(About a week later) Saturday night, August 27^th, 2011.

Buffy pulled handfuls of envelopes and flyers out of the mailbox by the street in front of the mansion. How long had it been building up? Two or three days? Longer? This week had been something akin to giving birth – not something you really wanted to ever do again while in the midst of it, but that you loved, nonetheless. Trying to organize, feed, and keep track of several dozen hormone-charged Slayers from different cultures, some of whom only spoke limited English, had been a gigantic challenge, but rewarding at the same time.

She’d just closed the mailbox and started back up the walk when she heard it: the unmistakable cry of the Quidnuncious demon. The sound was akin to fingernails scraping on bones … on Buffy’s bones, to be exact. The shrill, whining sound penetrated her eardrums like spears, and vibrated a painful river of icy dread down her spine.

“Shit,” she cursed under her breath as she ducked out of sight between the hedges that ran alongside each side of the walk back to the front door. The demon kept coming down the sidewalk, and, Buffy thought, had even increased its speed. She could hear the muffled steps of its fuzzy pink feet padding quickly towards her, and her own heartbeat increased exponentially as it neared her hiding place. Every few steps, it would bellow again – an unmistakable high-pitched cry which sent another wave of foreboding down Buffy’s spine. She looked at the front door, it was only about twenty feet away. If she stayed crouched beneath the level of the hedge the whole way, she might make it inside before the Quidnuncious caught sight of her. It might not have actually seen her yet, it might keep going, it might ...

“Mrs. Waverly! There you are, dear.”

Buffy took a deep breath and stood up straight, bracing herself for the inevitable. She was unable to conceal herself behind the hedge any longer: the demon had found her.

“Mrs. Krass,” she breathed, turning to face her adversary. “Long time no see.”  Buffy knew the woman’s name wasn’t Krass … it was Katz, but since the quidnunc never could seem to get Buffy’s name right, she felt obliged to return the compliment.

“I’ve been trying to catch you for a few days,” Mrs. Katz admitted in her gratingly-shrill demon voice, still breathing hard from the brisk pace she’d set down the sidewalk. “But you always seem to disappear as soon as I come outside.  If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think you were avoiding me.”

Buffy gave her a weak smile. “I’d never do that, Mrs. Krass.”

“Katz,” the woman corrected.

“Right,” Buffy acknowledged blithely.

Buffy took the woman’s appearance in. She was an older lady, in her sixties Buffy guessed, with obviously dyed gray hair that was a pale violet, the color of Jacaranda blooms or lilacs. Buffy wasn’t sure if that was the color the woman was going for, or if that was just how it always came out. Typically, Mrs. Katz wore her hair in a curly bouffant, piled up atop her head, but tonight it was in rollers and mostly covered by a pumpkin-orange scarf that clashed painfully with the color of her hair.

The older woman wore 1950’s-style tortoise-shell, ‘cat eye’ glasses with rhinestones on the up-turned corners of the frames. At least half of the rhinestones were missing and the magnifying effect of the glasses made her look bug-eyed. They reminded Buffy of the glasses that Darryl Hannah wore in 'Steel Magnolias.' She had on a floral pink … what did they call those? Not a robe, not pajamas … A housecoat? … No … house dress? That must be it: a house dress. It was a cotton, knee-length house dress. The garish shades of pink and the disparate combination of floral and geometric print made the garment painful to look at for more than five seconds. Buffy was fairly certain it would burn holes in your brain if you stared it at for over twenty seconds. It was something Buffy thought her Grams might’ve worn to do housework in – she hoped her mom had never worn one of those. Rounding out the look, the demon’s feet were clad in neon-pink, fuzzy slippers. That was apparently typical attire for Quidnuncious demons in early evening; although Buffy’s only empirical evidence was this one example. They were a terrifying, but mercifully rare species.

Oh, you’ve never heard of Quidnuncious demons before? Neither had Buffy before the Katzes moved in. Quidnuncious demon: From the Latin meaning ‘what now?’ A busybody, gossipmonger, the ubiquitous nosy neighbor. Every neighborhood had at least one. Mrs. Katz was the Queen of the Quidnuncious demons, of this Buffy was 1,001% certain.  Exhaustive research had yielded no useful information on slaying them, so Buffy’s typical strategy was to run away and hide until they retreated back into their lairs.

