It’s been almost a month since I updated this, but I think that the summary is probably memorable enough to still be familiar; however I’ll take no chances and 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 Eleven
Spike came out of the bathroom and went down the stairs. Buffi had preceded him and she was in the kitchen, where she was talking to a good-looking woman in her forties and a pretty brown-haired girl in her late teens.
“This is my mother, Hjördís, and my sister, Dorúnn,” Buffi introduced them. “Mom, Dorúnn, this is Spike.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Spike,” Buffi’s mother greeted the Brazilian. “Would you like some breakfast? We have fried cod, boiled cod, salt cod, smoked cod, pickled cod, cod roe, or I could prepare you a cod omelette. You probably need something to restore your strength after last night.” The corners of her mouth twitched upwards and she had a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“Móðir!” Buffi exclaimed, and flushed. She spoke briefly to her mother in Icelandic.
“What?” Hjördís said, assuming an air of innocence. “I mean after the fight that you mentioned, of course.”
“Like it wasn’t totally obvious that you were having sex,” Dorúnn said, rolling her eyes. “You totally owe me for waking me up. In fact you probably woke up everyone from here to Surtsey.”
Buffi’s flush deepened. She ignored her sister’s comment and addressed Spike. “So, breakfast?”
“Omelette, please,” Spike decided. He was slightly surprised at Buffi’s mother’s attitude. His knowledge of Western customs was garnered almost entirely from movies, and he had expected that the energetic and extremely noisy lovemaking during the night would have resulted in a very frosty reception from Buffi’s family. That would certainly have been the case in the USA or England, if the movies were an accurate portrayal of society. It obviously wasn’t the case in Iceland.
“What do you eat back in the jungle?” Dorúnn asked, gazing at him with wide eyes.
“Cassava bread, piranha fish, chicken, tapir, peccary meat, agouti, armadillo, roasted giant spiders, that sort of thing,” Spike told her.
“Giant spiders? Eww, gross!” Dorúnn sniffed loudly.
“Manners, Dorúnn!” Hjördís scolded. “Respect our guest’s culture. After all, I’m sure that he would have the same opinion of Hakarl.”
“Like I don’t,” Dorúnn retorted. “But at least it isn’t spiders. And hey, I thought piranhas were supposed to eat people, not the other way round.”
“Hakarl?” Spike queried.
“Greenland Shark, buried underground for six months,” Hjördís told him. “We traditionally eat it washed down with Brennevin – mint Schnapps. To take the taste away.”
“I’m not sodding surprised,” Spike muttered.
“I thought it was to get us too drunk to think about what we were eating,” Buffi said.
“That too,” Hjördís agreed. “Hakarl is not for breakfast. I shall just make the omelettes.” She turned her attention to the stove.
“That spike through your nose is totally cool,” Dorúnn commented. “Does it hurt?”
“A Jivaro warrior does not notice pain,” Spike told her.
“Cool!” Dorúnn exclaimed.
“Shouldn’t you be on your way to class?” Buffi reminded her sister.
“Okay, okay,” Dorúnn said. “I’m on my way.” She snatched up her bag. “See you later. Nice to meet you, Spike.”
“Nice kid,” Spike remarked after Dorúnn had departed. “Looks like you, only much taller.”
“That’s because her father was much taller than Buffi’s,” Hjördís told him, as she dished out omelettes. Spike raised one eyebrow in silent query. “Buffi’s father was a Danish fisherman, Sommer Christensen,” Hjördís went on. “A lovely man, but he was very short. Dorúnn is my daughter by Boleslav Prazsky, a Czech engineer. He was very tall. And he had an immense –”
“Móðir!” Buffi interrupted.
“An immense knowledge of hot water pumping systems, I was going to say,” Hjördís continued, her eyes twinkling. Buffi relaxed. Hjördís grinned. “He was like a stevedore in the sack.” Buffi winced.
“So, the young one’s Dorúnn Boleslavsdottir?” Spike asked, checking that he had got the hang of the Icelandic system.
“That’s right,” Hjördís confirmed. She looked Spike up and down appreciatively. “And if you got Buffi pregnant last night, the child will be Spikesdottir or Spikesson.”
Spike coughed out a piece of omelette.
Buffi rolled her eyes at her mother. “Please, Mom, not now.”
Spike hastily gulped down some orange juice. “Spike’s not my real name,” he pointed out. “’S just what Rupert calls me, ‘cos of the spike in my nose. More pronounceable than my Jivaro name for you white people.”
“And your real name is?” Hjördís prompted.
“I have many names. Among my people the Shuar, known to the whites as the Jivaro, I am Anank-Tshuin-Yerush, the Slayer of Jaguars. To the English, I am Spike. Spike am I also to the Americans. To the Brazilians I am Guilherme o Sagrento. In Equador and Peru I am Guillermo el Sangriento. To Bolivia I go not. Too bloody high, innit?”
