Pairing: Spike/Xander, mentions of Xander/Anya, possible Spike/Willow
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, non-fluffy Spike, non-explicit non-con, character death
Length: 3,753 words
Summary: A day in the life of Spike, Slayer of Slayers. i.e. The Harsh Light of Day remixed.
Beta: [info]kitty_poker1 (only the best beta EVER).

A Bitch of a Day


The Slayer’s neck snapped in two and she fell to the ground, body lifeless and small.

Spike smiled: it was turning into one bloody good day.

A collective gasp came from a group of onlookers that had gathered since his fight with the Slayer began. Still smirking, he turned toward the crowd, game-faced and bare-fanged. Eyes widened in shock as, one by one, the fine students of UC Sunnydale turned and fled.

Spike wasn’t concerned. Most of them were Sunnydale kids: they knew when to shut their eyes and scamper for home. As for the others—well, the lack of a panicked rush to tattle to the local authorities would serve as a wonderful learning experience. There were more lessons to learn at UCS than Psychology and Pop Culture.

Of course, one of the bints had to make things difficult, fainting and bashing her skull on a picnic table. Spike generally wasn’t one to look a gift Tormach battle horse in the mouth but, as he had fresh Slayer blood that would soon be cooling—losing the vitality, the strength, the taste—he supposed he’d have to pass.

He knelt to lift the Slayer’s body when a muffled groan caught his attention; he’d nearly forgotten about the boy.

Dropping the Slayer, he walked over to where the kid was slowly beginning to wake. It seemed he had grown somewhat since last Spike had seen him, chest and face filling out a bit, and Spike was fairly certain Harris would be taller than himself now, if he were standing. Of course, that really didn’t matter much; the boy was still going to die.

He reached down and, grasping the nape of the boy’s neck in one hand and pressing down on a broad shoulder with the other, prepared to twist.

Naturally, this was when the boy woke up.

Xander gasped, brown eyes popping open and fixing on Spike. Spike watched, fascinated, as panic spread over his face. He yelped and Spike shook him roughly.

“Shut up, boy. I killed your precious Betty, and you’ll be next if you don’t listen up, yeah?”

About to become frantic, Xander struggled to move his head. There, not 10 feet away, was Buffy, pale and still.

Xander’s face crumbled and he began gasping for air. Spike’s eyes narrowed in pleasure as tears began to slide down the boy’s cheeks. He really was…pretty…when he cried. He supposed having a pretty face might save the whelp after all…well, it would save his life, anyhow.

“Now, it’s not that tragic, is it? So you lost the Slayer, big deal! ‘S not as if she really appreciated you anyhow. And you’ve still got the red girl…Well, at least until I kill her later.”

That got Xander’s attention. “NO! Not Willow. Please don’t kill Willow, too.” He was feeling really warm, and he couldn’t catch his breath.

Spike responded: “Well, I guess that means you’ll just have to cooperate, won’t you?”

Xander nodded—anything to keep Willow safe.

Spike almost smiled at the flustered boy.

“Good.” With that, he grasped the boy’s shirt and lifted him, knocking his head against a light pole and rendering him unconscious. Spike lifted the boy, throwing him over his shoulders, then grabbed one of the Slayer’s—or ex-Slayer, he might say—high-heeled boots and hauled them both into an open tunnel entrance.


Spike’s current Project Amara leader was not the first; the vamp with the privilege of being first had also been the first to learn what the end of Spike’s stake felt like. Of course, just because the idiot had set the others digging in the opposite direction of the Gem didn’t mean he’d been completely useless. In his idiocy, he’d unearthed a completely unexpected series of crypts, the knowledge of which was conveniently limited to Spike and himself. As that particular vamp was dust in the wind, Spike now had himself a completely unknown place to ‘store’ certain goods.

Dropping the Slayer’s corpse on the lid of tomb, he checked the boy for lucidity; there wasn’t a single light on. He tossed the bonus gift in the corner and turned towards his real prize.

Without hesitation, he pulled the Slayer’s body flush against his own and plunged his fangs into her neck.

It was still hot. He gulped it down eagerly, the magic buzzing through his veins, energizing and awakening a circulatory system that had been mostly out of commission for over a century. It was sweet and spicy and all that was vital and bright in life. He gorged himself, savoring every…last…drop.

He dropped the dry body and stumbled back into a wall, extremities buzzing with the high only Slayer’s blood could inspire.

He was breathing.

He’d abandoned the habit years ago, only inhaling now to speak or smoke. The blood circulating through his body, however, had a different idea. Needing oxygen since the blood was re-awakening his lungs, he obliged, sucking in great gulps of air, eyes slit in pleasure.

