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.

 

10.

"How come I'm the one who gets to do this?" Buffy muttered as she stepped gingerly around several sleeping cats. The house stank of eau de litterbox and little old lady. With her long iron gray hair and her longer nose, the woman she'd found asleep in the back bedroom would have made an impressive Halloween decoration—all she needed was a pointy hat and a broomstick. Considering how Buffy's last few Halloweens had turned out, though, she wasn't overly fond of plastic skeletons, fake cobwebs, or costumed witches any more.

Slaying had a tendency to really screw up your holiday fun.

Speaking of Ghosts of Bad Halloweens Past, she found Spike sitting on the front stoop of the house, smoking. "Anything?" he asked, sounding cranky.

"How come I'm the one who has to be sleuth girl?"

"Cause you don't need an invite to commit a little B&E, Encyclopedia Blonde. Fucking vamp rules. So? Anything?"

"Nothing more incriminating than criminal litter-box neglect," Buffy said with a sigh. "You didn't happen to write down what it was she ordered, did you? Cause judging by what I found, it's probably just candles to cover the scent of sixteen cats."

Spike exhaled a plume of smoke. "Should have just brought the whole bloody ledger. Guess she's off the list. Five down, four to go."

"Yeah. Who's next?"

"J. Levinson," Spike read.

"Levinson. I know that name," Buffy murmured. She glanced over Spike's shoulder. "That's a campus address. Maybe it's someone I went to high school with ..."

"Campus? Why the hell do we have to keep trekking all the way cross town?"

"It's a twenty minute walk, Spike. It won't kill you ... Well, it won't kill you any deader than you already are."

***

The biggest surprise about J. Levinson wasn't that he was male—and a former classmate of Buffy's. No, the biggest surprise was that someone who practiced magic was such a ...

"Geek," Spike sneered from his vantage point on the other side of the threshold. He watched as Buffy wandered through Nerd-Central. Model spaceships suspended from fishing line dangled just above her head, making her look like she was walking through a frozen space battle. Ranks of collectible figurines took up most of the shelf space above the desk, and the bookcases were dedicated as much to comics and sci-fi novels as they were to college textbooks. A life-sized cut-out of Milla Jovovich wearing a midriff-baring top, gold pants, and bright orange suspenders that matched her hair stood near the bed. And right next to Milla stood Princess Leia in that gold bikini number with a collar round her slender throat. At least, Spike thought, the boy wasn't a total nancy if he was keeping hot, scantily clad females next to his bed. Even if they were cardboard. "You're sure this bloke is a witch?"

"I think if it's a guy they call them warlocks," Buffy said. She had to duck to avoid the Death Star model that hung from the middle of the ceiling like a really lame disco ball. There were two beds in the room. Bed number one was draped in Batman sheets. Bed number two was done up in Transformers. Buffy studied the boy in the first bed for a minute, then turned to the second. All Spike could see of him was a shock of dark hair. "I know this guy."

"You didn't sleep with him, did you?" Spike asked.

"What? Ew. No," Buffy said, glaring at him over her shoulder. "I saved his life once. Sorta. He was ..."

"What? Almost vamp chow? Some demon get him? Or maybe it was just human bullies. Saved him from a locker coffin, did you, Slayer? Atomic wedgie?"

"No, he ... he was gonna kill himself," Buffy said, her voice softer than Spike had ever heard it. "I ... sorta talked him out of it. Well ... okay, so I thought he was gonna go all Charles Whitman on campus, but ... I talked him out of that. He said I thought he was an idiot. A short idiot."

"Can't possibly see why," Spike drawled.

"Shut up, Spike," Buffy said, but there wasn't any heat in it. Her voice was still soft. Almost ... almost like she cared about some stupid little geek who still played with dolls in university. Oddly, Spike found himself shutting up and watching her through narrowed eyes, wondering why this kid suddenly had her acting like some bleeding heart. He was just a boy with too much time on his hands and too much interest in crap no one else cared about. Kids like him slipped down the drain—or gullet of the nearest demon—every day.

Spike should know.

He shifted, uncomfortable. There was a thought best left buried. He hadn't been that pathetic in a long, long time. There was nothing in Spike that bore even the slightest resemblance to this boy. At all. Still ...

He watched as Buffy poked through the kid's things, her movements slightly more respectful than they'd been when she'd searched the houses of the previous five suspects. She found a couple of books and flipped through them, but put them right back on the shelf. A drawer in the bureau held some spell ingredients and a couple of spellbooks, but nothing to say this was their guy.

