Daisee Chain CELERITER VADENDUM, ACRITER SAGITTANDUM

LISTLESS



"Better?"

"Miles. Ta mate."

Soldier boy sighs. "I'm not your mate. Stop calling me that."

"Sure thing love."

"Don't even... That's not funny Spike. Just cut it out or I'll take the damn thing back."

"You wouldn't dare. Do-gooder like yourself needs to look after the underprivileged.'

"In what dimension are you considered underprivileged?"

"This one, where it's cold and I don't have my own blood supply to keep me nice and warm, and I'm no longer capable of making my own meals."

"You just described half of America."

"Your point?"

"My point is that you're excessively privileged. What with the never dying, and the Energizer Bunny good looks that just keep going and going, and the Supermannish strength. If we were still in High School, you'd be the rich kid driving the Porsche your Daddy bought you for your 17th, and the rest of us would be the ones taking the school bus."

"You still are on that bus."

"Give me my hand warmer back."

"No. I'm finally getting all warm and toasty here and you're not..."

He's stopped walking now. Too busy watching me dance dementedly over the sidewalk.

"You ok?"

"Nipples on fire!  Nipples on fire!" I yell as I clutch desperately at my top. I put my hand inside my shirt and fish for the offending item.

"That's not information I want." He grimaces as he shrinks back involuntarily.

"I'm in PAIN damn it!"

"Spike, you're supposed to sit the hand warmer on top of your shirt, not next to your bare skin. Those things can burn, you know."

"I can feel that, you condescending little git! Help me get the damn thing out or you'll have Vampire En Flambé!"

"No way. I'm ready and willing to help out on a lot of weird shit. I draw the line at groping inside a dead guy's shirt."

I get hold of the bastard hot pack at last and fling it against the nearest wall. It bursts open on impact, spilling hundreds of warm beads, which make little dents as they melt the snow where they land.

He looks mournfully at the remains of his Japanese shake and heat pocket warmer.

"Those things aren't cheap you know."

"Yes they are."

"Well, alright, they are," he concedes, "but don't destroy any more. I need them to keep my hands warm, and I didn't bring too many with me."

"Don't know why we have to be here anyway. It's freezing, and it's boring. The most interesting thing here is you. Which just goes to prove how sad my existence is now. I'm the second saddest git in the whole world."

He's walking away from me again.

"The saddest git is you, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't."

"Why do we have to be here, anyway?" I call after his retreating back.

"Because this is where it is." His words float back to me on icy wind.

I stare for a moment at Xander fading into the night, then make up my mind.

"Sod this. I'm going for a drink."

I head back to the township we left 10 minutes ago, where beer and central heating are options. That's more like.





Yesterday it was minus 47 degrees. That's fucking cold. Mind you, so's this beer, which makes a change. Round here, if you stick things in the fridge, it warms them up. Maybe I should do that with Harris. He's put on a bit of weight, but he might still fit if I pushed his head to his chest, wrapped his arms round him and...

I'm nearly blinded by a neon yellow vest as its wearer heads to the bar. Makes it safer in the snow I suppose, but a fellow could get himself bit wandering round in attention grabbing outfits like that. Right on cue, my stomach growls. Canary bloke looks like a construction worker. He's unlikely to have any dirt to dish on the demon we're here to find, but you never know.

"Harris." I wait for a reply but nothing happens. When I look at him I can see why. He's half asleep. There's a candle, burning on the table, which would nicely set his sleeves on fire.

As fast as I think it, I forget it. There will be no torture here today, more's the pity.

It's more force of habit these days, anyway. Even if I could get up the enthusiasm I couldn't carry it off. Fucking chip.

"Oi!" I practically yell in his ear, and poke him in the ribs at the same time. He tries to kick me under the table, and punch me simultaneously, but his response is even slower than usual, alcohol owing, so I manage to evade both actions by just leaning a little. He starts toppling forward a bit, but gets hold of the table in time, and hangs onto it for dear life. Drowning man clutching at huge hunks of wood, and all that.

I redirect his attention from his life raft.

"Just arrived. Can't miss him. Wearing a neon overcoat."

Xander squints into the dim close up.

"Yeah. See him. So what?"

It takes me a second to realize he really doesn't comprehend what I mean. He's more ripped than I thought.

"Looks like a construction type. Go chat him up."

"You do it."

