#The rain of knives ended when I had to start literally begging people to get me anything else haha

[solradguy]

Between 2009 and 2011 no one knew what to get me as a gift for gift giving events such as christmas so everyone just bought me knives/random sharp things. I have so many random knives and swords scattered around my bedroom because I don't know what to do with them

2 tanto (like a straight single-edge dagger)

a "tactical" kukri

1 butterfly knife

1 unsharpened shitty flea market katana (blue)

1 very sharp high carbon steel katana (brown)

1 claymore sword

2? ...3? machetes

a finger ring claw thing with a curved knife coming out of the knuckle

a 3-bladed Wolverine claw lookin Spencer's gift shop skull... thing (very unsafe, very sharp)

I don't even know what the hell else I've got laying around but this definitely isn't all of it. They're just hidden in random places all over my room, I haven't seen some of them in like 5+ years. I don't even have any formal training for how to use any of these

[thedailyimagines]

Imagine Trevor and Sypha saving you from being burned at the stake.

Anon requested: “Could you please do an imagine where Trevor and Sypha (post-s2) saves the reader, who is being accused as a witch by the church; but the reader is actually an alchemist who saved the village from a flood (like Izumi Curtis style)?”

.

Warning: this work contains witch hunting, attempted burning at the stake, smoke inhalation, and some vague mentions of violence

~~~~~~~~

“Witch!”

“Burn them!”

“Monster!”

The yells of the church’s men and the thugs who they had hired rang in y/n’s ears. Tied to a large stake, the alchemist could do nothing to prevent the corrupt clergymen from literally fueling a soon-to-be fire.

“I’m not a witch! I only help people! The villagers can tell you that!” Just beyond the line of armed thugs were many of the villagers from y/n’s small seaside home. They were yelling at the thugs and church members to no avail.

For decades, y/n’s family had served these people. Healing wounds, curing illnesses, and generally protecting the village from monsters and disasters. Y/n was the last surviving member of their bloodline and had been continuing their family’s work.

Most recently y/n had stopped a flood that threatened to completely destroy the small village, attracting the attention of the church in the process.

*Flashback*

The rain pelted the village like knives, instantly soaking anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in it. About a dozen men were at the edge of the village near the dock, desperately trying to create a wall that would slow down the increasingly violent waves battering the village.

A particularly large wave crashed down, almost wiping the men back into the ocean. They struggled back to larger ground and watched in fear as the biggest wave yet approached. If it hit, the village would be flooded—completely wiped off the map.

A figure walked past the group, towards the wave. The men watched as the hooded figure stood ankle-deep in the cold waters, facing the oncoming wave.

“Y/n! Get out of the way!” The village alchemist ignored the man, bringing their hands together. Small crackles of energy gathered near their joined hands. Y/n suddenly slammed their hand on the ground, causing the earth before them to rise up. The monstrous wave crashed into the wall of earth, then receded back to the stormy sea.

By the time the storm ended, the village was still standing. Y/n slowly removed the wall of earth as to not have water rush into the village. While the villagers started the minor repairs and thanked y/n, a sinister figure disappeared into the shadows.

*Flashback End*

Somehow the church had learned of y/n’s alchemist skills, and although they had tried to argue that all their power came through the Earth and was completely natural, the church had refused to listen. They had sent a priest to ‘deal with the problem’.

“Now witch, the time has come! Confess your devil dealings and we shall grant you a swift death, or burn for your sin!” Y/n shook their head frantically, pulling at the ropes binding them.

“I’m not a witch! I’m an alchemist, I help people!” The clergyman shook his head in apparent disappointment, but y/n could see the wicked smile on his face. The bastard was enjoying this!

“You refuse to confess. Very well. Burn the witch!” The priest grabbed a torch and thrust it into the oil-soaked pile. The wood ignited and quickly spread. “May the Father have mercy upon your soul.”

Thick black smoke quickly filled the air, choking y/n as they struggled in vain to escape the flames. The villagers screamed in protest, trying to break through the line of thugs to save their neighbor and healer. Y/n’s eyes teared up from the smoke and they started coughing.

“Hey!” A loud CRACK split the air like lightning, and one of the thugs fell to the ground screaming. Y/n could barely see through the smoke and flames, but it seemed like the thug was holding his hand like it had been injured. The village folk spilled through the break in the line, headed by a peculiar man holding a whip.

“Sypha, the fire!” A woman in blue robes rushed towards the pyre, one of her hands making a sweeping motion. The fire around y/n died down to flickering embers, and they found it a little easier to breathe. The fight was short, the clergymen and thugs fleeing from the villagers and the two strangers.

Two men from the village untied y/n from the stake, helping them down to sit and recover. When they could breathe properly, y/n walked around and saw to any injuries the villagers may have acquired in the fight.

“Are you alright?” An unfamiliar woman’s voice drew them away from looking over one villager’s bump on the head. Y/n turned in surprise to find the strangers who had led the fight.

“I’ll be okay, who are you people?” The blue-robed woman gave y/n a kind smile.

“I’m Sypha Belnades, and this is Trevor Belmont.” Y/n’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of the Belmont name. Weren’tthey extinct? “We met a small group on the road who begged us to help them. They said their village healer was being attacked.” Trevor tilted his head, looking y/n up and down curiously.

“What could you have possibly done to piss off the church?” Y/n hesitated before answering. The woman had used magic, and they had saved their life. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to tell the two what y/n was.

“I come from a long line of alchemists. We’ve been living in this village for decades, helping the people.” Trevor raised an eyebrow.

“An alchemist? I thought they had all died out—y’know, alchemy being a dying art and all that.” Y/n shrugged and gave them a small smile.

“I’m the last in my family.” Sypha nodded in sympathy.

“I see. Will you be okay if the church comes back?” Y/n looked around the area. People were slowly headed back to their homes, and several were pulling down the stake that had been erected.

“I’m sure we will be. We’ll be more prepared at the very least. Thank you for your help. I don’t want to think of what would have happened if you hadn’t stepped in.” Y/n held out their hand, which both Sypha and Trevor shook.

The village gave the travelers some supplies and saw the two off. As the cart crested the hill, y/n gave one last wave and turned to head home.

