lettered | Best Souvenir --chapter 2

Chapter Two

Buffy opened her door and looked up at the vampire hanging behind her in the the dim light of the hallway. And looked up more. Jeepers, he was tall. And big. He seemed to fill the narrow corridor. "Here we are," she said, feigning ease with his looming closeness. "Home sweet hostel."

The vampire shuffled across the threshold, the manacles she had put on his wrists clinking as he moved. She came in behind him, locking the door. Buffy looked at the bum for a moment, and then gingerly moved toward him. "Here," she said, reaching out her hand. When he flinched, she jumped back, and then frowned. "Here," she repeated, more forcefully, and grabbed the chain connecting the manacles. "I’m going to unlock you. You’re free to move about in here. Just don’t touch anything or I’ll stake you. I don’t want smelly vamp germs on anything."

When he was released, the vampire didn’t move, or even look around. He simply stood there with his head down. His stillness was disconcerting. She cleared her throat, looking him up and down. "Okay. First thing, shower. You’ll need to get out of those clothes."

His head jerked up at that, swiftly, and his eyes raked over her in such a way that for a moment she was thrown off balance. She forgot who he was and who she was, and then this hot, uncomfortable feeling started building up beneath her skin. She wondered who the hell he thought he was, looking at her like that. So she met his eyes again, defiantly, and saw nothing but a mask, schooling his features into tonelessness. Then he turned his head again with that simple gesture, looking away as if she wasn’t there, didn’t matter—or maybe as if he didn’t matter either. She frowned. His stillness, his silence, his eyes—he was beginning to drive her crazy.

"Don’t get any ideas," she finally snapped, for lack of anything better to say. She began to bustle about the room. "Go in the bathroom. Here are some towels. Put your clothes in this bag and then set it outside the door. I’ll . . . do something with them. And I’m going to be right out here, so no use trying to escape or anything. There’s soap and stuff in there. Why are you just standing there?"

Without another word or glance, the vampire took the towels between two fingers, and the trash bag, and walked through the bathroom door. He closed it and stared wonderingly at the tiny bathroom. For a while after the gypsies cursed him, he had run completely wild. He’d been dirty and unkempt, starving, and utterly miserable, but there’d been something innocent in it, in his simple misery and inability to cope. Eventually, he’d pulled himself out of it, moving in and out of the fringes of society, even making himself useful from time to time—once, even, he’d done a favor for the American government.

But getting pushed out and turned away when his true nature had been discovered during the pitiful, meager attempts he had made to build some kind of life took their toll. He’d often had to resort to living on the streets, only to crawl his way back out. Almost a decade ago, now, he’d given it all up. He’d stopped caring if the sun came up on him when he slept under newspapers in the park, and only blind luck and a vicious instinct for survival he’d long wished gone had kept him going. The necessities of existence—shelter, darkness, blood . . . cleanliness—nothing mattered any more.

But now, things were different. There was a blond, golden skinned little Slayer on the other side of the door who wanted him clean. Wanted him clean so he could help her. Chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek, he began stripping off the rags. He pulled the shower curtain aside and realized he didn’t remember how to use the silver dials attached to the middle of the tiled wall. Gingerly, he turned one. The water was instant and cold, and he stumbled back out of the shower, startled. But the water kept beating down, and this time, when he reached out to touch it, it was much warmer. His eyes widened as the droplets sprinkled down on his hand and the top layer of dirt washed away.

Slowly, he began to smile, and remember.

A couple minutes Buffy heard the bathroom door open a crack. The trash bag, now filled with his rancid clothes, dropped down outside the door, and the door creaked back closed. She could hear the shower running full blast.

Buffy picked up the bag, holding it as far away from her as she could. The clothes needed to be burned, but she didn’t have a fireplace, and then what would he wear? Scowling, Buffy opened the bag, looked inside, and immediately came up coughing. There was no way she was washing these. There was no way she was dealing with them, period. She would just have to go out and get him new clothes.

Ugh, shopping for a vampire. But letting him go himself or taking him to a store in manacles—or letting him go naked—was out of the question. She supposed he could have clothes stashed away somewhere, but she didn’t think it was likely. Even if he did, they might be just as ragged as these, or, worse, stored right in the center of a seething nest of demons.

