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Beer Foamy by Spikez_tart
 
Smoke, Blood, Skin, Boy
 
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UPDATE: WINNER of Spuffy Awards Outstanding Original Character (Judge's Choice) 2008
Thanks to the extra wonderful person who nominated this story for the Spuffy Awards.


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NOTES: Oz has already left town and our favorite vampire returns from Los Angeles and torturing Angel to get his ring back a little earlier and hasn’t been caught by the Initiative yet. After Buffy rescues Parker and others from the fire, she runs off to drink more beer and hijinks ensue.

For the completely obsessed, in Season Six, Spike acquired some silver jewelry, including a silver neck chain. The chain first appears in Smashed, when he calls Buffy on the phone to ask her to meet him at the cemetery. He wears the chain constantly until As You Were, when the chains disappears.

SPOILERS: Jeesh if you haven’t seen the show by now, what’s your prob?

CONTENT/WARNINGS: Spuffy, bitey, smutty – Some dialog from Beer Bad, The Harsh Light of Day (sort of), Lover’s Walk and Fool for Love (sort of) and various other places.

CHARACTERS: Spike, Buffy, Xander, Anya, Willow, Tara, Giles, Joyce, Sunday, Willy, Clem, Quentin Travers, Lydia Chalmers, Brad, Tucker, Katie Loomis and new characters – Rosamund, Bob the Warlock, Jack Frostle and others.

RATING: NC 17

DISCLAIMER: Josh owns the characters and makes the money. I right the wrongs of the Evil Writers who refused to get Buffy and Spike together where they belonged.

SPECIAL THANKS: Extra special thanks to dipole_dipole_attraction for the French translation of Bob the Warlock’s spell and to Golden Buffy for making me a totally faboo banner and to Tamakin for telling me how to put the banner in the story.





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Chapter 1 - Smoke, Blood, Skin, Boy



The Watcher’s Journal of Sir Arthur Gosnard-Tisklin.

Oxford, August 15, 1900 – I received a telegram from the Council, express delivery, at midnight last night. Chen Ma, our most recent Slayer, was killed in Peking during the tumultuous events occurring there. Her Watcher, Edward Crossfort, is missing, presumed deceased. Our dear friend will be missed.

I have been called to duty as the Watcher for the new Slayer.


***

A black Desoto rammed into the Welcome to Sunnydale sign and screeched to a halt. The driver flung his door open and smacked his black Doc Marten boot down on the asphalt.

Spike got out of the car and waved his empty bottle in the direction of the town. He dropped the bottle.

“Big Bad is back, baby.”


***

Buffy perched on the back of the wooden bench next to Red-Hair Girl, twirled a strand of hair around her finger and sniffed the ends of her hair. Smoky.


Old Man and Red-Hair Girl and Boy were talking. Talk talk talk about Bad Fire. Buffy saved Red-Hair Girl and people from Bad Fire.

Thirsty. Want Beer.

Boy pointed his finger at Buffy. She’d sniffed him earlier and wanted sex until she wanted beer. She still wanted beer.

Boy talk. Talk a lot.

“And,” Boy said, “Was there a lesson in all this, huh? What did we learn about beer?”

Beer? “Foamy.

“Good, just as long as that’s clear …”

Boy talk talk talk.

Buffy’s friends from the evening’s drinking party were trapped and leaping around in a big, shiny box. She walked to the box and slapped the glass to get their attention. She pressed her face against the glass to see into the box.

No beer.

Parker Abrams left the ambulance, where he’d been treated for breathing smoke, and approached Buffy.

Buffy sniffed. PAR-ker. PAR–ker didn’t have beer. PAR-ker smelled smoky. Like Bad Fire.

“Buffy,” PAR–ker said, “Buffy … I … I dunno how to say this. I'm sorry for how I treated you before. It was wrong of me and I'm sorry. You were great tonight, really. I might not deserve this, but do you think you could forgive me?

Don’t like PAR–ker.

Buffy whacked him on the head with her club and knocked him out. No talk.

PAR-ker fall down. Buffy strong. Unh!

Buffy walked back to the shiny box where her drinking buddies were jumping and snorting. Boy Talk Talk Talk pulled her away.

Want Beer.

While Boy Talk Talk Talk and Red-Hair Girl and Old Man talked, Buffy slipped away and raced down the street, gripping her club. She remembered where to find Beer.

***

The Frostle Pub was closed for the night. Jack’s new bartender, Harris, copped an attitude about serving Black Frost brew to college jerks and quit, so Jack got stuck cleaning up. He was running a mop over the floor when a punk with white hair arrived.

