Epilogue (to Where the Wild Things Are)
Many thanks to Marcee, who read and corrected this at record speed. Kudos!
This was stupid. Ridiculous! He was a vampire, for God’s sake! No one expects a vampire to keep a promise, let alone one made in the throes of sexual passion. No one.
“So, why do I bother?” he asked, shaking his head in exasperation.
He was leaning against his car (which was parked inconspicuously on a dark part of the street, a good hundred yards further down the road), smoking and studying his target.
There was no reply. He hadn’t expected one.
He took another drag from his cigarette and flicked the butt away. He crossed the deserted street, squatted in front of the door and carefully began to pick the lock, hoping the damn place didn’t have a burglar alarm.
“I mean it's not like I haven't got anything better to do…”
He fiddled about for a few minutes, growing more and more impatient. The fact that he usually just barged into whatever place he wanted to ransack hadn’t exactly helped him hone his burglary skills.
“Bollocks!” The lock pick snapped, its tip wedged inside the lock.
He walked back to the deSoto, opened the trunk and got out a crowbar. He sauntered back to the recalcitrant door and tried to force the door open without causing too much damage. He wanted to be able to close the door behind him, so he'd have plenty of time for his mission. Without having to worry about cops or an errant Slayer – or worse: other vampires.
This was definitely not the kind of place he wanted to be seen in.
With a loud crack, the wood splintered. He slowly opened the door. He felt it connect with the chime. His hand shot up to silence it. He slipped inside, closed the door and released the bell.
He didn’t bother to turn on any lights. He could see the goods well enough. There were so many racks he hardly knew where to start. He wandered through the shop, picking up items and discarding them, opening boxes and squinting at labels.
Suddenly, a female figure wearing nothing but an almost transparent bra, lacy knickers, a matching garter belt, and silk stockings caught his attention. Silk and lace in black and dark burgundy. Just the right mixture of class and naughtiness.
Without hesitation he brought his arms round the slim and smooth waist. His fingers searched for the clasp of the bra. Suddenly he had the whole torso in his hand and the lower part off the figure toppled with a crash, knocking over a vase or something.
He undid the clasp and dropped the upper torso of the mannequin. He checked the size - *32C. Bingo!* - pocketed the bra and picked up the lower portion to tuck it under his arm.
He opened the door of the shop and peered outside. No cops, no Slayer, no other vampires, thank heavens.
He quickly left the shop, careful not to lose the legs. He was quite relieved to reach his car without being seen. He threw the half-mannequin on the backseat and quickly and skillfully undressed it. “Peelin’ stiffs out of their clothes? Now that's something I'm really good at,” he mumbled. Then he dumped the doll and made his getaway.
An hour later he stood outside of Anya’s small flat. He knew, sooner or later she'd turn up. This was the one day of the week when she didn’t stay at the Harris basement overnight. Something to do with the laundry schedule of Mrs. H.
He had gotten through half a pack of cigarettes, when he heard a car approaching. Harris, driving his uncle's car, a decrepit piece of junk. Someone should truly put that piece of machinery out of its misery.
*Hm, I wonder if that soddin’ chip will allow me to fiddle with the breaks a bit…*
He watched Anya get out of the car. Nice legs. She and Xander exchanged a few words, then donut boy drove off.
Knowing he couldn't be spotted in the rear view mirror, Spike quickly crossed the road before the ex-demon had a chance to close the door behind her.
“Got something for you,” he said, giving her a start. She turned around, momentarily frightened, but then she recognized him.
“Spike! What are you doing here? I hope you're not stalking me. I tortured stalkers not too long ago. I still have friends in the business I could call if you don't have a good reason for being here.”
“Don't get your knickers in a twist, Anyanka. Told you. Got somethin’ for ya. A guy's got to keep his promises, don't he,” he said, handing her a slightly battered cardboard box.
She took it with a surprised frown.
“I'm not inviting you in,” she said bluntly.
“I didn’t ask you to.”
She warily looked at the box. At him. At the box.
“Xander and I made up,” she told him.
“I know,” he said evenly. *Doesn’t mean it'll last, does it.*
She took off the lid and gasped, both surprised and pleased. She held the box with one hand and used the other to lift the contents out, holding them up so she could see them in the light of the street lamp. Anya clearly liked what she saw.
She put them back into the box, and caressed the delicate fabric, feeling the softness of the silk and the sensuousness of lace. He took in the way she flushed with pleasure, inhaled her scent. Yes, Anya was certainly a hottie!
“Spike, this is… this is so beautiful,” she exclaimed. “It's also more expensive than the bra you ruined, so… I suppose I should just keep the bra and give the rest back to you.”
“Somehow I don't think I’ll be needing silk stockings and a garter belt. Don't go well with my duster, pet,” he grinned. “Just keep the stuff. No strings attached. Think of it as interest paid.”
*And I’ll think of it as an investment.*
She put the lid back on and clutched the box possessively. She awkwardly leaned forward and gave him a very formal kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Spike.”
“My pleasure. See you around, sweetie.”
He walked off, sexy swagger on full power, knowing his duster looked great, billowing around him like that. He didn’t turn round to look back because it would ruin the effect. He climbed into the deSoto and drove off.
“Why did I bother?” He smiled and lit himself another smoke. “Cause you never know…”
(written February 2002)