Hjördís blinked at his recitation. “I think that I’ll stick to Spike.”
- - - - -
Quentin Travers stared severely at Ethan. “Good lord, man,” the British Ambassador said sternly, “you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. Two hedges.”
“More like the Amazon jungle,” Ethan muttered under his breath. “Sorry, sir,” he said aloud. “It’s been a rough weekend.”
“Indeed.” Travers frowned. “Do stand up straight when I’m talking to you. That slouch gives a very bad impression.” He peered at Ethan and his frown deepened. “Are those bites on your neck?”
Ethan pulled himself up straight, winced, and sagged again. “Shaving burns,” he claimed. “I was a little over-enthusiastic with the razor this morning.”
“The Americans aren’t happy with you, Rayne. Those two Brazilians that you brought along to the Ball seem to have caused them no end of trouble. It appears that the whole American policy in the area may be in jeopardy.” Travers smiled suddenly. “Fine work, Rayne. Keep it up.”
- - - - -
“So what went wrong?” Ambassador Tony Harris growled. “I thought we had a plan. How come nothing worked out? You were supposed to split the Brazilian off from the herd, Chase. Kinda failed, didn’t you?”
“You could say that,” Cordelia agreed. “But hey, if the guy’s too dumb to know a good thing, what was I supposed to do? March him off at gunpoint?”
The Ambassador didn’t answer. He turned to Riley. “What’s your excuse, Finn?”
“I didn’t know that the Brazilian’s sister was hell on wheels at unarmed combat,” Riley explained. “She kicked the whalers’ asses and got her brother out of the fix. Then Kennedy joined in, her and that E-4 friend of hers from the Keflavik base, and there was no chance of the whalers ever getting near Buffi Sommersdottir after that. No chance for us to step in and play hero.”
“I’m gonna kick that part-time dyke’s ass right back to the States,” Tony Harris snarled. “What the hell does she think she’s playing at? Just whose side is she on?”
“Don’t get rid of her,” Cordelia suggested. “We can use her. Just make sure she hears what we want her to hear.”
Tony Harris smiled for the first time since the meeting had started. “Disinformation. Yeah, I like that idea. We let slip some things to her, some things to my no-good son, and we can point Sommersdottir just where we want her to look. Sucker-punch them with the real move.”
“Speaking of which,” Riley put in, “I know somebody we can point right at the Brazilians. Somebody much tougher than any bum whaler.”
Ambassador Harris raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”
“Marine Master Sergeant Robin Wood,” Riley went on. “Unarmed combat instructor. Black belt twice over. And,” he grinned fiercely, “he’s the son of missionaries who were killed by Jivaro Indians back in nineteen seventy-seven. Killed and had their heads shrunken. He hates South Americans. I mean he really hates them.”
“Enough to kill?” Tony Harris asked.
“Oh, you know about that scandal in Colombia that got him transferred up here, then?”
“I didn’t,” the Ambassador grinned, “but I do now. I like it. Good man, Riley, you’ve redeemed yourself. Get this Robin Wood over here ASAP. Oh, and find him a few merry men.”
- - - - -
Spike walked through Reykjavik in the direction of the hotel. Buffi had work to do and had gone to her office, and, although her mother had assured Spike that he would be welcome to stay at the house until Buffi was free, he didn’t yet feel comfortable in such surroundings and had declined the offer. Also he wanted to check that Drusilla was all right after the fight the preceding night.
He paid no attention to the black van that cruised past him several times; in the jungle he would have immediately been aware that he was being followed, but the city was an alien environment and it never occurred to him that there was anything odd going on. One vehicle was much the same as any other as far as he was concerned.
He was keenly aware of the pedestrians in his vicinity, however, and spotted the hulking figure of Olaf long before the whaler spotted him. He briefly considered changing his course to avoid the huge Icelander, but rejected the thought as unworthy of a Jivaro warrior. He walked on; if the whaler sought another confrontation, then Spike would not back down.
Before long Olaf did spot Spike and headed directly towards him. “So, jungle man,” the whaler boomed. “We meet again.”
- - - - -
Giles emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He’d woken feeling more dead than alive, but a shower had refreshed him to the point where he only felt as if he’d just run a marathon. Wearing a deep-sea diver’s suit.
Drusilla sat up in bed and stretched languorously. “You are very beautiful,” she said appreciatively.
“Um, perhaps not the words I would have chosen,” Giles said self-deprecatingly. “You are beautiful. I’m just an ordinary man, no longer in the first flush of youth, although I flatter myself that I have kept in quite good shape from my age.”
“Silly Rupert. You are beautiful. Take off that cloth, I want to see all of you.”
“Oh, very well,” Giles agreed, and complied. He couldn’t help feeling a little embarrassed at standing in front of her stark naked, even after all the things that they had done the previous night.
“He’s gone small,” Drusilla said, sounding disappointed.
“He has had to work rather hard,” Giles said defensively.
