Finding William Pratt by Verity Watson

Chapter #1 - Ch. 1: The Bridge

Banner by the always amazing always_jbj A/N: This is a sequel to Meet the Pratts, also archived here. If you haven't read the previous installment, here's what you need to know. There may be slayers in this 'verse, but Buffy isn't one. Instead, she's an ordinary girl - an a timid one struggling for enough cash to pay her college tuition - when she meets Spike in LA. They become friends, even though she quickly discovers the reasons for his, er, sun allergy. After one incredible, NC-17 night together, he skips town, leaving her with enough cash to pay for college. This takes place a few years later. She hadn’t gone looking for him. And when she remembered back to that night in the months that followed, she still couldn’t say if she’d expected to walk away in one piece or not. By any measure, she’d been in serious danger. Whether the danger was from her highly inappropriate lover or the rock bottom place that she’d hit, hard to say. What was for certain was that her life had changed dramatically in the weeks and months following their tryst. Buffy Summers today had the same eye color and social security number as that girl from four plus years back, but the similarities pretty much ended with her vital stats. After that night in the alley – or, more precisely, during that night in the alley – Buffy had become bold. Click. Click. Click. Click – click- click. She framed another shot and checked the light. From her perch on the abandoned railway bridge, she had a fantastic vantage point on the remains of a hulking steel mill – an industrial carcass the likes of which she was quickly growing famous for photographing. Her work was edgy – abandoned buildings, lots of alleys and junkies. Anyone could do squalor. Buffy was in demand because she found the pretty in the downtrodden. There was something about her work that was raw. In an interview with a dinky little public radio station before her first show, she said that it was like she lived with her epidermis removed – nerves close to the surface. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she’d thought it was an incredibly stupid and self-absorbed thing to say, but now it was an oft-quoted Buffy-ism, a reason editors cited for hiring her to capture the dismal. Her cell phone chirped mid-shot. “This is Buffy Summers.” “Hey, Buf.” “Wil!” “Whatcha doin’?” “Standing on a rusty old bridge in Pittsburgh.” “I thought you were in Cleveland.” “That was last week. I’m hitting all the garden spots.” “And you’re coming home …” “Depends. If I don’t think there’s enough material, I might head east to Philly. Or even West Virginia.” “Isn’t that west?” “Huh. I guess so. Better check MapQuest.” “Yeah. Anywho, I wanted to tell you that Anya Jenkins Harris from Space Magazine called. Something about a possible photo shoot in New Haven? They’ve got the go-ahead so they want to, well, go ahead during the second week of October.” “That’s two weeks from now.” “I said that. And gave her your cell phone number, so stand by.” “Thanks, Wil. You should be earning commission.” “Nah. Just bring me a bottle cap belt from Little Earth and we’ll be square.” “You got it. I better shutterbug before the light fades. Say hi to Tara for me.” “Okay. Be safe.” “You, too.” *** Back in the day, Willow had wigged. She’d wigged over the check as much as Buffy’s revelation about the night before. All these years later, they were still roommates, if in a better part of town and with a few more square feet. Buffy knew it wouldn’t last – even though it was supremely convenient to have someone collecting her mail while she traveled on assignment – because Willow was in love. And after more than a year, she suspected that phrases like “moving in together” were featuring large in Willow’s pillow talk with her lover. Buffy hadn’t been in love, well, maybe ever. She’d certainly never had a talk about shacking up. Nope. She fell in love with photography and stayed at LA College of the Arts an extra semester to learn her craft. Wasn’t a big deal – she had the money. Not only was the medium incredibly appealing, as it turned out, it paid the bills better than experimental sculpture or performance art. After Riley – and Spike, of course – there had been other men. A banker called Parker, when she was still naïve enough to fall for a line or three. A classmate named Scott Hope – a promising one – until he’d tagged along to one of her photo shoots on the wrong side of town and seemed in serious danger of getting them both killed. Still, her whole life had changed after that night. Spike had given her possibilities with that check, but it was more than just a scholarship to the school of her choice. Pre-Spike, Buffy had been described as petite and pretty, sweet and nice. Not bad things, really. Post-Spike, Buffy heard herself described as hot. It was that knowledge, she thought, of what really earth-shattering sex was like. She got called creative – that was high praise, in her book. She had a little bit of swagger that she stole from her lover. She had enough attitude to be accused of bitchiness now and