BACK AT ONE
by perletwo
/If ever I believe my work is done/
/Then I start back at one/
- Brian McKnight, "Back at One"
Ripley danced through the crowds at the Bronze, the thrill of the kill feeding her abandon.
For a long while, she was oblivious to everything but the hard-driving music and the motion of her hips; then she became aware of someone staring at her. Two someones, actually, at a darkened corner booth.
A young man, only a little older than herself, with killer cheekbones and hair an ugly peroxide blond, sat casting glances her way and whispering with the old lady beside him. Easily twice his age, with unfashionably long dark hair running to white, a long angular white face and limbs and enormous blue eyes, which kept following the good-looking boy's to her.
{{Probably feelin' all my style,}} Ripley thought with the self-satisfaction of youth. She ticked off the list: the trendily modified buzz-cut she wore her red hair in, the long narrow green eyes so prized these days, the druid sigil carved along the line of her cheek, and the flowing lines of the vintage Lycra minidress she had on.
The name was unfortunate, of course - Ripley the Vampire Slayer? - but her mom had named her after the heroine of her favorite classic movie. She'd even dug out the tapes and made her watch them on this antiquated player, and the special-effects aliens were cheesy but she had to admit, Ripley was pretty cool. Except for the part about going back for the cat, natural.
The dark-haired woman seemed to be urging the boy to do something, but he just kept shaking his head sadly. The closer Ripley danced to them, the more she got a tingly sensation of cold fingers on her spine off the boy; this could have potential.
The boy shook his head one more time and let it hang low, and the old lady lay her head against his leather-clad shoulder, hair spilling over onto his red wool scarf. An unflatteringly girlish maneuver for a granny like her, Ripley thought. But the boy just turned his head to her and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
{{Well, he's a bloodsuckin' killer, but at least he's good to his momma,}} she thought snidely. A moment later he stood and stalked out, shoulders hunched, waving a dismissive goodbye to the old lady. From the dance floor Ripley watched Granny watch him round the corner to go under the stairs, start to a stop at the sight of, of all things, a floor-to-ceiling support strut, and continue on his way. Granny got up and hurried after him.
Casually, Ripley followed.
She caught up to the couple in the back alley of the Bronze. The vamp had an arm around Granny and she'd tucked her head up against his shoulder; how could she've lived to such an age in Sunnydale and be so careless about her neck?
The two spun and startled apart when her first stake whizzed through the air where Blondie's heart had been a moment earlier. Ripley was surprised to notice the vamp had shifted the old lady behind him protectively. {{C'mon Big Bad, let Granny go. There's fresher meat lookin' atcha right here.}}
"Hi! What's this about, then?" he demanded, indignant.
"Let the old lady go and I'll show you," Ripley purred.
To her shock, the old lady laughed. And stepped around in front of the vamp. "Chill out, kid," she said.
{{Chill out? How quaint!}} "Look Granny, you don't know what you're getting yaself into here -"
"No, dear, I'm afraid it's you that doesn't know what she's getting into," the old lady said, "and you really should. Go run along home to your Watcher, now, and tell him to look up William the Bloody in the Diaries. I'll even make it easy for him; you tell him to skip ahead to Rupert Giles' journal."
"Dawn, stand away. This is unnecessary," Blondie (William? the Bloody?) said uneasily, trying to shift her behind him again.
" 'Fraid it ain't, Fang-Face," Ripley said, and flung herself at him, stake in hand.
"REPULSIA!" the old lady shouted, and the Slayer felt like she'd run into a brick wall that was running at her at the same speed. She flew backwards and landed on her ass, with a garbage bag to break her fall.
"Ohh, so you're hidin' behind a witch now, huh Bad Boy?"
The vamp looked from the Slayer to his companion and back. "Dawn's very far from anything you'd rightly call a witch, Pint-Size, but she does know how to defend herself. She's been the object of capture in some very dangerous games, played by people so far out of your league you can't even imagine," he said. "So do yourself a favor, and don't try attacking her again."