Aligning one’s self with vampires, even if they had chips in their brains, was dangerous, not to mention downright disgusting. She needed to get this guy to help her find out what she needed to know, and fast. Then she could stake Angelus and fly back to Rome, where everyone was anorexic but at least well-dressed. And she would never have to deal with the way he looked at her again. She gave another sigh. Hopefully it would only be another couple days.

Buffy set the trash bag with his clothes next to the door. She would put it in a dumpster when she went out to buy his clothes, but she wasn’t about to leave now with him loose in her room. Though he’d willingly followed her from the alley and allowed her to put on the manacles docilely enough, he hadn’t exactly agreed to anything. Even if he had, vampires—even vampires with chips—couldn’t be trusted. Darla had proved that often enough. Besides, his silent acceptance of everything she said and did made her suspicious. It was always the silent types who were the most dangerous. And those eyes . . .

Impatiently, she paced the room. It was tiny, complete without towels or a phone. The only good thing about it was she hadn’t had to drag the bum more than a couple blocks. It was too bad Giles couldn’t finagle his new Watcher’s Council to chip in a pittance when the end of the world was coming so she might’ve stayed in a real hotel without dipping into the small savings she’d hoarded over the past year. Giles himself had paid for her flight and written her a check, but both of them had assumed her business in New York City wouldn’t last over a few days.When those few days had stretched on to weeks, Buffy had been reluctant to ask Giles to wire her more. He shouldn't be funding her existence, evenif she was existing solely in Slayer capacity.

She could take care of herself. She'd been the one to insist on the hostel. At least she’d been a able to get a single with its own shower—a real treasure in the hostel world—even though the lady at the reception desk didn’t speak English and hissed at anyonewho used the washing machines at night. With the be-chipped vampire to consider, however, Buffy had the premonition that everything was about to get a lot more complicated.

Which meant the sooner she got Angelus, the better. Buffy wondered whether the bum in the bathroom really knew Angelus, after all. Would she have to keep beating him up? Torture it out of him? Could she stand to do it, if he looked at her in that way, if she remembered how he’d touched her hands, holding her stake against his chest? If she remembered the way his hand had risen to touch her hair?

Buffy’s pacing finally led her to stand before the bathroom door. She tapped her lip as she went back to wondering who the bum was, or what. How had he escaped the Initiative? When? And how in hell did he know Darla? And how was it that he confused her so much; how did his eyes make her so uncomfortable; how was he throwing her off yet again when he wasn’t even in the room? And how long did it take for a bum who obviously didn’t know what clean was to take one stupid shower?

He had been in there over an hour when Buffy finally decided to knock. She’d rapped her knuckles once against the door and was about to do it again when the door swung inward.

Little towel, was her first thought. Little, little towel, what would it be like to be you? How ‘bout you, little drops of water? What would it be like to—

"Do you have any more shampoo?" he asked. "The bottle in there only had a little left."

"Mm hm," she murmured. Her eyes didn’t leave him. He was clean, dripping with water, and naked except for the towel wrapped around his narrow hips. He was built like Riley: tall, broad-shoulders, but there the similarities ended. This was a man, with hard flesh, hard muscles, and a hard face, with none of Riley’s friendly sweetness in his demeanor. His features, now that she could see them clearly, were big, but perfectly proportioned. And they were indeed square, in places, but that contrast made hismouth seem wide and voluptuous, his eyes seem sensual. His white skin was stark against the rich darkness of his hair and eyes.

Great. An attractive vampire. Not only an attractive vampire, but a hot, studly, just-her-type vampire. Would the Powers That Be never stop torturing her? She’d had to deal with a lot, but never this. She was intensely annoyed.

"Here," she snapped, going over to her luggage and pulling out the other bottle she’d brought. She handed it to him. "Use this."

He looked down at it. "It smells flowery."

"Flowers are better than rat dung. You’re in no position to be picky."

He took the bottle slowly and read the label. She shut the door in his face.

"Sorry," he said, staring at the door. He shrugged and dropped the towel off, stepping back into the shower. The water was cold and stayed cold when he turned it on this time, but he didn’t care. Even if he was going to have to use something called Herbal Essence to do it, he couldn’t seem to wash his hair enough. There had already been a bottle of her conditioner in the shower, which he had used repeatedly. He had already used up the entire bar of soap. Now he used the shampoo to lather his body and scrub himself down once again.