again. Most importantly? Buffy had not heard “nice” linked with her name in years. She’d traded in KISS FM for stations lower on the dial. Before punk rock had been so much noise. Now she heard the lyrics and understood. Going down down under the sea, I wanna drown drown under the water… Buffy sang along with the soundtrack in her brain as she packed up her equipment and headed off into the city. Even though she was still tiny, no one overlooked her now. To the contrary, she felt eyes following her whenever she entered a room. It was the secrets, she thought, the things that she knew and understood and accepted that made her burn a little brighter than other people. She was changed. She was transformed. And she hadn’t gone looking since that night in the alley, and that was perhaps the most important fact. *** Buffy was holed up in a Holiday Inn Express, thinking about the commercials. “No, no I’m not really an award-winning photographer, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night,” she murmured to herself as she flipped through the digital images she’d captured on her trip. The best part about her job, hands down, was that nearly every commission produced so much raw material that she was rapidly accumulating plenty of stuff for another solo show, if she could only land in LA long enough to get something together. Thanks to her mom’s contacts in the art world, Buffy had been able to sell a few things here and there since she’d figured out how to work her first camera. But there was a big difference between making a living as a hired eye and developing a stellar professional reputation. Funny thing about her medium, really, was that she’d never taken pictures before that class she signed up for on impulse. She’d even avoided those cameras on the tables at weddings, letting someone else take the candids. Now she was making up for lost time. With a sigh, Buffy rolled over on her back, staring at the ceiling. The king sized bed held her laptop and a favorite camera, plus a few cords to make them talk to each other. The past day or two had yielded some good shots, but nothing spectacular. Now she was restless, crazy antsy to get out. It was the way she used to feel when she headed for Caritas, to wait for Willow and hope that Spike would show up for a chat. She grabbed the local indie paper from her bedside table and scanned the events calendar. Traveling solo pushed her to go ahead and walk into clubs and theaters and restaurants as a party of one. She didn’t like it exactly, but she reminded herself that she’d gone to Caritas alone. Pulling on her dark red boots and reaching for her camera bag, Buffy ditched her trusty standby digital camera and stuffed her Holga in the sack. She grabbed the paper and her room key, and headed out the door. As she waited to descend from the 3rd floor to the lobby, she noticed the front page for the first time. The headline screamed. STILL NO LEADS IN STRING OF CO-ED KILLINGS. The elevator doors opened, and Buffy chucked the paper in the trash as she headed out into the night. *** The club was wall-to-wall for a CD release party for some band that was sure to be the next big thing. She’d barely squeezed in and wasn’t sure she’d be able to use the images she captured – there was just no way to talk any of the bodies into signing a photo release. Fortunately, the Holga produced such quirky images it probably wouldn’t matter. Watching the party through her camera lens, Buffy saw it all. The longer the night went on, the more couples she saw. Actually, the longer the night went on, the more improbable couples she noticed. It was always like this, sober and aloof Buffy in a sea full of the unguarded. But tonight – there was tension in the air, something she hadn’t felt before. In the ladies’ room, she overheard two girls wondering why the killer always went for short blonde girls. By the bar, three guys debated when the next body would turn up. One of the girls from the ladies’ room wrapped an arm around the waist of one of the debating guys, and the conversation broke up. *Of course,* Buffy thought. *Even the Court TV obsessed can find true love. But me? Ain’t nobody here but me and my camera.* She headed for the back of the room and took some crowd shots. It would be a murky blur, she knew, but some of those murky blurs ended up being pretty, and one had been used in a Las Vegas casino’s ad campaign. Make that pretty and profitable. She clicked again. There was a minute when she could’ve sworn she caught a flash of peroxide blonde hair on a frame about the right build, but that had become a typical part of her nights out. She’d be convinced she’d found him, hanging out in a dive in Seattle, riding a bar stool in some posh place in San Francisco. But she’d shift and focus and, sure enough, it was some ordinary stranger. Last call came. Buffy decided against sticking around for the bitter end to get the gritty when-the-lights-come-up shots. Or worse, to be tempted by one of the several attractive guys angling to be her next regret. Tonight she was aching more than most nights, and needed to get back to her big empty bed. Alone.

