booth, she never saw the bartender’s amused grin.

Spike lit the cigarette for her. She inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “You do not know how much I needed that. That guy’s a real asshole.”

“Have a seat, love. Give Mr. Nicotine a chance to work the magic fingers.”

“Oh, you’re real smooth. You sound like an asshole, too.” But she did sit down.

Spike stretched out in the booth and lit a cigarette for himself. “I figure you’ve got a lot less piss in you than you pretend. I might be willing to wait you out.”

“Wait as long as you want, Frost Head. I finish this one stick and I’m gone.”

Spike eyed the tip of his boot. “You could smoke out on the street.”

“I’m comfortable here.”

They smoked for several minutes in silence. The girl stared at something on the wall, and Spike studied her face.

She lowered her eyes to her left hand, which still held the silver dollar. She set it on the table and tapped it with the ball of a black-nailed finger.

“I thought these things were supposed to be valuable.”

Spike cocked his head. “You steal it?”

“No,” she snipped. Her cheeks flushed.

“Who’d you steal it from?”

The girl traced a circle around the face of the coin, avoiding Spike’s eyes. Just as well, Spike thought. For an instant, his self-control had wrinkled with a familiar, complex stirring of desires. It may have shown on his face. This could turn out to be a very short evening for them both.

“Hey, Eddie,” he said. “Bring us another Maker’s, will you?” And to the girl, “You want something, love?”

She put out her cigarette. “Yeah. I’ll have one, too. And....” She dropped her gaze.

Spike held up a finger to signal the bartender to wait. “And what?”

“Maybe some peanuts or something.”

“So it’s like that, is it. Not to worry.” Spike ordered a second whiskey along with a bowl of chili, the only real food item on the menu.

The girl ate quickly with her head over the bowl, almost like a cat with a spoon. She finished it off in under a minute, and Spike offered her seconds. This time she ate more slowly and even met Spike’s eyes now and then.

“What’s your name, love?” he asked.

She took another bite of chili, chewed, and swallowed before answering. “Razor Lady,” she said, and took a tiny sip of whiskey.

“I didn’t ask for your chat handle. What’s your name, love?”

“Well, I’ve got a few, don’t I?” she said, mimicking Spike’s British accent. “You don’t like ‘Razor Lady’, a lot of people call me Styx.”

Spike silently mouthed the name and hit his temple with the heel of his hand.

“Ok! Shit. My name’s Jennifer. Just Jennifer.”

“That’s better, then. Nothing wrong with Jennifer.”

“Yeah, sure. Just don’t wear it out. So, what’s your name, Frosty?”

“Spike.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, it is.” He sighed. “Ok, I guess that was fair. If you want, I’ll call you Miss Razor Blade Danger Bloody Death Lady, or whatever tickles your fancy.”

“Don’t bother. You broke it, it’s yours. Just call me Jennifer.”

“And Jennifer it shall be.”

They sat for a long time in silence. Spike ordered another round of drinks. Jennifer traced the sides of her shot glass with a finger. Apart from the constant hum of the beer fridge, the only sounds were of occasional passing cars. The headlights made glittering cobwebs of the cracks in the blacked-over windows, and the light shivered across Jennifer’s neck like the figment of a dream.

The bird was not bad looking, Spike decided. A little soap, a little just-say-no with the makeup pot, she’d be a right fair treat. Probably a decent sort, too, only it would take a bit of time to comb the burrs out of her temperament. More time that Spike had.

He wished tonight were not a feeding night. He realized he never should have started playing footsie with this bird. Now his conscience was going to be all the more vicious with him.

Jennifer drained the last half of her whiskey in one hard swallow. Speechless, apparently choking back the burn, she slammed the glass down in front of Spike. He ordered her another.

When it came, she took a long sip and looked at Spike with a misting gaze. A wicked half-grin crept across her lips then fell away.

“You ever kill anybody, Spike?”

Spike narrowed his eyes and took a deeper look at the girl.

