And Now For Something Completely Different

by
Sabershadowkat

22 Childish Tantrum

Monday night, August 28, 2000

"Great going, dumbshit. Way to not draw attention to yourself," Xander griped. Hands jammed into his pockets, the brunette stalked away from Willy's and the disaster that'd just occurred.

Xander couldn't believe how stupid he'd acted. He might as well have hung a neon sign that blazed: "See Xander Harris and his freakish new powers." Word was bound to get back to Buffy after that little display at the Alibi Bar, and then he'd have to fend off her stake while trying to explain.

He hated explaining.

In fact, he'd only done it once and he didn't want to do it again. Explaining inevitably led to questions that he didn't have answers for, and then the "but why's" would start. Before long, he'd have a migraine and he'd be abusing his odd talents by shocking his audience into unconsciousness.

Spike hadn't been too happy about that.

"Stupid vampire," Xander grumbled, cutting across the street to the cemetery entrance. "If he could just keep his dick in his pants, none of this would've happened."

Xander knew he was being irrational. Spike had nothing to do with anything. He was simply Xander's traveling companion-slash-manservant, nothing more. Really.

Scowling, Xander stomped through the cemetery to reach the woods he and Spike were camping in. He was almost to the sconce of trees when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a vampire running straight for him. With a sigh of annoyance, pulled his hands from his pockets, and turned to the vampire. Dirt clung to the black vampire's dress clothing and hair, indicating he was fresh from the grave.

Xander posed his fingers like a gun and aimed at the vampire. "Freeze."

The vampire came to a skidding halt. Xander gestured with his 'gun' hand. "Hands up, or I'll shoot."

"That's your finger," the vampire growled.

Xander looked at his hand. "You know, you're right." The vampire smiled, fangs bright against his dark skin, and took a step forward. "But that doesn't meant it's not loaded," Xander went on. He aimed his finger at the vampire's feet. "Now, dance," he ordered in a poor Clint Eastwood imitation.

The vampire blinked several times, then laughed. "Pathetic, kid--"

The word was barely past the other man's lips when Xander 'fired.' A streak of white-blue lightning shot from his fingertip at the vampire's feet.

The vampire yelped and jumped as the lightning singed the grass where his foot had been. Xander's other hand turned into a matching pistol, and he shot again. A clump of sod exploded in front of the vampire's left foot, causing him to leap back.

Xander wasn't really shooting lightning from his fingers, although that's what it looked like. He was actually manipulating the molecules in the air near his fingertip, creating the small bolts that streaked along the molecules of air towards their intended target, like a skier on a racing hill.

It was childish, Xander knew, but he didn't stop shooting at the vampire's feet. The vampire jumped and danced just like in the movies, until Xander paused long enough for the other man to get his feet under him. Then the vampire ran.

Xander reached out with his strange powers and ended the demon's unlife without fanfare. The black vampire fell into a heap on the ground, his physical body no longer animated by the demon brain. There he would stay until the sun rose and destroyed the body.

Xander stared at the corpse for a very long moment before he turned and headed into the woods.

23 Who's Sexy

Tuesday, August 29, 2000

Xander woke up late the following day, which wasn't too unusual. He'd become a night-owl more out of necessity than by choice, but the donuts were just as fresh as a before bedtime snack as they had been as breakfast at five o'clock a.m. Stripping was, by and large, a nighttime occupation, and his eyes hurt far less once the sun had set. Even Spike, despite his glee at being able to go outside during the day, preferred the night. Then again, Spike had that whole sexy bad boy thing going for him that didn't have as great of an oomph when standing in the sunshine.

Not that Xander thought Spike was sexy. Lucy Liu was sexy. Ben Kingsley was sexy. Dick Grayson was sexy. He was also a comic book character, but that didn't change Xander's opinion.

The Not Sexy Vampire was MIA from camp when Xander woke up. Which meant he'd gotten laid. Again. Damned blond had better luck than a pretty whore whose services were free.

"And you're as bitter as a hunk of unsweetened chocolate this afternoon," Xander muttered to himself as he stood and stretched. Pop, pop, creak, crack. Sleeping on the ground was such fun.

Sunglasses found and put on, Xander headed away from camp to take care of business. It still freaked him out every time he saw himself pissing black. In Xander's eyes, the absence of any light meant death (or a very recently cleaned inanimate object). The complete opposite was the blinding whiteness of his jism. It hit the tree he was standing in front of with a splat, and he stared at the bright wet spot for a moment before shaking his head. Jagging off while leaning against a tree was high on the "Xander Is A Pathetic Loser" list. Right up there with claiming Spike as a friend.