Jack didn’t like this guy’s looks, with his damn black leather coat and his ridiculous white hair. He hated all of this guy’s kind, too. When they weren’t doing something evil, they were thinking about doing something evil, or warming up to doing something evil or had just finished doing something evil and were licking the blood off their evil lips and sniffing the air for their next meal like hungry wolves.

“I’m closed, bud. Come back tomorrow,” Jack said. Or, never.

“Need a drink, mate.”

A quick flash of the punk’s vampire face persuaded Jack he could serve the punk some booze or the vamp would take something warmer and redder by force.

Great. This one was warming up to do something evil. He might as well pacify the vampire with some booze, not that being drunk would make White Hair any less dangerous.

“Guess you could have one while I close up.”

“Scotch.”

Jack took a bottle of scotch off the wall behind the bar. It wasn’t good scotch. He’d poured cheap bar scotch into a Laphroiag bottle to serve to smartass college bastards who thought they knew something about single malt whiskies. What the hell did vampires know about good booze? Vampires were stupider than college bastards.

Spike grabbed the bottle and inhaled. He pitched the bottle into the mirror behind the bar. Bottle and mirror shattered with a satisfying crash. “Not that shit. The good stuff.”

Jack pulled out a different bottle from below the bar, real Glenmorangie this time, and placed it on the bar, along with a shot glass.

Spike grabbed the bottle and glass and sat down in a comfortable, brown leather chair at a table where he could watch the door. He hated this place, with its bilious green walls and its phony English pub atmosphere, but the whiskey was good.

He downed his first shot and sampled the air. Bitch Slayer had been here earlier tonight.

Christ, he couldn’t go anywhere without running across the little snatch, sniffing her, seeing her, hearing her. If he hadn’t returned to Sunnyhell for the express purpose of settling his score with the Slayer, he’d leave town just to get away from her. Miss Tiny was nothing but trouble.

He drank another shot.

“Bitch is everywhere, screwing up my plans, royally screwing up my unlife. Can’t even have a drink without getting a snort of her cunny up my nose. Just wait, Slayer. I’ll sink my fangs into your neck and make you scream. Done slayers before and I can take care of you, too.”

***

A man on a black Harley Davidson Fat Boy sped south on Highway 101, headed for Sunnydale. He took the Center Street ramp, spun the bike into the Welcome to Sunnydale sign and picked himself out of the wreckage. He scratched one of his demon tattoos, finished his bottle of beer, dropped the bottle on the pavement, belched and started for town.

“Sunnydale, meet your new Master.”

***

Buffy banged through the door of the pub.

Beer. Smell beer.

She ran up to the bar and banged her club on the glassy surface to get the bartender’s attention. Her club left a nasty dent in the bar.

“Beer. Buffy want beer.”

Jack considered giving her another pitcher, but she’d already had plenty and he preferred she be elsewhere while she was under the effects of the potion.

“You’ve had enough, little lady. Go home and sleep it off.”

Buffy frowned. “Beer. Want beer.”

Spike watched Buffy and the bartender. Slayer was drunker than a vamp on Walpurgisnacht. This was an interesting development. A Pissed To The Gills Slayer.

“Give her some beer,” Spike growled. He shoved the chair next to him away from the table with his boot.

“Have a seat, Slayer.”

She turned to stare at the boy who got her beer.

Boy. Hot.

Buffy dropped her club on the table and sat down next to Spike and scooted her chair close to his. She bounced in her chair while she waited for the bartender to fetch the beer.

She thumped her chest. “Buffeee. Buffy strong. Buffy pretty.”

Curiouser and curiouser. Spike thumped his chest. “William. Strong and sinisterly attractive.”

Jack brought a pitcher of Black Frost and two glasses and placed them on Spike’s table. Maybe Blondie Girl would tempt the pain in the neck wearing the black leather jacket to drink some beer, too. Serve him right if he got in trouble tonight.

Buffy picked up the pitcher, sloshed some in each of the glasses and spilled some on the table. She picked up her glass and gulped half of it down.

“Beer good. Beer foamy.”

Spike picked up his glass of beer and sniffed the contents. There was something in the beer. That might explain why Miss Goodie Two Stakes was acting off her bird and not just drunk, and didn’t recognize him. He might have some fun with her before he killed her. He dumped his beer back in the pitcher. Buffy drained her glass and he poured her another.

She shoved Spike’s arm. “You drink!”

Spike sipped his scotch.

Buffy killed her second glass and held it out with both hands for Spike to refill it. She drank some more and set her glass down. She leaned close to Spike and smelled his neck.

Smoke, blood, skin, boy.

“Boy smell good. William Boy smell good.”