“Well, I have,” she continued. “My sister was a nasty, lying bitch. So I killed her.”

“Interesting.”

“It felt good.”

Spike nodded. “So you offed your sis for fibbing, and now you’re on the run, eh?”

Jennifer looked at her hands, turning the glass. “Something like that.”

“Coppers hot on your tail, so you drop into the nearest bar for ciggies and a chat.”

For a long moment, Jennifer was quiet and distant. She seemed to be folding ever so slowly over the table. Then she grabbed Spike’s arm, spilling her drink.

“If it came down to it, you think you could kill someone? If you really had to.”

Spike glanced at her gripping hand for a moment and then replied, “I suppose I might.”

Jennifer eased back and smiled, playing with a button of her blouse. “I’ve got a hotel room just around the corner,” she said. “If you’re in the mood, that is.”

“Oh, yeah,” Spike said. “I’m in the mood, love.”

* * * * *

The bed groaned and swayed when Jennifer rolled off of Spike. The seasick bed, the strenuous sex, and her intolerance for liquor combined to set her head spinning.

She welcomed the sensation. It was at least a few moments of distraction that neither Prozac nor Paxil had ever given her. I prescribe sex. Wild, debilitating sex. A century of psychiatric medicine melted down like hot paraffin, dripping onto the salutary contortions of two naked bodies.

Jennifer turned her head to Spike and saw that he was clenching and unclenching a fist, staring at the ceiling. She reached to his abdomen but drew back when he flinched at the touch.

“Why can’t it be like this forever,” she said to herself, almost whispering.

The faucet in the tub leaked, and the slow tap of water was like the tick of a drowsy clock. Jennifer tried to slow her pulse to match. She was relaxed now, but she knew the feeling would not last. These moments of relief seemed to be getting shorter and shorter

“I must go,” Spike said. His voice was tight.

“My sister would have liked you.”

Spike was still on his back, eyes closed. “The one you offed?”

“I’m poison. Everything that touches me dies.”

“I have to go,” Spike said, but he didn’t move.

Jennifer felt the awful depression seep back into her blood, suffocating her heart. Stop! Please! Just stop!

The room was nearly dark, illuminated only by a streetlamp outside. Its violet-white light angled in through the dusty window. Jennifer picked her purse up off the floor and opened it quietly. Her hand found the hilt of her father’s hunting knife.

She placed the tip of the heavy blade just under her sternum. One brave thrust--that’s all it would take. As usual, she could not bring herself to act.

She imagined herself buried in cold, wet clay. It was raining. The dampness filtered through the soil, catalyzing the smell of rot and corruption. She was dead, but conscious, and it felt wonderful.

“I’d like you to stay,” she said. She pictured Spike above her, standing at her grave.

The bed creaked as Spike sat up and pressed his hands against his temples. “Believe me, love, you have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Jennifer knew that if Spike left the room, she’d have lost her only chance of finding peace. She got up and backed against the door, bracing the butt of the knife against her solar plexus. Spike turned to look at her with a disappointing lack of surprise.

“First your sis and now me, is that the idea?”

“There’s a gun in my purse,” she said. “I want you to kill me.”

Spike walked over to her and leaned against the door, his forearm above her head. He seemed too calm, yet he was breathing hard. “I will kill you,” Jennifer said, “unless you kill me first.”

“I like the way you smell,” Spike said.

He was leaning into the tip of the blade--Jennifer dropped the knife to keep from cutting him. “Stop,” she said, her voice small.

Spike licked her broadly from lips to ear. “I like the way you taste.”

Gathering herself, Jennifer shoved him back. “Kill me, God damn it!”

Spike smiled at her, but the smile melted away. His eyes were sad, and Jennifer took it as a look of pity. He turned and began to get dressed.

Enraged and desperate, Jennifer snatched up the knife and slashed at Spike’s back. It was a not a deep cut, but she had drawn blood. She dropped the knife again, horrified at what she’d done.