When she finished, Buffy paused by the bed again, then gently moved the duvet. She came up with a comic book that looked like it had been slept on. There was a plastic sleeve on the nightstand and after smoothing out the book, she slid it inside and sealed it.

"What'd you do that for?" Spike asked, as she shut off the lights and closed the door.

She shrugged. "Xander's into comics. It's bad for them to get all wrinkly or something. Jonathan would probably be upset if he knew he'd fallen asleep on it."

Spike frowned. "So? You didn't have to do that."

Buffy frowned right back at him. "Yeah," she said. "I kinda did."

***

The next person on their list was an unknown, but she lived on campus only a few blocks from Jonathan's dormitory.

"Tara McClay," Spike said, nodding at the closed door of the dorm room. Buffy broke the lock. When everyone woke up they'd probably wonder at the rash of 'overnight' break-ins, but there was no help for it. Hell, who knew how Sunnydale would rationalize a city-wide, month-long coma?

Tara's room was the first she'd found that seemed like it belonged to a real witch. Most of the other suspects on their list had turned out to be dabblers, the sorts of magic users who only wanted love potions or ways to stop aging. Tara's room, however, had a small collection of magic books on the bookshelf, candles and crystals scattered around, and other little signs that pointed at someone who was more than just curious, lovelorn, or wrinkly.

"Bloody hell, that's strong," Spike said, reeling back from the threshold.

"What?" Buffy asked. His back thumped against the opposite wall, where he stood, glaring.

"White magic. Room practically reeks of it."

"You can smell magic?" And there was another thing she didn't know about vampires.

"No, but the good sort makes my skin itch," Spike said. He made a face. "All that sweetness and Mother Earth crap."

She rolled her eyes. It shouldn't have been a surprise when Spike failed to understand why she'd saved Jonathan's comic book; Spike was, after all, an evil creature. Of course good made him uncomfortable.

"Do you think she's our spell caster?" Buffy asked. She frowned as she scanned the room. The girl, Tara, was sleeping in bed. Her ash blonde hair spilled across the pillow, though her roots were much darker. She had a nice face, Buffy decided. It wasn't the face of someone who would cast a major spell to put everyone to sleep.

"No," Spike said, surprising her. After all his insistence that the spell caster had to be one of the good guys, she'd have expected him to finger this Tara girl as their prime suspect. "For one thing, she's in bed, so unless the spell was on a time delay we'd see more evidence. Sand circles or candles or the chit passed out on the carpet. For the other ... I don't think she's that strong—just pure." The way he said it made it sound like food poisoning.

"Doesn't hurt to look, though," Buffy said.

"Whatever. I'll be down the hall. They've got a lounge," Spike said and disappeared before she could stop him.

Not that she wanted to stop him, exactly. It was just ... sorta nice to have someone to talk to.

It took a little longer to search Tara's room, since she had more books than any of the others. There didn't seem to be any sleeping spells in them, and the few reversal spells listed were specific to other curses or types of magic. There was a flier pinned to the cork board over the desk, announcing the first meeting of Sunnydale U's local Wicca chapter, on December seventh. Buffy was pretty sure Willow had the same flier up in their room. With any luck, she'd have the spell broken in time for them both to go.

***

She found Spike in the lounge down the hall, sprawled out on a battered sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, surrounded by vending machine snacks. He was drinking a bottle of Dr. Pepper and munching on some Cool Ranch Doritos.

"Where did you get that stuff?" she asked. He rolled his eyes up and stared at her from under his brows. Okay, so there were obviously vending machines in the lounge. Dumb question. "I mean, how did you pay for it?"

"Had some spare change, got hungry," he said with a shrug. Judging from the stuff littered on the coffee table, he'd had about ten dollars worth of "spare" change.

"I thought vampires didn't eat people food."

"Who told you that rot? Oh, wait, let me guess: he's tall, dark, and boring? Angel is not the be-all, end-all of vampires—just so you know." He tossed her a bag of Cheetos. "Those things smell like old socks. You can have 'em if you want."

"Thanks," she said, laying the sarcasm on heavily. Still, she liked Cheetos. He'd also bought a bottle of Pepsi and a bottle of Diet, she noticed. "Can I ...?" He handed her the Diet without comment. Buffy sank down on the couch beside him and munched. A glance at the clock on the wall told her they were running out of time before dawn. "Who do we have left?"

