Blood of the Sire by BuffyMeetsSpike

Disclaimer: All the characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.
 
Goes off-canon after As You Were. Reviews are most welcome. 

 
****************************
 
Spike was in the process of getting drunk.
 
He sat at the counter at Willy’s bar, talking with no one, working his way through his second bottle of whiskey, seething and indulging in a little self pity by turns. She dumped me, he thought. She let that wanker ex of hers trash everything I bloody own, and then gives me “I’m sorry, William”. Merciless bitch. But even as he cursed Buffy’s existence, he ached with the pain of losing her. Their relationship had been completely fucked up, beginning to end, but she was still under his skin. ‘Tell me you love me.’ Yeah, right. I could tell you I was Queen Victoria for all the good it did. He downed another shot and refilled his glass.
 
“Well, if it isn’t the Slayer’s little pet,” came a voice from behind him. “What’s the matter? She find a new vamp to do her bidding?” Spike turned to see four large vampires, all affecting Hell’s Angels garb and carrying various chains and pipes.
 
“Bugger off, then, there’s a good lad,” Spike said, turning his back on them in contempt, but reaching his hand inside his coat for a stake at the same time.
 
“Watch your mouth, you little traitor freak,” said the leader, grabbing Spike by the shoulder and yanking him around. When he did he lasted about two seconds before falling to dust. Spike’s stake had moved so fast that the leader barely got his sentence out before disintegrating.
 
“Fucking bastard!” snarled one of the other vampires. “You’re going to fucking pay for that!”
 
“Hey! Take it outside!” said Willy, but he was ignored by the raging demons in front of the bar.
 
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, mate.” Spike kicked the nearest vamp in the gut before leaping off the barstool, squaring off against the others. They rushed him with the pipes and chains, but even after an insane quantity of whiskey, Spike was fast. He ducked them with fluid grace, dusting one and decking the other. The vamp he had kicked came up behind him and was flipped over Spike’s shoulder, landing on the fourth member of their gang. Spike dusted one of them while they were still disentangling themselves, but before he could dust the other, he felt a blow to the back of his head. Cursing, he spun to see a random demon who had joined the fray.
 
The fight went on, with some patrons slipping out the door and others joining in. Spike vamped and roared, whirling, kicking and staking. All of his frustration at the situation with Buffy poured out into his fists and fangs. Finally, with a resounding crack, Spike snapped the neck of the last remaining demon, leaving the bar empty except for him, Willy, three demon corpses, and a few piles of dust. He shook off his gameface and sat back down, reaching for the Jack Daniels once more.
 
“Who’s gonna pay to clean up all this mess?” Willy asked in as irritated tone as he dared affect with a pissed off vampire in front of him.
 
“Put it on my bloody tab,” Spike growled, knocking back another shot.
 
“Your tab is starting to get a bit long, my friend,” Willy observed, drying barware from as far away as possible.
 
Spike reached into his coat pocket and fished out a handful of random bills. He tossed them on the counter. “Take that as a down payment. Now bugger off and let me drink in peace.” He returned to his drinking and brooding, taking no further notice of the bartender.
 
Willy picked up the money and moved down to the cash register to count it. It came to $97, which barely made a dent in Spike’s tab, given that it was approaching $300. Given the vampire’s recent rate of consumption, the tab would be into four digits by the end of the month. More troublesome to the bartender was the loss of business. Lately, between Spike dusting half the patrons and scaring off many of the rest, his business was losing money at a rapid rate. And after seeing Spike in action, Willy lacked the courage to kick him out or refuse to serve him. He had heard that Spike was incapable of killing humans these days, but he didn’t really feel like putting that rumor to the test. There were times when he considered hiring someone to take Spike out, but that seemed like a bad prospect as well. Willy lived on the goodwill of his customers. If word got out that he was having demons killed, even a demon everyone was pissed at like Spike, he would be opening himself up for a world of trouble.
 
After another hour of awkward silence, punctuated only by the clinking of glassware and then the sound of the broom as Willy swept up vampire dust, Spike finished his second bottle of JD and stood up. He wobbled a little, but then straightened up and said, “Look, I’ll haul the refuse out to the alley for you, okay?” He kicked one of the corpses as he spoke.
 
“I’d appreciate it,” Willy said. Spike dragged the corpses out the back door one at a time, heaving the first two into the dumpster. When he got to the third one, he found it very heavy and awkward. Finally he muttered, “Fuck it,” and left it on the ground next to the dumpster. Bloody well good enough, he decided. He staggered off toward his crypt, stopping en route for blood, cigarettes, and more whiskey.
 
In the now quiet bar, Willy cleaned up, and wondered what could be done to solve his current problem.
 