"Damn it, get out of my mind," Xander growled, zipping up his pants. For some reason, he had Spike on the brain -- had ever since he'd seen Spike and Angel doing the nasty -- and it was beyond annoying. Spike was his Gentleman's Gentleman and that was it. Would Dick be obsessing this much over Alfred?

"I think not," Xander stated, stalking back to camp. He stripped of his tee, wadded it up, and tossed it at his bedroll. The rest of his clothing shortly followed.

The late summer sun heated his bare skin and he stood still for a couple of minutes, soaking up the rays. Maybe what he needed to clear his head was a few days on the beach. He knew of a spot where he could lounge around naked -- strippers could not afford tan lines -- without worry about being stumbled upon by little kids. That was, if that stretch of beach hadn't been claimed by the rugrats or a housing development. Things could've changed drastically in Sunnydale, even in just a year. He should know.

Grabbing his shower kit, Xander went to wash in the stream. Before he could play Beach Blanket Bingo, he had to meet with Giles and the others again. He only hoped that they hadn't caught wind of his little childish tantrum the previous night. He didn't want to worry that Buffy would try to stake him -- not that it would do anything to him -- or that Willow would be afraid of him.

That was his biggest fear: Willow's reaction. After everything he'd been through over the past year -- all the trials and discoveries, thhe pain, the loneliness and isolation -- Xander wanted nothing more than to curl up with his head in his oldest and dearest friend's lap and have her tell him it would be okay. Now, he finally had his chance, he had control over his freaky condition, and he didn't want anything to screw up his "return" to Sunnydale.

Somehow, Xander knew that was wishful thinking.

24 What Was Needed

Tuesday, August 29, 2000

Spike cast one more look at the sleeping lump on the bed, then left the motel room. The sun was bright in the sky, and he squinted as he surveyed the parking lot while searching his pockets for his sunglasses. It was only noon -- way too early for him to be awake -- but he had to get out of the motel room. The cloying smell of sex had been making his stomach turn.

Normally, sex was sex was sex was sex. Spike could care less as to who, what, when, where, and how, as long as he got his rocks off. This encounter, though, had left a bad taste in his mouth, and not from going down on the elf. It had been almost like a chore, and although he'd well-pleasured his partner and had been equally pleasured, it hadn't been enjoyable.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Sunglasses in place, Spike climbed on the Honda and kicked her into gear. The Hawk's engine purred sweetly, and he tore down the street, away from the disquieting sensation emanating from the motel room. But despite physically leaving the motel, his mind had stayed to dwell on the problem.

His thoughts swirled in his brain as fast as the pavement passing under the wheels of the bike. Was it him? Was it his choice of partner? Was it his Not Concern over Xander's actions last night? Was it his Not Concern over the cold shoulder he'd been getting from Xander? Did he catch a case of Brooding from shagging his sire? Could he be any more of a woman?

Spike's growl blended in with the growl of the engine as kicked up the speed. Maybe what he needed was a good kill, to feel flesh bruising with his hits, to hear bones breaking under his Docs, to taste the blood as it spurted like a fountain from his victim's throat. He hardened beneath his jeans and his nostrils flared in anticipation. Yes, he thought. A good kill was exactly what he needed.

25 To Be A Snake

Tuesday, August 29, 2000

Spike faced off with his prey, cold blue eyes staring into cold yellow ones. Both of them were coiled tight, poised to attack, yet their bodies were perfectly still. Around them, everything was silent in anticipation. Nothing even dared to breathe.

Without warning, Spike struck. A flash of fang, a loud hiss, followed by the triumphant cry of victory.

"Got you, you dirty bugger!"

Spike held his prey by the neck, brining it face-to-face with him. A forked tongue flicked angrily at him. He grinned. "You're a pretty one, aren't you?"

The snake simply stared coldly at him in return.

The late afternoon sun beat down on Spike and was hot across his shoulders. Shirtless and bootless, he stood on the rocky bluffs over-looking the Pacific Ocean a hundred miles from Sunnydale. Behind him, cars and trucks rushed by on the Pacific Coast Highway, but the noise of the traffic was drowned out by the sound of the ocean's waves crashing against the rocks.

The snake coiled around Spike's wrist, dust blurring its markings. The blond vampire loved snakes. He loved the way they moved fluidly over any surface, effortlessly gliding along without the clumsiness of legs and feet to hamper them. He loved how they devoured their prey while it was still alive, eating it whole. He loved the way snakes looked, sleek and streamlined.