~~~~~~~~

I don’t own the above gifs, all credits go to the owners.

[whatdoyouthinkmyjobis]

Hunters on the Hellmouth

masterlist

first chapter

previous chapter

AN: Inspired by events in BTVS 7.17 “Lies My Parents Told Me.”  Links to character sheets at the bottom of the story.

Chapter 33: New Man

Spike’s heart pounded against his ribs, begging for a break. His lungs burned, each breath large and deep, like he was trying to inhale oceans. He ran until sweat dripped into his eyes. He wiped his forehead and stared at his fingertips glistening in the sunlight.

Having run from the house in a t-shirt, the cool winter air nipped at his damp skin until goosebumps peppered his arms. He was still on the outskirts of town surrounded by houses and one mission-style Catholic church.

It clearly not being a day for bursting into flames, Spike entered the church and found two old women praying at the altar. He couldn’t smell them over the incense. Usually, old women reeked of creams, ointments, and god-awful perfume. The stench was part of why vampires avoided the elderly.

He stole a seat in the back at stared at the twisted body hanging at the front of the sanctuary. Like any good Victorian Londoner, Spike had been raised in the church, Anglican specifically, but the idea of God escaped him. Why would anyone, let alone the son of God, sacrifice themselves for him? Who believed he merited a second chance?

An elderly priest leaned into his pew. “Can I help you, my son?”

“Yeah, thought I’d start the new year off right with God, but I seem to ‘ave forgotten my prayer beads.”

The priest smiled at him. “You may borrow mine.” He pulled his rosary, a simple design of dark wood with a brass cross, from his pocket, and dropped it in the vampire’s hands.

The vampire did not burn.

All Dean could understand from the girls screaming at each other was that someone’s something had gone missing. Buffy and Willow were doing their best to calm the situation when he and Sam decided to seek out the quiet of the still-wrecked Impala parked in Buffy’s driveway.

“Maybe it was a mistake not telling them about Lucifer,” Dean said, bunching up a blanket to use as a pillow.

“Trust me, Lucifer isn’t comforting news. Besides, I think they’re still riding the high of burning those Bringers; plus, most of them are starting a new school Monday. Probably shouldn't add to the emotional cocktail.” 

“Are you done touching the feelings?”

Sam shrugged. “I just remember what it was like to be a teenager-by-day, monster-fighter-by-night. Add to that, they’re far from home, have cultural barriers, and are all pretty new to this. They’re not going to be insta-buddies. Besides, it’s not like we didn’t have stupid fights when we were kids.”

“We’d have had fewer fights if you weren’t so stubborn.” A light rain began to patter on the car. The clouds gave the sunset an eerie glow.

Sam tapped the front bench seat, staring at his fingers like they were giving him a message in Morse Code. “I’ve been doing some research.”

“Water is wet.” Dean��s joking did nothing to ease the anxiety on his brother’s face.

“According to Slayer lore--”

“Here we go.”

“--the first Slayer was created by combining the ‘heart of a demon’ whatever that means, with some teenage girl. Good news is, nothing happened to Buffy when we did the exorcism so--” 

“The fuck?” Dean shot up, ignoring his sore body while his blood boiled. “No. You do not just move on from that statement. Were you fucking experimenting on my girlfriend because you thought she was fucking possessed?”

“I didn’t think she was possessed, but that’s what the lore says,” Sam said, innocently. “If I thought she was dangerous, I would have told you.”

Dean knew the look on his brother’s face, and knew he wasn’t sorry one bit. He tamped down the desire to sock Sam in the jaw. “Don’t fucking put on that innocent puppy face with me! What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking she’s a vessel, too, and I wanted to know what ‘heart of a demon’ meant because clearly it’s not literal demonic possession.”

“Fuck no it’s not!”

“God, take a breath, Dean. You’re turning purple.”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” he yelled. “For once in my life, I feel like I have a fucking life. There is this amazing woman who actually gives a rat’s ass about me for more than one night -- hell, she loves me for christssake -- and you’re pokin’ at her to find out what makes her tick?”

“I didn’t want to tell you because, crazy idea, I thought you’d lose your shit,” Sam snapped.

Dean’s ribs reminded him they were still healing as he tried to take deep breaths. “You have no right.”

Scratching his head, Sam sighed. “Dean, how many comic books have you read? How many horror movies have you seen? Whatever the Slayer is, there’s an origin story, but it’s not the story that’s in the lore. I just want to know why there’s a monster-fighting superhero here, but not at home.”