The water didn’t need to be hot. He kept thinking of the look on her face as her eyes had raked swiftly over his almost-naked form. It had been a long, long time since a woman had looked at him that way. It had been never since such a look made him feel this way.

By the time he came out again, Buffy was furious. She hated that he’d been stinky and unpleasant and was now using her bathroom—hers—like he was suddenly a film star and owned it. She hated how her breath hitched whenever she thought about the water dripping down his chest, how his eyes had managed to make her heart go out to him, even back and the alley. She hated how everything had to be complicated, how she couldn’t just beat up vampires until she found Angelus and then go home. She hated how confused she felt, and all over meeting some bum in an alley. She was about ready to stake him and find Angelus without him, when the bathroom door opened and he walked through, using another towel to dry off his hair.

She swallowed hard and pointed. "There’s a sheet on that chair. You can wrap yourself up in it while I go buy you clothes." She paused. "Those towels are too small. And . . ."

He deliberately turned his back to her, still chewing thoughtfully from time to time on the inside of his cheek. Her voice trailed away. She pursed her lips, staring at his back.

"And?" he asked, turning back to her with the sheet in his hand.

"And I’m going to shackle you up while I’m gone."

He had begun to unfold the sheet, but now he paused, holding the cloud of it in his hand. "I won’t leave," he said.

"Do I look like an idiot?"

He stared at her, so expressionless that it couldn’t be anything but an insult.

She sucked in her breath. "Fine, don’t answer. Put your sheet on." She turned away to grab the manacles. He let the towel drop and wrapped the sheet around himself, covering up all the necessary parts, and most of the unnecessary ones. He wondered whether it was innocence and inexperience or just him that made her so uncomfortable seeing him partially naked. He hoped it was him.

He pulled the sheet up to cover the tattoo, too, wondering also if her lack of reaction to it had been a reaction after all, or whether he would actually have to spell out to her who he was. He wondered how he would do that, how she would react. In all probability, he should rightfully suspect that she would stake him.

She had mentioned a chip in Darla, that for some reason made her think she was safe from him. But from the little she had said about Darla, this Slayer had never come to trust the female vampire, and that was as it should be. She had no reason to trust him, either, no reason not to chain him up when she left the room. She had every right to fear him.

He wanted to tell her he could be trusted. He wanted to prove it to her—but how? He was a vampire, and she was a Slayer. She had probably been sent to find and dust him. It was ironic, he supposed, that all the sudden he desperately didn’t want her to.

After the rustling behind her stopped, Buffy turned around with the manacles in hand. It wasn’t much better, looking at him with the sheet draped like a cloak around his shoulders, because she could still see hints of his chest, and all of his face quite clearly, and his hair looked thick, but not overly silky, and his eyes were still doing things do her. She sighed. "Come here, by the radiator."

He came, but not by the radiator. He stood by her, about six inches away, towering over her, his face trained to hers, even when she tried to look away. He smelled very strongly of her Herbal Essence. The manacles clinked in her listless hands.

"You don’t need to fear me," he said finally.

"What makes you think I’m afraid?" she demanded, jerking her face back up to his.

His face turned with hers, moving, if anything, closer. "Your pulse," he said quietly. "It’s rapid." His jaw clenched. "It’s galloping."

Try having a vampire in a sheet that looks like you half a foot away! she wanted to scream. Instead, she snapped, "It could be galloping for other reasons."

His smile was sudden and sly—unexpected. It turned up a corner of his mouth as he looked down at her and made him seem centuries older—which he was—made him seem knowing, as if he was acutely aware what was making her pulse funk. It made him seem, for the first time, like a vampire.

She snapped the manacle on his wrist, shoved him over to the radiator, and snapped the other cuff onto the pipe leading into the wall. "Oof," he said. She wanted to laugh. After all his silence, cryptic behavior, and disconcerting stares—not to mention that devilish smile—"oof" seemed out of place.

"Be back in a few," she told him, and locked the door behind her.

Go to: Chapter Three

Best Souvenir --chapter 2

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