Chapter #2 - Ch. 2: Angry Moon

Banner by the fabulous always_jbj Buffy wandered down Carson Street, the surprisingly hip thoroughfare of Pittsburgh’s South Side. She’d grabbed a latte. The murders had the whole place on edge, and even before lunchtime, she could feel the tension in the air. Now she was looking for inspiration down alleys and in random faces, wondering if the city’s anxiety would spark something her camera could capture. And then a storefront caught her attention, and she couldn’t say why. Among the few commissions she’d ever rejected was a feature from a regional mag on local tattoo artists. Nothing personal against the craft – it just wasn’t something she understood. And the girlie reflexes of Buffy-past still made her shiver to think of needles. So finding herself transfixed by an intricately carved wooden sign above the door to a tattoo parlor? That was surprising. “Angry Moon,” she murmured, reaching out a finger to trace the design repeating on the window and door. The half moon snarled at her, fierce. With a flash, she remembered tracing Spike’s elaborate tattoo on that night. Buffy would later insist that she’d never decided to walk into the parlor; she’d just followed her feet inside. Her fingertips burned as she traced the patterns on display. These weren’t the usual hearts and comic book characters. Truth was, she couldn’t tell what they were or where they came from, but Buffy was quite certain that they were art. Genius, maybe. She recalled the pattern on Spike’s bicep and wondered if it was possible that it had been done here. It seemed like a long shot, but she’d never seen anything quite like it anywhere else. Too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. “Welcome to Angry Moon.” The girl gave Buffy the critical girl-meets-girl once over. But unlike her early days in LA, Buffy knew that she looked the part of an uber-hip chic of the urban persuasion. It wasn’t just her fashionable Planette leather boots and cropped hair cut, but the whole attitude. “Hey.” “So did you have something in mind?” Buffy paused. There was something off about the girl. She was Buffy’s size, Buffy’s age – even had Buffy’s hair color almost. “Maybe. These are different. Your designs?” “My business partner.” A curtain at the back of the shop rustled, catching her attention. “Hello, cutie.” *** Buffy’s jaw dropped. “Veruca, love, it’s about time for a caffeine top-off.” The girl arched an eyebrow, but shoved off for the coffee shop without objection. “Is she a vampire?” Spike nodded towards the sunlight. “Werewolf.” “Oh.” Brilliant, Buffy, she mentally kicked herself. First time you see the guy in all these years and you bring the jealous out first. “So, you’re a tattoo artist?” He shrugged, “I’ve always liked to sketch.” “I didn’t know you were so talented.” “Sure you did, pet.” “Easy, cowboy. Won’t your girlfriend mind?” “Jealous?” “Right. Like you’re God’s gift.” “Wouldn’t be half as much fun if I were.” “I think I’d better go,” she managed to choke out, though everything in her brain was screaming stay. “Tell me you’ve never thought about it.” She wasn’t sure what he meant, but followed his gaze and realized he meant a tattoo. “Not my thing.” “You sure?” He fiddled with a pencil and a sketchbook. Buffy hesitated. “She’s not my girlfriend.” Buffy tried not to look relieved. “Draw what you’d choose for me.” “Pull up a seat.” She did. Spike angled the notebook away from her and carefully sketched. “So, I should say thank you.” “No need, love.” “Still. Thank you.” He met her eyes and Buffy felt an electric current course through her body. “You’re welcome.” Spike flipped the notebook towards her. “That’s huge!” “Maybe.” “I should go.” “Someone waiting for you, then?” “Sort of. Client deadline.” Spike arched an eyebrow. “I became a photographer.” “You don’t say.” Buffy bit her lip. She’d like to say a lot, but this was just so weird. “I’ll be by Halo Café tonight around eight. Towards the back right.” She nodded, knowing that she’d be there. *** Her pulse raced. Spike is here. Spike is here. Spike is here. She hoped she’d managed to leave the shop with a confident swagger, but really, what were the odds? The best sex of her life had been courtesy of a man standing in a tattoo parlor just a dozen blocks from her hotel. This was not good. She rang Willow's cell, then remembered that it was barely 9 a.m. in LA. Willow was still nocturnal, and Buffy figured she’d better hang up quick. To her surprise, her phone rang back almost immediately. “Hey, Buffy. Is everything okay?” “Oh, hi Tara. Yeah. I just … ran into an old friend. Well, someone Willow and I knew back at Caritas, and I was just going to tell her. Then I remembered the time difference.” “An old friend?” “No one important. I mean … it’ll keep.” “Are you okay, Buffy?” “Yeah. Just too much caffeine. And too much work, I guess.” “Okay. We’ll be around if you need anything. Or want to talk about … old friends.” “Um, thanks. Bye.” *** Buffy flopped on the bed, flipping through channels. She paused on the local news. “The police have released the identity of the fourth victim of the South Side killer. Harmony Kendall, 21, was a nursing student at the University of Pittsburgh. The body was recovered at the Sarah Street playground yesterday morning. Police have refused