Rating: PG-13 for squickiness
Setting: A re-imagined S6, a few weeks after part two
Title: Spike and Buffy's World Tour, Part Three
A tribute to Orwellian swine in honor of election day. All tongue-in-cheek.
Part Three - Down on the Farm
This was her life now, answering ads in Demon Monthly, patrolling and raising Dawn the rest of the time. Not everybody was comfortable with her choices but Buffy didn’t much care. She was keeping the Hellmouth safe; she was raising her sister as best she could. There was nothing else they were allowed to expect of her.
Giles called from Bath, apologetic and offering a truce.
“There is a reward in exchange for aid,” he told her. “I thought you might be interested. And, well, I was hoping you and Dawn might holiday here after, for Christmas. The others are welcome too of course, as long as they pay their own way.”
“Do those others include Spike?”
He was silent so long she almost hung up.
“So, what do you think? Talking animals taking over the farm, fighting Farmer Jones for control – demonic possession?”
“Sounds Orwellian,” Spike said blandly. “They mention Napoleon by any chance? Snowball?”
Buffy’s face scrunched up. “Huh?”
She grimaced, repulsed.
“What? Pig’s blood. S’just a little fresher than is the norm. Straight from the source,” he grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the ruby liquid across his cheek. It blended with blood already dripping from his hair and down his clothes.
“Don’t be telling me I can’t drink pig’s blood now! First it’s people off the menu, next it’s pigs… Soon you’ll be wanting me to be a vegetarian vamp!”
“It just seems wrong,” she shuddered. “They talked. Like people.”
“Yeah,” he said happily. “T’was brilliant. ’Sides, they deserved it. Spouting off about comrades and equality and all that bunk.”
Buffy cocked an eyebrow, “So, what, you’re a political vamp now? Going to join the ranks of undead voters?”
“Sod that! Vampire,” he pointed to himself indignantly. “Only good political system is anarchy. Anarchy in the UK!” he hollered, pumping his fist. Buffy snickered behind her hand.
“Well good, I was worried I was going to come home to find you doing the dance of capitalistic superiority with Anya.”
“Pffft,” he scoffed. “Hate capitalist pigs.”
Buffy wrinkled her nose. “Think these were socialist pigs, honey.”
“Hate them too.” He ran his tongue over his fangs. “Though maybe not so much these ones.” He glanced around at the other animals, who were regarding him with a horrified expression, the sheep bleating in terror against the barn wall. Spike lunged at them and they scattered, leaving him howling with laughter.
She glared at him.
“Ah, don’t be like that, love. How ‘bout this – how ‘bout if I carve this one here up, he’ll make a lovely ham, we can bring it round to the Watcher’s for dinner.”
Buffy turned green and ran for the bushes.
“What? What’d I say?”