They glared at each other, jaws clenched, nostrils flaring, for a minute before Sam asked, “Do you want to know what I’ve found?’

Dean didn’t, but he did. He leaned back against the seat and tried to relax.

“Remember how I was looking into possession? It looks like there are only a few types of people who can be possessed -- Slayers, vampires, and witches -- and each has special conditions under which it can happen. We know when someone gets bitten by a vamp, they lose their soul and the demon takes their corpse for a ride. Given what we just did to Spike, that one pans out. But the lore says the Slayer is also possessed by a demon, and that just doesn’t hold --”

There was a knock on the window before Buffy opened the door and climbed in the seat with Dean. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I’m super jealous of the calm in here.” Damp from the drizzle, she nestled against her boyfriend.

Dean was happy to be holding her no matter what his brother thought. He kissed the top of her head, eliciting a contented sigh.

“Should I leave you two alone?” Sam asked.

“Shut up,” said Buffy. “Today’s been weird, okay?”

“Girls okay?”

“Okay-ish? No one’s talking to Lili, but I’m too worried about Spike to care.”

After being freed from the demon parasite that had been riding him for over a century, Spike had run out into the daylight and disappeared. At first, Buffy had been practically giddy. They had taken something from the darkness, but as the day wore on and Spike did not return, she poured her nervous energy into scrubbing the entire house from top to bottom and snapping at anyone who came near. It was like waiting to hear news from the surgeon. Someone had been opened up, but was the operation successful?

“I’m sure the poofy’s fine. He’s probably sulking in a mausoleum somewhere.”

“Or he’s being tortured by Lucifer again,” she said.

“Is he even still a vampire?” asked Sam. “I’m not sure the vampire and the demon are separate here.”

Dean glared at his brother. Not that he shared Buffy’s concern, but the last thing he wanted to do was compound her worries.

She drew little patterns on Dean’s chest with her fingertips, a habit when she was mulling an idea over. “If Spike is okay, if the exorcism managed to get rid of the demon and save the man, I was wondering if we could head to Los Angeles after all this Lucifer stuff is over and maybe --”

“I guess we could ask him,” Sam said, pointing to the end of the driveway where a pale figure paced back and forth in the rain.

They got out of the car as Spike walked by, shivering in his t-shirt. “Got a bloody clown car going?”

“Where have you been?” Buffy asked.

“Around.” He shuffled his feet and bounced, trying to get warm. “Can go all sorts of places in the daylight now.”

Dean tossed him a blanket from the backseat. “You can probably catch cold too. Let’s head in. It’s dinner time.”

The next day, Sam straddled a chair across from Buffy’s desk as they listened to the gaggle of girls on the other side of the cubicle wall. The school’s bewildered guidance counselor was trying to organize the flood of unexpected transfers whose papers Dean had faked.

I can’t believe this is working! Buffy mouthed. Having all but six of them in school all day was a relief.

“I wish we were in the same classes,” Cloé complained in Spanish.

“Chiquita, we’re two grades apart,” Gabi laughed.

“Why couldn’t they lie about that too?”

“It’s only seven hours, and look, we have the same lunch and study hall. Ooh, we have Sam for study hall. He’s cute.”

“Ew, he’s old,” protested Cloé.

Sam pretended he hadn’t heard them and asked Buffy, “Ready to jump back into ‘My parents don’t get me’ and ‘My teachers are so mean?’”

“God yes!” She twirled a pencil in her fingers. “You do remember how unvacationy vacation was, right?”

Sam patted the angry scars that ran across his abs. “I have my holiday souvenirs. Can’t wait for spring break.”

Being back at school was surreal. Sam was about to dive back into nearly eight hours a day helping teenagers and teachers with research, organizing the books, and updating files. Yet his Clark Kent hours bore a sickly green edge today. Caring about the state of the biography section seemed pointless when Lucifer was out of his cage and lurking near the school.

Killing the Turok-Han and a handful of Bringers had been spitting in Lucifer’s eye. Disarming his vampire sleeper agent was stomping the Devil’s toe. Any moment, he could send something new their way -- tormenting visions of the dead, an army of vampires, drunk clowns with knives. Different world. Different rules.

Just then, an unsmiling Principal Wood showed up, eyeing them with suspicion. “Glad to see you’re all up and at ‘em after your accident.”

“Couple of regular Christmas miracles,” said Buffy with a nervous smile.

Wood nodded before turning to Sam, all friendliness gone from his face. “Mr. Winchester, I was hoping to catch you before the bell. Would you mind stepping into my office?”

They walked through the remainder of the girls waiting for a student guide for their first day. Wood assumed his seat and stared at him over steepled fingers. The clock ticked louder than the bustle of students on the other side of the wall. He’d been in enough principals’ offices and interrogation rooms to know this tactic. Sam stared back.

The bell rang.

The clock ticked.

Opening a file, Wood said, “You don’t need to worry about the library. I was able to find a substitute.”

Sam continued to stare.

“I got bored over winter break, decided to investigate. You’re an intelligent man, Mr. Winchester, but something’s always been a little off about you. You swept in out of nowhere right when we needed a new librarian, waving your freshly printed Stanford diploma. You know Mr. Espada the chemistry teacher? He went to Stanford, too. His diploma doesn’t look like yours.” Wood slid copies of both documents across the desk, but Sam ignored them.

