Over the Rainbow
Part 1
Not again, thought Geoffrey, as the unmistakable splintering of a door being kicked off its hinges shattered the quiet. He'd called the electrician only last week to see about getting a doorbell fitted, but when he mentioned his address he'd been met with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He sighed as the sharp click-clack of heels on stone reverberated above him, wondering if he curled up and pretended to be asleep she'd go away and leave him in peace.
The leather-bound copy of Grimms' Fairy Tales that caught him with all-too-well-rehearsed aim on the head gave him an answer to that quickly enough. He rubbed his temples wearily as the room slipped out of focus, assaulted by myriad images of a five-foot blonde firecracker as she wrested the remote from him and switched off the TV.
"I was watching that," he protested, clinging to civility by the thinnest of edges.
"You were asleep."
"I was resting."
"And here's me thinking you'd done enough resting for one un-lifetime already. Anyway, I don't have time for small talk. I've got a job for you."
Maybe it was the crack about his "un-lifetime" – so he didn't get out that much. What of it? – or maybe the fact that throwing a book at a person's head suddenly counted as "small talk", but Geoffrey was in no mood to play ball. He got to his feet.
"Look, Buffy, I'd like to help you. But now isn't really a good time."
He knew it was a mistake as soon as the words were out of his mouth. She had him pinned against the wall before he had a chance to take it back. "Don't forget, I could take you out like that if I wanted," she spat.
Take me out? Geoffrey gulped. It was true, she'd spent a lot of time down here lately, and she did beat him up a lot, which he knew for some girls was like – well – that, but this?
She thrust her knee dangerously close to his groin, breathing heavily as she leaned in closer to add, "Are you in or are you out? Because if you're out, I'll make sure you're out - right out. Get me?"
He didn't get her – nor, for that matter, did he have any intention of getting her, not now, not ever – but he was uncomfortably conscious of her mouth, angry and inviting and inches from his own. Geoffrey felt nauseous. The timely whistle of the kettle came to his rescue. "I'd prefer it if you'd keep your hands to yourself," he said, extricating himself with what he hoped would pass for dignity. "I'm sure we can resolve this without resorting to violence," he added for good measure.
Geoffrey was sure he was a mild-mannered man at heart, but the Slayer had a habit of rubbing him up the wrong way.
Not like that. He shuddered, willing himself to focus on something less disconcerting.
"Drink?" he offered, waving the teapot in her direction.
"A world of no."
"Suit yourself." He drummed his fingers nervously on the counter as he waited for the tea to draw, suppressing a sigh of annoyance as the Slayer relaxed battle posture and settled herself on the couch, pointy heels digging into the fabric.
"Do sit down," said Geoffrey a little acidly.
Sarcasm, it seemed, was lost on the Slayer. She turned towards him, eyes and tone softened to something that was no doubt meant to be conciliatory. "Look, I'd ask Giles, but he's on vacation in England right now."
Geoffrey poured out his cup of tea and made his way over to her, gingerly perching at the opposite end of the couch, and staring fixedly at the stray tealeaves floating at the top of the cup.
"What do you want?"
She reached into her jacket pocket and handed him a crumpled photocopy. "I want you to do what you do best. I need the down and dirty on William the Bloody here."
He shifted uneasily at her choice of words, but responded as calmly as he could. "Who is he?"
"Like you don't know. C'mon, William the Bloody? Double-Slayer-killing Legend in the Vampire Hall of Fame?"
"I suppose he does look vaguely familiar," Geoffrey admitted, squinting hard at the photocopied picture. "What is it with you, always going after the big shots?"
"I'm the Slayer. It's my job. The small fry – you, for instance – might as well be dealt with by the amateurs. But when it comes to taking out the guys at the top, I'm your girl."
"Not my girl, obviously," Geoffrey clarified, awkwardly.
Buffy rolled her eyes. "Obviously. You're a demon, for a start."
Geoffrey turned to her in exasperation, feeling like a scratched record as he tried to tell her for what felt like the billionth time.
"I'm not a demon."
"You live in a crypt."
"The TV reception is great, that's all. And it's quiet. Was quiet," he added, pointedly.
He could have driven his point in with a stake and she still wouldn't have registered it.
"Look, I need to find him, OK? He's killed two Slayers already. I have to get to him before I'm number three. I don't care who you have to eat to make them talk, but someone round here has to know where he's got to." She got to her feet. "Tomorrow night I'll be out on patrol. You turn up without the info I need, you leave without your privates. Understood?"
Geoffrey nodded, resolving firmly to investigate the cost of having iron bars put across the crypt entrance. He waited until the echo of her footsteps had faded, and reached over for the TV remote. At least there were some places left in his world that the Slayer couldn't reach.
Bedtime in the Rainbow House was never as quick and quiet an event as Spike would have liked. Once upon a time, or so Spike liked to remember it, he'd been perfectly content in his role as guardian to Bungle, George and Zippy. But since the film crews had moved in, life hadn't run quite so smoothly. His three charges were inclined to play up for the cameras, and having his every move broadcast to the nation made him feel like an animal trapped in a cage.
"Spi-ike! We're ready," came the chorus from the bedroom.
He popped his head round the door. "Sit tight and I'll read you one of my poems."
"That'll send us to sleep all right," sniggered Zippy.
"Shhh, Zippy! I like Spike's poems." George smiled warmly up at Spike from under thick eyelashes.
Spike bit his lip hard, his gaze flitting down briefly to George's plump, pink neck.
"Tell you what, we'll have a story instead."
George wriggled excitedly. "Can we have the Sleeping Beauty, Spike?"
"Oooh yes, I like that one," Bungle agreed.
"The Sleeping Beauty it is, then." Spike sat down beside them. "Lie still then. Once upon a time there lived a princess, holed up in a castle with no-one but the animals to play with - "
"You missed the beginning!" Zippy interrupted.
Spike gritted his teeth.
"Once upon a time was the beginning. Now quieten down, or you won't get a story at all."
Forty-five minutes later Spike closed the bedroom door behind him, the sound of snoring from inside the room the signal for the cameras to stop rolling for the day. He walked over to the kitchen cupboard, reaching deep towards the back and pulling out the glass bottle he kept hidden there.
Bungle had left out his colouring pencils. Spike went to clear them away, but as he picked up the yellow he stopped, and traced an outline on the paper in front of him. He stared at it thoughtfully for a moment, before screwing it up and hurling it at the wall.
"Bugger that," he said.
He poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels, lit a cigarette, and switched on the TV. Passions was on in five, and if that wasn't the panacea to all evils, he was damned if he knew what was.
To be continued…