Gladys Katz and her husband, Abner, a hen-pecked, middle-aged man who rarely spoke – or perhaps he just couldn’t get a word in past his wife, bought the two story house right next door to the mansion about two months ago. It was, handily, the only house that could actually see into the Weckerly’s back yard. This made Buffy check into the local regulations pertaining to fences and if two-story-tall garden walls were permissible. They weren’t.

“Oh, I know you’d never avoid me, dear,” Mrs. Katz said in a matronly manner, her shrill voice scraping sharply on Buffy’s eardrums. “You’re simply much too busy and it’s really taking a toll on you. You really need to eat something. I’ll send over a nice tuna and macaroni casserole for you tomorrow.

“You know, dear, woman to woman, I must tell you that men like some curves on their ladies … a little meat on the bones. You’re really much too thin, Betty. Bless your heart,” Gladys offered helpfully. “And with all the young, curvy competition I’ve seen coming in and out of here, you really should take care. I have seen your Ike … well … it’s not really my place to say, is it? I’d never presume to tell tales out of school, but he does seem to spend a lot of time with … other women. I’ve seen them coming and going at the strangest hours. Blondes, brunettes, redheads … my, my, my…” Mrs. Katz shook her head in dismay. “Take it from me, Betty: Abner and I have been married for forty-seven years and he’s never strayed – do you know why?”

“Tuna and macaroni casserole?” Buffy guessed, grinding her teeth at being called ‘Betty’ and ‘Ike’, and at the woman’s contention that Spike was messing around on her.

Buffy knew all Spike was doing was helping her and the Watchers chaperone the Slayers, making sure there were no mass sneak attacks in the offing, and continue regular patrols with Bess and Faith. With so many Slayers in one place, and most of them inebriated to some degree in the evenings, keeping an ear to the ground for trouble was doubly-important. In addition, Buffy had corrected the woman at least five hundred and seventy-two times on both their first and last names – she’d pretty much given up. Betty and Ike Waverly … that was them. The only plus was, if the gossip-demon decided to ‘tell tales out of school’ about Buffy and Spike, it was possible no one would know who she was talking about.

Gladys nodded resolutely. “Precisely,” she whined nasally. "Keep his belly full and he won't have eyes for anyone else, dear."

“Well, thank you for the advice, Mrs. Krass,” Buffy began, turning to head into the house, but Mrs. Katz wasn’t done yet.

“Katz,” the demon-woman corrected again. “I do hope that gaggle of ear-splitting motor bikes won’t be coming in at all hours of the night again tonight,” she continued, following Buffy up the walk towards the front door. “It does upset Abner terribly. He has a hard time sleeping as it is without being awoken at nine and ten o’clock at night with that ruckus.”

Buffy thought that perhaps Abner’s lack of sleep was more likely caused by the constant grating of his wife's annoyingly shrill voice or perhaps indigestion from tuna and macaroni casseroles, but she bit both comments back.

“And did you see that old pick-up truck that’s been parked on the street all week?" Gladys lowered her voice to a whining-whisper and revealed, "There's a gun rack in the back window and a bumper-sticker that says 'Protected by Smith & Wesson.'"

Allowing her voice to raise back to her normal sniveling whine, Mrs. Katz continued, "I’m not one to judge, but it looks very disreputable to me. I’ll bet it belongs to some hoodlums from Los Angeles. I’ll bet they’ve come down here looking for my priceless royal jewelry to steal. Did I ever tell you that my great-great-great aunt on my mother’s side was the Duchess of Mazovia, and that I inherited her royal jewels?”

“You might’ve let it slip once or twice,” Buffy admitted with a sigh, wishing that Abner had inherited a couple of family jewels of his own. Maybe he could've found a way to keep his wife out of everyone else's business if he had a couple of stones to his name. Of course, he might've had at one time. Buffy thought that living with Gladys Katz for forty-seven years would be much like taking Depo-Provera for a man ... chemical castration.