With that the two turned their backs on her - how *dare* they! - and disappeared into the night.
Three nights later, Ripley was taking herself home, bounding through the graveyard on an adrenalin high. She'd dusted two fledges and beat the crap out of a couple of minions, and found out some useful stuff about the new master vamp in town's organization. It was a good night, she thought.
Until she ran into Blondie. Bounced into him, actually, where he stood with feet planted a foot apart, leather duster curling around his ankles. To her surprise, he caught her by the forearms and stopped her fall, until she slapped his hands away and pulled her stake.
"Now now, Slayer. No need to get testy. Ev'ryone falls down every now an' again." Ripley felt her cheeks flame, and the vamp grinned wolfishly. "Twice in a row's not somethin' you'd want to get back to your Watcher, I'm sure, but then I'm told I have that effect on a lotta women."
"No fuckin' way, Fang-Face," she shot back, and charged him. He stepped effortlessly out of her path with amazing speed, and she slammed into the tree behind him instead. Dazed, she realized a moment later he'd extended a hand to help her up. She shook her head and jumped up into an attack stance.
"Have it your way, child." He turned his back on her and started to stalk off.
"Hey! Getcher ass back here and fight like a man!" Ripley yelled, and he stopped suddenly.
"I am fighting like a man, Slayer. That's why you're still alive," he said over his shoulder, and glanced back to see her puzzling that one out. {{Not a titan of the intellect, this,}} Spike thought. {{I hereby take back every dumb-blonde crack I ever made about you, my love.}}
"I'll give you one chance to save your life, Blood-Breath," the Slayer called, and blushed again when the vampire laughed. "Whatcha know about this new vamp in town, Lucretius?"
"Ah. Information. You haven't the flash to really make that dance worth my time, child." But he turned to face her, reluctantly, anyway. "I know he's very old, very skilled, utterly vicious and outclasses you by more miles than I'd guess you can count, Slayer. I do hope you've a good plan of attack ready when you go up against him."
"Sure," she said, shifting on the balls of her feet. "Bust in. Bust heads. Dust 'em. Move on."
Blondie laughed again and shook his head sadly. "What have those Watchers been teaching you, Pint-Size?"
A look of confusion crossed Ripley's face, then cleared. "Bust in. Bust heads. Dust 'em. Move on," she recited proudly.
"And a fine plan it is, child. Tell me, do you carry much life insurance? No, probably not; the life expectancy of a Slayer would probably fry an actuarian's brains out if he tried to calculate the premiums." He turned to leave again. "Best of luck to you there, Slayer."
"HEY!" she yelled, and he stopped. "Whatcha doin' out here anyway, if you're not lookin' for trouble?"
She saw his back stiffen, and he looked over his shoulder, brows creased in - pain? Could bloodsuckers even feel pain?
"Paying my respects," he said softly, and vanished without another sound.
Ripley started on home, then turned and went back to the spot where she'd first found him standing.
In front of her was an unusual grave marker for Sunnydale; she'd noticed it before. Instead of the usual tombstone or flat stone plaque it had a near-life-size stone statue. Not of the angel or cherub or cross you'd expect - it was a female knight in chain mail, sword drawn. The plaque was at the bottom, and carved on it was:
ELIZABETH ANNE SUMMERS
1980-2022
LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS, BRAVE ONE
THE LONG BATTLE'S DONE AT LAST.
At the base lay an old-fashioned looking nosegay of dried flowers, tied around the middle with a raffia string. A piece of linen stationery was tucked into the tie, covered with sharp, angular handwriting.
Ripley pulled it out and read. "There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: - there's rue for you; and here's some for me: - we may call it herb-grace o'Sundays: - O, you must wear your rue with a difference."
The verse tickled a little something familiar at the back of her mind, but she couldn't call it up. Finally she started off in the direction she'd seen the vamp walking away the first time he tried to leave.