to comment on leads, citing the ongoing nature of the investigation.” She clicked the television off and looked for another diversion. *** She’d been accidentally upgraded to a whirlpool suite when she’d checked in – something about overbookings at the special internet rate, would she mind? It seemed funny to be in a luxe suite in a hotel she’d booked on TravelBargains.com, but why argue? She had yet to dip a toe in the ginormous tub, but now, desperate to be off the street and away from temptation, she filled it to overflowing with water and the hotel’s complimentary bath gel. Buffy was up to her chin before she read the warning about not using bubbles with the jets, and her eyes went wide as she realized the foam was whipped up to overflow as a result of her oversight. “Pretty blonde of me,” she laughed, and shrugged it off. Before Alley Buffy would’ve leapt out and tried to clean up the foam. After Alley Buffy? Figured she’d leave a tenner for housekeeping and slipped deeper into the suds, willing the time to pass. *** It was time. She’d thoroughly pruned herself in the tub. She’d spent a few more hours flipping through material on her laptop over a salad in the hotel’s café. And now she’d spent more time getting dressed since prom back in Sunnydale. And for this night, she had no fancy gown, no special strapless, backless bra with adhesive patches. Nope. She was going for low-key, not-trying-hard urban chic. And she’d done it, too, in a snug bottle green cowl neck with artistically slit bell sleeves and skinny, faded coffee-colored cargos. She was weather-appropriate for fall in the Mid Atlantic, she insisted, as she tossed on her Vema Clarke corduroy jacket and zipped up her trusty leather boots that made her two inches taller. She was almost out the door when she remembered her camera. A/N: If you're so inclined, you really *can* get a tattoo at Angry Moon on Pittsburgh's South Side. The proprietors are not werewolves or vampires ... er, at least to best of my knowledge. I'm using real places from my former hometown for this story. Kind of a lovesong to a place left behind. Thanks for reading.

Chapter #3 - Ch. 3: Halo Cafe

Banner by the very talented always_jbj She’d mapped out the route from the Holiday Inn Express to the Halo Café twice, then asked the desk clerk just to be sure. As an afterthought, she asked if it was a dressy place. The clerk gave Buffy a funny look. “Hey, forget it.” “He must be good looking.” “Yeah.” “Be careful, okay?” “Oh – it’s not. I mean, we’ve known each other for years.” *** And still it seemed too early. She’d never found him at Caritas before midnight, and usually not until 1 or 2 a.m. But that was LA. What time did bars close around here? What time did he have to wake up to go to work? He’d said around 8, and it was almost 9 now. Did she look too eager? Should she go at all? She was overthinking. With a determined stride, she set her feet towards Tenth Street. *** He was right where he’d promised – toward the back, on the right, sipping something golden on the rocks. “Thought you weren’t coming.” “I …” He quirked an eyebrow, expectant. “I never expected to see you again.” “So you’re in Pittsburgh for the scenery?” “Kind of. Assignment, actually.” “My didn’t you just come over all Diane Arbus.” “She’s a big influence, actually.” He nodded. “Most people go through life dreading they'll have a traumatic experience. Freaks were born with their trauma. They've already passed their test in life. They're aristocrats.” It was Buffy’s turn to raise an eyebrow at the Arbus quote, and she returned one of her own. “A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know.” “So what do you capture with your lens, Buffy? Secrets? Or something more glamorous?” She paused. “Decay.” “That’s a rather dramatic departure from when we last met.” He lit a cigarette. A waiter appeared. “Hey Spike. Anything for your friend?” “Ask her yourself.” “Do you have Stella Artois?” “Sure.” The waiter looked relieved that she’d made it easy, but still nervous. Buffy wondered if the waiter knew what he was serving. Back in LA, it had seemed like everyone knew except for her; here she wasn’t so sure. “Another one, Spike?” The vampire nodded, casually, turning sideways in the booth, drawing a booted foot up, leaning his forearm on his knee. “So you come here often?” “Most nights.” “This is your new Caritas. Do you sing?” “Not anymore.” “Tired of the fans?” “Seemed like I ought to keep a low profile. For a time.” Buffy nodded. She couldn’t shake this sense that he wanted something, but wasn’t ready to ask. He extended a hand, so quick Buffy didn’t see it as much as sense it. “Nice haircut, pet. Edgy. Though I did love your Goldilocks.” The waiter returned with her beer and a glass. Buffy nodded a thank you before tipping it straight back from the bottle. “You’re not the same girl I met in Los Angeles, Buffy Summers.” “Time marches on.” “Tell me how you chose photography.” With a shrug, she related the story about happening to pick a class because it fit her schedule and falling in love with the medium. “Plus, it doesn’t hurt that I can earn a living this way.” “And so you’re here on assignment?” “Photographing bridges and industrial ruins.” “This isn’t for Vogue, then?” Buffy rolled her eyes. “Will you take my picture?” He