Just what we all need, Sulky Alexander. What would Buffy do with him if she were here? She's not here. And little Harris never followed me round like a puppy, the way he did for her. Prob'ly just as well. Would've kicked him in the ribs if he had.

"You do it. We need information. You're far more likely to get it out of him than I am. Who knows? Maybe you'll end up with a contract as well?"

He looks at me suspiciously. May have overdone the pleasantries there. But after a moment, he slowly stands up and heads to the bar. Can't stand watching him, so I go back to my drink. He's a dull boy these days.

I drain my beer. It slides down my throat, bitter and slightly thickened from the cold. If I close my eyes and imagine real hard, I can almost taste the blood. It's a grotesque parody of feeding. I'm a grotesque parody of a vampire. I open my eyes again, to see Harris alone at the bar. Big bird has flown, probably scared off by the fumes coming from our boy. Our best chance in days shot. Bloody Hell.

Nothing else for it then.

I head upstairs to the bedroom where the telly is. Maybe Passions will be on.







It's half past 16 smokes before he fumbles at the door. I know he can't get the key in the lock but I'm disinclined to help. He lost our lead, damn him.

Well, potential lead. At least, more of a lead than anyone else round here had. You'd think the witch could've given us a bit more direction. A map would've been good. X marks the apocalypse demon, that sort of thing. Alaska's a bloody big place, after all.

The door judders open and he stumbles in. He hasn't opened it fully, so it swings back into him as he walks through, and he nuts it with his head. Unintentionally, but still good for a laugh.

I'm still smiling when he looks up and notices me.

"What?"

Answering would require talking. I don't want to talk with him. Besides, there's a rerun of 'The Bold and The Beautiful' on the telly, so I return my attention to that.

In the periphery of my vision I'm aware of him collapsing onto his bed. And isn't that just bloody charming? Stuck together in the only room available in this tin pot town.

"You stink. Put out your damn cigarette."

"Make me." I respond automatically. He's probably right though. I should probably put it out. The ash isn't falling, it's just clinging to its original shape, hanging onto the filter - the ghost of a cigarette that hasn't realized it's dead.

My, aren't I just full of sappy bloody metaphors tonight?

Harris has rolled over toward the wall. I wait till I hear him snore, then put out my smoke on the floor. It marks the bleached pinewood floor, so I put my shoe on it and smear the burnt tar as much as I can. Impotent vampire needs to get his kicks where he can. So I'm petty, so what? There's precious few thrills left for me now, aren't there?








So tomorrow's here and it's the same as yesterday. There's still snow outside. It's still fucking freezing. There's still no bloody demon.

What kind of self-respecting demon would come here anyway? There're no other demons, and barely a human population to speak of, you'd just be all alone out there, with no one to kick around. No one to bother you. No one... Ok, yeah, maybe I can see an attraction after all.

Get boring after a while though. Being alone.

And there's a thought I don't want to get too close to.

The plan for today is to reconnoiter the old fashioned way. Walk round a bit. See if we can spot the bugger. One slight flaw in the plan; Harris isn't here. He's already at the bar again. Maybe we should just move his bed in there.







The bartender turns to look at me as I enter the room, and Harris follows his movement, slowly and raggedly. He's having problems keeping his focus and staying upright at the same time. I don't think I've ever seen him this drunk. It's not as funny as I thought it would be.

Buffy... Buffy would be... displeased. I get an odd feeling at the idea of her displeasure. At Xander for getting himself into that state, at me for letting him get to that point. At both of us, for not working like a team. We've let her down. The one thing I swore I'd never do again.

So I have a choice then. I can leave him as he is, and let the world literally go to hell, or I can rescue him. Some choice. But I know which one Buffy would want, which one would give her some peace of mind. So here we go.

Harris looks back at his glass. I'm expecting him to throw back what's left in one hit. Instead, he startles me, and the rest of the barflies, by throwing the glass at me. I duck, of course, and it hits the doorframe behind me, shattering cold crystal and spreading warm liquid over the décor, which really only improves the place, far as I'm concerned.

The bartender's moving toward him, which given his current mood, could be lethal, though for whom I'm not certain. I hold up a hand, indicating I'm going to take care of everything.

"Never enough!" Harris suddenly yells, in that universal self-righteous way of drunks in every dimension. "It's never enough! No matter how many damn monsters we kill, there's always another one next month, or tomorrow, or yester.. no, or lasts week.