“I thought, ‘Maybe they changed the format.’ After all, he graduated a few years before you. But it gnawed at me, so I dug a little further and found Tiffany Tusing. Remember her?”

Judging by the giant smile plastered on Wood’s face, he was about to hit a home-run.

Sam continued to stare.

“Tiffany Tusing died in a car accident in 1993, which I am surprised we didn’t know before seeing as you’re using her social security number. Do you care to tell me why you used the social security number of a dead girl and falsified records to secure a position as Sunnydale High’s librarian?”

“I like books.”

“Suffice to say, as of right now you’re suspended while I investigate further. I will call you when it’s time to clean out your desk.”

Jada was excellent with a knife. Dean sat at the kitchen counter watching her chop vegetables with fury. If she ever decided to throw down against the monsters lurking outside, she wouldn’t be half bad in a fight.

“I still can’t believe he suspended you! Your reviews have been good. He hasn’t complained at all. What is his problem?”

“It’s personality clashes wrapped in politics. I’m sure it will be cleared up soon,” said Sam as he put salmon fillets on a baking sheet. Their fake identities obviously weren’t on the list of supernatural weirdness he’d explained to her.

“Want one, Dean, or are you having dinner with Buffy?” Sam asked with a smirk.

One glance at the fish and Dean curled up his lip in disgust. “Nah, she’s busy with the girls.”

“Girls?” Jada asked brightly, clearly happy to think about something other than how much she hated Principal Wood.

“Remember how I said there’s trouble at Buffy’s?” Sam asked.

“And the trouble is girls?” she repeated with an eyebrow raised. “Little girls or big girls?”

“Too many girls!” Dean grumbled. “Anyway, I think I’ll leave you to your whatever the hell you call that and take this leg out for a spin.” Tired of feeling useless, he had insisted the doctors x-ray his broken ankle. They were shocked to see it had healed in half the normal time, but Dean -- finally cast-less -- scooted out of the hospital before they could start running tests.

“Oh, okay, have a good time, Dean!” Jada waved at him with a smile. She was in comforting mode. He hoped Sam remembered to put a sock on the door.

Full of fries and a cheeseburger, Dean grabbed his beer and sauntered over to the pub’s neglected pool table. Before they’d decided to stay in Sunnydale, he and Sam had hustled pool at every bar in town to keep themselves in beer and scratchy sheets. Enough time had passed, they should be able to do another round. They could at least hit up nearby Santa Barbara. Keep the Potentials in cereal and whatever else a houseful of teenage girls could need.

Halfway through his second rack and third beer, someone said, “You’re pretty good.” At the other end of the table stood a tall, dark man with a goatee and shaved head. He was smiling, friendly.

After Buffy had told Dean about the extensive stalker file she’d found in the principal’s office, he had decided to look Robin Wood up. Brooklyn-born, he moved to the suburbs of Los Angeles after his mother was murdered when he was four. Always athletic, he played baseball and tennis all through school. He’d graduated in the middle of his class at UCLA, and spent several years in Teach for America before heading back to school for an administrative degree. On paper, he seemed like an all-American, up-from-nothing success story. Standing before him now, Dean didn’t like whatever secrets were behind Wood’s shining eyes.

“Wanna play?” Dean asked.

Wood whistled low. “Pretty sure you’d play me out of house and home.”

“Nah,” said Dean, racking the balls, “I only swindle my friends. You new to town, mister, uh?”

“Calvin! Name’s Calvin. Yeah, just moved up here from LA.” Wood extended his hand for a shake, but Dean left him hanging.

“That so?” Dean took the opening break shot, sinking two solids.

“Liking the small town life. Quaint. Calm. What about you, buddy? Lived here long?”

“Few months.”

“What brought you here?”

“Work.”

“Really? What do you do?” Wood asked, clearly determined to keep up his cheerful ruse.

“Exterminator.”

“Exterminator? Are the pests different in Sunnydale than where you’re from?”

“A bit.” Dean sunk two more balls. He was half finished before Wood even started.

Without a clear shot, Wood chose to bump his ball in Dean’s way. “What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t.”

Wood pursed his lips and nodded his head. “You’re not the most sociable guy are you?”

“Maybe I just don’t like you,” Dean growled.

“You don’t even know me.”

Dean flexed his fingers. The principal was an inch or two taller than him, with the thick arms of someone who’d spent time punching a bag. But bags didn't hit back.

Dean’s phone rang. Keeping his eye on his new friend, he answered, “Hey Girly. What’s up?”

“I’m done with training. Mind if I come over?” The bubbly tone to her voice indicated patrol had gone well.

“Sounds good.” He hung up and bumped into Wood’s shoulder, smirking. “It’s been fun, Robin. Let’s not do this again.”

Wood banished from his mind, Dean paced his room as he waited on Buffy to arrive. She hadn’t been over since Christmas Eve, and he was still pretty beaten up then. Though he’d spent the last week at her place, they’d barely had any time together.

A satisfied moan came from Sam’s room.

The pressure in Dean’s jeans was painful, so he went to the window to distract himself. He could just make out Orion’s belt through the bright lights of town. Buffy, not knowing where the mythic figures started and stopped, had claimed the cluster of stars making Orion’s shield as her own. The Slayer’s Heart, she called it. It was sappy and silly, but it was theirs. He wanted to share the sky with her.

