I think the summary is probably too crazy to have been forgotten even after all this time, but I’ll repeat it anyway: AU, everybody’s human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?
Previous parts are HERE
Savage Beauty Chapter Ten
“Where’s Spike?” Buffi wondered aloud. She scanned the vicinity of the bar, but there was no sign of him; she spotted Angle and Riley Finn, and her lips tightened. She hoped that they wouldn’t come over to join her group; nothing good could come of that. Her gaze swept the crowd. She saw Spike’s sister and the two British men who had brought the Brazilians to the Ambassadors’ Ball, and she smiled at them briefly, before moving on to where she could see another familiar face. A less welcome one. Olaf and a group of his whalers.
Ah, there was Spike. Her eyes widened as she saw Olaf make a gesture at Spike that resulted in Spike unleashing a combination of blows and kicks that dropped the huge whaler in his tracks; and then she shot to her feet as she saw Olaf’s crony Dagur strike Spike across the back of the neck with a beer bottle and send him to the floor.
“Excuse me!” she called, beginning to push her way past Anya and Xander. The group’s conversation ground to a halt as they recognised Buffi’s urgency, and eyes turned to follow her wide-eyed gaze.
Faith and Kennedy bounced to their feet. “Stay outa this, your Prime Ministerness,” Faith urged. “Leave it to us.” She drew a baton from under her jacket and laid it along her arm.
“They want to discredit you, getting you caught up in a brawl,” Kennedy added. “We’re pretty discredited already, so, no problem.”
“But they’ll hurt Spike,” Buffy objected, even as the two American girls left the group to head for where Olaf was drawing back his foot to kick Spike.
“Father! Stop it!” Anya shouted.
Olaf ignored her call, and Faith and Kennedy were still too far away to intervene as the giant whaler unleashed a kick that would surely cave in the Jivaro warrior’s ribs.
- - - - -
“Is your father a Chief?” Drusilla asked Giles, seemingly out of nowhere.
Giles blinked, taken aback. “I suppose you could say that,” he said. “He recently retired from a rather successful career in the Air Force. Air Chief Marshall Sir Edward Giles, KCB. He’s being considered for the post of Lieutenant Governor of the Isle of Man. I was rather a disappointment to the old chap, I’m afraid. He doesn’t think much of anthropologists; says I might as well be a grocer.”
Drusilla hissed, and Giles realised that she was no longer listening. He saw her lips pull back from her teeth in a primal snarl, and followed her gaze to where Spike had just been struck from behind by Dagur the doctor. “Good grief!” he exclaimed.
Drusilla snatched up a beer bottle, held it up to the light for a second, and took aim at the edge of the table. Outside of Hollywood breaking a glass bottle to create an edged weapon was a tricky operation, and most people doing it would end up with a bleeding hand full of broken glass fragments. Drusilla wasn’t most people, and Giles knew that she was going to be holding a lethal six-inch dagger in a second’s time. “No!” he snapped.
Drusilla met his eyes and lowered the bottle slowly. She cast it aside and leaped from her seat, and then hurtled across the floor towards Olaf.
“Phew!” Ethan gasped. “I’m impressed, Rupert. She obeyed you. I thought for sure that we were going to see a whaler flensed on the dance floor.”
“We still might,” Giles said grimly. “Did you think that the length of her fingernails was just for show?”
- - - - -
Olaf’s kick never landed. Drusilla leaped from table to table, took off in a flying kick, and her foot hit him full in the face. Caught mid-kick and off balance the huge whaler couldn’t withstand the impact and he toppled to the floor once more.
Drusilla landed feather-light on her feet beside the prostrate Spike, bending her legs to absorb the shock of landing, and kept on going down to duck under the blow that Dagur aimed at her. She came up again inside the arc of his swing, caught him by the striking arm and by his shoulder as if about to engage in the tango, butted him in the jaw, and swung her leg across to sweep his legs from under him. She twisted his arm and threw him as he fell, sending him sprawling sideways to crash into a pair of his comrades.
The whalers encircled her, growling angrily, and a couple of them rushed forwards throwing punches. Drusilla swayed aside, brought up a foot in a kick to one’s face, and went all the way over with the motion to stand on her hands. She kicked the other one under the jaw with both feet and cart-wheeled away as the two whalers crashed to the floor and lay still.
“Capoeira,” Giles remarked to Ethan. “The Brazilian martial art that resembles a dance. Drusilla’s quite probably the greatest exponent in the world.”