"Do you know why we're here?" He's screaming at the bar in general now. "We're going to save your worthless, useless... lives so you can sit around drinking some more, and wasting your lives away in front of TV! " He slumps back on his chair, and adds sulkily, "And you won't even thank us."

Harris' colour matches the red napkins. I'm a bit worried about him. If he's not careful he'll have a stroke or somethin' else nasty. And he's giving away all our secrets, which could be just as dangerous. Luckily most of the locals seem determined to ignore him.

I wait for him to stop yelling and settle into muttering before I move, quickly, to him. I pick him up and hoist him over my shoulder. I have to get him out of this room. Just as I reach the broken, glittering glass at the door, and pause to make sure I won't crack his head against the frame, he repays me by throwing up on the back of my best shirt.

"Fuck." I say, with feeling, before moving on. It's the only response really.

NUMB




Nothing. Nothing, nothing, and still more bloody nothing. I think Red got her co-ordinates wrong. Wherever this damn Arosh demon bloke is, it isn't here. There's no tracks, no scent, no lair, no gossip from the inmates of this asylum called a town, no handily stowed corpses indicating demon activity. Either this demon's good enough to get a job with the CIA, or it's not here.

And I need blood. We've been here three days and I haven't fed. With a population this small it's not like I can just pick some up from the local butchers, and not have it noticed. I would ask young Alexander but he's about 90 proof these days. He's still not hungover from last night. Not what I need, to be drunk on a hunt.

Oh hell. Maybe it is what I need. Make me feel better and numb at the same time. He's far enough gone he might accept the offer without thinking. Little blood loss might even make him feel something. S'worth a try anyway.

I trudge up the bleached pinewood stairs and burst in to our shared bleached pinewood room, only to discover he's not here. I back out, closing the bleached pinewood door behind me.

I head back to the ground floor, open the bleached pinewood door, and look for him at his usual spot in the bleached pinewood bar, resolving to vandalize the place with some paint before I leave. Bloody Scandinavian minimalism. No wonder everyone here is depressed and drinking. Harris is strangely absent from the bar.






The receptionist isn't much help. "Try down the road at the café. Only other place he might be. Not much to do round here really."

"You don't say." I respond dryly, before heading out. I know he won't have gone to the café, there's nothing for him there.

Feels strange outside, like the calm before a storm. Yeah, just like before a... Ah, shit. There's a storm on the way in the Arctic Circle, and Harris is out in it somewhere. Just like him to decide that now's a good time to get started on the hunt. Boy always did have the worst sense of timing possible. So there's nothing else for it but to walk round in circles looking for him.

It doesn't take long. There isn't much of this town. He's behind the hotel. Sitting on a dumpster. Sitting on a metal dumpster, in minus 35 degrees, without a hat, or gloves, or coat. I don't need superior senses to see that he's rapidly turning blue.

What the hell is this? First he drinks himself into a stupor, now he's freezing himself to death. What the hell does he expect me to do, come and rescue him every five minutes?

Everything suddenly flashes into place inside my brain. Maybe it's the cold out here, but for the first time since we got here I'm thinking clearly, and I realise he doesn't expect me to rescue him at all.

First the drinking, and now, sitting out here, as his body, then mind, slowly go numb. The blood slowing down. The heart rate getting weaker. The breathing getting shallower, till he can't feel anything anymore. Anything so he doesn't have to feel anymore.

Have to say I'm surprised. I didn't think he had it in him. Suicide's not an easy choice. Not that he's really taking the bull by the horns. He keeps trying the slow, less painful ways, instead of taking the direct approach.

Ha! Here I was dreaming up ways to torture him, and I needn't have bothered. He's been doing it to himself well enough, thank you. Mind you, could've given him a few handy hints and tips if he'd asked. Slicing a nice sharp meat cleaver through those lovely thick veins on the inside of his wrist'll do the job nicely, and allow me to dine well afterward. Said I was gonna' get you, didn't I kid? Not quite how I'd expected things to turn out, all those years ago, but you have to make the best of what you've got.

He hasn't looked at me. I've been standing, staring at him for a good five minutes, and I don't think he even knows I'm here. It won't take long. Give him another 30 minutes out here, and he'll be gone, and I won't have even had to lift a finger. Well, maybe just one, by way of a goodbye gesture.