Turning his face from the heavens to the street, Dean’s smile faded. A blue 1997 Dodge Stratus, the same car Robin Wood drove, was parked across the street. Dean was lacing his boots to confront the principal when Buffy opened his bedroom door.

In an instant, she was in his arms, her legs around his waist as he pressed her against the wall. Their kiss long and deep reveling in their perfect fit. “Missed you, Girly,” he said as he moved to kissing her neck.

A moan rose from deep in her throat as she played with his hair. “I can’t stay long -- twenty minutes tops, but I had to see you.”

He set her on top of his dresser and rubbed her leather-clad thighs. She knew those pants drove him crazy. “You’re smiling like you had a good day.”

“Mostly. You’re out of your cast. Spike came out of the basement and tried to feed himself; Alma had to teach him how to cook. Both Vi and Keisha staked vampires tonight. That’s three successful trainee patrols in a row.”

“I miss patrolling with you.”

“You, mister, are distracting with those kissable lips.” She sucked on his bottom lip like he was her favorite candy. “And that deep, rumbly voice. God, when you talk dirty--” She tugged off his shirt, a wolfish hunger in her eyes. “Other than the little things like Lucifer being out there doing God knows what and Wood suspending Sam--”

“Ugh.” Dean shook his head. “That jackass is outside.”

“What?!”

“Wood. I went down to the bar for dinner, and he was there trying to chat me up. Now he’s parked outside.”

Buffy dashed to the window. “I see you!” she yelled, pointing at her eyes and the car. It pulled away, disappearing down the block.

“Well, he just jumped up my priorities list,” she grumbled, the smile leaving her face for the first time.

“I was gonna pay him a visit tomorrow.”

“Don’t kill him.”

“That’s not Plan A.”

Sliding his hands under her sweater, he cupped one of her breasts. The tension melted from her face as he kneaded her body. “Right now, Plan A is to see how many times I can make you come in twenty minutes.”

“Challenge accepted,” she purred, pushing his pants to the floor.   

Robin Wood lived in a small, well-maintained bungalow six blocks from the high school. The inside was sparsely decorated in cheap furniture from I’m Totally Normal Monthly. The warehouse plastic smell of newness still hung in the air. The kitchen drawers were full of kitchen supplies. The living room drawers were full of typical homeowner paperwork, DVDs, travel mementos, and one picture -- an old white man with his arm around a young black boy. The office was equally boring with proposals, budgets, and books on child psychology and educational theory.

It felt like a set.

In the bedroom, an old steamer trunk and a bookcase stuffed with old leather books sat at the foot of the bed. Like in his own room, the trunk was full of stakes, holy water, crossbows and any other weapon a vampire hunter would need. The extensiveness of the collection told him Wood wasn’t new to hunting -- and if he wasn’t new to hunting, maybe he knew who Buffy was.

He grabbed a book from the shelf and started reading.

After a couple of hours, keys jingled in the door. Not working late tonight. Dean listened as Wood walked around the house with the casual care of someone not suspecting an intruder. He lightly laid his finger on the trigger of his gun and aimed it at the door of the bedroom.

Wood entered the room and betraying only the slightest surprise, raised his hands. “I thought you didn’t want hang out anymore, Dean.”

“I believe in second chances. Haven’t decided yet if I want to shoot you, so I’m gonna put this gun down. You’re gonna go for the machete you keep by the door, but I already moved it. And I think you know fucking with me would hurt.”

Dean held up a book, a journal more specifically. “At first, I guessed you were a hunter with a Slayer fetish. Got all these Watcher’s journals to jerk off to. Explains why you’ve been stalking Buffy so hard.

“Then I get to this.”

He read from the first page, “‘She came back. After surviving her Cruciamentum -- while pregnant no less -- I encouraged Nikki to hide. I made all the arrangements and was ready to face the Council when they discovered the truth.

“‘But I should have known Nikki Wood couldn’t stay away from a fight. She returned with her infant son and went right back into the dark, stake in hand.

“‘Her son is sleeping soundly in a makeshift bed beside me while his mother is out saving the world. It’s not fair she was chosen. Not fair that so much will be taken from her. It is not the boy’s fault, and I fear what will become of Robin when his mother meets her inevitable end.’”

Dean snapped the book shut. “Your mother was a Slayer. So what, you have some oedipal crush on Buffy?”

“Don’t act like you know me,” Robin said through gritted teeth.

“What do you want with Buffy?”

“I’d prefer to tell her directly.”

“You’re driving. Pretty sure you know the way.”

Buffy and her boss sat alone in her kitchen. He stared at his hands with contrition. She hadn’t been sure what to make of Dean’s call telling her he was coming by with the most-likely-not-dangerous principal. “I wish you would have just told me this up front instead of acting like a creepy stalker.”

“In retrospect, I see how my research looked more unwanted ex and less detective dossier, but Slayers aren’t Girl Scouts.”

She watched two dozen Potentials practicing fighting forms in her backyard as she mulled over Wood’s story.

A Slayer had a child. A Slayer was a mother. Buffy firmly rejected certain Slayer traditions. Being alone. Being on the outskirts of society. But being childless always made sense. Even if she and the baby survived the pregnancy, she would never see it grow up. It would never remember her.

