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Chapter 22
 
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Betaed by: Goblin_Dae, Science, and Subtilior

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. This is written purely for fun.

DUST: A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fanfic by KnifeEdge



22.

After she disappeared up the stairs without sparing him a glance, Spike flopped down in his chair and glared at the pine interloper. The lights seemed to mock him. He shouldn't care sod all for whether the Slayer was upset or not. He shouldn't give two fangs over whether or not she was happy.

Only—and this had nothing to do with liking her, he reassured himself—a happier Slayer, or at least one that wasn't wandering around looking like someone had just kicked her kitten, was a more useful Slayer. The soggy version that had hidden away in her mum's room for days was almost as bad as the comatose one, and this zombie Buffy, while mobile at least, had all the fire of a wet match.

Spike didn't entirely understand why she'd put so much hope into the whole Christmas thing, but he knew that now the evidence of the debacle was likely just a painful reminder of failure—and failure was something that Spike knew well. After all, it was practically William's middle name. The only thing worse than cocking up royally was having your face rubbed in it every single day, and right now the tree in the middle of the living room was looking like a great big, pine-scented form of Slayer self-flagellation.

Maybe, in a couple of days, she'd get brassed enough to come down and get rid of it.

Or, more likely, it would become the big green elephant in the room that she refused to acknowledge or even look at, causing her to avoid work until it finally decomposed in place. Which would leave her with a supply of stakes ready at hand, and that was a situation best avoided.

No, Spike concluded, there was only one way to resolve this problem ... and unfortunately he was the only vamp that could do it.

He waited, watching the TV with the sound off while he listened instead to the Slayer's shuffling movements as she readied herself for bed. He doubted she was really that tired, after all, she'd only gotten up a few hours before. On the other hand, he was knackered, and he dozed once or twice during the early morning edition of Talk Soup. At some point during his second snooze, Buffy's heartbeat had steadied and her breathing had slowed, so he judged it safe to do a bit of snooping.

He found some of what he needed in the basement, a couple of boxes he'd watched her moving about a few days before. The third thing, a big plastic tub full of tiny compartments that had been tucked under the basement stairs, puzzled him. He would have passed it over if it hadn't been labeled "Xmas" in black marker. After poking about in it he found a few small wire hooks and flecks of glitter and decided this must be where the ornaments were usually stored.

He hauled the stuff into the living room, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels to keep him company, and then set about grinching the Slayer's Christmas.

It'd been a very long time since Spike had dealt with a Christmas tree. He remembered them from when he was human, of course: he'd been a Victorian—they'd practically invented Christmas trees. Of course, back then half the stuff on the tree had been edible, and the rest was paper that was easily pressed and stored away for the following year, usually by servants or by Mother, before she'd gotten ill.

Spike spent forty minutes hunting through the tree for every single bauble and packing each one away, swearing every time he got jabbed by the needles and wondering why he felt the need to do something so suicidal. There were glass bulbs and plastic ones, some with little angels and others with jolly old St. Nick himself. There were snowmen and candy canes and even a little pink Christmas pig with wings and a harp. There were more ornaments than there were slots in the cardboard compartments in the box, so he doubled some up, careful not to break anything. The last thing he wanted was to get staked for accidentally smashing some priceless family heirloom—though the things he figured were truly priceless were the tiny ornaments the Slayer must've made as a child. Those he packed away with extra care.

Once he'd gotten all the ornaments off, he spent another hour swearing at the garland and the lights as he tried to disentangle them from the branches without accidentally staking himself. Then another thirty minutes trying to sort them before giving up and dumping the tangle of wire and bulbs into a handy box for someone to deal with next year.

Three quarters of a bottle of Jack, two brushes with dust, and several hours later, Spike stood in the middle of the de-Christmased living room and surveyed his arch-nemesis. The tree stared back. Or, it would have done, if it had eyes.

"All right, Pine Fresh, it's just you an' ol' Spike, now," he muttered, glancing at the windows. The light was dim for mid-afternoon; a quick peek outside had revealed thick banks of clouds rolling in, obscuring the sun. Perfect for the vamp trying to ditch the last of the evidence before the Slayer decided to make her next downstairs excursion.