For the first time I study him. He's never been of any real interest before, a sideshow for the main attraction. His shoulders are hunched, his hair longer than I remember seeing it before. His skin, before it was snap frozen, was sallow. There's four days worth of growth there too. Four days ago was the last time he saw the little witch. So, she was taking care of him then. Presumably when Buffy died, he stopped taking care of himself. And Red knew that. Which is why she sent him with me. Because she can't take care of him, and Dawn, and Tara, and the coming showdown at the same time. Because I can take care of him, and because... ah hell. I should've seen this bloody well coming. She knows I'll take care of him because of Buffy. Because it's what Buffy would've wanted. I've been outmaneuvered. She's becoming a manipulative little bitch. I'm impressed.

It's what Buffy would've wanted, and what Buffy would've wanted, she'll get. She'll never know, but that's not the point.

I fucking hate this. I'm torn between the amusement of watching him die, and honouring her memory. Even dead she manages to suck all the joy out of my life. For the second time today, I heave the great lump that is Alexander Harris over my shoulder, and start heading for our room.

"Gotta stop doing this," I mutter to my comatose cargo, "People'll start talking 'bout us."








When we get back to the room, I realise I have no idea what to do now. I've never needed to resuscitate a dying man. Just the opposite in fact. Usually couldn't wait for them to kick the bucket. I suppose I should call a doctor, but that would just lead to all sorts of fun questions I have no intention of answering. I readjust his weight while I'm thinking about this. He's no featherweight anymore, not like the first night I met him.

What to do? What to do? Don't hypothermia victims need to be warmed up slowly? Wait, isn't there something about warming the corpsicles through bodily contact? Sod that. For the first time since we arrived in the deep freeze, I'm glad I don't have any body heat of my own to share. I am not getting naked with Soldier Boy.

I dump him on his bed, turn on his electric blanket, then look round for something to warm him up with, and see the bag of hand warmers he brought with him. They'll have to do. I start ripping the plastic off the little parcels, shaking them furiously, and throwing them in around him. I throw a few extra in round his feet and head, for good measure. Then I think maybe his feet would warm up faster if I took his boots off, so I rip the laces out, yank off the boots, and throw them in a corner. His feet stink. Even a human would complain. But I have no one to complain to, so I just rearrange the heat packs to be closer to his feet. The things we do for our dead friends. I pull the covers over him, along with the ones from my bed, and the extra ones in the cupboard. That's about all I can do till he recovers, for which he'll no doubt be entirely ungrateful, so I head to my bed, turn on the telly, and light up. Nothing to do now but wait.

ANGER




Whazzat? Wha? Who's throwing sodding pillows at me?

Mmph. Bloody Boy!. Keep your pillows to yourself.

I hurl the damn thing back at him full force. It hits him smack in the face. If looks could kill that one still couldn't have hurt me. One of the advantages of being dead.

"What'cha do that for?" I grizzle, only it comes out a little rough. For some reason my throat feels scratchy.

"Stop screaming."

"I was never..."

"You were. They probably heard you down at reception. I'm just surprised no one's knocked on the door to check we're both ok. And why are all my heat packs used up?"

"Well you seem to be alright now. Enjoy your little near death experience? Wanna' buy a second ride? And they haven't checked because they think you're my catamite and we were having fun. And I used up the heat packs trying to make sure you didn't succeed."

He evades my questions with one of his own. "Your what?"

"Your... You know what? Work it out for yourself. Or better yet, look it up. You do own a dictionary, don't you? Or did you give it away with all your other worldly goods."

"Since when have you been concerned with my welfare? Would it have hurt you to look the other way for once?" He seems genuinely pissed. "And work what out? I have no idea..."

His face is turning an interesting shade of purple.

"You let them think..."

"Steady on. I implied no such thing. If anybody got their tongues wagging it was you. Constantly getting yourself nearly killed, making me rescue you. I'm not the missing member of Thunderbirds you know." To prove my point, I hunt round on the floor for my Nicotine of Life. "This place is so boring, the next shipment of beer is probably the most interestin' thing they've got to discuss usually. We're more interesting than beer, even without the scandal." I pause to light up. "Well, I am anyway."

Couple of deep inhalations. I'm not sure why I keep this up. I have no circulation, so it has no effect on me. But it's good at keeping people at arms length, and helps with the tough guy image. Also, it annoys the hell out of my roommate, so that's good. "And, yes, by the way. It would have hurt me. Your little witch would've had my eyes out with a spoon."

"You were still screaming."