Of course, his lungs weren’t the only things being stimulated; a good portion of the Slayer’s blood was headed south, making things down there a bit uncomfortable. He reached down to unzip his trousers, groaning in relief. He was about to take matters into his own hands when he suddenly remembered…the boy.

Still unconscious, arms and legs askew, soft brown hair covering most of his face, baggy trousers draped across a nice arse…he was nearly perfect.

Suddenly, Spike was glad he’d decided to drag the Harris boy along for the ride. He was turning out to be very…useful.

He scooted across the stone floor to sit next to the boy, turning him over and fingering the back of his head to make sure the knot he’d put there wasn’t too large. Rising to his knees, he began to unwrap his prezzie.


Xander shivered; he must’ve kicked the blanket off his bed again. Groaning, he reached down and patted the strangely hard and cold bed, searching for the wooly escapee. It wasn’t until he rolled over that he realized he wasn’t in his bed.

He was naked, a suspicious white substance was flaking on his stomach, and Buffy was lying next to him. He’d had a dream like that once…or twice. With the exception that Buffy wasn’t usually so pale in those dreams. She was usually tan and warm and naked and…

Wait—pale…he hesitantly laid one finger on Buffy’s arm: it was cold. Buffy was dead. Spike...Spike killed Buffy and wanted to kill Willow and he was naked and in some underground crypt and covered in something that he really didn’t want to think about!

He was seriously beginning to panic. When he got himself into these situations, he usually thought about what Buffy would do, but all Buffy was doing in this situation was being dead and, really, that wasn’t an option he wanted to explore.

He had to make a plan.

Step one: get less naked. Frantically rubbing at Exhibit C, which was sticking to his pubic hair in a most unpleasant way, he looked around and spotted a pile of clothing nearby. He stood, slowly—sleeping on a crypt floor was not conducive to proper joint alignment—and limped to the pile. He struggled into boxers, pants—the zipper was broken but, luckily, he’d worn a belt—and shirt. He sat again to wriggle into his shoes. Apparently the evil sock snatching gnomes that usually inhabited his basement had migrated underground since his lucky socks with the blue stripes and a hole in the right heel were nowhere to be found.

With step one completed, that meant step two was next: get the hell out this place. He scooped Buffy up, biting his lip when he realized just how light she was and remembered the reason why. She stared at him with glassy, dead eyes. He fought back the panic—Giles would know what to do.

Still limping, he was headed for the nearest tunnel when he heard his name.


Spike left the tunnels feeling fairly fanfuckingtastic, thank you very much.

Not only was he flying high on the blood of his third Slayer, he’d found himself a nice pet, too. The boy was going to be exactly what he wanted. He’d win his pet over slowly—he clearly wanted to be broken: every move, every look, screamed that he needed a Master—and finally, when his pet begged for it, the Slayer’s sidekick would belong to him.

It was why Spike hadn’t taken him earlier. Oh, he’d had a bit of a peek while he wanked—might as well know what he was getting—but the boy would cry before Spike gave him what he wanted.

Now he just had a few loose ends to tie up, namely a mousy redhead and an ageing Watcher, and Sunnydale would be his town. He grinned: this was turning out to be a bloody fantastic day.

He approached the university campus. He didn’t know where Red lived, but he didn’t think that would be a problem.

“Excuse me,” he asked a brunette wearing more makeup that one of Dru’s dolls, “could you tell me how to get to the library?” He gave her a winning smile.

She brightened. “Sure! You stay on this sidewalk and pass three buildings. Turn left. The library is the second building on the right.”

“Second on the right?”

“Yeah, you can’t miss it – there’s a big sign out front.”

“Thanks, luv.” He winked and turned to go to the library; he hoped to find a valuable resource there.

It really was Spike’s day: Red was holed up in a remote part of the library in one of those study carrels, her nose buried in a thick textbook. Quietly, he approached the back side of her chair and grabbed her, one hand covering her mouth, the other around her waist, holding her arms to the chair.

“Afternoon, Red. We’ve got to have a little talk.” He took a deep breath. She wasn’t a Slayer, but she was full of rich, tangy magic. Drinking a witch gave a different kind of buzz, less intense, but warm and sweet like a juicy…ripe…pear. The fear just added a bit of tart. He felt himself twitch in anticipation—he could hardly wait.

“Now, I’m gonna ask you some questions, yeah? And you’ll blink one time for ‘no’ and twice for ‘yes’, understand?” She was trembling rather violently, but Red was a smart girl; she sucked in a deep breath through her nose and blinked once…then again.

“Good girl.” He gave her a little squeeze. “Now, in a moment I’m going to free your right hand. When I do, you’re going to reach into my coat pocket, the one on the outside, remove what you find there and place it on the table. Do you understand?”

She blinked twice.

