By MustangSally and RivkaT
Sequel to Serious Moonlight; part of The Bowiehabarata
The sequel to Serious Moonlight, the sequel to The Heart's Filthy Lesson
OR: The "we owe royalties to Bowie by now" series
*SUMMARY: Bet she's not your girlfriend, you couldn't make her happy…
SPOILER WARNING: The Body. The bulk of Season 5 (i.e. Crush, Intervention,
the Gift) cheerfully ignored.
*RATING: NC-17 for violence & explicit sex acts. Interested yet?
*DISCLAIMER: The characters are not ours and we would appreciate not being
NOTES: We do a lot of things, but writing music ain't one of them. The reader
who identifies the most Pet Shop Boys and Smiths references wins a cameo in our
next story: Details at the end of the story. No purchase required.
DEDICATION: Chain-Boy come back! All has been forgiven!
I still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
Saturday night was date night, even among the undead and the supernatural.
Lovecraft's was crowded with couples of every description. There were demons
with demons, vampires with vampires, vampires with demons, an imp with a
Chaos demon (not unlike a Chihuahua with a Great Dane), and a zombie with what
may or may not have been a gargoyle. Gender wasn't an issue, species wasn't an
issue. The only issue was mortals, since they had a bad tendency to squeal to the
local authorities and that would have been the end of Lovecraft's, fine institution
that it was. There was one mortal there that night, a guy with two leather vamp
chicks who was living the heavy metal fantasy of his life. Not that it mattered.
The guy couldn't have been labeled "Take Out" more clearly if he'd been jammed
in an aluminum container with a clear plastic lid.
So it was Saturday night, and the usual Lovecraft's clientele was either assured of
some preternatural nookie or trying to find it - and what was Spike doing? Sitting
at the bar and trying very hard not to stare at the clock on the wall over the
jukebox. Half an hour to go, half an hour and he would be walking towards the
cemetery. He had an appointment that he was loath to break.
"Oh I just don't know where to begin/Though he says he'll wait forever/It's now or
never/But she keeps him hanging on/The silly champion/She says she can't go
home/Without a chaperone."
He was going to kill whoever had last programmed the jukebox.
"Another beer?" the lamia behind the bar asked.
"Yeah, that would be grand," he muttered and tried not to look at the clock again.
"And it's the damage that we do/And never know/It's the words that we don't
say/That scare me so," Elvis Costello continued to moan, "There's so many people
to see/So many people you can check up on/And add to your collection/But they
keep you hanging on/Until you're well hung/Your mouth is made up but your mind
"So, you ain't been around much lately," the lamia said and pulled him another
mug of the cheap domestic crap Lovecraft's had on tap.
"Been busy, doin' stuff, y'know," he said and accepted the fresh mug of weak, salty
"What kind of stuff?"
"The usual, and a bit that isn't," he hedged and drank.
"I hear things, things that wouldn't be said if the sayer was sober. Perks of the
profession, you know," she said and leaned forward across the bar, giving Spike a
good view of her slightly scaly cleavage. "I hear that you're been hanging around
with the Slayer. Wouldn't be a healthy thing for the Slayer to know about this
place, now would it?"
If there hadn't been a yard-long stake resting near the cash register next to the
sawed-off shotgun, Spike might have been inclined not to take this too seriously.
But under the circumstances, he threw up his hands in poorly-feigned innocence.
"Puh-lease, the only place where I can let my fangs hang out? I don't think so. "
"Just asking. They say you've got a soft spot for the Slayer."
"I got a soft spot for the Playmate of the Month, an' you don't see me bringin' any
bunnies in here now do you?"
"As long as we're clear."
"Clear as a Scientologist, babe."
"I don't want to hear it/'Cause I know what I've done."
She nodded and started rubbing down the bar with a wet rag. Inside Spike's skull a
little nervousness came out, looked around the mess of his brain and then retreated
to its designated closet. As if the thought of breaking the sacred sanctity of
Lovecraft's would ever cross his mind. Although the idea of Buffy raising some
hell among the sappy eye-making demons and whatnot was kind of appealing right
then. There was nothing quite as lonely as being alone when everyone else had
thoughts of love or shagging. He drank some more beer and didn't look at the
clock again. There was a good reason he didn't wear a wristwatch. He could
obsess about time as easily as he could obsess about everything else. When he'd
first read about the obsessive-compulsive personality a decade beforehand in a
stolen copy of Newsweek, Spike had been surprised not to see his picture as an
Spike was going to make this the longest beer in history.
Over in the back of the bar, something was laughing; happy laughter, not another
being in pain laughter, and the sound ground against his nerves like sandpaper.
The television over the bar was showing the tail end of the news, the filler. Human
interest stories, heroic animals, strange trivia, and, apparently, pretty blondes.
"Give us the sound, would you, luv?' he asked and waved a hand at the lamia.
Smirking, she pushed the remote buttons and the bar across the bottom of the
screen increased in a cascade of green light.