Bugger. I was hoping he'd leave it alone. But of course he won't. It's not in his nature. He got his life so messed up in the first place because he couldn't leave well enough alone. Pining like a puppy, following round a cute girl. When he'd found out she could snap him like a dry twig, any sane guy would've left. But no. He kept following her in the hope that one day she'd see she really needed him. Not that I can throw stones on the topic of masochistic crushes...

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Were. You. Screaming?"

"You know why. Drop it."

"She never loved you."

"Nor you."

"She never could have loved you."

"You neither."

"I'm human."

"That's not why she couldn't love you. She has a thing for us bad guys. Thought you would've figured it out by now."

"Just because she was in love with Angel doesn't mean they would all..."

"Oh come off it." I wait for him to get the point, but he's obviously been hit in the head once too often. "Angel, Parker, even the farm boy had his dark side. And don't think I didn't hear about that fling with fish boy from the swim team. Think about it. None of them would ever get the 'Mothers of America' Seal of Approval." Yeah, I'm needling him. So what?

"So, she liked bad boys, that..."

"Men little Alex. She liked bad men."

"So what are you saying?" He growls, and I swear I can see a backbone evolving even as he speaks.

"I'm sayin', little boy, that you wouldn't have measured up for years yet. Still got a lot of growin' up to do."

"I'm..."

"Weren't man enough for her."

For a dying man, he's a fast mover. The pain in my skull radiates out, and I swear I can feel it in every hair. "Mr. Nice Guy" Alexander slams my head back into the wall again. And again. And...

I ride it out. Truth told, it's the first time I've felt anything in weeks, and he has no idea how much trouble he's in right now, or he wouldn't be doing it. He's moving on reflex. I could fight back, but the chip would prob'ly kick in. And a wounded, cornered animal will fight to the death anyway. Better for us both to just let him run out of energy. Besides, even if it is his fault, Willow'd kill me if I hurt him. And I don't just mean metaphorically. Can't tell any of them of course, but she's starting to scare me just a bit.

Recognition kicks in at last. I can smell the chemicals in his body shift gear from anger to fear. The adrenalin rush is finally working on his brain, and he's thinking fast now. He has me by the throat with both hands. He has a vampire by the throat with both hands. I don't need to tell him he's in trouble, he already knows. Chip or no chip, I could find a way to settle this score.

He may not have got that far yet, but he's thinking fast about the best way out of this. I don't say anything, just put my hand around his, around my own throat. There's a sheen on his forehead. Sweat seeping out of his pores, scented with his anger, resentment, nausea, and, finally, terror. Took you long enough, you little wanker.

My hand is still on his. I squeeze. Not hard enough to set off the chip, just real friendly like, just enough to remind him of my strength. I expect his grip to ease off, and for him to put some distance between us.

I don't expect the blunt agony of impact as his head slams into mine.

I only realize I've changed faces when he tries to bolt back from me. I've still got him by his hands though, so he just ends up tearing his shoulder muscles, and this time the pain in my head really is from the chip.

As we both collapse groaning on the floor I wonder briefly where the hell he learnt to head butt like that? Oh yeah. Must stop watching the footie in front of him. Obviously a bad influence.

At least he's finally let go. He's sprawled on his backside, looking like the idiot he is. The remains of my smoke are stuck to the bottom of his shoe, where he stood on it, after I dropped it in the scuffle. I let him lie there for a few minutes recovering, before I try and say something encouraging to smooth over the awkward silence.

"First time I've seen you move that fast in weeks."

Ok. Judging by the seething on his face that was the wrong thing to say. I stand up, wait for him to do the same. And wait, and wait.

Jesus. You try and help a guy out occasionally...

He just stays on the floor, glaring randomly at objects in the room. Looking anywhere but at me, making noises like a steam engine. Why she wanted a useless sod like that as her friend, I'll never understand.

I grab my leather jacket off the chair and pull it on. "If you need me, you know where to find me. Outside in the fucking snow." The door closes on my last word. I have no idea if he stood up or not, but I can't afford to worry about that anymore. If we don't find this demon by tomorrow we won't be back in time to avert the apocalypse of the week. Which I'm told is a bad thing.

ACCEPTANCE




And now I'm the one standing out in the snow, watching nothing. I stopped off at the bar on the way out and picked up a bottle of JD. If I could have had a heart attack at the price, I would have. Guess that's what you get for living in the middle of nowhere. Lucky then that I didn't have to pay for it. The bar was locked, so I broke in and took it.

What? I said I'd never let Buffy down again. Didn't say I was gonna' walk the straight 'n' narrow for her, did I?