There was no way he'd be able to just pick up the thing and carry it without staking himself. All it would take was one bad step—he'd trip, and he'd dust, since wood had a disturbing tendency to go through vamp skin like a hot knife through butter. He'd hunted through the basement, sure that the Slayer must have some kind of armor or padding. If she did, however, she kept it elsewhere. So he'd improvised, and even though he felt bloody ridiculous, he was less worried that doing this little chore would result in his second untimely demise.

With his head tilted slightly, he tried to decide on his best angle of attack. He'd been tempted to take an axe to the bloody thing, but the Slayer'd likely pitch a fit if she found her living room coated in sawdust. No, he was just going to have to carry it out. He'd already loosened the trunk in its metal tree stand, and now it was just him, fifty feet to the curb under cloudy afternoon skies, and six and a half feet of big, green, and pointy death.

This is the stupidest fucking idea you've ever had, Spike. Which, he supposed, for a vamp that wasn't exactly known for his brilliant plans, was really saying something.

***

When Buffy awoke it was dark, and her face hurt. A glance at the clock showed that it was still late afternoon, far too early for the sun to be down; a glance at her pillow showed that she'd fallen asleep on top of one of her notebooks. She nudged the wire-bound book aside with her chin and then lay there, comfortable and warm in her bed, and contemplated not getting up at all. Who would notice or care, after all, if she were shirking her duty?

Then she sighed, because whether she was actively being watched or not, she knew what she was supposed to be doing and she'd avoided it long enough.

She dragged herself out of bed and into the bathroom for a shower. Remembering how awkward she'd felt under Spike's gaze the day before, she took a little extra time getting dressed. Not for him, but because she couldn't stand the idea that she was giving Spike any reason at all to see her as ... well, less than together—even if she felt like someone had upended her puzzle box and scattered all the pieces.

Her morning visit to her mother took only as long as a glance inside to confirm that, yes, Joyce was still sleeping, and no, she didn't have any fang-shaped holes in her neck. She took her time gathering the books she'd skimmed through the night before, however. She knew she ought to go down and clean up her mess in the living room, but it was just too depressing. Taking down the tree, putting everything away, required more energy than she really had, and probably a few hours of trying to ignore Spike's snarky remarks.

She'd do it tomorrow, she decided. There could be a big pot of coffee, and she'd ... lock Spike in the basement or something if she had to. In the meantime, she'd duck in, grab some more of her study stuff, and move to the kitchen.

Satisfied that she now had a plan, Buffy took a deep breath and descended the stairs—only to discover that the front door was standing wide open, a cold wind making it swing back and forth a little on the hinges. Pine needles lay scattered on the floor all around the front door. Immediately, her eyes swung to the living room—her decidedly un-Christmasy living room, and its missing tree.

What the ...? What did Spike do?

All the decorations were gone, the mantel was bare again, there were pine needles all over the floor, and the furniture had been moved in order to drag the tree out. The vampire in question, however, was nowhere to be seen.

He had to have done it after she'd gone upstairs, she thought, but wouldn't she have heard him? Would he really have dragged her Christmas tree out into the yard when the sun was up? Sure, he had a disturbing habit of running around when all bad little vampires were usually tucked up in their coffins, but he wasn't entirely suicidal, was he?

Alarmed, Buffy realized that, yes, Spike's habit of playing with fire would impel him to do something that stupid. With her luck, he was dust, and she was now totally, utterly alone.

She wasn't afraid, just concerned, although far more concerned than she ever would have imagined she would be at the prospect of Spike-dust on her lawn. Buffy followed the trail of pine needles out of the house. There was a clump of them about halfway down the drive, right before the trail moved onto the lawn. She couldn't follow the needles there, but the tree had flattened the grass, leaving her a path to follow around the far corner of the house and into the backyard.

She located the tree among the bushes that lined the back of the property, discarded haphazardly and then partially concealed by the surrounding brush. It was so nearly like finding a vamp victim that she was almost surprised by the lack of ... carnage. The tree just lay there, looking a bit mangled. There should have been blood.