"Local officials are insisting that the outbreak of teen violence has nothing to do
with the recent performance of teen pop sensation Citalia," the voice announced in
a pseudo-grave tone while the picture went back to the pretty blonde with dark blue
eyes and a heroic bustline. "Teen fans denied entrance into the pop star's concert
in Los Angeles formed a mini-riot and overturned police cars."
To illustrate, the TV showed a cop cruiser burning merrily away like a backyard
"I'd pop a cop for her," the worse for wear vamp on the other side of Spike
commented. "Tasty morsel."
Spike didn't imagine for a moment that a vamp with eau du homeless was going to
get within striking range of the teen beauty. The news flashed over to a crowd of
kids, prepubescent most of them, screaming and carrying on in the street. A police
cruiser rocked back and forth like a sailboat on a rough tide.
"That's nothin'. I was at CBGB the night the Clash came to town. These kids
today know nothin' about causin' mayhem," Spike said and took a dismissive gulp
of his beer. "Still, I wouldn't throw her outta my bed for leavin' communion
The old-looking vamp next to him snickered between yellowed teeth.
"She's a little old for me. I like 'em young. Sweet meat you get, when they haven't
been messed with yet."
"Virgins are over-rated," Spike announced and elicited a dirty chuckle from the
lamia at the bar.
"You know what they say - it's like a balloon, one good prick and it's gone
forever." Her grin grew even wider. "Doesn't even have to be a good prick."
"Took out an entire troop of Girl Scouts last summer. They was campin' at Big
Bear Mountain. Tasted like cookies," the dirty vamp offered.
"Chocolate mint or shortbread?" the lamia asked.
Pedophilia had never been Spike's scene, so he flashed the dirty vamp an ugly look
and moved a few inches further down the bar. The smell was as bad as the
sentiment. Being dead was no excuse for poor personal hygiene, or fucking
children. A vampire had to have at least a couple of rules. Keeping clean was one
of Spike's oldest, while not feeding off children was a recent development. If the
rules accumulated with age, given a hundred more years he'd be the same uptight
prig as Angel. He drank some more beer to wash the idea out of his mouth, and
watched the hands on the clock move with geological slowness.
The dirty vamp was staring at him. Spike stared at the television, which was now
showing a beer commercial with half-naked women playing volleyball. It was one
of his favorites.
"Don't give me that, looking at me like I'm dogshit."
"I wasn't lookin' at you, mate, wouldn't waste my time,"
"Think you're better than me?"
"No, I know I'm better than you. Now why don't you fuck off?" Spike asked in
what he thought was a reasonable tone.
"No fighting," the lamia warned.
"Who's fightin'?" Spike asked as Dirty Vamp rushed at him, right into Spike's
suddenly outstretched fist, managed to cold-cock himself and went down in a
puddle of beer.
The vamp swore and struggled when Spike planted a foot square in the middle of
his rag-covered torso.
"You see," Spike told the vamp on the floor, "It's no bloody fun when you're dealin'
wiv' somethin' younger an' weaker than yourself."
"Get staked!" The vamp on the floor fang-faced and tried to snap at Spike's ankle.
"Listen, Sunshine, I been dead longer'n you were alive, an' it's generally not a real
good idea to be fuckin' with the older ones, right?" Spike took another drink of beer
and sighed. "That's free advice. Next time you're on a one-way ticket to the
The vamp scrambled out from underneath Spike's now-lifted foot and stood, palefaced
and smelly, glaring at Spike with yellow eyes.
"Fucking human toy," the dirty vamp sprayed saliva over most of the clean bar top
as it lisped between its filthy fangs.
"Scuse me," Spike reached around the lamia, who was greedily watching the
spectacle, and grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey from the shelves behind. "You
don't deserve the good stuff."
Moving fast, Spike brought the bottle down on Dirty Vamp's head, giving it the
closest thing it might have had to a bath since it had been turned. The vamp
blinked glass and booze at him, just in time to see Spike light a match from one of
Lovecraft's free matchbooks. The vamp made a merry yellow flame as it shrieked
and batted at itself. From the back of the room, Spike could hear a smattering of
laughter, and a couple rounds of applause, which was quickly lost as the burning
vamp ran for the door, trailing greasy black smoke and a foul smell.
"You got serious problems with your social skills," the lamia remarked.
"Nah, got serious problems with babyfuckers who don't wash," Spike said with the
fervor of the born again and turned back to his beer.
The clock on the wall beckoned to him.
Fuck, five to twelve. He was late. Throwing a couple of bills down on the bar, he
bolted for the door at a dead run.
Things change. Two months before he wouldn't have been running through the
nighttime streets of Sunnydale trying to beat the clock. Two months before he was
living and breathing on the ancient sands of Egypt while he and Buffy tried to beat
an Egyptian vampire-goddess. Now he was trying to beat a curfew.
