Part Four Of
THE PARADISE SERIES
By Bitch Willow
Rating: PG-13
Classification: Finally, downright Willow/Spike
Disclaimer: I don't own Spike or Willow or any of the BTVS characters. I just
like to let them play around in my head and corrupt them. I do own the demon
guy Tristan, though! And the song Spike sings (which the title is derived from)
is Josephine by The Wallflowers, from their album Bringing Down The Horse. I
wish I owned Jakob Dylan.
Feedback: Please? I'll be your best friend! Besides, the more feedback I get,
the more of this series I write?and I can always use suggestions, so if you
want more Tristan, or more W/A, or more W/S...tell me.
Summary: Spike is called back to Sunnydale?but can he face his memories?
Author's Note: See, I told you! Spike! I'm not just a big liar. This takes place
before the fourth season. (Also, I know that it seems hard to believe that Spike
would immediately give in over one little picture, but 1: the demons can make
more, 2: Buffy-or Xander, or Oz-would kill him, and the main reason he gave
in is that it was an excuse to be close to Willow. 'Kay?)
"-You're so sweet, you must taste just like sugar...and tangerines."
Spike laughed to himself. He'd been singing that same bloody song forever, since he had flown into Budapest and drunk himself into such a state that he didn't care whether or not he was singing songs about lips that tasted like fruit platters.
"That's right, bloody tangerines...apples..." He laughed again as he bumped into a wall while trying to round a corner. That was the bastard thing about huge old beautiful castles like these-too damn many walls, and all of them connected. Of course, the walls that weren't connected were even worse-that made people (or in his case, non-people) fall off the sides of places and down a couple floors. Not that he wouldn't heal quickly, of course, but a bump on the head would just destroy the symmetry of his perfectly bleached hair.
He reached a hand up to his head and pulled out a few strands, not even wincing at the slight pain. Eh, not so perfectly bleached anymore. Brownish roots were growing in, and it was a bit long for his tastes, curling about his ears in a very annoying fashion. But at least he could pretend that very little curling strand of hair tickling his ear was Willow's lips, every painful lump on the head soothed by her hands.
"Got to stop thinking about her...don't wanna think about her. Cor, this is worse than Dru," he groaned. Dru. How was that loon right now? The last he'd seen, she'd still been happy with her Chaos demon, and he'd been happy to leave her there. After visiting Brazil to make sure that his baby was being taken care of, he'd hightailed it to Milan and stayed in a drunken stupor for days, pausing only to feed and take in a bit of scenery. Then he'd nearly fallen off a bridge, and burnt the hell out of his hand while trying to lure a pretty bird into his house and decided that maybe sobriety was the way to go, for a bit anyway. So, Budapest, like he'd told himself he'd visit way back in Sunnydale. He'd kept his promise about the apples, too. Big fucking crate of them down in a cold room near the bottom floor.
"God, get a hold of yourself, Will." He tried to brace himself on the wall, to boost himself up from his spot on the cold floor of the castle. "So hung up on that bloody chit, only seen her once. Twice," he corrected himself, thinking about her dancing with her friends, her fire-colored hair, then so long and free about her body, swirling around her like a Gypsy's scarf. Even then she'd been a little witch, a little enchantress-dancing a tribute up to her goddess like the pagan beauty that she was.
He laughed at himself, at the memory, and finally managed to pull himself up off the floor. "Bloody hell, you're like a schoolboy?thinking about that pretty girl and not doin' a damn thing about it." He grabbed his bottle of scotch, miraculously unshattered, and wandered into his bedroom. "Although, she is a human?
"Get your ass together, man." He took a slug from the bottle, fell down, pulled himself up on a chair leg, looked at his bed?and promptly fell down again.
"What the...bloody hell, what are you doing in MY FUCKING HOUSE?!" Spike snarled into game face and his volume rose a few decibals, making the man on the bed cringe back a few inches.
"Calm down, man. Really, you need some anger therapy, I think. Ever tried seeing a professional about this 'evil' thing? Could really help you out." The guy in the bad suit smirked, not at all frightened by Spike's theatrics.
"Do you know that I can think of twenty ways to kill you, just off the top of me head?" Spike hissed.
"Spike, my boy, you couldn't kill me if you tried." The guy had gotten up off the bed and was making his way towards Spike.
"What do you mean?" He clutched his head, really regretting that extra bottle of rum he'd managed to keep down earlier. And the twenty, thirty times he'd banged his head into the wall downstairs, trying to get rid of some good healthy sexual frustration.
The guy took off his hat, revealing curly blond hair, and a nice, sharp?pair of horns. "This answer your question?"
"Cor," Spike moaned. "Look, is this about me punching that Chaos demon, cause I really-"
"Oh, no," Mr. Demon interrupted. "I'm not on that side. I'm?one of the good guys."
Spike cocked an eyebrow. "Ohhh..." he drawled, his tone pure and simple disbelief. "So you're the good demon who's here to visit the vampire. Makes sense," he mused sarcastically.
"Something like that. You've never heard of us good demons? I mean, c'mon Mr. 'the Bloody,' you aren't so bad yourself, contrary to, well, your belief."
"Hey!" Spike growled, an almost comic look of offense on his ridged face. "I'll have you know that I'm quite evil! I caused twelve bloody riots, and slaughtered countless innocent-"
The demon rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Your heart is black as night. Look, the point is, we need you on our side."
Spike sputtered a hearty laugh. "Me? On the side of good? Not bloody likely, uh?"
"Tristan."