Or dust—but if Spike had staked himself trying to play lumberjack, she couldn't find any evidence nearby. Slowly she turned back to the house, and this time discovered that the kitchen door was also swinging on its hinges. It was impossible to tell if he'd opened it on his way back into the house, or if he'd opened it before dragging the tree out of the front in order to give himself a quick route back inside. With any luck, he'd made it that far.

In the kitchen doorway, she paused, closed her eyes, and tried to pay attention to her Spike radar. If she sighed with relief to feel the familiar tingle at the base of her neck, it was only because she didn't want to do this alone, and she needed his translating abilities. Her vamp sense led her into the rear sitting room, which was draped in shadow.

And that's where she found him, sprawled in an arm chair with a bottle of Jack in one hand, sound asleep, and looking ... looking ... well, kinda fat.

When she clicked on the overhead light to get a better look at him, she realized that, in addition to being bizarrely fat, he was sparkly.

Head to toe he was covered in flecks of red and gold glitter from the tree ornaments. His mess of white curls had pine needles stuck in it. Scorch marks marred the side of his face and both arms, and he was covered in tiny little cuts and abrasions. Both hands, in particular, were scraped nearly raw. But it was the strange fatness around his middle that riveted her attention. From throat to belt, Spike's shirt was poofed out strangely, like an evil mall Santa-Claus with a pillow stuffed down his front—which, she realized after giving the vampire's chest an experimental poke, was exactly what Spike had done.

She couldn't help it: she giggled.

At the sound, Spike's eyes blinked blearily open. "Slayer?"

"Spike? What ... what is this?"

He glanced at his chest, then made a move as if to cover the totally uncoverable evidence. Moving, however, must have stretched some of his cuts, because he hissed and dropped his arms again with a muttered, "Nothing."

"Would this nothing include the trail of pine needles through my house and the dead Christmas tree dumped in my backyard?"

"Balls." Grimly he lifted the bottle of Jack, wincing against the pain, and took a swig. "I'll clean up the mess, Slayer, don't fret. Just give a vamp a few to heal up before you get out the stakes."

She frowned, but let the comment pass without correcting his assumption. "Spike, why are you wearing a throw pillow in your shirt?"

He glanced down at it, grimacing. "It's armor, innit? Didn't want to trip and land on the thing."

"And you're still wearing it because ...?"

He raised his hands, palm out, to show her the still slightly seeping abrasions that covered his palms and upper arms. "Bloody hands," he said. "Didn't want to muck up the upholstery—figured you'd have more than enough reason to be mad at me without adding a dry-cleaning bill to it."

She sighed. "Well, you can't stay like that. Stand up and we'll de-pillow you."

He arched an eyebrow, but hauled himself to his feet. He looked exhausted, she realized, like he'd gone a round or five on no sleep and little blood. The pillow was tucked up under his shirt front, which was in turn tucked into his pants tight enough that it wouldn't dislodge. She pulled the front of his shirt out from under his belt, then raised the hem high enough that she could tug the pillow free.

He breathed in sharply, and she raised her eyes to meet his. The blue of his irises was nearly eclipsed by his pupils. His mouth was parted, and he was breathing irregularly. But he was a vampire—why was he even breathing at all? Maybe to talk, because he said: "Uh."

Then he swallowed hard. "Um, there's one more thing." He nodded at his chest. With the pillow gone, she could just make out the hard edge of a large circular shape over his heart. She tapped on it, and it made a vaguely metallic sound.

"Raise your arms," she directed. He did, allowing her to grip the hem of his shirt and peel it up over his head. Gingerly, Spike extracted his arms, giving her an unobstructed view of the rest of his armor. There was a metal serving tray duct-taped to his chest, directly over his heart. "What are you supposed to be? The Tin Man?"

"Got a heart," he said. "Just trying to protect it. Figure I'm probably more like the Scarecrow, cause this was probably my dumbest idea ever."

"Gonna have to agree with you on that one, and not just because you're flammable." Buffy bit her lip as she studied his handiwork. "This is gonna hurt, you know."

"Could be worse. Least I don't have much chest hair."

"There's that," she said, picking with a fingernail at the edge of the tape. He was right, she realized. Other than a thin line of hair from his navel to his belt, and a few pale hairs curling across his sternum, Spike could be a model for body waxing. She'd barely started to smile before he caught her.