said it casually, but Buffy realized that he’d been working towards this all night. Maybe since before she’d walked into Angry Moon. “You knew.” Spike was silent. “You’ve been waiting for me.” He shrugged, but the ghost of a guilty smiled played at his lips. Buffy had more questions, but she’d learned to satisfy her curiosity from behind the lens, so she fumbled for her bag and pulled out her camera. Spike fell back a little, resting his figure against the booth briefly. Then he moved forward, leaning against the table and lighting a cigarette. Then he was looking away, staring out into the Café like it was the Indian Ocean at daybreak. “Why?” Spike gestured towards a mirror mounted behind the bar, a gesture that Buffy caught on film. “I cast no reflection.” “And?” “If you were as handsome as me, you’d want to gaze lovingly at your image from time to time, yeah?” Buffy smiled, uncertain. “But a picture isn’t a reflection, Spike. It’s an image – it’s me seeing you.” “Even better.” She paused, fiddling with the settings. “Is there a problem, pet?” “No, I’m just not much of an indoor photographer.” He nodded, and didn’t object when she put the camera down. “Tell me about your work.” “What do you want to know?” she asked. “Do you like it?” “Yeah. I mean, not many people do what they love for a living. And I can take time off, well … not really, I mean, I feel a lot of pressure to always take the job. But the more I build up my name, the more choices I’ll have.” “I don’t doubt it.” He picked up his nearly empty glass, swirling the last ice cube in the bottom. “Do you think about it?” “About my career? Of course, oh … you mean do I think about that night?” He was silent. “Yeah. All the time.” *** She couldn’t be sure how they’d ended up back at her hotel room, but she was certain that, after her fifth Stella, she’d insisted on her Holga and some other equipment. Spike walked her back, edging a little too close to her, but only touching her in accidental brushes. When she crossed the lobby with him in tow, the desk clerk from earlier gave her two thumbs up. “Alright, then, you’ve got your fancy little gadget. Where do you want me?” Buffy took a deep breath to steady herself. “I thought we’d go outside – maybe that empty street down by the synagogue …” “No.” “No?” “I like it here.” She glanced around the room, the bed she’d stripped down to just the white sheets; the bland framed prints on the walls and the subtle pattern of the wallpaper; the simple dark wood of the furniture. It screamed hotel room. Buffy thought about how to convince him to go for a little more atmosphere. And so she didn’t notice him peeling off his jacket and shirt until he stood in front of her, bare-chested. “Take my picture.” From her vantage point, she could see things she’d only felt on that night in the alley – washboard abs, the corded muscles in his arms – plus the tattoos covering his biceps, the small one inside his left wrist. She caught details of his face, like the way the light played on his cheekbones and the scar arched through his eyebrow, that were familiar, but that she hadn’t really studied in their prior encounters. Buffy took a few tentative snaps, hesitant. He turned towards the windows that overlooked the parking lot. “Don’t hear many clicking sounds yet, pet.” “Um … the light …” “Then turn it off,” he ordered, and Buffy was surprised to find herself complying. Now working by just the 60-watt bulb of a table lamp, she made a few adjustments. It was only after she’d refocused on him that she realized he’d toed off his motorcycle boots and was barefoot. In fact, he was dangerously close to undressed, though shoeless Spike revealed that he had an interesting design tattooed into the arch of his foot. She followed him from big toe to chin, snapping pictures as she worked her way up. And then she came to his face. He met her eyes through the lens, and Buffy felt heat wash over her, heat that was unrelated to the alcohol coursing through her system. Buffy returned to her work, and Spike’s face flashed a mix of irritation and surprise. She focused on his arms, stepping to the left to zoom in on the bicep design detail, so she heard his hands tear open his zipper more than she saw it. But of course, she followed the sound with her camera and found herself photographing him with his jeans pushed down, revealing sharp hip bones and a shadow of pubic hair. She drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t do those kinds of pictures, Spike.” “Yes you do, Buffy.” She swallowed and returned to her project. “Is that another tattoo?” He pushed the left edge of his jeans down just a little farther. “Isn’t that a Celtic cross?” “The design’s far older than your Jesus.” “Oh.” “The first one I ever had.” “Why?” “Some like to say the three spokes stand for maid, mother, crone – a woman’s path. You’ve mentioned the trinity and all that rot. I’ve got my own take on it.” “Which is?” “Birth, Death, Rebirth.” “Kind of Christian.” “My birth, my death, my rebirth. Physically, not spiritually.” Buffy was at a loss for words. “I guess that’s a bit self-absorbed of me, innit? What can I say? I was young then.” “Young?” “Not even 100. A mere pup.” Buffy’s head swam with questions, but she stayed in her comfort zone – behind the lens, examining her subject from a