Days like these, you wonder why you bother. I'm not even sure what drives me anymore, apart from the fact that I can't actually die. If there's one thing worse than living forever, it's living forever when there's no one else left alive. Probably the most boring thing ever.

I think, but don't put me on record here, that I maybe got into the habit, when I started hanging off the Scoobies coat tails, of saving the world. Kind of fun even, sometimes. So I'd probably do it anyway, just because I have nothing better to do, now that I can't rip them to pieces. Mugging them just wasn't the same. Felt more like a petty thief than a vicious killer, the few times I tried. It was just too damn depressing. So, I helped out. Beat up the baddies, sharpened weapons, taught them a few moves even the Watcher didn't know.

Now of course, there're other reasons. Nibblet, Red, Tara, and yes, even the Watcher, and the Suicide Boy. After all, they're all that's left of her.

Well, apart from the Big Poof, and obviously I'm not about to go running to him.

But it's like, when she broke apart, she shattered, and all these little shards of her drove deep home, into them, into their fragile flesh and bone. She's embedded in each of them, and sometimes, when the light's just right, I catch her reflection from one of them. And when I turn my head to try and see her better, she's gone. I keep trying anyway. She's in there somewhere, in each of them, and if I let even one of them Fall, there's even less of her left.

A smell wafts up the snowdrift behind me, curls round me and tightens, like a rope. Buffy. But when I turn, it's only Harris. He's holding something out to me, his arm shaking from the pain in his shoulder.

"It's yours, take it."

I study it through narrowed eyes.

"Just take it, will you? It's not poisoned or anything, except, hey! That would've been a good idea."

Sounds like old Xander, moves like old ...

"You couldn't have saved her you know."

I turn away from him, ignoring the peace offering. I put the bottle on the ground, fish around in my pockets for my cigs, light one up. He moves up beside me, almost stealthily. Maybe he has been paying attention to his lessons after all.

"We've all gone over it, I don't know how many times now, and there's no way any of us could have saved her. You were there for her when she needed you though. And that's got to count for something, right?"

Out of the corner of my eye I see flashes of purple and red dance across the sky. Aurora. He tilts his head, watching wide-eyed in wonder, his throat completely exposed.

For a while we just stand there, him watching the pretty lights, me watching the puffs of breath curl outwards from his mouth, and the pulse in his neck, knowing that it jumped a bit every time she passed him by.

"Quit staring at my veins and look at the lights. How often are you going to get the chance to see this?" His tone is resigned and slightly bitter, but not hateful. There's no spite or malice in it.

"I'd say quite often, if you lot don't stake me first chance you get."

"No." He sighs. "Sadly, and as much as I want to, it's never going to happen."

"Yeah? Why's that then?"

"Because you look after Dawn. And she's all we've got left."

I look sharply at his face. He's still wide eyed, a picture of chubby, naiive, middle class America. It's all a facade, of course. He doesn't give a monkey's about the lights. It's just one more item to tick off a 'to-do-before-I-die' list he keeps somewhere. And two days ago, he didn't think the auroras would get ticked off that list.

Buffy's scarf is still twisted tightly round his palm. I hold out my hand for it. He looks at me, unwinds it, and hesitantly hands it over, as if he's feeding sugar lumps to a horse for the first time. I take it gently. Really don't need to be scaring him off again.

There's the sound of more footsteps to our right, but it turns out to be a couple of the townsfolk, out to enjoy the view. After a while we're joined by a few more, then some more. "Not much to do round here." Right.

The show is astounding. Truly. And I've seen some sights in my time, so I know what I'm talking about. If I worked for a hundred years I don't think I could accurately capture in words, the beauty in that sky. A rainbow of lights are dancing and singing, shining like silk ribbons. And it's colder than ice out here. Huh. Perfect description of Buffy, really.

I lean down, intending to pick up the booze, and catch sight of a pair of feet that can't belong to any of the townsfolk. Bloody well hope they don't, anyway. They're massive, with long, purple toenails, and shaggy hair everywhere. I look slowly to the top of the creature. It's looking right at me, purple eyes watching me carefully. I put the bottle back down. Its eyes follow the bottle. I pick the bottle back up. Its sight doesn't leave the bottle. Experimentally, I hold the bottle out toward the... thing.

It lopes slowly and silently over to us. I straighten up, nudge Xander, and nod in the direction of what I now think is our demon, just so he doesn't shriek when it pulls up alongside. He starts slightly, but doesn't make a sound. Growing up on the Hellmouth'll teach you a thing or two about discretion.