“Thanks, pet. Nice of you to mention it. Have another drink.” He topped off her glass.

Buffy ignored her beer and leaned closer and held her lips next to his. “Buffy want boy.”

This was going to be fun.

Spike settled her back in her chair. Wouldn’t do to let things go too far so early in the evening. He needed to think. He’d planned to kill her at his first opportunity, but other possibilities presented themselves. How was he going to handle a drunk, randy Slayer to make the maximum amount of trouble? Spike tapped a cigarette out of the pack and lit it.

Fire! Fire bad!” She waved her hand frantically to put out the fire.

“Not this fire. Here, you try it.” He sucked in some smoke to demonstrate and held his cigarette to her lips.

She took a puff and coughed and giggled. “Ugh. Fire bad.” She lifted the pitcher of beer and drained it.

Spike laughed. Slayer was a bit of all right when she didn’t have a stake up her ass.

Buffy jumped up and ran over to the Singing Box. Maybe William Boy could make it sing. She climbed on top to see if there were little people inside like the box at her Sleeping Place. “Sings. Make it sing.”

“Want some tunes? Let’s see what they’ve got, shall we?” Spike went to the jukebox, peeled Buffy off the machine and slugged in some quarters. Hmm, what kind of music to play? The Slayer was a wonderfully slutty dancer, given the right encouragement. He picked a couple of techno-crap songs to motivate her performance.

When the music came on, she shoved aside some chairs so she could dance.

“Boy, dance!”

Spike sat back down and poured himself another shot of scotch. “I’ll watch you dance.”

Buffy raised her arms over her head, lifting her sweet little tits. She ground her pelvis against an imaginary lover and shook her butt as she whirled to the music.

Spike adjusted his crotch and admired the way she stroked her ass and the insides of her thighs while she danced. Maybe he’d been hasty in wanting to kill her. Maybe, Buffy would be more useful to him alive. And, quite a bit more fun.

When the music stopped, she skipped back to the table for more beer, but the pitcher was empty. She scowled.

“Buffeee want beer.”

“The beer’s gone. Whiskey tastes good, too. Take a sip.” Spike held the shot glass to her lips and tipped it down her throat.

“Ugh, bad. Whis-kee burns.” She flopped into her chair and put her head on the table. “Buffee tired.”

The accumulated events of the night – Beer and saving PAR-ker and Red-Hair Girl from the Bad Fire and More Beer and Dancing for William Boy – caught up to her. Buffy dropped her head to the table and passed out.

Spike corked the bottle of scotch and put it in his coat pocket. He heaved the unconscious Slayer over his shoulder and carried her out into the night.


***

A blood-maroon Porsche 911 Carrera S roared north on Highway 101, racing toward the heart of Sunnydale. Sunrise was breaking behind the mountains, brushing the peaks into a flaming red-orange ring around the town that was sunk in the lavender-blue shadows of the Hellmouth. The driver of the Porsche was not disturbed by the growing light; the black reflective windows of the Porsche couldn’t be penetrated by mere sunlight.

The driver had been traveling for two nights, up from Puerto Escondido, Mexico, where she’d gotten the news that brought her here. She sped up now, urging the car to creep up to 100, 120 miles per hour, then higher. The rubber wheels reeked of smoking rubber.

At Camino Viejo, she raced down the exit ramp to the city street and slammed into the Welcome to Sunnydale sign before throwing the car into a spin and screeching to a halt.

The driver opened her door and slid her leg out. Her black high-heeled pumps with scarlet leather soles crunched on the remains of a bottle of liquor thrown there earlier as she pulled herself out of the car to stretch. She swigged a bottle of champagne, then released the bottle from her fingers and allowed it to shatter on the pavement.

“Sunnydale. What a shit hole.”

She lit a cigarette, taking time to make a perfect ring of dark lipstick around its tip. She picked up a map and checked the addresses for the tenth time today. Frostle’s Pub, 22 Anacapa Street and then on to the real reason for her visit to the Hellmouth. Have to head to Anacapa Street first. Lot of work to do. She got back in the car, backed up to mash the sign again. She tore the car’s crumpled bumper loose and zoomed away.

When she’d been gone about five minutes, a City of Sunnydale Streets and Sanitation van pulled up to Camino Viejo. The driver, Serafimo Guttierez, and his brother-in-law and helper, Refugio Lopez, got out of the van, swept up the broken glass, picked up the busted sign and tossed it in the back. They took out a new Welcome to Sunnydale sign and replaced it where the old one had stood.

“Tercer esta noche,” Serafimo said to Refugio. “Focking vampiros.”
 
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