She didn’t want her four-year-old son at her funeral. She didn’t want him dedicating his life to avenging her. She didn’t want another Slayer down the line to look in his face and say, “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

Wood sighed, “Can’t say I blame you. First Evil sounds pretty demanding.”

“Keeps me on my toes.”

Spike, his hair mussed from sleep and with dark circles under his eyes, emerged from the basement. “Sorry, I’m just ‘ere for eggs,” he mumbled.

Gabi, Cloé and Vi dashed through the kitchen, giggling. Gabi assumed her instructor’s station at the front of the group outside, while the other two found places in the crowd.

“You’re late!” Dani yelled, zeroing in on Cloé while ignoring the other two.

Cloé bowed her head, her shoulders slumping as if bracing for a blow. “I’m sorry, we --”

“I don’t care! This is life and death.” The other girls stopped their exercises and stared at the scene with a mix of embarrassment and satisfaction. “Maybe I’ll start calling you Chum because you’re not going to be good for anything other than vampire bait.”

“Hey!” Gabi snapped. “I made them late. If you want to scream at someone you and I can do it later. This isn’t helping anyone.”

Dani curled her lip in disgust as she glared at Gabi. “Look, I’m in charge here--”

“No.” Gabi rose to her full height, a head taller than Dani. “Buffy is in charge. You’re not even number two. You want to take this inside or keep training?”

Looking back at the crowd of expectant girls, Dani pointed at Cloé. “Arms up, ladies! You call that a stance?”

Wood turned away from the scene, eyebrows raised. “At least I’ve solved the mystery of the flood of transfers. I’m assuming the Winchesters forged all of their paperwork?”

Andrew stomped in. “Spike, don’t forget to wash the pan when you’re done. I had to clean all of your dishes yesterday.”

Wood pointed at the two men. “Not Potentials.”

“No! This is Spike and Andrew. The First is after them, so they’ve been living in my basement.”

“Spike and Andrew.” Wood eyed Spike’s back as the former vampire plated his food. “Buffy, does this First thing have anything to do with this goat-face seal I keep finding in the basement?”

Andrew gulped. Spike turned to look at Wood, a burning intensity in his eyes.

“Who are you?” Spike asked.

“Robin Wood, principal at Sunnydale High.” Wood extended his hand, which Spike reluctantly shook.

“Wood’s mother was a Slayer.”

“Slayers have kids?” Spike looked the new guy over with renewed interest.

“One did at least. Nikki Wood. New York. 70s,” Wood said.

“Sorry, my Slayer ‘istory’s not so good,” Spike said, grabbing a fork and taking his eggs to the basement.

With a sigh, Andrew put Spike’s dirty pan in the sink. “You’ve seen the seal?”

“Yeah, someone keeps digging it up. I found a body down there once lying on top of it.”

Andrew avoided eye contact. “What did you do with it? Asking for a friend.”

“Seeing as this is Sunnydale, I buried the kid outside of town. Last time I found the seal exposed, I covered it in concrete, reburied it, piled supplies on it, and had the door welded shut.”

“Thorough,” said Buffy, relieved Lucifer wasn’t going to be able to pull any more Turok-Han from the Hellmouth. At least not soon. “You know if you want to help…”

“Much as I want to spend more time with teenagers, I think I’ll stick to searching for the vampire who killed my mom.”

“You’re certain it’s in Sunnydale?”

“Absolutely. Tell you what. I’ll lift Sam’s suspension. Not like I could have found a replacement librarian in the middle of the year anyway. What’s their deal, by the way? I couldn’t find anything on the Winchesters.”

Buffy chuckled. “The Winchesters are a different kind of wild story. If you want to know, come back and ask them yourself. After you figure out how to get on their good side.”

Spike leaned forward over the utility sink to get a closer look at himself in the mirror. He’d forgotten what he looked like. Too angular for Victorian sensibilities, but handsome for the modern day.

Hadn’t that been the entire problem? William Pratt was always too something for his neighbors, his mother, his adored. Too meek. Too earnest. Too emotional. William Pratt did not belong.

Now wasn’t much better. He wasn’t a vampire, but was he a man? He was stronger than average. A little faster.

Before Drusilla had turned him, he’d written longhand ledgers, a human calculator. What was he supposed to do now? Wash sheets at the Motor Inn, saving to get a crumby apartment? Worry about his cholesterol and toenail fungus? Not think about the murders he’d gladly committed?

No, whatever was in the mirror wasn’t a man.

“What are you doing?” Andrew asked.

His voice startled Spike, who’d been so absorbed in his reflection, he hadn’t noticed the arrival of his roommate. “I was just marveling at wot a ‘andsome devil I am. Cheekbones.”

“Some guys have it all,” Andrew said with a sigh as he settled onto his cot.

“Is that guy gone? Big black fellow?”

“Yeah, he left a while ago. Didn’t seem too happy.”

“Right, well, I guess I’ll see to that...thing that needs seeing,” Spike said, heading upstairs.

Buffy stood on the back porch, overseeing Dani and Gabi leading the Potentials in a series of martial arts exercises. Spike didn’t know much of trained fighting. Seemed to take the fun out of it, especially when it came to fighting a disciplined, organized, knowledgeable Slayer, the ultimate test of improvisation.