"The hell sort of girly name is that?"
Tristan looked irritated. "Well, what do you think a proper demon name is?"
Spike shrugged. "I dunno. Gouge, or Wound, or Hestebes. You know, traditional. Or punker names, I'm really one for the punker names."
"I can tell," Tristan dryly replied. He put his hand over his horns as if he had a headache. "Why do I always get the difficult ones? I couldn't have gotten Angelus three years ago, or Geoffrey over there in Paris last month?"
"Wait, you mean you're one of the guys turned my sire into a bloody white hat?"
Tristan bowed modestly. "Well, we're the ones who got him on active duty. I mean, we didn't restore his soul or anything-the Romani did the first time, and after he lost it that little redhead did the job-" Tristan pretended not to notice as Spike gulped and looked up, eyes flashing between blue and yellow. "But it was one of our guys who got him off the street, got him cleaned up and stationed in Sunnydale to help out the Slayer." He grimaced. "We didn't exactly count on that whole soul-losing bent he went on, but hey: we never claimed to be perfect. We're still demons, after all. We're not the best at foresight.
"But, that's solved now. Angel's in LA, so he only visits Sunnydale sporadically. Which is why it should be no problem for you to work there."
Spike's head went up with the speed of?oh, hell. It hurt too much to think of a good end for that sentence. "What? Me? Working with the white hats in Sunnyhell? Oh, no. Never gonna happen, buddy. You got the wrong demon."
Tristan sighed. "I didn't wanna have to blackmail you?"
"What makes you even think that I would work for you good guys? I'm perfectly content here on the side of evil."
"Didn't I already mention blackmail?"
"Oh. Right." Spike shook his head, already somewhat sober from the shock of all this. Then he laughed. "Wait, what could you possibly have to blackmail me with?"
Tristan smirked (< again, the bloody confident bastard, > Spike thought petulantly) and pulled a picture out of the pocket of his leather jacket. He handed it to Spike and sat on a chair to wait.
"What the hell is-" Spike drew in an un-needed breath as he looked down at the Polaroid in his hands. "Oh?fuck."
Bright as day, the picture showed him kissing a girl who was clearly a certain redheaded witch who lived in Sunnydale. And was best friends with the Slayer. And dated a werewolf. And the only person who fit that description was Willow?whatever the hell her last name was.
Spike looked up at the demon on his chair and growled. "How the bloody hell did you get this, you pillock?"
Tristan rolled his eyes. "Hey, watch the insults, man. I could have just given that picture to the Slayer and delivered you to her on a platter, but I didn't. You're strong; you're intelligent, you know inside the demon world?you could be an asset to our side. You could help us. You could redeem yourself."
Spike looked up at Tristan with uncaring eyes, and he continued. "You'll be close to the witch. The one in the picture." Spike's eyes turned suddenly a burning blue, and Tristan looked at him sympathetically. "Seems suddenly worth it, doesn't it?"
Letting out a long, shuddering breath, Spike stood up. "So you won't show anyone that picture if I go back and help the Slayer and her fun little group?" Tristan nodded, and Spike bit his lip. "And how long do I have to stay there?"
The demon shrugged. "Until whenever the Slayer dies." Seeing the vampire's eyes light up, he continued on quickly. "But you can't have anything to do with her death, directly or not. Besides, the witch would hate you if you killed her friend. And whether you admit it or not, you got a thing for her." Spike opened his mouth to protest, and Tristan grinned. "It happens. Me, I had a girlfriend in 1854. A human, the prettiest little thing you've ever seen. It?rarely works out. Besides, your girl is dating a wolf right now, and you know those things. Rip you to pieces if you try to paw their mates."
Spike digested this quietly, nodding. "So, do they know I'm coming?"
Tristan shrugged. "Angel'll be there when you arrive. I think his guy has already told him all this. Just keep the essentials-you're being blackmailed, you're gonna help, mention my name?you know, the basics."
"So when do I leave?"
Tristan wrinkled his forehead, peering at his watch. "Um, how about?oh, say?now?" He shrugged. "As soon as you get sobered up, I mean. Angel'll be in town for a bit. And don't try to go to the library, it's been-"
Spike nodded wearily. "Yeah, I know, destroyed. Big talk on the demon circuit."
"Right. So, if I need so get in contact with you, I'll drop by. If you need to get in contact with me? Well, do you have a copy of Drastus De Harbiar, 1776?" Spike stared at him blankly. "Well, that librarian guy, Giles?he should have one. There's a summoning ritual for 'your personal demon'-that'd be me, in your case. I'm sort of your demon sponsor, like Whistler was to Angel."
Spike looked confused. "Was?"
"Well, he retired. I'm pretty sure that Doyle's taken over for him." Tris shook his head as if annoyed. "I swear, get one useless Irish drunk to sponsor another and you've got problems on top of problems." Spike grinned. "Well, I'll be seeing you, Spike me boy." And with that, he walked out the door of Spike's bedroom. After a moment, the unmistakable sound of thunder was heard, and a sharp smell like brimstone permeated Spike's senses.
He stood in shock for a second, then went to get his suitcase from beneath his bed. "I'm gonna miss Budapest," he muttered to himself. Then he began to sing.
"I feel pretty good, I feel all right, and I've been thinking maybe I could spend the night. I know you've been sad, I know I've been bad, but if you let me I'll make you ribbons from a paper bag? You're so good to me, I know that it ain't easy.
"You're so sweet, you must taste just like sugar...and tangerines."
For the first time in a long time, Spike smiled.
THE END