“Well … obviously, someone with loose lips has tipped them off and that’s what they’re looking for,” Mrs. Katz contended, as if no one else on the street had anything worthy of pilfering. “I called the police, of course, but … you know, they never really do anything. I mean … here’s a clear eyesore on the street, owned by thugs getting ready to rape and pillage poor Abner and I, and … nothing. Not even a parking ticket. They seem to have no idea how vulnerable honest, upstanding, royal-bred citizens are to ruffians from Los Angeles.”

Buffy stopped and turned around. “Mrs. Krass,” she began in her most patient, motherly-voice.

“Katz,” the demon-neighbor corrected yet again.

Buffy smiled at her faintly. “Right. That truck belongs to Sammy; he’s a friend of ours. I can assure you: he isn’t a hoodlum or a thug, he isn’t going to rape or pillage anything, and he couldn’t remotely be mistaken for being from L.A. … unless you were talking about Lower Alabama … then … maybe.”

“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Katz replied with trepidation, her voice becoming even more of a nasal whine than normal. “Well, do you think you could have him park up in the driveway out of sight of the street … or perhaps in the garage? It’s really not up to the standards here on Crawford Street, wouldn’t you agree? I mean … I am descended from royalty. Of course, I’m not one to judge, but when we purchased the mansion here, the realtor assured us that this was a neighborhood befitting my stature and heritage.”

Buffy kept a plastic smile pasted on her lips. “Sorry, Mrs. Krass, the garage and driveway are all filled up with motorcycles that belong to a gang of hoodlum bikers from L.A.” Buffy explained calmly. “I think they’ll be done casing your house by tomorrow though, so you won’t have to worry about that much longer.

“When they come back, to steal your jewels and commence with the raping and pillaging, I’ll be sure to tell them to cut their motors down the block and push the bikes up here. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up before they, you know … start with the festivities.”

Buffy turned on her heel, leaving the Quidnuncious Queen gape-mouthed on the walkway, and disappeared into the house.

“There’s something very wrong with that woman,” Mrs. Katz muttered to herself as she turned and scampered back home, fluffy, pink slippers slapping against the sidewalk with each step. “Very, very wrong.”

**~**

(The next night) Sunday night, August 28^th, 2011.

 Buffy collapsed on the sofa in the great room, utterly exhausted.  She’d just taken the last of the Slayers and their chaperones to the airport. The only ones remaining were Sue-Ann and Sammy. They were staying one more night at the mansion and would be starting the drive back home sometime tomorrow. The games were over. They’d been an absolute nightmare and an undeniable success.

Xander had had to go to the Sunnydale Motor Inn fifteen times over the last ten days to fix things. Broken shower and kitchen sink handles, broken shower tiles, broken banisters, broken pavers around the pool, broken window latches, broken doorknobs  … you name it, a Slayer could break it – a drunk Slayer could break even more. 

The police had been called to the hotel three times by the manager of the Waffle House next door because the music blaring from the pool area at 2am could be heard in the next county.  Willy had called her to say that he was missing four of the ten kegs that had been delivered to the hotel during that week.  He’d informed Buffy that if they weren’t returned, he would be billing her for them. Buffy argued that she hadn’t ordered any kegs, but Willy insisted that the person ordering them had used her name and mentioned that it was for the ‘Slayer Convention’.  Buffy didn’t think that was quite fair, but she eventually found them on the hill behind the hotel. Apparently the girls had been playing some kind of game with them – using them like soccer balls or something. They were pretty dented up, but Willy took them back and agreed not to bill her, albeit grudgingly.

But, despite all the problems, the girls had bonded. Slayers from around the world met other girls that were just like them and began to realize how not alone they really were. The games themselves were great fun, despite the serious competition that took place. There was a lot of camaraderie, praise was lauded on the winners and encouragement given to the girls that tried but failed. 

Dani and Spike were especially disappointed in the North American soccer team that Bess and Sue-Ann were on, which was trounced handily by both the Western European and the South American teams, and out of the round-robin tournament early.  But Bess redeemed herself in the swimming competition, despite having to overcome a several second ‘handicap,’ which was imposed on her to compensate for the vampiric enhancement of her Slayer strength.  Out of ten different swimming events, Bess won four, got the silver in three, and the bronze in the other three.