Not that it really matters anyway, because as it arrives, it lets out a loud gurgling, rasping yell. I look round to see if the other sightseers have noticed. Of course they have. Oddly though, most of them went quickly back to their viewing of the night sky, and the few that are still looking in our direction are glaring in what seems like annoyance. I'd expected them to be fleeing in terror about now. Instead, they look like librarians who've just tracked down the source of all that noise in the stacks. One of them actually lifts up his finger to his mouth and mimes "shhh". I look back at the Arosh, whom I could swear looks chastened. It lets out another gurgle, only this time very quietly. It's obviously meant as an apology, as our friends the librarians nod and turn back to the lights. So. Looks like he is known around these parts after all.

Xander's pulling on my sleeve and nodding at Arosh. "Spike, that's..."

"Yeah. Know who it is. I'm dead, not blind." I hold the bottle out again. "Care for a drink?" I ask it.

It nods, takes the bottle, and a swig from it. An idea takes me.

"You, uh, you like JD?" It blinks at me and nods. With a mournful expression, it mimes cash and empty pockets, which surprises me. Nothing in the bleeding Watcher's diaries told us the damn thing was intelligent.

"Er, right. You wanna trade?"







It takes a few minutes of miming before we discover it can actually speak, after a fashion. Once conversation is possible, the deal is quick and simple. Arosh is perfectly happy to trade a tooth for a few more bottles of JD. Apparently the townfolks' tolerance doesn't extend to allowing him into the bar. Something to do with hygiene codes. I don't know, don't care really either. What I do care about, is that we've been blundering around this bollixing place for four days now, like Laurel and bleedin' Hardy, and all we really needed to do was leave out some booze with a note on it. Just like Santy Clause, if Santa was purple, and furry, and had sharp fangs.

The three of us stand there, watching the lights, for a few minutes, Arosh chugging away quietly on his blessed liquor, which immediately puts him up in my estimation. Gotta admire a man... person... thing who can handle his liquor. There's snuffling and sneezing coming from next to me, and it's not from Arosh. Xander's well on his way to a chill again. And still he stands out here. Because that's what he does. He stands firm, even when everything's going to hell around him.

Yeah, well, there can be other reasons for admiring a man.

I'm careful not to sound too concerned. Wouldn't want him to think I was going soft on him. "You want to take care of that cold Xander."

"Didn't know you cared."

"I don't. But Willow and L'il Bit'd kill me if I let anything happen to you."

He looks slyly at me. "Yeah. Willow and Dawn. You're right. They are tough."

"Wouldn't be so dismissive of Willow if I were you. Girl's meddling with things best left untouched."

"Like the fate of the world?"

I roll my eyes. "No need to be sarcastic."

He sneezes, then coughs again. "Well, we've got this thing now." he says holding up the tooth we came here for. "No reason to stay." He looks up at the lights again. "Sooner we get back, the sooner we can save the world."

"Again."

"Yeah."

"Ever wonder why you're still doing it?"

"You know why. Drop it." He mimics my voice.

I look at the scarf I'm still clutching, and frown. I hold it out. He looks at it, and shakes his head.

"Keep it. It's yours."

"She gave it to you."

"Not exactly."

"What'd you do, steal it from her room?"

He looks me straight in the face. "Yeah."

I snigger, but I also understand. "What little you can have of her, eh?"

"Something like that."

"You should still have it anyway. She chose you. As a friend I mean."

"Nah. Keep it. I took another one."

Laughter wells up through me and I can't contain it. I'm howling. Little sod. Never can trust an honest man.

He chuckles, then sobers. "We going or what? My toes are going numb. Again."

"Alright then. Give us a minute." From my left pocket, I pull out the blue touch paper Red gave us, and light it. If she's done her homework, the spell written on the paper should whisk us right out of Alaska, and back to Kansas. Well, California, at any rate.

We watch it burn for a few seconds, then wave goodbye to Arosh, who salutes us with his nearly empty bottle, before staggering off into the darkness.

Nothing happens, Nothing continues to happen. Nothing keeps happening. I'm getting bored. I look at Harris. "Did you ever see that pink G-string she used to wear?"

Just as his fist swings toward me, there's a flash from the touch paper, and the world begins to spin around us. The last sights I catch from Alaska are some really spectacular lights.




Finis.