distance. Sometimes he shifted so quickly she missed a shot, and she had to either avoid his restless, fidgeting hands, or focus on them. “Does this make you nervous?” she asked, as she focused in on his thumbs, hooked in his belt loops. “Nervous? ‘Course not. But I ‘spose it does cause another reaction of sorts.” Buffy’s eyes bulged out behind her camera. Spike’s erection had grown throughout their photo shoot, until he was full and throbbing. With casual force, he pushed his Levi’s off his hips and stepped out of them. “Why are you stopping?” “I …” “Can’t see any of myself in a mirror, Buffy.” She nodded, taking a breath to steady herself. “Come on, lover, you’ve seen it all before.” She returned to snapping pictures, but replied, “No, not really. It was dark in the alley.” Spike laughed. Threw back his head and laughed. She caught his mirth on film and then paused. “Why is that funny?” “I wasn’t your first, luv. And I’m not your only.” “No, but …” He stretched out on the bed, moving with the unhurried grace of a cat, only turning to face her after making himself perfectly comfortable. And, of course, making Buffy really quite uncomfortable. “My, how you’ve grown up, Buffy Summers.” She lowered the camera. From her boots to her turtleneck, Buffy was covered neck to toe. Spike wasn’t making any move to take her clothes off, but did he really just want his picture taken? For all that she had become wise about a great many things, Spikeology was still a complex subject. He quirked an eyebrow and she bent to unzip her boots, dropping her camera on the bedsheets. When she stood, he’d gone completely still, watching her. His expression wasn’t anything – wasn’t encouraging or discouraging, just as neutral as white paint. So she pulled her sweater over her head, unbuttoned her cargos and dropped them to the floor and wished she’d had the good sense to wear something sexier than her everyday cotton bra and panties with the yellow chick embroidered at the seam. Buffy shivered. He still wasn’t moving. “Do you prefer to photograph your subjects in your skivvies, or will we be doing something else tonight, Miss Summers?” She took a deep breath and lowered her body to the mattress, crawling up his body until her lips hovered just an inch above his. “How do you feel about something else?”

Chapter #4 - Ch. 4: Morning Glory

Banner by the fabulous always_jbj He was gone in the morning, of course. What’s worse, it was her day to check out and move on. She’d eaten an indecisive and deliciously achey breakfast at the hotel’s complimentary buffet, tucking into a waffle and even choking down some of the plastic bacon. Lyrics ran through her head … “Should I stay or should I go now? If I stay there could be trouble … if I go there could be double.” Around her, people stared like zombies at SportsCenter and CNN, flipped through the pages of USA Today and made small talk with their traveling companions. Behind her, a pair of older women talked about the murders, complete with refrains of “isn’t it just awful” and “the police really ought to do something.” Buffy knew that she couldn’t very well expect everything to be all about her, but it was hard to not stand up on her chair and announce, “I’m not a vampire, but I did fuck one at the Holiday Inn Express last night” before adding “And. Oh. My. God. He rocked my world. Again.” That would hush up the old cats the next table over, wouldn’t it? Buffy did not make her announcement. Her fellow diners continued on with their ordinary days, and she ate her body weight in mediocre breakfast fare before heading to the front desk to see if she could extend her reservation. *** They’d been booked up when she’d asked. She took it as a sign to get out of Dodge before she made a very wrong choice, but the helpful desk clerk offered to call the Morning Glory Inn, a cozy bed & breakfast just down the street. Wouldn’t you know it? They had a room and Buffy could have it for the same rate. *** It took her six phone calls to find a photographer willing to lend her darkroom space that afternoon. She’d worked in black and white, mostly, and even though it wasn’t her usual medium for commissions, it remained her first love. She stood in the borrowed space, trying to keep her breathing even. She and the darkroom owner had chatted over coffee – he was old enough to be her daddy, but declared himself a fan. They bonded over a discussion of different film formats and the shortcomings of a purely digital approach. Buffy finally slipped away to get to her work. She developed a few prints of bridges, just in case Curious George wanted to see her most recent snaps. She couldn’t exactly show him pictures of a vampire, sprawled buck naked across her bed at the local motel, could she? It was a pity. The pictures were extraordinary. Buffy had tried taking pictures of people – most notably Willow’s bratty but adorable niece Sabrina – and they always fell short of her expectations. People didn’t hold still long enough for Buffy to get her shots lined up, not when they knew they were being captured on film. When she did take pictures of people, she chose subjects that were past caring if their hair was right, or if their grandma would like the final results. They were raw. Besides, most of them didn’t have a mantle to hold the framed print