"It's genetic," he said, scowling. "I don't bloody wax it, like Angel."

That got her attention. "Angel waxes?"

He blinked. "You didn't know?" He grinned and his eyes actually sparkled. "He wears lifts, too."

"Shut up, Spike," she said, automatically. She ripped off a strip of duct-tape.

He growled. "Bloody fucking hell, that hurt," he said through clenched teeth. "Careful with that."

"It'd hurt worse if I did it slow," she pointed out, and tore off the second strip. He hissed. The third strip was practically glued on, and she had to work at the edges to peel it up. There was a question on the tip of her tongue, but she wasn't sure if asking it was the smart thing to do. It'd be easier to just get this done, vacuum the floor, and pretend it hadn't happened. Only, his hands were bloody, and his face was burned, and he was covered in glitt—

"Where are my decorations?" she blurted, scowling.

"I didn't break them," he said, the warmth she thought she'd glimpsed in his eyes abruptly doused. "No need to get stake happy. They're packed away in the attic, safe as houses."

"Why?"

He shrugged uncomfortably, not meeting her eyes. "Bothered you, seeing it," he said, his voice gravel-rough. "We've got work to do and ... Just, thought it might help, is all." His eyes flicked to her face, shadowed under his lashes. He looked, she thought, almost uncertain. "Does it? Help?"

Did it?

Buffy looked over her shoulder, at the open front door at the end of the hallway and the few leftover pine needles there. Outside it was still cloudy and getting darker, but the breeze blowing in was cool and fresh. Clean. Like a new start.

Slowly, she nodded, carefully peeling away the last of the tape. He reached up and pulled the silver platter away from his chest, then handed it to her. "Good." His jaw flexed. "Right then. Good." Absently, he rubbed at the place where the tray had been, massaging away the red marks the tape had left. "So, it's back to work then?"

Buffy turned the tray over in her hands, studying it. Her mother's best serving platter, and Spike had used it for anti-tree armor. God he was weird. Even weirder, however, was his confession that he'd gone through all this trouble for her—because he'd noticed that the Christmas thing was bugging her. What was she supposed to do with that? Vampires, soulless vampires, weren't supposed to care about things that might bother the Slayer. It didn't make any sense, not unless she wanted to either get into a philosophical discussion with Spike over his less-than-evil motivations or re-examine all of her beliefs about vampires.

For a moment, she tried to imagine Angelus in this situation—then she realized that, had Spike been Angel's soulless alter ego, she probably wouldn't have woken up in the first place. It was a disturbing thought—not just that Spike and Angel were different, but that, in a battle of the soulless, Spike came out on top as the vampire she'd prefer to have as a reluctant side-kick. Startled by that, she headed for the kitchen to put away the platter. Spike tagged along.

"Slayer?" he asked, and she remembered he'd asked her a question.

"Yeah," she said, shutting the kitchen door. "We should research again, I guess."

She heard the sink turn on behind her. When she looked back at him, Spike was scrubbing his hands and arms beneath the tap, hissing a little as the water reopened his wounds. When he ducked his head and splashed water on his face and hair, she stared, bemused by the kitchen light sparkling off the droplets that chased one another down his bare back.

Pretty, she thought. Then her eyes widened as she realized who and what she'd just thought was pretty.

No, no, BAD. Bad Buffy. We do not think the evil vampire is pretty.

What was wrong with her? She felt so off-kilter, and watching this semi-domestic scene only made her more confused. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. Spike in her kitchen should be bent backwards over the island with a wooden spoon against his chest, making with the threats to her family and friends—not washing up at her sink like a man cleaning up after a bit of hot yard work. Certainly not doing totally-unasked-for-favors, simply so she'd feel better.

This, all of this, was wrong. The town, the spell, Spike, and her growing confusion over his brand of evil. Time was drifting by, and they were no closer to solving this than when they'd started.

In fact, if anything, she was even more lost now than when she'd first woken up. Buffy felt like she'd somehow been trapped in a snowglobe of Sunnydale: somehow the world had been turned upside down on her, and someone kept shaking it, only instead of snow, the only thing that insisted on settling on the town was dust.

 
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