Spike hadn’t even flinched. “’Kill me’ she says.”

He turned around and Jennifer saw that his face had transformed into a hideous spasm of tissue and teeth.

She realized that she’d finally gone completely insane.

She screamed.

* * * * *

The gusting wind had a damp bite that made Jennifer glad she’d decided to wear her puffy, down-filled gloves. Too bad she’d forgotten to tie her hair back, though. This was going to be an awful mess to try to untangle.

“You bring any scrunchees?” Stacy asked, almost shouting. The loud wind and the clank of dock machinery made conversation a challenge.

“No,” Jennifer shouted back. “I feel like an idiot.”

Stacy laughed. “No good trying a braid. Let’s just stuff it under your collar. Take your scarf off.”

Jennifer removed her scarf, and the icy wind on her throat brought tears to her eyes. She watched the rust-red barges being loaded with crates while Stacy pushed her hair inside her coat. The snowflakes on Stacy’s mittens melted against Jennifer’s back, giving her chills.

“Almost done,” Stacy said.

On dark days with fat, swirling snow, Jennifer loved to drive down to the Willamette River. She loved to watch the choppy water and let its gray power hypnotize her. She felt afraid, thrilled, and reverent.

“Jesus, what’d you do to your neck, Jenny?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Did Dad do that?”

“No. It’s nothing.”

“Poor baby.”

Stacy leaned over and kissed Jennifer’s neck. She often did that when Jennifer banged a finger or suffered a cut. This time, her lips felt different--more forceful. In fact, the kiss hurt, but Jennifer didn’t cry out. She just closed her eyes.

Somehow, the pain was good. At first sharp, it mellowed into a deep, consuming ache. She felt dizzy and euphoric.

Snowflakes tickled her cheeks, and then they were touching and melting everywhere on her body. It was as if she were dissolving in cool effervescence.

Her heart pounded with excitement, because she knew she was being cured. The darkness in her blood was draining away, leaving her pure. The terrible depression that had begun to distend when Stacy died would never trouble her again.

Stacy.

“I’m still here, Jenny.”

Stacy’s eyes were bruised and her skin pale. She lay in the hospital bed, her head elevated. The room was all white and steel, and an IV drip was taped into Stacy’s arm. An electronic pump controlled the flow into her vein.

Jennifer switched off the pump and said, “I’m sorry.”

Stacy gently moved Jennifer’s hand away from the device, and she switched it back on. “It’s not your fault,” she said.

A barge loaded with pine timbers was just coming into dock. The stevedores in hard hats and gloves watched it pull in. The wind was light today, and the snowflakes drifted down like ashes from a pyre.

Jennifer sat alone near the water, admiring its grim beauty. Pieces of driftwood, black and sodden, crowded against the bank. There were fish, too. Small, dead things floating on their side.

Jennifer crept down to the very edge of the river. She plunged her arm into the ice-black water up to her shoulder. She spread her fingers and felt all manner of wispy, ethereal things brush across her skin. Then something pressed her hand, and she jerked back with a splash.

She was holding a large button. Just a button.

For some reason, she recalled Stacy’s words to her on the day she died. There had been such love in her sister’s eyes when she’d spoken those words of absolution.

And this time, Jennifer believed.

* * * * *

When he awoke, Spike found himself lying face down on the floor. He started to push himself up, but then yelped out in pain. A ray of sunlight had burnt his shoulder.

His head was splitting, just as if the chip in his brain had been locked on full. Could it be working again? No, this was something else entirely.

How could he have slept this long? He should have been gone long before sunrise. He cursed his stupidity.

Carefully, Spike dragged himself away from the window. His skin felt tacky against the wooden floor. His hands, his body were covered in blood.

He went to the bathroom to clean up. The shower was a miserable, cold dribble, but it sufficed. Spike cut off the water, and his head started spinning. He fell hard onto the tile.

He’d bitten his lip, and the blood tasted of Jennifer.