He wouldn't mind being a snake, if he had a choice. He could sit around basking in the sun all day, with nothing on his snakey mind except choosing between rabbit or rat for dinner. He'd have no worries about bad sex, or lack of interest in killing when it came down to it, or grumpy children with the power to end his unlife with a look. He wouldn't be concerned about why the child in his care seemed angry with him, or why that bothered him at all.

Spike crouched, set the snake back on the rock and watched it quickly slither away. He clapped his hands on his dusty thighs, straightened, and headed to where he parked the bike. It was getting late, and he didn't feel comfortable being so far away from Xander for long. There was no telling when a lightning storm would strike, and it was his job to ensure the boy's safety and well-being when they did occur. He couldn't do that from a hundred miles away.

Of course, if he was a snake, it wouldn't matter how far away he was. However, with his luck, he'd end up being the snake that slithered onto the highway and was flattened by the semi-truck.

26 If Unlife Is A Bowl of Virgin Hearts

Tuesday, August 29, 2000

"Where the hell have you been?"

Spike blinked several times in shock at Xander's incensed tone, then narrowed his eyes and stated, "Well, fuck you, too."

The late setting sun shone through the dappled trees, casting the camp in a shadowy light. Xander rose from his bedroll and stalked over to where Spike straddled the Hawk, having just killed the engine. The brunette jerked his thumb. "Off."

"What twisted your bollocks in a knot?" Spike said, climbing off the bike. He was seriously confused, and a bit irritated. He finally had been able to shove aside his troubled thoughts and chalk it up to having a bad day. Simply because he was a demon didn't mean unlife was always a bowl of virgin hearts.

"Gee, Spike, I wonder," Xander replied, a sardonic bite to his voice. "Could it be that I have places to go and no bike to get there?"

"Hey now, it's my ride, too, y'know," Spike growled, anger beginning to override his confusion.

"No, it's not," Xander said coldly. "I bought the Hawk using money I earned. You are just an annoying parasite who takes advantage of my generosity."

"A parasite?" Spike stared incredulously at him.

"Yeah, a parasite," Xander repeated, climbing onto the bike and kicking her into gear. He continued over the hum of the engine, "You're worse than the stuff that sticks to a piece of gum that's stuck to the bottom of a shoe."

That... hurt, Spike realized. It actually hurt. If felt as if someone sucker-punched him. "Right then," he said. His cheeks pulled in drastically as he set his jaw. "I'll just scrape myself off your shoe and get the hell out of your way." Not waiting for Xander to reply, he pivoted on his heel and stormed away from the boy. It wouldn't take long to get his gear together, since he hadn't unpacked. Then, he was gone.

Part Twenty-Seven

Paris, France, 1890

Spike stormed up the street, away from the guilded flat, travel bag slung over his shoulder. He was gone. No more would he put up with the brunette's crap -- either of them. He was his own vampire. He didn't need his sire to make him feel like something scraped off the bottom of a boot. He could feel like that on his own!

The dishwater-blond vampire's step faltered. Somehow, in his mind, that last bit didn't sound correct. Shaking his head, he continued down the oil-lamp lit street. Dawn was approaching, and he needed to find a place to hole up for the day. "Preferably somewhere as far away from that bloody pillock as I can get," he grumbled to himself.

The sharp squeal of a metal tire taking a corner too fast caught Spike's attention, and he raised his down-turned eyes in time to see a carriage wobble wildly on one wheel on the cobblestone street, before it tipped over onto its side. The driver was thrown, and the horses bucked and whinnied in fright, trying to break their restraints. The oil-lamp that had hung from the front of the carriage had broken on the wood, and fire was starting to spread over the cab.

Alone on the street, Spike was the only witness to the accident. He approached the burning cab, thinking perhaps the screams of a burning passenger would brighten his horrible night. On the far side of the cab, in the middle of the street, the driver lay crumpled in an odd jumble of limbs, his eyes staring sightlessly back at Spike.

"Oi! Buggery, bollocky hell!" came an angry female voice from inside the burning cab. "This is just what I bloody needed!"

Intrigued, Spike stepped closer and was about to bend down to peer into the back window when a head popped out of it. A tangled mop of dark brown hair covered the woman's features as she struggled to crawl out the window. She blew angrily at her hair, trying to get it out of her face, when she spotted him. Mahogany eyes glared at him from between the tangles. "Are you just going to stand there like a bleedin' tosser, or are you going to help me out?"

"I'm rather enjoying watching you crawl out of there yourself," Spike replied with a wicked smile.

"A fellow countryman, how lovely," she said dryly. "Now, sod off."