*****************************
 
The bar opened at noon the next day as usual. The usual scavenger demons had taken care of the body and other than one chair which was beyond repair the bar was as it had ever been. Willy served the first few stragglers that came in – mostly humanoid demons who blended easily into the underbelly of Sunnydale. Willy was rather grateful that the troublemaking vampire was unlikely to be plaguing his existence at this hour. It would be nice to make a few dollars before Spike showed up and trashed the place again.
 
At some point the door opened to admit a tall figure in a hooded sweatshirt. The hood was pulled forward so far that the face was completely obscured. The reason for this became evident when the figure pulled the hood off to reveal a bluish-green face, veined and somewhat scaly, with red eyes staring out of an angry brow. He strode over to the bar with determination, causing Willy to back up slightly. “What’ll it be?” Willy asked in his usual noncommittal tone.
 
In response the demon reached over the bar and grabbed Willy by the collar. “I want to know who killed my brother and dumped his corpse in a dumpster, that’s what it will be,” he said in an oily hiss. The other three patrons, seeing trouble coming, downed their drinks and left in a hurry.
 
“Your brother?” Willy gasped in alarm.
 
“He came in here last night. Never came home. Went looking for him this morning and found him stuffed in the dumpster back of this fucking pit. Now I want to know who put him there,” demanded the demon.
 
“It was a vampire,” Willy stammered. “Goes by Spike. He comes in here sometimes and gets hammered. A bunch of other vampires tried to jump him last night. Your brother joined in the brawl and Spike took them all out.”
 
The demon looked incredulous. “You mean to tell me one vampire took out my brother and a bunch of other vamps? Tell me another.”
 
“It’s true!” said Willy in a frightened squeak. “He’s an incredible fighter. Kills his own kind. Hangs out with the Slayer, even. I’ve seen him take out guys that outweigh him by a hundred pounds. He’s an Aurelian and a complete bastard by all accounts.”
 
The demon released the bartender contemptuously and considered the matter. “Where’s his lair?”
 
“Not sure. But you go in there and you’re just asking for trouble. He and the Slayer have some sort of understanding. If he doesn’t take you out, she will.”
 
After a few more minutes of thought, the demon said, “Where does he like to hunt?”
 
Willy shook his head. “He doesn’t. Word is he got experimented on by some government operation that was working around here a few years back. He can’t feed on humans. Part of why he started killing his own.”
 
“Where does he buy his blood? Does he get it here?” the demon wondered.
 
Willy shook his head. “Once in a while, but mostly he uses the butcher on Grove Street, same as all the rest of the vamps who bag it for one reason or another.”
 
The demon nodded. He threw three twenty dollar bills on the bar. “I appreciate the information.”
 
Willy slowly took the money, swallowed and said, “I hope you get the bastard. He causes nothing but trouble around here.” Willy knew he was taking a risk – if word got out that he was betraying his customers to their enemies, he was toast.
 
“Don’t worry. He will pay dearly,” the demon growled resolutely. He pulled his hood back up and stalked out the alley door, leaving the bartender to breathe a sigh of relief behind him.
 
*************************
 
Jerry Zwolak had been a butcher for his entire life, having grown up in his father’s butcher shop in San Francisco. When he moved to Sunnydale to open his own store, he initially had the usual cuts of beef, pork, and various other meats. But he gradually noticed that a lot of his patrons ordered blood. Lots of blood. One night he saw one of his patrons open a container right outside the door and chug it, and was absolutely disgusted. After some discrete poking around, he learned the true nature of many of Sunnydale’s residents. A weaker man would have closed up shop and fled. But Jerry decided to quietly alter his stock instead. He started stocking more blood, and more varieties. He befriended one shy vampire, who happened to be rather large and intimidating looking, and convinced him to pass on a message to the other vamps in town. His butcher shop would stay open late, he would gladly serve any and all demonic customers. In return, he wanted to be left alone. Word spread that Jerry was off limits for dinner, and business boomed. This status quo had existed for a long time, and although the occasional newcomer thought about making a snack of the butcher, the other vamps around usually put the miscreant in his place.
 
It was nine o’clock, and business was a little slow, as was usual for this hour. There tended to be a lot of vamps right after sundown, and then a lot right around eleven for the ones who went hunting and had no luck. Jerry was reading a novel and snacking on potato chips when the demon walked in. “Can I help you?” he asked. He wasn’t completely sure what type of demon this was – he had never had a customer of that particular bluish-green hue before.
 
“Do you have a customer who goes by Spike? British vamp, blond hair?” asked the demon, fixing the bartender with his terrible red eyes.
 
“Yeah, he comes in here,” Jerry said with a shrug. “Why, are you looking for him?”
 
The demon reached across the counter in a lightning fast movement and pulled the butcher close. “Bastard killed my brother. Now you’re going to do me a favor.”
 
The butcher gulped, but stood his ground. “Hey, me and the demons in this town have an understanding. I provide the blood, they withhold the violence.”
 