Bess and Sue-Ann had both also done well in the martial arts competitions, with a gold, three silvers, and two bronzes between them. The events included Brazilian jiu-jitsu, which is a grappling/ground fighting type discipline, kickboxing, Bōjutsu, which uses a long staff called a Bō, and the mixed martial arts competition.  There had been quite a lot of discussion before the games about allowing Bess to compete in these events due to her enhanced strength and senses. After much debate, it was finally decided that, although strength and speed are important, skill and tactics were just as important. This was proven by the small Slayer from Japan, who stood five foot nothing and weighed a hundred and nothing and won the gold in all but the Brazilian jiu-jitsu event, which was taken by Bess.

Neither Bess nor Sue-Ann did very well in the track and field events. Bess’ legs were just too short to compete with the tall girls who could take one stride for every two of Bess’, and Sue-Ann admitted that she didn’t have much interest in running and rarely had to actually chase a vamp. “Why chase after ‘em? Cain’t swing a dead cat without hittin’ one. If one runs away, just turn around – there’ll be another waitin’ on ya.”

Rounding out their medals, Sue-Ann won the gold in the crossbow and longbow competitions – apparently all those bow-hunting trips she'd gone on with Sammy and her dad when she was younger paid off – and Bess took the gold in fencing. 

The final event of the games was a paint-ball competition of sorts. The catch was, it was held in a warehouse in complete darkness and, instead of capturing the opponent’s flag, the objective was to find, and tag, the vampire, without getting hit yourself. Spike was the vampire. The Slayers were divided into teams of five and sent into the warehouse to find, and tag, the vampire with their paintballs. They were almost completely blind in the dark area and had to rely on their other senses, including their ability to sense a vampire, in order to succeed. For obvious reasons, Bess wasn’t allowed to compete in this final game. She acted as a coach, of sorts, letting each team ‘practice’ on sensing her before they actually went into the field of battle.

There were overhead, night-vision cameras set up in the warehouse, which transmitted to closed circuit TVs that were set up in the waiting area. These could be watched by the competitors who were waiting their turn or who had already gone, as well as by the Watchers as well as the ultimate judge: Buffy.  The competition would be won by the team that could tag the vampire in the shortest time. If a Slayer was tagged with the glow-in-the-dark paint from Spike’s gun, they were out – they had to just sit down and play dead until the whole team was ‘killed’, or someone tagged (i.e., dusted) Spike.

Buffy and the Watchers assigned teams so that there were Slayers of different seniority levels on each one, and from different regions of the world.  They weren’t given their team assignments until only a few minutes before going onto the field of battle, so not only was their vampire tracking skill being tested, but also their ability to work as a member of a team with Slayers they may not know well.

The elder Slayers, like Faith, Amanda, Molly, and Kennedy, did the best at determining where Spike was in the warehouse, tracking his movements in the dark, and avoiding getting hit themselves.  The newest Slayers usually went down to Spike’s paintball gun quickly. Communication between the teams ranged from abysmal to stellar, and seemed to depend on who emerged as the natural leader of the group – or if a clear leader emerged at all.

In the end, Faith was the only Slayer who tagged Spike without getting tagged herself, and her team was the only one that actually had ‘survivors’. Spike had ‘killed’ every other Slayer that entered the labyrinth.   There were a couple of other Slayers, Kennedy and Amanda, who tagged Spike, but they’d fired at the same time he had and, therefore, had also gotten tagged. They’d killed the vampire, but the vampire killed them back.

It was obvious that this was a skill that needed more practice across the board, but in the end, everyone had had a good time and had learned from it. Additionally, it was clear that some Slayers needed to work on their English; it was hard to communicate directions to someone that didn’t speak the same language as the others on the team.

“Hey, B,” Faith said after she’d accepted the gold medal for their team, raising her voice so everyone could hear. “Why don’t you show us how it was done back in the good ole days? You know, the whole ‘she who stands alone’ thing.”

“The good ole days?” Buffy asked incredulously. “You make me sound like Grandma Moses.”

Faith shrugged and gave Buffy a wry smile. “I’m just sayin’ … you’re the only one who remembers them days, girlfriend.”

