Title: Summer of our Discontent
Author: Willa
Rating: R
Written for lyrajane for the Anya-ficathon
Requirements: Spike/Anya, set pre-"The Gift" with a mention of the game of Clue.
Word length: 2,100
Angst warning


Anyanka's sitting at a delicately liveried table, set with a perfect ladies' breakfast for two. Her human features are in place, and her power center glimmers demurely around her neck. She stares down at the rich array of food, sour and sweet alike, with her lips arranged in a small pout.

No one there would guess what she really is. She took especial care to fit in this morning, and as far as she can tell looks the very picture of a sweet, proper young lady. Silk stockings with perfectly straight seams over demurely revealed calves, a crisp new sundress of spotted organza, and Coty talc smoothed onto her bosom and arms. A dainty gold wrist watch. Her curls, russet-colored this week, are soft and look natural, bouncing a little on her shoulders when she moves her head. Even her makeup's done to perfection – just enough, not too much, making her eyes look bigger than they are and lending her lips fullness to curve in a most attractive cupid's bow even as she sulks.

She even thought to add a tiny white purse to match her dress and shoes.

It should be a better morning than this.

But it isn't. Why?

She stares at the brimming pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice and her lip trembles. It looks like ichor, even it if does smell of citrus and sunshine. She's thirsty, but she can't drink any of that. And she can't bear the thought of the pure, clean glass of water sitting beside it. It's cold, beads of sweat running down the sides. Melting ice cubes tinkling a happy little tune.

She should be enjoying this more.

With last night's vengeance mission satisfied, D'Hoffryn is pleased enough that he's given her the unanticipated gift of a day off. It's been decades. He knows how much she likes to work, so she doesn't understand why he's rewarded her by forcing her to be lazy for a day, but he was as jolly as a picture of Saint Nick – with horns – when he pushed it on her.

You don't question D'Hoffryn in that mood. Something really and truly scary is about to happen, and it's best to be far away in case any of it splashes on you.

So she sought out the quaintest little inn in the most fashionable mountains that she could find. Hallie's in the area, and they've made plans to meet for the morning meal and spend a day shopping. She likes pretty things – baubles to drape around her wrists and dangle from her ears, perfumes that smell like fresh-cut flowers in little bottles of jewel-colored glass, and bits of silk lingerie that whisper over the body when you try them on. She plans on needing several bags to carry it all back in.

Not that they'll pay for anything. Hallie can just find shop assistants who need a little justice worked on them and take it from there. Surely D'Hoffryn will overlook tiny freebies. Breakfast, shopping, lunch, lazing on the lawn with that new board game Cluedo.

They might even play tennis if it warms up.

And dancing – absolutely dancing – that night, where they can wear their pretty human faces and lovely human clothes and go swirling around in the arms of men they'll probably punish in unique and creative ways when it's back to business.

This should be one of the best days of her Millennia.

But it's not. She taps her spoon against the water glass, severely irritated. Yes, it should be a good day. It's not logical that it isn't. Why isn't she enjoying herself?

Because she isn't, you know. Not one tiny bit.

And she doesn't like that.

Her thoughts are chasing around and around themselves, like the fluffy white poodles in their jeweled collars that she sees being coddled on rich women's laps. Running in ever-decreasing circles of discontent.

It's his face that she keeps coming back to.

That man's face... last night. The one she came for.

It wasn't at all her typical assignment. She's the patron saint of vengeance for women, not men. There have, of course, been a few men over the years, discarded by their male lovers, but that's different. Never before has she answered a call for vengeance from a man against a woman.

It went against her grain. But D'Hoffryn judged she would have to answer, so she went.

Went to the small, dark cellar of a Paris warehouse, where the air was thick with dust and stank of corruption. Just above the catacombs. Those brought back happy enough memories that she was even smiling a little bit as she teleported in to answer the summons.

Then she saw him. Still waving the incense, but in a hand that shook. Tears and the marks of tears past trickled down his face in silvery trails from red-shot eyes of cut-glass blue. He looked white and fragile and beaten.

She doesn't have the kind of heart that could have gone out to him, but she'd felt something – odd. Compassion? It couldn't have been that. That's not part of her job. She administers justice, cool and dispassionate, and moves briskly on to her next assignment. Feelings don't – shouldn't - enter into it.

But he made her feel. Something. It ran up her spine in a nasty prickle of discomfort as she stared at him, trying to figure it out. Tears, those she's been used to for hundreds of years. Ditto shaking, emaciation, torn hair, nail tracks down the skin, et al, blah blah, she's seen it all and it doesn't really affect her anymore.

Maybe it was those eyes. That entirely new level of pain.

And the fact that he was a vampire.

She'd wondered wildly: was this D'Hoffryn's idea of a practical joke? Vampires aren't supposed to care about these sorts of things. It isn't done from them to get up, bash tears away from their faces with the backs of their hands, and declare: "About bloody time, too."

Her demon face didn't bother him at all. He kept his human mask on. And they talked together.

The woman he loved – loved? – another vampire – loved another vampire? – it seemed, was a little bit cuckoo. She had dreams, visions, and lately they'd been telling her night after night that she didn't want this vampire – Spike, he'd called himself – in her bed. She'd rather find demons with little tidbits of flattery or pretty new china dolls on offer to give her body to.