“You’re doing so well, ducks. You are the smart one, aren’t you?” He shifted his weight, re-adjusting their positions so that her head was tilted to the side, his lips brushing against her neck. “Now, if you try anything funny, I’ll do it, straightaway, witnesses be damned.” He changed faces, pressing his fangs against her neck and releasing one of her arms.

She tensed, and he could feel a moment of indecision. He nicked the soft skin of her neck to help hurry the decision-making process and she complied, blindly reaching back and removing the item from his pocket. When she placed her finding on the desk, he felt her gasp, sucking gulps of air between his fingers.

It was a pair of socks with blue stripes, one of them with a hole in the heel.

While she was still in shock, he reclaimed her free hand. “You recognize those, don’t you, Red?”

Two blinks.

“And you know who they belong to, right?”

Again, two blinks.

He pressed a sucking kiss against her neck, sampling the drop that had welled up.

“’S what I like to hear, Red. Now, right this minute, he’s still alive. But I want you to get this straight, Red, so listen closely: your little friend is hidden so well beneath this town that if he tries to leave, even if he doesn’t run into any nasties it’ll take him months to find his way out. An’ I’m the only one who knows how to get there, Red. The only one.”

“Now, you’re going to be a good little girl and come along quietly, or I’ll kill you, everyone in this library, and your lost boy. Is that clear?”

He could feel her jaws clenching as she glared out of the corner of her eye; it would almost be worth getting burned by this one. Turning his head, he inhaled her scent again, brushing against her ear. Teasingly, he ran his tongue over the lobe. She whimpered.

“Well, are you coming along or do I get a little nummy snack before bedtime?”

Not knowing what else to do, Willow closed her eyes. Twice.


Rupert Giles had just sat down to a steaming cup of tea and an old, well-loved record when there was a knock at the door. Expecting the post, he collected his glasses from the end table, perched them on his nose and hurried to the door.

It was not the postman.

“Let her go at once.”

“Afternoon to you, too, Rupert. Nice, sunny day, innit?”

He watched, horror-stricken as Spike dragged a bound and sobbing Willow into the afternoon sun. He’d told Buffy the Gem could be in Sunnydale but, honestly, he’d never even believed in the Gem of Amara’s existence. To see it now, on such a vile creature’s hand—it was sort of sparkly, actually. Sparkly or not, however, Spike’s possession of the ring presented a bit of a problem.

“Well, don’t be rude, Rupes. Aren’t you going to invite us in for tea?”

It went against every bit of his training: “ not compromise with the beast, as it has no sense of honor or morals and will take advantage of each concession without pity. Do not invite the beast into your residence; it is your last stronghold and its sanctity must be maintained at all costs…

“No? Well, I guess we’ll just be going then.” Grabbing Willow by the hair, Spike turned to go. She shrieked.

“Wait, Spike.” The beast turned, vicious delight in his eyes. If not for the girl, Rupert would have damned the beast and damned himself, but he’d sworn an oath to himself, stronger than that of a Watcher, stronger than that of a teacher, to protect his children with each and every breath left in his body. And Willow Rosenberg was one of his children.

“I invite you in.”

He stood aside as Spike and Willow entered his home and shut the door.

“Well, Rupert, aren’t you going to congratulate me?” Spike tossed Willow onto the sofa. “Have a seat, Watcher.”

He sank into the cushion next to Willow, watching suspiciously as Spike began to search the pockets of that disgusting dead cow he insisted on wearing. Moments later, he was yanked from his spot and shoved into one of the kitchen chairs. Before he could protest the harsh treatment of his grandmother’s dining set, he was handcuffed to his own chair. With each moment, the situation was not improving.

“Well, aren’t you?”

He rolled his eyes. Really, he couldn’t help it. He was sure it was an allergy of some sort, probably something Spike’s dead cow had rolled about in.

“Congratulations, Spike, you’ve managed to threaten the lives of Buffy’s friend and her Watcher. She’d want to congratulate you herself, in person, I’m sure, but no worries, I’m sure she’ll have a lovely fruit basket for you the next time you meet.”

“Oh, Rupert, you meant you haven’t heard? I’m so disappointed—I was certain your little Wanker’s Club would’ve heard by now. No matter. Guess I get to be the bearer of good news in person. Kinda makes me feel all tingly inside.”

Rupert sighed heavily. He’d never met a vampire so utterly annoying—there was absolutely nothing in the Watcher’s Handbook about vampires who suffered from verbal diarrhea. He tilted his head and pursed his lips: perhaps Spike was part of a new sub-species. Good Lord, the tosser was still going on.

“Spike, will you please get to the point?”

“Glad you asked. You see, Rupert, you’re to congratulate me because I bagged my third Slayer this morning.”