Drusilla let the bedclothes slip down very slowly to reveal just the very edges of her nipples. “I have more work for him,” she said, and ran her tongue over her parted lips. “I wonder if he is up to it. Oh, yes, I think he might be.” She let the bedding slip down a fraction of an inch further. “See, he grows large once more.”
“Remarkable,” Giles breathed. After his exertions the previous night he wouldn’t have expected to be capable of reacting to any stimulus so soon; or possibly even ever again.
“Where is Ethan?” Drusilla asked.
“Um, he had to go to work,” Giles told her. Ethan had risen early and almost fled the room, looking rather like a zombie, and muttering something about getting his heart checked out.
“That is a shame,” Drusilla said. “But it is you that I like best.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Giles said, pleased, but also wondering how long he would be able to survive the attentions of this beautiful and insatiable woman.
“Oh!” Drusilla exclaimed suddenly, and sat bolt upright. “The spirits! They talk to me. There is danger.”
Even though Drusilla’s beautiful body was now completely exposed Giles felt the erotic atmosphere suddenly evaporate, and certain bodily parts deflated as if they realised that they would not be required after all. “Danger? For Spike?”
- - - - -
“Olá, Sr. Olaf,” Spike greeted the Icelander. He was poised for instant action. “What do you want now?”
“I wish to apologise,” Olaf said, much to Spike’s surprise. “You are a great warrior, jungle man. Like a Viking. I have caused trouble for you, and I was wrong. My daughter has scolded me long and told me that I was a big fool. She is right. You are fisherman; I am fisherman. We should be friends, not enemies.”
“Not gonna argue with that,” Spike said warily. “But if you’re Buffi’s enemy then you’re mine too.”
“I am no enemy to Buffi Sommersdottir,” Olaf assured him. “I have a big mouth and a hot temper, but I have much respect for her. She is a good Prime Minister. Clever, and very wise for one so young. Yes, I want to be able to hunt whales, but I know she thinks first of Iceland’s place in the world, and she will do what she thinks is best for the country. Come, I buy you coffee, and we talk.”
- - - - -
“I see trees falling,” Drusilla wailed. “I see sloths plummeting from the branches like nuts. I see a monster carrying the trees away in its jaws.”
Giles didn’t press for clarification; he knew from previous experiences that it was better to wait until her vision was over. Instead he dressed, knowing that there would be no further sexual activities that morning, and simultaneously feeling disappointed and relieved. Her vision seemed to be more relevant to Brazil to Iceland, and he was perplexed; although he wouldn’t rule out her vision being of the Peter Jackson remake of ‘King Kong’.
- - - - -
“I was annoyed that those two American girls were trying to influence our Prime Minister,” Olaf explained. “What business is it of theirs if we hunt whales?” He drained half of his cup of coffee in one go, and then shrugged. “Still, I too was influenced by the Americans. They paid me to cause trouble at Karathús.”
“Why?” Spike asked. “Thought they’d have wanted to keep in good with the Prime Minister, not cause trouble for her.”
“They did not tell me,” Olaf replied. “I was angry because she beat me at the Ambassadors’ Ball. I asked no questions, only took their money. But they told me that their men would come to protect her, and I was to lose, so that the Americans would look like big damn heroes.”
“And what about me?”
“They wanted me to crush you,” Olaf said. “They hoped you would look weak in front of Buffi. Was bad plan, huh? You are very strong for a tiny man. Brave. A very good fighter. And your sister, she is Valkyrie, like Buffi. Ah, if I was twenty years younger and not married to my Rannveig, I could make merry sport with her.”
- - - - -
“So, Master Sergeant, whaddya think?” Tony Harris asked.
The tall African-American Marine sat back in his chair and lit the cigar that the Ambassador had proffered. “With respect, Ambassador, I think you’re going about this all wrong,” he said.
“Oh?” Tony Harris raised his eyebrows. “You have a better idea?”
“Yeah. Look, Ambassador, you don’t need to beat this guy up here. Still less kill him. Who needs all the hassle? Iceland’s a civilised First World country. Diplomatic immunity or not, there’d be all kinds of hell raised if something happened to the Prime Minister’s boyfriend. No, all you need is for him to go home, out of your hair, away from Buffi Sommersdottir.”
“Oh yeah? How’re you gonna arrange that? And what’s to stop him just coming right back?”
“Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,” Robin Wood chanted. “Your house is on fire and your children are gone.” He grinned at the puzzled Ambassador. “If the guy’s tribal lands got burned down to the topsoil, his family got chased outta their village, and maybe a few fatal accidents happened to them in the process, I guess he’d be straight back to Brazil. And once he was there,” he blew out a long stream of cigar smoke, “I could make sure that the only way he’d be coming back would be in a box.”
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.
I have three more nights to go, and so there should be more updates of various fics to come, although my daughter comes home from Australia tomorrow evening and I can’t promise to spend all my time writing. I’ll get on with “Angel of the Morning” next.