It didn't take Ripley all that long to find his nest.
She walked around the lush furnishings crowded into the top floor of the crypt, stopping at an antique dressing table and mirror tucked into a back corner. (What's a vamp need a mirror for, anyway?) It had caught her eye because it seemed such a girl-y piece of furniture for a Bad Boy to have.
Up close it was very girl-y. Perfume bottles, hairbrushes and old cosmetics filled the surface, and pictures - a pretty honey-blonde, a younger version of Granny, a sprightly redhead and a Neanderthal-ish hunk with shaggy black hair - were stuck into the mirror's frame at random.
In pride of place on the tabletop was a small jewelry box, probably handmade, very narrow with a glass lid. Inside, tucked into those padded rolls of velvet, were four rings arranged in a row: a silver death's head, a man's heavy silver band, a delicate gold-and-diamond solitaire and a woman's traditional gold wedding band.
She put out a hand to touch it and an electric shock jolted through her, sending sparks shooting from the spot she touched. {{Protection spell. No wonder he c'n leave the gelt sittin' out like this,}} she thought.
Footsteps sounded on the ladder, and she turned to see Blondie's head emerge from the rabbit-hole. She pulled her lucky stake and held it at the ready.
"Oh, it's you," he drawled. "Okay, tell you what: let's just get this over, shall we?" To her surprise, he held his arms open wide, one hand pulling back his overshirt to expose his heart, and flopped down on the sofa.
"You - you *want* -" Confused, Ripley let the stake fall to her side and shifted to a more normal posture. "Gotta proposition for ya, Blood-Boy."
He snorted, looked her up and down with a gimlet eye. "I highly doubt you have anything I'd want, Slayer. But then you've got a tough act to follow."
Gaa. Was this guy *ever* going to say anything that made sense? "If ya don't want me to run ya through...you could maybe *help* me. Get close to Lucretius, find out where he's hidin', what he's plannin'? Bring me that stuff, an' I won't go outta my way to find where you're feedin'. Long's you're not too obvious about it, natural."
He laughed, a dry sound like dead leaves in the wind. "So I take it you didn't follow up on Dawn's advice and ask your Watcher about me, then." She shook her head. "I don't hunt, little one, haven't for a long time. I do my feeding at the butcher shop. And it's highly unlikely Lucretius would ever tell me anything; he's much more likely to send some minions to kill me in my sleep."
"W'l then I guess I got no use for ya!" She brought the stake back up to stabbing position and started to charge him, when a bolt from a crossbow zinged between her arm and ear, pinning her sleeve to the mirror with a dull thud and crack.
Granny came striding up to her from the doorway, crossbow at the ready. "That was a warning shot, dear. The next one will do some real damage."
"JE-ez! What *is* it with you, lady? Don'cha know a bloodsucker when ya see one?!" She yanked ineffectually at her sleeve.
Blondie stepped up close in front of her, close enough to bite if he chose, and pulled the bolt free, sending tiny slivers of glass cascading down from the mirror. He reached up a hand to her face, a finger extended to trace the sigil-scar on her cheek. "Such a pretty face...why you'd choose to mutilate it like this I can't feature..." he mused. She slapped his hand away and feinted to one side.
"Yes, I do know a bloodsucker when I see one, dear. The trouble is, you don't," Dawn replied. "Leave this place. Don't ever come back. And hope you don't cross paths with me like this again."
Scowling, Ripley walked out of the crypt, Dawn's crossbow trained on her all the while.
A few yards from the crypt, the Slayer doubled back and hovered at the door, straining her enhanced senses to overhear their conversation.
"...look, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Dawn, I really am. But I just can't do it."
"It's what she'd want you to do, Spike. I really believe that," the old lady said. "I mean, it's about the truth of her life. She was the only Slayer to outlive the retirement age. Think about what her first Watcher said - that she did everything wrong, and she should keep doing it wrong. And then she got Giles, who did things his own way too...The Watchers Council way is wrong, Spike. Or at least inadequate. And it eats these young women alive. She'd want you to try to help this one along, teach her. Like she did for the others, after she retired. It's how you can honor her life."