"Sorry. Sorry, got tied up," he blathered as he stumbled into the kitchen.
Buffy was already tricked out in her Slaygear, bag o'goodies over her shoulder and
expensive little boots on her feet. She was frowning at him. That cute little line
between her brows wasn't so cute all of a sudden.
"You're only ten minutes late, that's a new personal best for you," Buffy said and
the frown turned into a lopsided little grin.
He realized she was teasing him, and it was still a new enough occurrence for
Spike to be mildly surprised.
"Dawn's watching TV. I told her she could stay up until one. No later, if she tells
you later she's lying."
"I heard that!" Dawn bellowed from the living room.
"I should be back at three," Buffy added as she moved towards the door.
"Anything I should know about?"
"There's a vamp, didn't get his name, smells somethin' 'orrible, sportin' a somewhat
charred overcoat. You might want to get him, he won't be movin' terrible fast."
"I'll remember that," she said and raised an eyebrow. "And you had something to
do with it?"
"Me? Don't fret, it'll be a quiet night. Anythin' worth fightin' is out with their
She was halfway out the door before she stopped. "Spike, if anything--"
"Like a crazy goddess with bad fashion sense shows up? Yeah, I'll beep you.
He found Dawn sitting on the floor, watching TV and painting her toenails bilious
green. Flopping on the sofa, Spike put his feet on the coffee table.
"So what's on the agenda, Niblet?"
"You missed the Behind the Music special on Citalia."
"My heart bleeds. What's so special about her anyway? Just another record
company wench, if you ask me. Her and Britney an' Christina an' Mandy, they just
grow 'em like tomatoes in Van Nuys or somethin'"
"And you know all their names because?" Dawn turned and gave him a superior
look, flicking her hair back over her shoulder. "Fascinated by skinny blondes
"I am a skinny blond," he protested lamely, knowing that he didn't have any
clothes that the Little Bad could blackmail out of him. "An' a vampire's got to keep
up w'the times or he goes all wiggy and Bram Stoker."
Leaping up from the floor, Dawn padded over to the sofa on her green-tipped feet.
"And you'd rather be out doing vampire things tonight instead of being here with
me. Babysitting," she frowned a very Buffy-like frown.
"Pure torture this is," he agreed. "Now be a good little corpuscle and get Uncle
Spike one of them blood bags out of the 'fridge."
Life, Buffy thought to herself, was pretty weird. Even by her standards. It took
some pinching to believe that she was going out on patrol while Spike was Dawnsitting.
Not that she had a lot of choices in the matter. No one but Spike had the
slightest chance of standing up to Glory. Besides, ever since her mother had died,
Spike had been flitting in the background, watching Dawn, appearing after dark
with groceries, changing the oil in the Jeep, and pretty much moving into the
basement. When had that happened? She still wasn't sure. It seemed that one day
there were Spike clothes hanging on a pole and the fold-out sofa was pulled out
and made up. If any of her friends knew, they hadn't said anything. There had
been no late-night forays into her bedroom, which was just as well. She hadn't
exactly been in the mood.
And there had been Angel. Dark and sweet and confusing. Flirting with evil and
evil was batting its eyelashes right back, according to Cordy, but he'd been the
same big solid wall she remembered when he came to Sunnydale for the funeral.
So many things had changed - she almost wished she could freeze herself in time
like him. Eternal guilt might be a fair trade for knowing what to expect.
On the corner of Main and Church, Buffy smelled something nasty. A dark shape
was headed down Main, limping somewhat. A definite eau du barbecue was
wafting from it. Her Slayer Sense pinged and she moved closer.
Buffy was in the mood for violence. She'd been tired, depressed, and anticipating
Glory around every corner. Under the circumstances, killing bad things was more
de-stressing than bubble bath. At least Dawn wouldn't be demanding her turn.
"Hey, stinky-pants!" she called out as she approached.
The vampire - there was no doubt in her mind that it was one - turned and glared
at her, then fright-faced to give the glare more force. "You're out too late, little
girl," he snarled.
She waved a hand in front of her face as if warding off the smell. "Listen, did you
even bathe before you were turned? 'Cause if you're worried about the whole
running water thing, I can assure you -"
The vamp lunged at her. Guess he wasn't interested in proper hygiene. Right foot
in the stomach, sending him staggering back. Left uppercut, right roundhouse.
Twist and leap and turn; he's too tall to flip with an elbow around his neck, so
another flurry of punches, kick and kick again, once more for good luck, okay
twice more. The vamp was on the ground, moaning and clutching at some body
part she'd broken, and he was totally disappointing, had no play value
Yawning, Buffy rummaged in her bag for a stake. She didn't want to kneel on the
dirty pavement in her pink silk shantung capri pants, so she just threw it
downwards and stood back as Mr. Smelly exploded into equally smelly dust.
She was unhappy to find that she'd thrown the stake hard enough to blunt the tip on
the underlying concrete.
Continued in Part 2