Buffy looked around at the faces of the Slayers gathered there. Their faces, hair, or clothes were splattered with greenish-white paint from Spike’s paintball gun, and they were all looking at her expectantly.

She looked over at Spike, who had three spots of bluish-white paint splattered on him from the only three Slayers that had actually found him in the dark. He smirked at her, and, without even opening the bond, she could hear him throw down the gauntlet. He was daring her with a predatory look in his blue eyes, and if there’s one thing the Slayer hated, it was being dared by a vampire.

Buffy narrowed her eyes at him and tossed the dare back at her husband with a deadly look of her own. Then she shrugged and looked back at Faith. “Ok, sure … a little old-school slayage sounds good.”

All the Slayers cheered and clapped.

Buffy grabbed one of the white coveralls from the supply and pulled it on over her clothes.  “You need to change,” she told Spike, tossing him a new set of outerwear. “I don’t want any confusion over who splattered you with paint.”

“You’d think I’d … cheat?” Spike asked incredulously as he shrugged out of the soiled suit and pulled the new one on. “Insultin’ that is, Slayer.”

“I’ve seen you in a fight once or twice before, Spike,” Buffy asserted. She looked at the sea of eager faces around them. “Rule number two hundred and fifty seven: Vampires don’t fight fair,” she announced as if this was some brilliant revelation they may have never heard before. “Even ones with souls.”

Spike snickered as he zipped up the front of the new, white, paper jumpsuit.  Just as Buffy had finished zipping up her own white suit, Spike took a menacing step towards her, brought up his demon, and pulled her against him with one hand wrapped around the small of her back. He dropped his lips to hers and captured her lips in a rough, savage kiss that left her breathless.

When he finally broke the kiss, he pulled his mouth away only slightly from hers. He could feel Buffy’s hot, wet breath tingle his skin as she panted against his lips. “I’m gonna kill you,” he growled in a low threatening rumble.

With one hand behind his neck, Buffy pulled his head back down to hers sharply and kissed him with just as much feral abandon as he had her a moment before. Then she pushed him back, with both hands on his shoulders, making Spike take a step in order to keep from falling. She was still breathless and gasping for air when she said sarcastically, “If I had a nickel for every time I've heard that...”

Spike parted his lips and ran his tongue over his teeth a moment as he raked his eyes up and down her body in a hungry leer before picking up his paintball gun.  He turned quickly and headed for the door that led back onto the field of battle.  With one last smoldering glance over his shoulder at Buffy, he yanked the door open and stepped into the darkness, letting the heavy door fall closed with a loud clang behind him.

Buffy stalked towards the door, nearly on his heels, but one of the Watcher-chaperones that she didn’t know very well stepped forward and said, “You’re supposed to give him thirty seconds before entering.”

Buffy smiled at the young Watcher like he was a simpleton, and pushed past him. “Refer to rule number two hundred and fifty eight,” she informed him, reaching for the door.

“Two hundred and fifty eight?” he questioned quite confusedly, as he stepped back.

“Slayers don’t fight fair, either.”

When the heavy door slammed closed behind Buffy, all the Slayers and Watchers turned their eyes in silence to the green and black night-vision screens that showed what was going on in the dark warehouse.  After a beat, a female voice in a thick Welch accent came from the back of the room, “Tha’ was bloody hawt.  D’ya think we could hov anutha go w’ him… wit’ a bit of a snog ‘fore ‘e kills us?”

A low rumble of snickers rolled over the room of girls. Most of the Watchers stiffened and cleared their throats uncomfortably. A few, however, nodded, wondering if they could have a go with the vamp themselves.

**~**

Buffy stepped into the pitch-black darkness of the large warehouse and stopped just inside the door. The paintball gun in her hand felt uncomfortable – just wrong. She wondered if they made paintball guns shaped like stakes; she’d have to check on that before the next games.

She took a deep breath and had just started to concentrate on sensing Spike when she heard the unmistakable sound of one of the guns shooting. She jumped forward reflexively, rolling in a somersault and landing behind some empty, steel, fifty-five gallon drums.  She heard the paintball rush by, not far from her head, and splatter on something metallic behind her. She snickered. “Missed me, missed me, now ya gotta kiss me,” she sing-songed in the darkness.