"That's the truth of her work, niblet. Not the truth of her life. The truth of her life is you an' Harris an' Giles an' all the other people she loved. I can honor her life by takin' care of you."
"I haven't needed to be tucked into bed and sung lullabyes to for a long time now. And anyway, even if I did, I've got a husband to do it. We don't need much taking care of. This girl does."
"I can't. I just can't. I can't get close to another one, let myself get invested, only to watch her die. Like she did with Delia an' Lucy an' Keesha. I saw how it tore her up to lose them. I'm already tore up from losin' 'er, li'l bit," he said.
"Somebody or other once told me, the only thing sure in this life is we're going to die." Ripley thought she heard him snort at that. "This girl, she can either die sooner, or she can die later. She plays her cards right, she might can even die long after she gets out of the game, like my sister did. How're you gonna feel, knowing that, if you do nothing and she dies sooner?"
This conversation was beginning to creep Ripley out. Time to go home and do some work, she thought, bounding off. She and her Watcher had a raid to plan...
Late the next night, Spike looked up from the pool table at the sudden silence in the Bronze. The band's guitars had died off in mid-howl and the shouts of conversation had simmered down to whispers.
A minute later the reason why became painfully apparent. The crowd parted to let Ripley through, battered and bloody, clothing torn to ribbons. She carried the inert body of a middle-aged man wearing the shredded remains of what could only be a handmade Savile Row suit.
She dropped the body on the pool table in front of him. The old lady started toward it, but Blondie waved her off with a sharp shake of his head, more informative than discouraging. The Neanderthal-looking guy from the picture, with the heavy jaw and shaggy hair, more salt-and-pepper than black now, put his arms around Granny from behind and she turned her head into his chest with a sob.
They were wearing matching wedding rings, Ripley noted numbly, and wondered what happened to the little redhead.
"How'd you know it wouldn't work?" she asked Spike in a very small, shaky voice, and he tore his eyes from the Watcher to look at up at the Slayer.
The vampire pulled out an old-fashioned gold lighter and lit a cigarette, taking exaggerated care over the motions and keeping his hands cupped around the tip well after the fag had caught. {{To mask the smell,}} she thought dimly, {{vamps smell everything.}}
"I could see you lack the skills to go up against Lucretius. As a hitman assassinating random vampires, you do just fine. But Lucretius is a warrior, a tactician and has amassed a small army of trained soldiers who happen to be vampires. You and your Watcher were unprepared for that," he said, voice neutral.
"So I never had a chance?" She hated the high squeak that had crept into her voice. {{I won't cry,}} she told herself. {{not in front of a vamp. I'm the Slayer. I won't cry.}}
He didn't seem to notice, though, and cocked his head to one side, considering the question. "With proper training in the art of war, with intelligence and a gift for improvisation...you might have had a slim chance taking him on by yourself. Best I can tell, however, you have little of any of those things."
Granny spoke up then. "Spike, she needs help."
"They'll send me another Watcher, lady," Ripley shot back.
"Yeah, they will. And he won't have anything better or more useful to teach you," the guy behind Granny said. "We do."
Both looked steadily at Spike. Expecting.
The vampire closed his eyes. {{Help me, luv. Please. Give me a clue. I need help. I can't do this.}}
|| What happens on Saturday? || Her voice echoed in his head.
|| That's when I kill you. ||
{{Message received. And understood,}} he thought. {{Thank you, my love.}}
Opening his eyes, he circled around the pool table and behind Ripley, nicking the stake off her thigh as he moved. "Lesson the first," he said numbly, slipping into his vampire features. "A Slayer must always reach for her weapon. I've already got mine..."
Dawn allowed herself a small smile, noting the close attention Ripley was paying him as he shook off his game face.