Anya had to stand there and take it all in. Puzzle through it. Just switch the genders, and it was a story she'd heard countless times. Betrayal. The need for vengeance. Simple enough. So finally, with a mental shrug, she asked what his request would be.

Trembling fingers had reached out to trace the ridges and veins in her skin. She'd stiffened, from shock more than anything. "I want you, pet," he'd said hoarsely. "Just once, just tonight. Let her know how it feels to smell another female's scent here when dawn comes nigh and she's tripping back home. Want her to go mad with rage and jealousy. Want proof that she does love me after all."

Ah. Anyanka thought she understood him, then. It wasn't that unusual as requests go, but unfortunately she can't change her gender to suit the plaintiff ninety percent of the time. She's complied with those who didn't mind, of course. All part of the job. No emotions involved.

Except she does like orgasms. But that's purely secondary to accomplishing her mission.

This was... well, it hadn't happened before. But he was beautiful as a woman, under the mess he'd made with grieving. Cold and white as an ice sculpture. Blue eyes fluttering shut as he pulled her to him, pressed kisses over her misshapen face, down her neck, over her breasts. He knew what women liked, and he – she doesn't know why – saw to it that she'd been well-pleased by the time he moved above her, his thigh between her own, and asked again that this be the boon granted to him.

Slowly, a little frightened but determined, she'd nodded. Even put her arms around him when he'd sunk deep inside her, cool cock hard and strange like an iron rod wedged where only fingers had been for hundreds of years. But he'd made sure she was wet, and he moved smoothly. He knew how to give her satisfaction as well as take his own.

And he cried, all the way through it.

When they'd finished, he'd whispered a rough thanks and rolled away, curling in on himself. It astonished her. She could feel his pain, and how it was a hundred times greater now than before. No pleasure in his vengeance. No satisfaction in a job well done. Just misery.

She'd wanted to touch him again. Maybe pat his shoulder. But none of that felt right. So in the end, she'd simply said: "Done", and left to the sound of fresh new sobbing.

Maybe that's why she's upset. She still doesn't understand. Maybe she never will.

"Good morning, sweetheart!"

She glances up to see that Halfrek's arrived, all fluttering skirts and a thick wave of White Linen perfume that sweeps over her as they buss each other's cheeks. Anyanka almost wilts inside from relief. It's good to feel the presence of another demon, one of her kind, who knows what the day-in-day-out is like.

Not that she's going to tell her about this last job.

Unless she asks.

Which, sitting down and spreading a crisply starched napkin over her lap, she promptly does.

"Unsatisfying," Anyanka says after a pause. "Deeply dissatisfying."

"I heard a little on the grapevine." Hallie's buttering a piece of toast, adding red jelly that looks like clotted blood. "Naughty, naughty, Anyanka."

"I fulfilled the wish made," she says stiffly, offended. "D'Hoffryn was happy."

"Oh, no one thinks you did a bad job, precious. Just not quite your métier, that's all. Mostly they're all a-buzz about who the job was for."

"Just a vampire. A peculiar one, but –"

"Not just any vampire. William the Bloody." Hallie nods knowingly. "Surely you know that name?"

He's nearly as famous as herself. Anyanka pales a few shades. "No! Not really? He said his name was Spike!"

"Sweetie!" the other demoness chides. "Since when do you believe men? Trust me, Anyanka, that was William the Bloody."

Well. That takes a little more sunshine out of the morning. It must have been Drusilla that he wanted vengeance against. She knows their story. Everyone does.

"Don't, precious, don't." Hallie's squeezing her hand. "You, one of the tops in your field? Don't let this upset you. It happened and it's done. Now just sit back and enjoy this delicious breakfast – you let them get cold, but the eggs Benedict are just to die for." She takes a delicate bite and smiles with her lips closed.

Anyanka clutches the edge of the tablecloth in her fist. She'd sworn she wasn't going to ask... but she has to know. "Hallie?"

She smiles in her most fetching way. "What, darling?"

"When D'Hoffryn talked to me... he said you turned this one down. And he let you." She looks up, searching for understanding. "Why?"

It's like blowing out a candle. The light vanishes from Hallie's lovely face. Anyanka can almost taste the savor leaching out of that breakfast, same as it has for her. She puts her fork down with a small clink. "Because," she says, very, very quietly. "Because there was a girl named Cecily who knew William once, before he became William the Bloody. I... knew them both. Past history. But it would have interfered."

She looks back up, and it's easy to tell her brightness is forced. "Besides, you did such a wonderful job. Don't linger on it."

And Anyanka knows that's all she's going to hear about it. D'Hoffryn won't talk, and she knows now that Hallie isn't going to explain any of the why's running around in her head.

The smells of breakfast are making her ill, now. She pushes her plate away.

She wonders, in years to come, will William the Bloody even remember her name?

Will she remember that he asked her to call him Spike?

Will he remember her demon face?

Will she recall the lines of his human mask?

She doesn't know.

And somehow, the bright summer morning turns suddenly very cold.

~Finis~