Spike gave her a mock half-bow. "As the lady wishes." He started across the street, away from the rapidly burning wreckage, a grin on his face at the most unladylike curses he heard behind him. A strangled scream rang out, and he had to look back to see if she'd caught on fire -- only to find she had escaped the carriage and was presently on her hands and knees in the street, holding her hugely rounded stomach.

"Christ on a cross!" the woman snarled. "I am going to kill the bloody wanker!"

A memory pricked at Spike's conscience. The woman was in duress; either in labor or hemorrhaging from the accident. If she was over seven months along, the baby could survive outside of the womb. First, check for dilation, blood, or other fluids leaking from the birth canal. Then, check the position of the child and for any pain in the abdomen area. Next, decide if the mother-to-be requires the child to be removed through the radical surgery of a cesarean section. He was skilled enough in that area, having worked part-time at St. Bernadine's Hospital in London for fifteen years...

Spike practically smacked his forehead in disgust when he realized what he'd been thinking. He wasn't a bloody doctor anymore; he was a vampire! When he saw blood, he wanted to drink it, not find where it was coming from and stop it. He killed people, not healed them.

"Listen, you soddin' bastard," the woman hissed at him. "If you're not going to bloody help me, then can you at least stop starin' at me like I was the main attraction in a bleedin' peep show!"

Spike scowled at her. "Don't tell me what to do." He'd enough of that from Angelus and Drusilla. He didn't need it from some bint about to give birth in the middle of a Parisian street.

"I can tell you whatever I damn well please," the woman snapped. She screamed again through clenched teeth, rocking on her knees, before adding, "You're the one standing there like a useless sod with his thumb up his arse while I have a baby in the bloody street."

Before Spike knew what he was doing, he was crouched beside her, his hand pressing firmly against her lower back. "I am not useless," he growled. Angelus called him useless on a nightly basis, and it was one of the reasons he was leaving the bog-trotting ponce. "Now, lay on your back and spread your legs."

"I thought I told you I'm not part of the cabaret," the woman said, although she slowly moved into the requested position.

"I'm going to see how far you're dilated, you daft woman," Spike said, pushing his sleeves up. "If I wanted to fondle a carpet, I certainly wouldn't choose you."

"I love you, too," she said sarcastically.

Spike flipped her dress up and set about removing her layers of undergarments. "Let's see how you feel about me after I rip this baby from your body, eh?"

"I'll most likely love you more."

He snorted. "Wouldn't the little man put up a protest?"

"He's the bastard who did this to me in the first place," she said. "I could care less what he said."

"Quite a mouth you have there, pet," Spike said, looking between her now-bared legs. The burning carriage provided enough light for him to see that the woman was not hemorrhaging externally. "How you managed to get preggers with a gob like that is amazing."

"It got your hand up me chuff, now, didn't it?" she said slyly.

Spike threw his head back and laughed. The woman was a riot. After the babe was born, he might have to turn her instead of feasting on the child in front of her and leaving her alive on the street. "All right, precious," he said, calming down. He'd done his initial exam, and she seemed to simply be in labor rather than something caused by the accident. "How many weeks are you?"

"Over thirty-five, at least," she replied, panting.

"Were you having contractions before the accident?"

"Yes, every few minutes. I was on my way to the hospital before the effin' carriage flipped," she said.

"Well, you are certainly fully dilated," Spike told her. "I want you to take a deep breath, then push like you were having a bowel movement on my word, all right, luv?"

Mahogany eyes narrowed as the brunette propped herself up on her elbows. "For a bloody rat bastard, you sound an awful lot like a doctor."

Spike winked. "That's cause I am, pet. Now, push."

With a minimum of fuss -- but a lot of cursing from the woman -- a new life was born into the world just as Spike smelled the first rays of dawn about to crest the horizon. He'd been so wrapped up in what he was doing and enjoying the brunette's blunt conversation that he hadn't been paying attention to the time.

Cursing himself, Spike finished tying off the cord coming from the woman's body, and pushed to his feet. She looked up at him in surprise, the newborn wrapped in her petticoat and cradled in her arms, as he grabbed his coat and bag. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Time for me to go, ducks," Spike said, casting his eye around for a place to hide from the coming daylight. "It's been a peach."

"Wait," she said quickly, as he was about to take off. "I didn't thank you. I don't even know your name."

"It's Spike," he told her before darting up the street, and therefore, he didn't hear her next words.

"Thank you, Doctor Spike," she said softly. She looked down at the fussing infant in her arms. "Alexander Spike Harris says thank you, too."

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