“I don’t give a tin shit,” growled the demon. “Now are you going to help me, or are your guts going to be hanging up on a hook?”
 
“W…what do you want me to do?” the butcher stuttered.
 
The demon fished in his pocket with his free hand. “This is a poison. Only works on vamps. I want you to put it in his blood the next time he comes in.”
 
“Yeah, and when people figure out I’m poisoning my customers, how long do you think I’m gonna last?”
 
“This stuff is extremely rare. He won’t taste it. It will take long enough to affect him that he won’t be able to pinpoint the source. Won’t kill him right away either. The bastard will suffer slowly and painfully.” He pulled the butcher close again. “I will also throw in five thousand bucks, two thousand now, the rest when I know the bastard is dying. Do we have a deal?”
 
The butcher wavered for a moment under the glare of those red eyes. Then he decided that one vamp was not worth dying over. “Deal,” he grunted.
 
The demon released him and handed over the small vial of fluid. He then handed him an envelope with money inside it and a phone number on the outside. “Call me when you’ve done it.” With that the demon turned and walked out the door, leaving the butcher to calm his racing heart and straighten his collar.
 
Outside, the Trok’fav demon stalked toward the apartment he had shared with his late brother. Truthfully, he had found his brother to be a useless waste, and had only been putting him up temporarily. However, Trok’fav tradition demanded the Blood Price be paid. If a relative was killed, the eldest living family member who was able was bound to hunt the killer until the killer was dead. The call of the Blood Price was very strong, and he could not fight it. At least he would be able to ease the sorrow of his kin when they heard the manner of the killer’s death. Watais root was a nasty, drawn out way to go. It was fitting that his brother’s killer, a traitor to his own kind, should meet his end this way.
 
******************************
 
Spike stalked through Restfield, smoking and cursing. He had not seen the Slayer for five days now. In the beginning, he had resolved that he was not going to be the one to break. Let the bitch come find me. She’ll see. She’ll miss me. Her little Scoobies don’t know her the way I do. He was not going to beg, and he was not going to be the one to seek her out.
 
Although now, five days later, he was crawling out of his skin. He missed her. He wanted to fight her, shag her, and throw himself at her feet all at the same time. He could kill a dozen demons, and had on at least one evening, but still he felt restless and disconnected. He finished one cigarette and lit another as he stalked toward the butcher’s. Damn it. I should find someone. Anyone – just someone to shag to get the taste of her out of my mouth. Maybe I’ll find someone to bring to the Whelp’s wedding. Rub the bitch’s nose in it. Then she’ll see what she’s missing. Deep in his heart, he knew it wouldn’t work out the way he wanted. Remember that incident with the chains and Drusilla? Snarling to himself, he pushed that memory back into the ‘repressed’ drawer and shut it firmly. Things were different now. He was under her skin. He knew it. He just needed her to know it.
 
Spike reached the butcher’s shop and sauntered in. “Evening. Can I get three pints of your best pig?” he said, fishing for money.
 
The butcher swallowed and said, “Sure. I’ve got some in the back if you can wait a minute.”
 
“Sure,” Spike muttered, patting his other pocket in search of the rest of his cash.
 
The butcher went in the back room and got out three pints of blood. He hesitated a moment, then pulled out the small vial that the demon had given him. He poured the contents in to the top container, covered it, and shook it a little to mix it up. Returning to the other room, he struggled to hide his nervousness as he said, “That’ll $13.50.”
 
Spike noticed the slight nervousness in the butcher’s voice. “You know there’s no need to fear me, mate. I don’t eat human. If I could, I wouldn’t be here.”
 
“Oh, I’m not afraid of you. Some new vamps were in earlier who don’t know the town rules. They were told off by one of the regulars, but it was dicey there for a moment.” Jerry took the money and rang up the sale.
 
“Just let me know if I need to dust anyone. Been in a shitty mood anyway lately. Might as well get in some random violence.” Spike pocketed his change and picked up the bag of blood.
 
“I appreciate the offer, but I think it’s all good. Have a good night,” Jerry said.
 
“Cheers, mate,” Spike replied, heading out.
 
Jerry breathed a sigh of relief. He felt a bit of a twinge at his conscience. Spike seemed a decent enough sort for a vampire. But if it came down to him or the vampire, he figured one less vampire in Sunnydale wouldn’t register on anyone’s radar. He picked up the phone to dial the demon’s number to let him know that the deed was done.
 
************************
 
“Do we have to wear those hideous dresses?” Dawn whined. The Summers girls were on their way home from the final fitting of the green monstrosities that Anya had picked out for her bridesmaids to wear.
 
“I think it’s a law or something,” Buffy replied. “I think that if someone tried to make an attractive bridesmaid’s gown some apocalypse would occur or something.”
 