He decided to leave out the front door, but Sam and Dean were in the driveway repairing the Impala. Spike hadn’t seen the car after Buffy wrecked it, but from the stories, he was surprised it wasn’t in a junkyard.

“Hey, Spike,” Sam called, waving him over.

Dean rose from where he’d been crouched by the front fender. “Hit it, Sammy.”

Sam flipped the knob to check one turn signal then the other. Dean gave a thumbs up before disappearing in front of the car again.

“How’re you doing?” Sam asked.

At one point in the underground church, Sam had lost hope and began to confess his darkest deeds. He’d hunted down a demon named Lilith. “I wanted revenge because she’d killed Dean, but Dean was back, so it was really about me, wasn’t it? My power. My abilities. Me saving the day.”

“Did you kill the bitch?”

Sam had chuckled, a thin wheeze, at the question. “You know what I had to do to get strong enough to kill Lilith? I killed and drank a demon possessed pediatric nurse. I drank until she turned ashen. I drank until my stomach strained, and I told myself, ‘Greater good, right?’”

“You’re making me hungry.”

“Wanna know the irony? Me killing Lilith, that’s what unleashed Lucifer.”

And now Sam, far from the brink of death, sat in his brother’s car testing turn signals. A not-so-innocent human with demon-blood tainted veins.

Spike opened the back door and slipped into the back seat. He almost missed the blood lust. His demon had guided him, amping up his every dark impulse for over a century. Without it, he had all of the baggage of someone he knew and no idea where he was going. But he didn’t want to go back. “I feel like I just woke up from a coma, but it’s ‘alloween and I’m in a blimey gorilla costume.”

Sam squinted at him, confused. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Metaphor needs work. Point is, I feel a little out of sorts with just myself rattling around up there.”

“It’ll take some getting used to.”

“Does anyone ever get used to humanity?” Spike asked, twisting his lips in a smirk to cover his sincerity.

“No,” said Sam quietly. “Some voices and faces always haunt you.”

“Like the nurse?”

Sam looked away in shame. They may both be killers, but only one of them had ever been proud of it. “Her husband never even knew what happened.”

“But sorry doesn’t change the past, no matter ‘ow many lives we get, does it?”

“No.”

“But life is just living, isn’t it?” Spike said. “The pain, the sex, the shame, the victories, they’re all part of the package.”

Finished with training, the Potentials began to flood the front yard, doing cartwheels and chasing each other. Enjoying the last bit of sun before nightfall forced them inside.

Giant grin plastered on his face, Dean sauntered around the car. “Baby’s ready to roll, Sammy.” His grin faded a bit when he saw Spike. “Dude, you’re practically glowing. It’s like you haven’t seen the sun in a century.”

Spike sighed. “Look out, George Carlin. A new wit has arrived.”

Dean shrugged. “We hid the beer in the cooler if you want one.” He left them to pick up his tools.

Sam smiled, soft and concerned, at Spike. “One day at a time. It’s going to be hard and weird, but I’m here for you. Call me if you feel like doing anything stupid.”

Spike was about to do something stupid. He paced in the pool of a street light in front of the little green bungalow. He wished he had a cigarette, but trying to smoke made him cough, his lungs burn. After sunset, he’d had a beer or three to convince himself his idea wasn’t suicidal.

What he did know with certainty: William Pratt would not have come. William Pratt would have wrung his hands, written at length, then waited in hiding until his mother handled the problem.

Damning evidence in hand, Spike would confront this head on.

He knocked on the door. Robin Wood answered immediately as if he’d been waiting on Spike to call. “I heard about your mum, and I, uh, I have information about her.”

Wood nodded slowly. “Meet me in the back, okay?”

New York in the 1970s had stunk of piss and cheap cigarettes. Between horny business men looking for fun in Times Square and a flood of punks wandering in and out of clubs, it was an easy meal. Not even having a Slayer in town did much to stem the tide of deaths.

Behind Wood’s house stood a dark garage with the door ajar. Spike peeked inside. “‘ello?”

It hadn’t taken Spike long to hunt down New York’s Slayer. Tall and lithe, Nikki moved with the grace and force of a prize fighter, exposing bone with her fists, sending teeth flying into the night. Spike watched her as she killed standard vampires without breaking a sweat. Once she tangled with two members of the Sisterhood of Jhe, throwing one into the other, impaling them at the same time when they were trapped in a dumpster. He was going to enjoy dancing with her.

A sting in his neck. Spike spun on his heels and knocked a shadow back against the garage door frame. Feeling woozy, he raised his fists.

Spike and Nikki had fought in the park a week before, a congenial how-do-you-do sort of fight. When he caught her in the subway, empty but for a few late-night party kids puking their guts out, he knew she was tired and ready to fold. With a smile on his face, he’d snapped her neck.

The door slid closed. Wood chuckled, “Feeling a little sick? My own mix. A little sedative and a little holy water.” The light blazed on, highlighting the cross-covered walls.

Wood, slipping on a pair of brass knuckles, stood between Spike and the door. “Oh, did you think I didn’t know you, Spike? British punk trash. About a hundred and forty. Lately, spotted with the Slayer. Strange since he killed two, including my mother.”