He’d know that voice anywhere and right now, it was the most wonderful and the most terrible sound he’d ever heard: his Willow…

...who promptly screamed when she saw what Xander was carrying. Honestly, he felt like screaming himself. She looked awful: clothes and hair rumpled, face blotchy, eyes red from crying…she looked the way he felt.

“Oh, Xander, I was so worried! Spike came to the library and Giles invited us in and he told us about Buffy but Giles didn’t believe him until he brought out Buffy’s sweater—it was the blue one, I saw her put it on this morning and asked if I could borrow it this weekend when I go with Oz to his gig in LA, but I can’t borrow it now because it’s all ruined and bloody and once it sets in, you just can’t get the blood out, and now Giles is busy not making friends with Spike’s evil tunnel-digging minions and…and…Buffy’s dead!”

She sobbed, reaching for him; he’d always hated seeing Willow cry. He bent down and gently placed Buffy on the floor. He reached out to hug Willow, but suddenly she went careening backwards, into Spike’s chest. Inwardly, he cursed—he hadn’t even noticed Spike had come back.

“Spike, let her go.” He stepped forward, fingers itching for a stake, a cross, a number two pencil…hell, one of those frilly toothpicks they stuck in the burgers at Doublemeat Palace to make them look more “how many are in your party this evening, sir?” and less “would you like fries with that?” would do.

“Now, pet, you’ve been naughty, trying to make off with our dearly departed Slutty…and who said you could get dressed?”

For a moment, Xander was stunned. Then he remembered waking up naked and covered in white stuff and, wait a minute, that was Spike’s white stuff and he could definitely use a trash-can-shaped receptacle about now. Or a stone floor would do.

“Honestly, you looked much better earlier, pet. A bit pale in a few places, but we’ll take care of that later.”

“You leave him alone!” Willow’s eyes were burning, and small chunks of the masonry were levitating.

“Now, Red, you said you’d cooperate. If you don’t…” Without another word, he tossed her from his arms. She hit the wall and slumped to the floor, whimpering.

While Spike’s back was turned, Xander charged. He managed to jump onto Spike’s back—score one for donut boy—but then he blinked and he’d flown through the air and landed flat on his back. That was going to leave a mark.

A few moments later and Xander was being hauled up and pushed face-down over a coffin, Spike’s body pressed against his own, and he really hoped that was a stake in Spike’s pocket. The hand unbuckling his pants indicated he might not be that lucky.

“Shhh.” Spike’s breath was cool and moist against his ear and Spike’s hand was boldly going where no man had gone before and where no man should ever go, and this was about a million times less sexy than linoleum, and Willow was still whimpering in the corner and Buffy was dead, and he wasn’t quite sure where Giles was but it didn’t sound like he was having tea and listening to scratchy records, but none of that mattered because dammit, he was eighteen years old and if Spike didn’t stop what he was doing right now, Xander’s warp core was going to overload.

Exhausted, he slumped against the coffin lid while Spike wrapped something around his wrists and re-buckled his belt.

Willow jumped up from the ground as Spike approached her—but Xander had been sure she’d been badly injured—and immediately sucked a black-tipped finger into her mouth.

“Mmmmm…tastes good.” Willow turned to face him. “…Xander.”

And holy shit, Willow was a vampire. That bastard had changed her. And she…she had been a vampire the whole time and he’d not even suspected. His Willow was fangy and evil and…she wasn’t his Willow anymore. His Willow was dead.

And so was Buffy, and it sounded like Giles was well on his way, and just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, Willow the vampire exploded in a cloud of dust and the cavern was flooded with men in army fatigues.


Spike groaned; he felt like shit.

Everything was…white.

He wasn’t sure where he was, but he wriggled his fingers and his ring was still there. Good.

He could hear voices, a man and a woman, but it took a moment to catch what was being said.

“…in direct sunlight at two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“And how many agents witnessed this event?”

“Two, ma’am: Finn and Hernandez.”

“Thank you, Agent Miller, you’re dismissed. Subject is tagged as Hostile 17. Run the standard battery of tests, and if the results confirm the apprehending team’s report, we’ll just have to get creative. Let’s get to work.”

Spike grimaced; it was certainly turning into one bloody bitch of a day.


Earlier that morning:

“…and, I mean, is it too much to ask for a lousy telephone call? He has my number: I left a note on the dryer and a message with his mother. Why hasn’t he called?”

“Anya, all men are the same: lying, cheating bastards who only think of themselves. You know this.”

Anya stirred her coffee, distracted. It was nearly nine 'o clock in the morning—why hadn't Xander called! “I know, but Xander is different, really. He’s nicely shaped and we interlocked so perfectly last night and I just don’t know why he hasn’t called! I just…I just wish he didn’t have those stupid friends that take up so much of his time.”

Halfrek smiled; she’d been waiting for that all morning.


The End

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