Ethan tugged at his collar and took a hasty gulp of his beer. “Certainly shows off her legs to advantage, doesn’t it, old boy?” he commented. “I see she doesn’t go in for Bridget Jones style big pants.”
Giles sipped at his own drink as he watched Drusilla toss a whaler onto a table head first. “Well, she is Brazilian,” he reminded Ethan. “I’m just glad she remembered to wear any at all.”
Ethan scooped up an ice-cube from Drusilla’s discarded drink and rubbed it across his forehead.
- - - - -
Spike was still down, the club’s bouncers were holding back from intervening for the moment, and Drusilla was heavily outnumbered. Kennedy and Faith leaped into the fray to join her.
Kennedy grabbed a whaler called Runólf Birgirsson, punched him in the stomach, and elbowed him in the nose. Runólf reeled away to the nearest table, bloody-nosed, and drained a beer.
Faith caught the arm of a hulking whaler by the name of Magnús Magnússon, put him in a painful wristlock, and dragged him away from where he was manoeuvring to get behind Drusilla. “You’re an American!” Magnús Magnússon protested.
“No shit, mastermind,” Faith grinned. She spun him by the trapped arm and sent him stumbling back across the room to fall into a large black leather chair.
Spike clambered to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. The biggest and toughest of all the whalers after Olaf, Elvar Þröstursson, tried to seize the opportunity to get in a shot at their primary target. He struck savagely at Spike’s face.
Spike caught Elvar’s arm mid-blow and wrenched it around savagely. He grabbed Elvar by the hair and pulled the taller man down to his level. “Getting bloody tired of this,” Spike hissed into the Icelander’s ear. “Get out now, and maybe I won’t kill you.” He twisted the arm harder, there was a cracking sound, and Elvar cried out in pain. Spike released the man and pushed him away. Elvar staggered off, clutching his elbow, and made for the club’s exit.
Olaf regained his feet and looked around him. Half of his men lay winded or unconscious on the floor, and the rest were getting pounded by the two American girls, Drusilla, and now by Spike too. “What’s going on?” he demanded of his nearest henchman. “Where is Elvar?”
“We are losing,” the whaler informed his boss. “Elvar has left the building.”
Olaf growled. “I will not be defeated! Who is with me?”
Magnús Magnússon came to stand at his shoulder, wiping blood away from a split lip. “I’ve started, so I’ll finish,” he declared.
“Who else?” Olaf asked. No-one answered. Runólf staggered from the fray, nose streaming with even more blood after a blow from Faith’s baton, and collapsed in front of his boss.
“That’s enough!” a voice boomed out from the PA system. “Everybody stop fighting now or I’m calling the police.” Ljörn Diðriksson glared at the whalers. “Olaf Grímsson, I’m holding you responsible and I’ll be sending you a bill for the damages.”
“This man struck me first,” Olaf protested.
A fiery blonde figure marched out onto the dance floor and stood in front of him with hands on her hips. “You have brought disgrace upon us, Father,” Anya scolded. “Coming to this place and starting a fight, and in front of the Prime Minister! Mother will be ashamed of you. And you didn’t even win! Oh, it’s no use you trying to look tough now, Father. You are only succeeding in looking hairy and unattractive, and – pooh! – you are very smelly! Even the other whalers are repelled by your various odours.”
“Silence, child,” Olaf roared, striking a menacing stance.
Anya sniffed. “Your menacing stance is merely alarming, father, and your roar is less than full throated. Cease your posturing and agree to pay Ljörn for the damage.”
“By God, Anya, you are an aggravating and emasculating daughter,” Olaf grumbled. He looked at Xander, who had followed her out onto the floor. “I pity you, American, if you are serious about her.”
Xander shrugged. “If I’m ever dumb enough to pick a bar fight against a guy who’s that good at Kung Fu, her shouting at me will be the least of my worries.”
“Very well, Ljörn, I shall pay your damages,” Olaf grumbled. “Come, men, let us leave this place.” The whalers gathered up their fallen, assisted by the bouncers, and beat an ignominious retreat.
- - - - -
With the whalers gone everyone returned to their seats and resumed their conversations. Buffi fussed over Spike, as did Willow and Tara who were delighted to see the whalers humbled, and Faith and Kennedy dragged Gunn and Oz out onto the dance floor.
“Fighting gets me hot,” Faith confided to Gunn. “And hey, you get me hot too, ‘cause you’re wicked good looking.”
“You are one lovely piece of hot girl yourself,” Gunn grinned. “You like to come back to my place afterwards?”