Spike dried himself off and started gathering his clothes. They were strewn about on the floor near the bed. He paused to look at the girl. He touched her hair and stroked her naked shoulder.

“I didn’t want to do this, love.”

Picking up his shorts, Spike felt the dizziness return. The room shimmered away, leaving him blind and lurching. He was caught... suffocating in a black web. He fell again and this time lost consciousness.

When he came to, he realized he had his head and one wrist stuck through the neck of his tee shirt. Annoyed with himself, he finished dressing.

Spike had some idea what was happening to him. There had been a few times when, after feeding, he’d suffered some odd symptoms for a while. Usually, it was nothing more than restlessness or lethargy. Just some minor disagreement with the blood of his prey.

His body was probably just having a reaction to Jennifer’s blood. Give it time--it would pass.

These particular symptoms were impossible to ignore, though. His head was killing him.

Spike pulled the sheet up over Jennifer’s body--he couldn’t bear to look at her. If he’d just had a little more self-control, she’d still be alive. Spike hated himself for his weakness.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but the silent, bloody mass under the sheets did not forgive.

Spike dropped to the floor and pressed fingertips into his temples.

I can’t go on like this. I can’t keep on killing.

Sooner or later, Buffy and the rest would find out. What a bleeding worm he was. Telling them he was reformed--living on animal blood. And here he was, slaughtering young things like Jennifer... just because they tasted so sweet.

He had to come clean. He had to tell Buffy what he’d done. If she staked him, it was no worse than he deserved.

He had to talk to her now.

Spike reached up to the telephone on the night stand, but the line was dead. Cheap bloody fleabag dive!

He remembered seeing a pay phone just across the street. A bit sunny outside at the moment. He’d have to wait until dusk.

No. No. He had to go now.

Bundle up... got to bundle up. He picked up Jennifer’s greatcoat from a chair and put it on. Not too bad a fit. Keep hands in the pockets. Just need something for the head. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom and held it up toward the window. Kind of thin in spots. Have to use a couple.

Swathed and steeled, Spike stood with his hand on the front door of the hotel. He opened it a crack. The fissure of light cut his eyes, enraging the headache. The vertigo hit him like a hurricane sea.

Now is the time. Now is the time.

Go!

* * * * *

Steam, angrier than any fog, roiled up from the water. It was as if the river were boiling.

Spike was curled up at the back of the punt. He could see nothing clearly: everything rippled through stunning waves of heat.

The boat scraped onto the opposite bank, and Spike crawled forward. He could barely breathe--the air scalded his lungs.

A hooded ferryman blocked his path with an open palm. In agony, Spike reached out to him with a coin.

Then everything burst into flame.

* * * * *

“There is nothing wrong with a good burger,” Xander said.

“No burgers,” Buffy said. “I want something light.”

Anya snorted. “I guess you would, after all that ice cream you had for breakfast.”

“An!” Xander said.

“That was yogurt,” Buffy said.

Willow crossed her arms. “Can we just go somewhere? I’m starving.”

“Chocolate raspberry truffle yogurt?” Anya said, bugging her eyes.

“Light?” Dawn wrinkled her nose. “You mean, like salad?”

“How about pizza, then?” Xander said.

Buffy looked sheepish. “I was just finishing that off.”

“Aha!” said Anya, with a gesture of triumph.

“Pizza, salad, burgers, I really don’t care,” Willow said.

Dawn frowned. “Salad sounds yucky. I want meat.”

“How about pizza, then?” Xander said.

“Pizza would be ok,” Buffy said, shrugging.

“A consensus!” Willow bounced on her toes. “I smell a hot, steamy consensus with onions and mushrooms and....”

“A salad would be better for you,” Spike said from his easy chair. This lot could never seem to make up their mind about anything.

“You don’t get a vote,” Xander said. “Besides, now that you’re back among the living--so to speak--I’m looking forward to kicking your sorry behind out of my apartment.”

“It’s going to be another week or so,” Buffy said. “Sorry, Xander.”