Spike fished out the list. "Two more, though we can probably cross them both off."

"Why?"

"One of them is your little witch, and the other, I think, must have been nerd boy's roommate." He handed her the list.

Sure enough, there was 'Willow Rosenberg' followed by 'Andrew Wells' with the same address and dorm room number as Jonathan. He was probably the blond boy who'd been in the other bed.

Defeated, Buffy sighed. On the one hand, that meant they could go home. On the other, it meant either using the spells they'd located earlier or hitting the books again. Neither option appealed. Aside from the ethical dilemma of whether or not to break into people's houses, it'd been nice being out actually doing something. She glared at the list. Surely there were other witches in town, someone who had been overlooked. Someone who might not shop at the magic store ...

There was Giles, of course. For all his closed-mouthiness she knew he'd done magic of the not-so-nice kind once upon a time. But if he'd done it they would have figured that out by now. Amy was still a rat, and her mother was gone. There was that boy—Michael?—who had helped them last year during the whole MOO fiasco, but Willow had said he'd gone off to college "anywhere but Sunnydale." Who else?

"Bugger. Fucking hate caramel with nuts in. Sticks to my fangs. Want this one, Slayer?" Spike asked, interrupting her thoughts. He held out a chocolate bar.

"Candy!" Buffy said, standing up abruptly and almost spilling her soda.

"Very good!" Spike said, as if speaking to a baby. He frowned. "You're afraid of candy?"

"No, you idiot. Candy!" She paced back and forth. "Why didn't I see it before? This has Ethan Rayne written all over it."

"Who?"

"Ethan. Remember the Halloween we all got turned into our costumes?"

"Yeah ..." Spike grinned a nasty grin. "I still dream about that night, sometimes. You in that ridiculous pink number, helpless and crying as I lean over you, fangs ready and then I—"

"Get your ass kicked again?" Buffy asked sweetly, hands on her hips.

His leer vanished, and he muttered, "Not always."

"You are such a freak. Anyway, Ethan was the one who enchanted the costumes. He's some jerk-ass friend of Giles' from back in the Dark Ages or something. He shows up every now and then and does some spell that turns everything upside down. Last year he made this candy that made all the grown-ups act like teenagers."

"And you reckon he's capable of putting the whole town to sleep?" Spike's expression was dubious.

"Honestly, I don't think there's much that Ethan's not capable of doing. Giles said he worships chaos—he's all about messing with other people's lives."

"Thing is, Slayer, there's not much chaos in this spell. I know chaos—and this is far too neat and tidy."

"Do you have any other ideas for who it could be?"

"Not really, no."

"Then I think we should go see if we can't hunt down Ethan Rayne. If he's in town, he's probably our guy." She watched as Spike began to stuff the remains of his junk-food fiesta in the deep pockets of his coat. He reached for a package of peanut butter cups. "Can I have those?" she asked.

"Sod off," Spike said. "I happen to like these. Go get your own."

"But I don't have any change."

"Oh, boo hoo." Spike wadded up his trash and dumped it in the nearby trash can. "Forget it, Slayer. I'm not your bloody sugar-daddy."

***

Two hours later, footsore and cranky, Spike yanked Buffy to a halt. She twisted out of his grip easily, snarling, "No touchy, remember?"

"Slayer," Spike said, "See that pretty pink bit of sky over yonder? Means the sun's coming up. Now, we've been through every hotel, motel, and charmin' B&B on the north side of town without a sign of this Ethan wanker. How about we call it quits for the night?"

"There's still the south side of town," Buffy said.

"And it'll still be there when the sun goes down. You want to go poking about all on your own, be my bloody guest. I'm gonna go get some blood and kip."

"Kip?"

"Sleep," Spike said. Honestly, how thick was she? He eyed her disheveled ponytail, the makeup that had given up the fight hours ago, and her rumpled clothes. Inexplicably, a jolt of lust went through him—hadn't he taken care of that, already? Deliberately, he sneered. "You could do with a bit of maintenance yourself, Slayer. Looking a bit shabby."

She scowled at the sky. "WHY did you have to saddle me with the biggest bloodsucking jerk on the planet? I ought to get a reward for this." She heaved a sigh and glared at him, then turned and stalked toward home. "Fine. I'll go through the phone book when we get back and make a list of all the motels and stuff we didn't hit tonight."