“I could go for that,” Faith agreed, and wriggled. “I could ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled and your eyes rolled up. I've got muscles you've never even dreamed of. I could squeeze you until you pop like warm champagne and you'd beg me to hurt you just a little bit more.”
“Sounds good to me,” Gunn smiled. “And after that, maybe we could have pizza?”
- - - - -
A few feet away Kennedy and Oz could hear that exchange. “Faith’s not exactly shy, is she?” Kennedy remarked. “I know how she feels, though. I wouldn’t mind doing a few of those things to you. Want to get up close and personal with me later? Maybe get rid of a few clothes?”
“Maybe,” Oz nodded.
“Kiss me all over, run your hands over my body, make me hot?”
“Take me to bed, stroke me, lick me, ride me?”
“Make love to me until my eyes roll up in my head and I scream your name until I’m hoarse?”
“Mmm,” Kennedy sighed. “I love it when you talk dirty.”
- - - - -
At the end of the evening the gathering broke up into couples who left together, amorous intentions plain on their faces. “I doubt that Spike will be returning to our hotel suite tonight,” Giles remarked, as the Jivaro and the Prime Minister left the club wrapped in each other’s arms.
“The spirits tell me that Spike will have great joy tonight,” Drusilla beamed, taking hold of Ethan’s hand. “Shall we go back to our hotel?”
Giles raised his eyebrows at Drusilla’s possessive gesture towards the other Englishman, but he didn’t comment. “Very well,” he said. “The Oscar ceremony should still be running on the television, perhaps we could watch it for a while?”
“Sounds good to me, old chap,” Ethan agreed.
“Miss Edith would like that,” Drusilla said. “She likes Leonardo diCaprio. But the spirits tell me that Jamie Foxx will win Best Actor.”
“Should we have got some bets down?” Ethan wondered.
“Perhaps we should,” Giles said. “Drusilla has proven to be remarkably prescient.”
They made their way back to the hotel and switched on the television as soon as they entered the suite. Giles poured out some drinks, and Drusilla reclined languorously on the room’s couch.
“The stars smile upon me,” she murmured. “I see them smiling.”
“I’m not sure that I understand you, Drusilla,” Giles said. “We are indoors and the curtains are closed. How can you see the stars?”
“There they are, silly Giles,” Drusilla pointed. “See, there is Zhang Ziyi, and Beoncé, and Clint Eastwood, and Gwyneth Paltrow.”
Ethan laughed. “She put one over on you there, old boy.”
“Ah, quite,” Giles grinned ruefully, and sipped at his Scotch.
“Ethan, what is your father? Is he a magician?” Drusilla asked unexpectedly, her fingers toying with the buttons of her top.
“Good lord! How did you know that?” Ethan exclaimed. “Yes, he was, for many years. Rayne and Snow, the best magic act in the business. Well, not a bad act, anyway. Paid my way through Public School and into the Foreign Office, and I picked up a few useful tricks myself. Picking pockets and the like.” He gazed admiringly at the beautiful Brazilian. “Remarkable that you should guess.”
“The spirits revealed it to me,” Drusilla informed him. She undid one of her buttons almost absentmindedly. “When I was but a child the oldest Wawek shaman drank the Natema potion and had a vision about me. He told me that I would one day reach bliss in the arms of the son of a Chief and the son of a magician. I thought that he meant Spike, for our father is a Chief and mother was a Pener Uwisin shaman before her illness grew too strong for her to heal.” Her fingers continued to work their way down her buttons, revealing more and more smooth golden skin.
“Ah,” Giles gulped. “Yes. Quite.”
“But Spike is my brother, and I was wrong,” Drusilla went on. She sat up, seized Ethan by the shoulders, and pulled him into a kiss. He didn’t put up any resistance. “Do you like me, Ethan?”
Ethan had to swallow twice before he could answer. “Well, I’m not trailing around with you lot because of any unrequited lust for Rupert, that’s for sure.”
“Dear sweet Ethan,” Drusilla smiled, and trailed her fingers across his cheek. She turned to Giles and pulled him into a passionate embrace. Their mouths locked together for a long moment, during which Ethan watched Beyoncé perform two numbers and Chris Rock crack two hundred and eight unfunny jokes, and then they pulled apart. “Sorry, I was in the moment,” Drusilla giggled. “I can tell that you like me, Rupert.”
She stood up, and the last of her clothing dropped to the floor. The two men began to hastily fumble at their own buttons. Drusilla parted her lips and ran her tongue across them. “Be in me.”
The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.