anyway. She’d worked in reverse order – the most X-rated to the most approved for all audiences – and had finished an impressive stack of prints by the afternoon’s end. She took one last look at her favorite – the one of Spike, jeans just barely hanging on to his hips, his original tattoo exposed and the look on his face smoldering and daring at the same time. The amber glow of the darkroom’s safelight picked up every angle, every shadow, every delicious line of his abs and chest. Her tongue had followed that trail the night before. She had bruises on her arms from where he’d gripped her, holding her upright so she could ride his cock as he balanced her, standing without any support. “Showoff,” she’d whispered, and he’d grinned. Oh God. She had to get out, and hope that George didn’t insist on too much small talk before she could sneak away. *** She’d nearly gotten past George with just another grateful smile, but he’d stopped her. “You’re staying on the South Side?” Buffy nodded. “I don’t want to worry you, but maybe you should read this.” He held out the city’s newspaper. Four girls’ photos stretched across the front page, one larger than the rest. STILL NO LEADS IN STRING OF SOUTH SIDE KILLINGS screamed the headline. She glanced at the pictures. “The victims all look a little bit like you, Buffy. Blonde, petite.” “Thanks, George. I appreciate the warning.” *** As she walked from her car to the reception desk at the Morning Glory Inn, she was hyper-aware of the stack of very dirty pictures of an incredibly decadent creature tucked under her arm. She didn’t dare let them out of her site. It wasn’t illegal to carry around photos like these, she kept reminding herself, but as the warm and welcoming innkeeper offered her a room key and a freshly baked cookie, Buffy thought, “It isn’t wrong. It just isn’t right.” Her room was lovely – all painted antique wood and fresh white coverlets, little pen and ink sketches of idealized urban scenes on the walls. Her windows faced the courtyard, where the last of the summer flowers were clinging to life. It was a pretty space, a sophisticated space. If she closed her eyes she could almost imagine that this was her house, her bedroom, her life instead of her have-camera-will-travel experiences. And then she remembered the photographs still tucked under her arm, and decided that her life wasn’t all that bad after all. *** The Morning Glory’s innkeeper had that determinedly pleasant air about her that some people manage. Buffy hoped she’d be able to walk past her without exchanging small talk. “Heading out for the night?” Buffy nodded. “Would you like me to call you a cab?” “I’m just walking over to Halo Café.” The innkeeper hesitated. “And I know about the murders.” “I could have a cab here in five minutes.” “Thanks, but I can take care of myself.” After all, she thought, as she walked out the door, I’m delivering dirty pictures to the murderer. *** He wasn’t at Halo Café. The waiter seemed surprised to see her. “You lookin’ for Spike?” Buffy nodded. “He hasn’t been in. Didn’t figure he would be. After he’s been in here with, er, someone, he usually lays low for a couple of days.” The waiter stared at her, a little too intently, but she didn’t notice. If not here, where would he be? “You’re not another cop, are you?” She frowned and left without replying. *** Without another place to go, she walked back towards the inn, feeling like a total loser. “Should’ve known. He skipped town last time, even when he hadn’t had a pile of corpses to hide,” she mumbled. “What kind of happily ever after were you imagining for yourself, Buffy?” She kicked a stray soda can. “He buries his victims in your rose garden?” She kicked the can again. It skittered into the gutter. Then arms reached out from the darkness, pulling her back into an alley. A hand covered her mouth, and stifled her scream. *** “That was a little dramatic, don’t you think?” He set her down on a worn couch in Angry Moon and answered her question with a shrug. “You were looking for me.” “So?” “So now we’ve found each other, pet. Isn’t that just the bee’s knees?” “Yeah, okay. I found you. Or you found me. Now what?” “You tell me.” Buffy lifted her bag. She had her photos inside, and could sense that he wanted to see them. Then his hand came to rest on his sketchpad and an impulse swept over her. “Do it.” “You certain? These marks won’t fade over time.” “That’s the point, right?” He led her by the hand to one of the curtained off cubicles. Buffy managed to ignore the prep, the selection of needles, the mixing of inks. He was silent, intent. “I’ve got the pattern outlined on your back, love. I can tilt the mirror so you can see.” “Okay.” He angled the mirrors – it was almost like a dentist’s chair in reverse – and she saw the design stretching across her lower back. She glanced at him. He was eager, his left hand twitching, ready to wield the needle. It should have reflected in the mirror – his hand – but it didn’t. Buffy swallowed. “Go ahead.” *** She got high on it. It hadn’t hurt. Not like she’d expected. It had been an insistent buzzing, a harsh tingle, maybe. But not painful. And now every nerve ending was alive. She was euphoric, feeling way more joy than some – okay, a lot of - ink on your back ought to cause. “So – your place, love?” She’d nodded and let him help her to her feet. They’d walked the half dozen blocks back to the Inn together, sticking mostly to side streets. The innkeeper was gone when they came in, and none of the other guests stirred, either. Before she knew it, they were in her room and that big bed that she’d dreamed of making her own was going to get put to good use. Spike undressed her, quickly, without kissing. “I’ll be gone before morning, pet. Need to get out of town for a while.” “Why?” “Why do you think?” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him in for a searching kiss. She couldn’t taste anything but breath mints and a hint of cigarettes. He deepened their kiss, easing them on to the bed, Buffy on top to protect her new tattoo. Impatient, Buffy wrestled his plain black tee over his head, then pushed his worn Levi’s to the floor down to his calves. Where they got stuck on his Docs. “Easy, pet. Too nice a job to rush.” He smirked. She dropped to her knees, untying his laces and yanking the boots to the floor. The left one flew a little wild and landed in an oversized flowerpot. As she sat up on her knees, his cock jutted out, inches from her mouth. With a wicked glance at his waiting face, Buffy licked the shaft, all the way to the top, then circled the tip with her mouth. Spike sucked in his breath and went completely rigid. But she couldn’t be patient. Not when this might be the last time. Unless scarring counted as foreplay, they’d barely touched. But she was already dripping, and she crawled up his body, positioning herself and thrusting, taking him in one slow complete stroke. Buffy’s eyeballs rolled back in her head as she found the position that buried him deepest. “Damn,” she whispered. “You’re huge.” He smiled, a surprised little smile and his hips thrust up. She might be on top, but he bucked, giving her a wild ride, changing the direction of his thrusts just enough to push himself in even farther. One hand gripped her hip, the other pried her thighs apart. “Oh, God. You make it hurt …in … in all the right places,” she moaned. She rode him at a furious pace, harder than the night before. Her flesh was bruised and swollen, but lust overcame pain. And then he was pulling her down, gently, until her stiff nipples brushed his chest with every thrust and her clit hit right there, right in the best place. Buffy had no choice but to meet his burning gaze and when their eyes were locked, he shifted slightly, and her body spasmed. Little breathy gasps escaped her lips as the combination of her position and his thrusts sent shock waves through her body. She barely noticed that he was nuzzling her neck. Licking her jugular. And then she felt something – felt the tips of his fangs extending, felt the bite coming. He pricked her skin, and then he was sucking, drinking her down. Another orgasm built and Buffy felt the words from those trashy novels. Fireworks exploded behind her eyelids. Muscles tensed, her breathing was ragged. Pleasure eddied through her. She groaned, arching into his body. Buffy realized this might be it – might be the minute that she died. FIFTH VICTIM FOUND IN B&B, she imagined the headline. DIES WITH HUGE GOOFY SMILE ON HER FACE. And then his fangs were gone, pulling out with a painful little burn. His tongue laved the marks. She was dimly aware as he spilled inside of her, thrusting up into her body. Buffy was dizzy. Sore. And still feeling the aftershocks. “You’re delicious, pet,” Spike whispered in her ear. She collapsed into a tangle of blankets and sheets, asleep even as he gathered her into his arms. *** An hour later, she woke with a start. He was there – still there – but it was hours ‘til sun up. When he slept, it was glaringly obvious that he was dead. Dead, and yet, so peaceful that she couldn’t reconcile his resting face with the killer inside. Then her hand traced his bite mark, and she found herself thinking about the other girls. Had he fucked them senseless, too, before draining them and tossing their remains in the river? With a sigh, she pulled on her clothes and found her barely unpacked wheelie bag. From the dresser top, she took the sheath of photos and placed them on the pillow. As she left the room without a backwards glance, she missed one very important detail. Spike watched her go. *** She caught the last flight of the night to O’Hare, then the first flight of the morning to LAX. Now she sat – upgraded to business class – in the dim cabin, flipping through the images on her laptop. Against the seat, her tattoo itched. With a quick glance to make sure no one was looking over her shoulder, she clicked on the thumbnail for her new favorite. From just a few hours earlier. He’d snapped it – she’d barely even noticed – somewhere in that last minute or two after the bite, the new scar clear, her mouth open in a gasp, her hair falling back, eyes closed. It was hot. It was her, mid-orgasm. “Is that what I look like?” she asked no one in particular. Her fingers went to the bite mark. It tingled. Oh God. She was ruined. Author's Note: Is that a cruel place to end? Spike left Buffy at the end of the original story; it felt like Buffy ought to leave him at the end of the sequel. That said, I'm working on the third & final installment of this series, so there may be a happy ending ... eventually.