Spike dodged a punch. He may not be a vampire anymore, but he was still oddly quick. “What’s the plan then? Kill me and mummy comes back to you?”

They circled each other. A jab. A weave. The formerly cool principal was practically rippling with rage.

Wood lunged. Spike grabbed his arm and swung him into a table, knocking the air from him.

“She didn’t say anything when I killed her. No begging. No pleading. No final thoughts of you.”

“She died a hero, unlike you,” Wood growled.

“Maybe we died the same,” Spike said, ignoring the threat in Wood’s voice. “Alone, in the dark, running away from people who cared about us. Is that what bothers you most? Mummy’s good and dead because she kept picking us over you.”

Wood shouted, picked up a set of throwing knives, and began to use him for target practice.  Thunk! The first blade hit the wall close to Spike’s head.

Thunk!

The sedative was pulling Spike down, his limbs rubber, his vision blurry. He twisted trying to dodge the knives, but one grazed his side, another cut into his arm.

Thunk! Thunk!

Once the knives were all stuck in the wall behind him, Spike dove at the principal’s legs. They rolled on the ground, trading punches. Spike jabbed Wood with his elbow and landed a cracking blow to his ribs.

“Show me your real face!” Wood screamed, rolling on top of Spike, hitting him over and over. Spike could feel his flesh tearing, the blood spilling out as vengeance pummeled his face and body.

Using every bit of strength the drugs had left him, Spike pushed Wood off and grabbed a cross from the wall.

Nothing happened.

Wood stared, dumbfounded. “But the Watcher’s diaries --”

“Were right,” Spike said, pointing to a plastic grocery bag he’d dropped by the door. “I killed your mum. Came here to apologize. But then you were a twat so I didn’t.”

Holding his breath and with his eyes still on Spike, Wood knelt down to open the bag. Inside was a long leather coat. His mother’s coat.

The garage door slid open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” yelled Buffy.

The principal, bleeding from a cut above his eye, rose and glared at Buffy. “This doesn’t involve you, Slayer.”

“You beat up one of my friends, you bet it involves me,” she said through gritted teeth.

Wood snorted, eyeing Spike with disgust as he slowly found his footing. “Friend? Do you even know what he is?”

“The vampire part or the killed your mom part? Yeah, I figured it out.”

Eyeing Spike with a little more curiosity than loathing, Wood asked, “Is he a vampire?”

“Was,” Spike said, trying and failing to stand. “You missed filling your life-long vengeance quest by about two days.”

“There’s -- there’s a cure?” Wood asked quietly.

“Only for very good boys.” Spike spit blood and grinned.

“Are you listening? Because I want to know if you can follow the simplest of instructions.” Buffy asked, her arms crossed and eyes blazing with fury. “ But here’s the thing, Robin, even if Spike were still a monster, he’d still be more of a man than you.”

Wood’s jaw flexed, his eyes dark and cold. “You don’t--”

“Did I say you could talk? If you come around me and mine again, I recommend crawling on your hands and knees.” Buffy helped Spike up and lead him outside.

“What were you thinking coming here?” she asked, shifting to support more of his weight.

The cold air sucked at the sweat and blood coating Spike’s skin sending a quick shiver through him. “You really think I’m a man now?”

“Well, Jeffrey Dahmer was a man, so the bar is low.” Buffy stopped and gazed at him. The moonlight glistened in her eyes as she gently touched the bruises on his face. “Do you think you’re not?”

“Thought making amends would be a good first step.” He held his breath while he took in the angles of her nose, her large sad eyes, the fluttering kiss of her fingers.

“You tried to kill me,” she said softly. “Then you helped me save the world. And now look at you with your soul without your demon. You’ve survived more and grown more than most men could dream.”

She shook her head sharply, the trance broken, and continued walking him down the block. “We need to get you patched up. Infections are totally a thing.”

He still craved her touch. “‘ow’d you know where I was?”

“Sam thought you were acting weird. I followed you.”

Spike hoped they weren’t walking far. As the fight drained out of him, the pain grew, his head throbbing, knuckles aching, one ankle sharp. “What do you think’s out there for an ex-vampire? Side show freakery?”

“You know what I want for you?” she asked. “I want you to find someone who could just know William Pratt, the man who has sacrificed himself for love over and over. Sometimes stupidly. Sometimes selfishly. Often perfectly.”

“You a fan of Pratt, then?”

Buffy shook her head. “Not for me, William. Be that man for her, whoever she is.”

With the stomach-churning taste of blood on his tongue, he chuckled. “You think love is in the cards for me?”

She half-smiled. “You’ve been a vampire, captured by the government, and been to Hell. I think you’re due for something good.”

They turned the corner where Dean was waiting in the freshly repaired Impala. Spike sighed but said nothing.

Buffy still picked up on his let-down. “You smell like a vampire Happy Meal. Probably better we don’t walk through town. You can crash at Dean’s. We don’t need the the girls knowing their principal beat up Crazy Basement Guy.”

“Is that what they call me?”

“Also Mystery Guy and Andrew’s Roommate.”

Spike slapped his hand over his heart in mock horror and climbed in the backseat of the Impala.

Read Giles’ dossiers on: Lili    Alma   Dani    Vi    Cloé      Molly     Lys     Grace    Wook    Keisha    Leticia     Naomi   Kate    Gabi   Jabulela

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