“Right, c’mon then,” Spike called back as he stalked forward slowly towards her hiding place. “Give us a proper snog.”

Before Spike had even started towards her, Buffy had begun moving, staying crouched low behind the machinery, pallets, walls, and barrels that were scattered around the battlefield forming a type of maze. 

When Spike turned the corner on her hiding place, he fired his paintball gun before even looking. It splattered on the floor harmlessly.  He narrowed his eyes and looked down the long aisle beyond, but didn’t see her – but he could smell her and he could sense her.  In a flash of white overalls, he spun around and faced the way he’d just come from and fired his gun; then, in the next moment, he dove behind the barrels where Buffy had taken refuge only a moment before.

Buffy’s paintball barely missed tagging him as he rolled behind the barrier, gracefully sprung back to his feet, and fired again, over the top of the barrels in the general direction her shot had come from.

Buffy hadn’t waited around to see if her shot had hit him. When she’d felt him standing there where she’d been just a few moments before, she’d doubled back down a different aisle to sneak up behind him. When she had been close enough to see the white of his overalls in the blackness, she’d shot and immediately ran down another aisle of mechanical debris, staying low and moving as silently as possible. 

“Bugger,” Spike mumbled when he saw the glowing paint from his gun spatter on the wall.  He started moving again, working to catch sight or scent of her.  He crept down the aisle between the obstacles, paintball gun at the ready, as he scanned with all his senses for the Slayer. 

He quickly discovered that she’d started crisscrossing her own path, going in circles around the center of the room, then starting out down various aisles and apparently doubling back, only to go down another one.  He wouldn’t be able to follow a scent trail anywhere useful.

As he walked he heard noises and saw movement coming from different parts of the warehouse almost at once. It forced him to turn quickly, right, then left, then back again, swinging his paintball gun as he did so, trying to catch a glimpse of her.  The intermittent sounds continued and he crept forward, trying to see Buffy in the blackness.  When a sound came from right behind him, he spun around quickly and fired, only to find no one there.  He scanned the floor and found a bit of metal slag laying there. He crouched down and picked it up, brought it to his nose and realized Buffy had thrown it – it had her scent all over it. She was lobbing little bits of debris across the large area to throw him off.

He wouldn’t be able to use his sense of hearing to find her. Little by little, she was taking the advantage away from him. He could feel her presence tingling his spine, there was no way she could take that away, and he concentrated on it.  It didn’t take him long to hone in on her. She was in the opposite corner from where he was. He waited a few moments before he moved, just to see if she was moving, but she didn’t seem to be – the vibes were still coming from the furthest corner.

Spike crept slowly through the maze as bits of metal continued raining down in different areas of the battlefield, but he paid them no mind any longer. He was honed in on her, using his demon’s most primal instinct to detect the threat of a Slayer.  It was one of those brain stem functions, a survival instinct: eat, sleep, breathe, keep your heart beating, mate.  The ability to sense a Slayer must’ve replaced the ‘beating heart’ and ‘breathing’ functions when the demon took over; it was just as basic, just as fundamental, and just as strong. Thank goodness it didn’t take over the desire to mate.

Spike moved slowly and silently across the wide expanse of floor, easily avoiding the jumble of derelict machines, empty barrels, which, if kicked, made a god-awful racket, and circumventing the maze of six-foot high walls that Xander had erected just for the games. He could feel the ‘fight or flight’ instinct growing stronger in the pit of his stomach the closer he got to her.  Over the years he’d learned to simply ignore that feeling and it had subsided considerably since he’d first met Buffy, but now he embraced it – called it to the fore of his mind, and used it to track her.

One of her bits of steel came down and hit him squarely in the forehead as he crept slowly in her direction. He muffled the urge to yell out in surprise and pain as he rubbed furiously at the spot on his head that was quickly turning into a bump. 

Luckily he had on safety goggles over his eyes; maybe he should've worn that helmet they wanted him to wear, after all. Bint could put someone’s eye out with her bullet-like diversion tactics, he thought angrily.  Suddenly voices sing-songed in his head, ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, you’ll shoot your eye out…’ He sighed mentally and shook his head. He was definitely watching too many children’s movies.  He needed to start choosing what movies to rent once in a while.