“Well, you can handle that, right?” Dawn said hopefully. Buffy shot her a frown, and Dawn sighed. “Ok. I promise not to whine about the dresses any further. I’ll just wait until the wedding is over and change my name and move away in case anyone sees the pictures.”
 
“Sounds like a plan,” Buffy said in a distracted voice. It had been a week since she had told Spike that she had to break it off. She was relieved to no longer have to make excuses, explain absences, and otherwise hide their illicit affair. At the same time, she couldn’t help but wonder about him. Did he leave town? Was he plotting some scheme to get them back together? To have heard nothing from him at all in a week seemed ominous. Spike had never been one to give up easy. The look on his face as she apologized and left had been one of hurt and bewilderment, and she didn’t quite understand why. Their relationship had been wrong. If she was honest, she had been abusive at worst, and bitchy at best. Surely he could see that they were both hurting each other and that this couldn’t continue. Maybe he finally took me at my word and left, she thought. She would understand that. But what she didn’t understand was why that thought vaguely bothered her. How would she feel if she never saw him again? She had no good answer for that question.
 
“Earth to Buffy? I asked you a question?” Dawn said, breaking into Buffy’s woolgathering.
 
“Sorry, my train of thought jumped the track,” she apologized. “What did you ask?”
 
“Is Spike coming to the wedding?”
 
Buffy sighed. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him since Riley blew up his crypt. I guess he was invited, so who knows?”
 
“I thought you guys were, like, friends or something,” Dawn said. “I mean, you’re always patrolling with him and all that.”
 
Buffy hesitated, then said, “Spike and I had a bit of a falling out. I think it would be better if we just gave him some space for a while.”
 
“He didn’t do something… bad, did he?” Dawn wondered. She couldn’t fathom what Spike and Buffy had fought about. They were always trading verbal digs, but still working together to kill things. The only thing she could imagine was if Spike had somehow gone back to killing or something.
 
“Not really. Something stupid, but not bad,” Buffy said. “It’s complicated.”
 
“Jeez, you guys say that so often I swear you’re a recording,” Dawn grumbled. “I’m pretty smart. Explain it to me.”
 
“When I figure out how to explain it to myself, I’ll pass it on, alright?” Buffy’s voice took on a distinct edge of irritation. Dawn recognized that she was going to get no further with her sister and dropped the subject, finishing the walk home in awkward silence.
 
***********************
 
Spike woke up hungry. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence; in fact it was usually hunger that woke him most days. But this evening he felt like he hadn’t eaten in a week. He had finished his three pints from the butcher in half the usual time and had gone back the next day for more. Based on his usual rate of consumption, he should have had enough for a couple days, but he had found himself unable to stop drinking. The hunger had finally been slaked, but here he was starving again, not eight hours later. Not only was he hungry, but he felt tired, like he hadn’t slept. Makes no bloody sense. I feasted last night, and slept like a rock. Can vamps get the flu or something? Puzzled, he left to go to the butcher shop again.
 
“Back again?” Jerry asked as he entered. “Do you have friends visiting or something?”
 
“Just extra hungry I guess,” Spike said, shrugging. He ordered six pints this time, and the butcher had to go in the back room to get enough to fill the order. While he waited, Spike rubbed his face, feeling achy and bone-tired. The butcher noticed this when he came back. As he rung up the sale he thought that the vampire looked even more pale than usual, and definitely peaked about the eyes.
 
“You feeling alright, bud?” he asked as he handed over the blood and the change.
 
“Yeah. Guess I need to lay off the booze or something,” Spike muttered. He left, and the butcher called the demon to make another report.
 
***********************
 
This is getting bloody ridiculous. Spike was sitting in his armchair, feeling completely like shit. Several days had gone by in a similar vein. He was starving all the time. Enough blood had gone down his throat to fill a bathtub, and yet here he sat, exhausted and weak. It was getting harder to even make it to the butcher’s shop; the effort of walking there and back left him feeling like he had fought a dozen Fyral demons for four hours. Something’s not right. What the hell is wrong with me?
 
With a massive effort, he got up and staggered over to the fridge. He took out his last container of blood with shaking hands and made his way back to the armchair to drink it. Truth be told, Spike was frightened. He had begun to realize that in his current state he was a sitting duck for any demon or vampire that decided to come by and challenge him. Maybe it’s time to pay the Slayer a visit, you think, William? See if she and her mates can help? He knew that Buffy’s nature wouldn’t allow him to suffer unaided.
 
But then he remembered the humiliation of crawling to her doorstep after the Initiative had gotten a hold of him. And that had been before he had given her his heart and his body, only to be summarily dismissed when she was finished with him. Male pride bubbled up in him and he resolved to figure this out on his own. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the first one to go crawling back to her. I’ll bloody dust before I let her and the Scoobies turn me into the whipping boy again. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he wondered if he was going to be eating those words.