Spike’s nose was itching... again. He knew better than to try scratching it. His hands, wrapped in gauze, were still painful. “I get hungry, too, you know. You expect me to stick my face in the fridge and chew my way to the blood bags?”

Xander held up a warning finger. “You do, and I will personally fill your circulatory system with Cheese Whiz.”

Willow was handing out jackets. “Are we all going to fit in one car?”

There was a knock on the door.

“We’d better take two,” Anya said, opening the door.

“Oh, hi,” Buffy said. “Come here. This is what it looks like when it’s awake.”

A girl with smooth, black hair and playful eyes entered the room. Spike opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.

“My name’s Jennifer. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She’d placed an ever-so-slight emphasis on the word “meet”.

Xander donned his coat. “Jen, we’re going for pizza. Want to come?”

“Sure, sounds like fun. I’ll meet you there. I think I’d like to talk to Spike for a minute.”

“Well, it’s your funeral. Just don’t let him bite you. And you know I mean that literally.”

Buffy held the door open for the departing crew. She gave Spike and Jennifer a long, serious look before leaving herself.

“There is nothing better than pepperoni pizza,” Xander was heard to say.

“I hate pepperoni,” came Anya’s voice.

When they were gone, Jennifer took a cigarette from her purse and put it in Spike’s lips.

“Hope you don’t mind smoking my brand.”

“Xander is going to spit tacks when he smells the apartment.”

Jennifer lit the cigarette. “I’ll take the fall,” she said. “I think he’s got a crush on me.”

Spike took a deep drag and exhaled. He admired Jennifer’s new look--she was every bit as beautiful as he’d believed she could be. “I thought I’d killed you, love.”

Jennifer took the cigarette from Spike. She took a short puff and returned it to his mouth. “Let’s get the story straight. These folks don’t know anything about us. I was mauled by some random vamp and left for dead. As you can see, I got better.”

“You look good in blue.”

“It’s turquoise, thanks,” Jennifer said. “How much do you remember about your accident?”

Spike looked away. “After I.... After I drank from you, I guess I went a bit loony.”

“More than a bit, sounds like. The guy who found you figured you’d burned your hands with acid and were trying to call 911. Who were you really trying to call?”

Spike remembered that part well, but he didn’t have the stomach to try to explain. “I don’t remember.”

Jennifer studied him a moment. “Well, one word of wisdom. Never try to use a silver dollar in a pay phone.”

“Bloody hell! I knew I was a bit woozy, but... bugger all!”

For a while, they were quiet and reflective. Jennifer ashed for Spike in an empty teacup.

“I like these people, Spike. They make me feel like family. That’s something I never had back home.”

“You look happy.”

“I am,” she said. “More than you could ever know.”

Spike lifted a bandaged hand to touch her arm, but he thought better of it. He could’ve stood the physical pain. He just didn’t know if Jennifer would ever be able to forgive him.

“I tried to kill you....”

“Yes, you did,” Jennifer said. “And I’ve never had a chance to thank you.”

Spike frowned in confusion.

“You did what I asked you to do,” she continued. “You did what I wasn’t strong enough to do. I was pretty much crazy, but at that moment, I thought death was my only way out.” She laughed. “Of course, I wasn’t expecting the whole blood-sucking thing.”

“Well, now you know.”

“I know you pretty well, actually. Maybe better than you know yourself.” Jennifer smoothed his hair, petting him like a tiger. “You changed me, Spike. I can change you.”

Spike smiled at her wryly. “I’d like to believe you, love.”

“Believe it.” She took a step toward the door, then turned. “Oh, you remember that coat of mine you borrowed You can keep it. I think it’s more your style than mine anyway. And here....” She tossed a large button into Spike’s lap.

“What’s this?”

“Just a spare button for the coat. Any time you need mending, come by my place and I’ll fix you up. You’re welcome any time.”

Jennifer left the apartment. Spike watched her through the window as she disappeared into the bright afternoon sun.