"That'll take five minutes," Spike said. "Not exactly a tourist mecca, Sunnydale."

"Not for humans," she agreed. "Do demons use hotels?"

"Why would they?" he asked. "Easy enough to bunk down in a sewer or crypt. Not like we give a damn about Continental breakfasts and mints on our pillows. Though, room service is lovely. Call down, order up some wine, and you get a juicy little snack to go with—"

"You ever think of corking that mouth of yours, Spike? Cause one of these days you're going to remind me that I ought to be staking you."

"Sort of the bloody point," Spike muttered. He didn't know why he did it, really. Maybe it was just because he liked brassing her off so much. She got so flustered, her face flushed, and her sharp little tongue would cut him with some threat or other. Or maybe it just assuaged that part of him that was chafing under the restrictions of the truce: a hundred plus years of mayhem and gore had turned into as much of a habit as smoking or breathing. Not being able to hunt or kill or even make people scream ... it made him twitchy. Reminding the Slayer that he wasn't one of her little do-good pulsers went a long way toward relieving some of his pent-up aggression. It was far more passive than he'd prefer, but he really didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

They bickered the whole way back to Revello Drive, making it inside just before the sun peeped over the horizon. Spike immediately went to the kitchen, intent on getting something to eat. By the time he'd finished heating up a pint of blood, Buffy had already taken the phone book to the living room couch. She'd shoved their research materials off to the side and was copying down addresses.

"You really think this Ethan bloke did it?" Spike asked, leaning against the doorjamb with his mug of blood.

"He's probably sitting somewhere on the other side of town, cackling and gloating. It'd be just like him," she said, not looking up.

"Still don't think this is the sort of thing a chaos mage would do," Spike said. "It's too soddin' sedate—no mass panic, or people running about screaming. No bloody fun."

Buffy shrugged, though she looked thoughtful. "Maybe this is his version of reverse psychology or something. Creating chaos through ... sleep disorder?"

"Ha bloody ha," Spike said. He slumped into the recliner and flipped on the TV, surfing through a half dozen channels before he landed on a rerun of Cheers.

"It's possible," Buffy insisted.

Spike studied her for a minute. "Hope you're right," he said. "So ... if it is him, and we get him to break the spell, can I eat him to celebrate?"

Buffy's jaw dropped. "No!"

"What? Not like you'll miss him."

"So not the point."

"You don't think the person that did this deserves to be punished?"

"Punished? Yes. Eaten by a vampire? No. We'll just ..." She frowned.

"Turn him over to the authorities? Oh, that'll go over well. 'Excuse me, officer, I'd like this man charged for abuse of dark magic and inducing mass narcolepsy. Would you mind putting him in a high security cell for sorcerous criminals?' Be lucky if they don't slap you in a straight jacket."

An odd expression flitted over her features so fast Spike wasn't entirely sure if he'd really seen it or not.

She sighed. "We'll figure out something. But you can't eat him."

Not while you're watching, Spike thought. If she was right and it did turn out to be this Rayne chap's fault, Spike figured he'd wait til the Slayer was done slapping the mage on the wrists and twitting him about being a naughty boy. Then he could take him somewhere more private, have a bit of a chat with the bloke, and—

"I saw that look, mister," Buffy said. "You're still thinking about eating him."

"Well, yeah," Spike said. "Vampire. Sort of what I do."

Buffy shook her head. "You're disgusting."

"Why? Because I do as nature intended?"

"Nature never intended you," she said, scowling.

"Oh, yeah, and you're the product of thousands of years of human evolution, with your twiggy little body and out-sized strength. Not exactly Queen of Club Normal, are you, Slayer?" Spike sneered. "Only difference between you an' me, aside from our diet, is you're so busy trying to color within the bloody lines. Fact is, this bloke keeps coming into your town and mucking about with people, yeah? People died that Halloween when he pulled his little costume stunt. Not you, unfortunately, but innocent people got mauled to death by pint-sized demons. And you say he keeps coming back. When does enough get to be bloody enough? When do you put a stop to it, Slayer? When he kills one of your own?"

"It's not that simple, Spike."

"No. Wasn't that simple with Angelus, either, was it? Want me to tell you how many Jenny Calenders got killed while you were working up the nerve to take him out?"

She stood up so abruptly she almost knocked over the coffee table. Spike rose, too.

"It's not the same thing," she said.

"Looks like it from where I'm standing," Spike said.