Spike refocused and realized that Buffy was very near. Surely she could feel him as well as he could feel her … why wasn’t she moving?  Maybe the Slayer was slipping. Spike smirked at the thought. That would be soooo sweet.  He tried to remember the last time he’d actually beaten her in a fight. He gave up quickly; nothing popped immediately to mind. This was gonna be doubly sweet.

He looked up at one of the overhead cameras and smirked at the Slayers and Watchers who he knew were in the other room watching. They were out there expecting a lesson from The Slayer … a lesson in how to get the better of a master vampire.  Sorry, kiddies, he thought to himself. T’day’s lesson will be ‘Death of a Slayer’.

Spike moved with a feline grace as he closed in on his prey. He could feel her strongly now; she must be just around the next corner of the wall-maze that Harris had erected. He didn’t want to underestimate her, though. She could be standing there with her finger on the trigger, just waiting for him to come around the corner.  He narrowed his eyes in thought … yeah, that’s exactly what she was doin’: using herself as bait and waiting for him to come to her.

Spike smirked. Not this time, luv.

He silently unzipped his overalls and tucked the paintball gun securely into the front of his belt. He then used a piece of abandoned machinery next to the wall to step up on and quietly pulled himself up atop the wall. His plan was brilliantly simple: while she waited for him to come around the corner, he’d shoot her from above. Slayers were notorious for not thinking in three-dimensions. This would be an excellent lesson for the Slayerettes watching: vamps can come from above or below just as easily as from the back, front, or side.

Spike had no sooner stood up on the top of the narrow, wood-frame wall and gotten his balance, than he felt two paintballs explode against his chest.

“Hi, lover,” Buffy purred at him from her perch atop the intersecting wall. “I think that means you’re dead,” she pointed out, cocking a brow at his now glowing chest.

Spike looked down in shock, not quite believing that she’d actually shot him. “Bugger,” he muttered at last as the reality of his defeat sunk in.

He looked back up at her. She wore a smug expression on her face and, despite his defeat, her victory still stirred a hailstorm of pride within him.

“How the bloody hell did ya’ know?” he asked her incredulously, pulling his goggles off and dropping them.

“Rule two hundred and fifty seven,” she answered simply, giving him a wry smile as she also removed her goggles. Then she shrugged and added, “I think you owe me a nickel … and a kiss.”

Spike smirked and walked atop the narrow wall towards her with the grace and confidence of a cat. As he grew near her, Buffy could see his eyes glimmer dangerously, like that cat had been stalking a small, unsuspecting bird.

“Don’t reckon I got a nickel, luv,” he purred as he reached down and offered her a hand up to her feet.

Buffy took his hand and stood up on the wall she’d been sitting atop, which intersected the one he was on, forming a ‘T’.

“Too bad for you then,” she rasped back, her heart beating faster against her ribs. “I’ll just have to take it out in trade.”

Spike cocked a brow at her. “Jus’ how many snogs for a nickel then, pet?”

Buffy grinned slyly at him, reached out, and pulled his paintball gun from where it had been tucked into his belt. She dropped both her gun and his down onto the floor beneath them, where they landed with a clatter in the otherwise silent room. “I’ll let you know when you’re paid up,” she informed him, licking her lips. “It might take a while.”

Just then, the small, red lights on the cameras that were scattered across the ceiling above them all clicked off at once.

Spike grinned lecherously – they were alone. “Better get started on that then, I reckon,” his voice rumbled in the now utter darkness. 

Buffy squealed as he unexpectedly bent down and gathered her up into his arms. Still standing on the narrow wall, with one arm under her knees and the other around her back, he captured her lips in a desperate, passionate kiss. Buffy returned the kiss fervently, wrapping her arms around his neck tightly. Before she could even recover from the surprise of the kiss, he leapt down off the six-foot high wall with her, making her heart skip a beat as a momentary feeling of flying overtook her.

He landed with her, touching down onto the floor with the grace of a lithe, silent panther, and captured her lips again. Buffy writhed in his arms and her body tingled, full of desire.  She was quite sure that the feeling of flying would come over her several more times here with him in the dark. It was going to take a very long time for Spike to pay off that nickel.

**~**