"Oh, and you're so one to talk," she said. "If I should be taking anyone out of this equation, it's you, Spike. You don't have a soul, like Angel. You're not human, like Ethan. There's nothing good or decent about you. You're a killer, Spike. You don't want to kill Ethan because it'd be the right thing. You just want to have your revenge and eat it, too. I don't know why I'm even talking to you."

"Because I'm here," he said. "Because once again, I'm all you've got. You need my help."

"What help?" she said, flinging her arms out. "You snark and you piss me off and you keep doing your best to remind me that you're the world's biggest jerk. You don't help, Spike."

"Oi! Who found the reversal spell?"

"Sheer luck, and it didn't work anyway." She crossed her arms and looked down her nose at him, which was a neat trick considering she was all of five foot nothing.

"And the list of witches," he reminded her.

"Don't think I didn't notice that that happened to be right next to the cash register, Spike," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Want to tell me how you happened to have so much 'spare change'?"

Fuck. It was so easy to think of her as a bubble-headed valley girl sometimes that Spike forgot she could be damn shrewd when she wanted to be. "Well at least I bloody did something," Spike said. "What have you done besides bitch and moan about research and break into a few houses?"

"Excuse me?" Buffy said, and Spike watched in eager fascination as the blood rushed to her cheeks and her eyes flashed. She stalked around the coffee table and got right in his face. "At least I've got a plan, Mr. This-Doesn't-Seem-Chaotic-Enough. At least I'm doing something and not sitting around watching TV. You know what I think? I think you're starting to like this."

"What?" He glared.

"Yeah, I said it. Comfy basement to sleep in, all the blood you can drink, cable TV, Slayer to annoy."

"Oh, sure, you're a right treat to live with, pet. Anyone ever tell you that you're bossy and snide, and that you leave your knickers all over the bathroom floor for other people to pick up? Bloody disgusting."

Buffy's eyes went wide. "I do not!"

"Do so."

"You better not have laid a finger on my ... my ..."

Spike leaned in. "Knickers," he said, deliberately emphasizing each syllable.

"That's it," she growled. Then she punched him in the face.

"Bitch!" He punched her back. Damn, that felt good. When she launched herself at him, he was ready for her, and they traded blows. With a grin, Spike realized that Buffy was even more tired than she looked. They'd been out and about for more than a day, and their little spell-induced nap hadn't helped much. She was running on dregs, and he'd just had a pint of blood—and sure he was tired, but the blood pushed him over the top. Unlike their little scuffle earlier, he had the upper hand.

Of course, then she punched him square in the jaw and reminded him that the upper hand wasn't any good if the ol' brain was too busy gloating—especially when fighting a Slayer.

He scissored her feet out from under her, toppling her so that she sprawled across him, then rolled and pinned her to the floor. He used his weight to hold her there, and for a moment allowed himself to revel in the feel of her warm, wriggly little body under his. Then he felt something sharp against his back through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

Fuck.

He froze.

"Where the bloody hell did you get a stake?" he asked, eyes wide.

"It's a pencil." Her eyes were steely. "Guess it's true, too much studying will kill you."

He could snap her neck. Maybe. Half a second to switch into game face and tear out her throat. But it'd be half a second too long when stuck between a Slayer and a stake. Besides, as much as he wanted to kill her, he knew he still needed her.

"You started this," he reminded her.

"And I'm ending it, right here, right now." Bugger. Still, she hadn't staked him yet. He'd talked himself out of tighter spots.

"You need me," he said, deliberately relaxing his grip on her a little. "You can't do this alone."

"Maybe I can," she said. "Maybe I don't need some snarky, smart-ass vampire hanging around being a pain in my neck."

His eyes met hers, took in the flush that colored her cheeks, the tousled hair and softly parted lips. Spike ran his tongue over his teeth. Slowly. If I was a pain in your neck—

The tip of the stake dug in to the point of pain.

Right.

"You can't read those books," he reminded her. "Or do the spells. Not alone. You still need me, Slayer. We have a truce."

They stared at one another while the clock on the mantel ticked away a whole minute.

Finally she closed her eyes, wearily. "I'm gonna move my hand and you're gonna get up," she said.

He nodded. She moved her hand, and he scrambled quickly to his feet.

Then he glanced down.

She was holding a pen. A plastic Biro.

"You bluffed," he said, and couldn't contain the note of admiration in his voice.

"You bought it," she said, and couldn't hide the note of satisfaction in hers.