Author: Elsa Frohman Rating: G Feedback:elsa@frohman.net Summary: An answer to Melissa's burglary challenge. No
continuity. Fits anywhere you want to put it. Up to you to
decide whether it's pre- or post-soul.
"I'm not the police, Spike. This is nothing but burglary. Not my
thing. You know where the police station is. Tell Clem to file a
report," Buffy said with a frown.
Spike knitted his brows with frustration.
"It's not like Clem can just walk into the police station and get
help. Funny thing, when the demons in this town have a
problem, the police all seem to go blind, deaf and dumb.
Besides, the break-in was at my crypt. It was all his stuff they
got, but it was still my crypt. Kind of hard to explain to the
cops why someone was living there."
"If you had a lock on the door, this wouldn't have happened."
"A lock? Who burglarizes crypts?" Spike shouted in
exasperation.
Buffy cocked her head to the side. "Vampires, for the most
part."
"See? It is your problem," Spike said with a smirk.
It was Buffy's turn to be exasperated.
"All right. What am I supposed to do about it?"
"Find the ones who did it."
"Why don't you? It was your crypt."
"Well, I'll help. But if it was a human, there isn't much I can
do, is there?"
"Why do you think it was a human?"
"It's not just my place. Demons are getting cleaned out all over
Sunnydale. And the thieves aren't going for the magical stuff --
if it was that I'd say we had someone planning something bad.
They're going for the mundane stuff: tellies, DVD players, CD
players, microwaves, Cuisinarts."
"Cuisinarts? Demons have fancy kitchen appliances?"
Spike ignored her last comment. "It all stuff that's easy to
pawn. If you ask me we've got a demon-aware druggie, who's
supporting his habit by hitting on the poor sods who can't go to
the police."
"I don't have a Cuisinart," Buffy said with a pout.
Spike glowered at her.
"All right," she said. "Stuff that's easy to fence. So we should
start by checking the pawnshops and seeing if we can find
anything you recognize. If we can find where the thief is
fencing the goods, we can stake it out and maybe catch him."
"Then what?" Spike asked.
"If it's a human, we turn him over to the police. If it's a demon,
you can deal with him however you like."
"Right," Spike said, giving her an odd look. "And what do we
tell the police? Remember, this is all stuff that nobody has filed
a stolen property report on."
"I don't know... we'll worry about that when the time comes."
"We'll have about an hour and a half between sunset and when
the stores close," Spike said. "Going after dark will save us
some time we would have spent negotiating the sewers."
"Time you would have spent negotiating the sewers," Buffy
grumbled.
They worked their way down Main Street checking all the
pawn shops and second-hand stores. At the Salvation Army
store, Buffy stopped in front of a display of small appliances.
"Clem has a Cuisinart?" Buffy said plaintively.
"No. The Cuisinart belonged to a Medrel demon," Spike said
irritably. "They're very big into fancy cooking. You find them
in most of the posh restaurant kitchens. Work for less than
minimum. Do it 'cause they love it. Most Medrel would rather
chop onions than shag."
Buffy looked sad.
"If you want a Cuisinart so bad, I'll get you a bloody
Cuisinart."
Buffy pouted. "You'd just steal it."
"No, not feeling much like nicking things at the moment."
"Never mind. I can't remember the last time I cooked anything
that didn't involve pressing the reheat button on the microwave.
I just want to know why a Medrel working for less than
minimum wage has better stuff than me."
Spike gave her a cold look. "Probably because he lived in an
abandoned shed, and the sum total of his possessions was a
Cuisinart, a couple of pots, a hot plate and a good set of kitchen
knives. And despite the fact that nobody with any self-respect
would rob someone who had so little, this bastard took it all --
and he didn't even need a sack to carry it away."
They found Clems' DVD player at the third pawn shop they
visited.
"Are you sure? Seems to me all Sony players are going to look
pretty much alike," Buffy said as Spike pointed triumphantly at
the machine.
"Open the drawer," Spike replied. "I bet you'll find a rental
copy of Touch of Evil in there. Bastard left the empty case
behind."
Buffy did and Spike was right.
"Didn't know you were into Orson Welles," Buffy mused.
"Not me. Clem. He's the classic movie buff."
"We'll talk to the owner. See if he'll tell us who brought this
in."
The pawn shop owner was less than helpful. For some reason,
nearly everything in the shop had been pawned by someone
named John Smith. And the address in the ledger was for a
vacant lot near the warehouse district.
But there was an empty storefront across the street, and after
Spike picked the lock, they settled down in the dark to watch
the pawn shop through the front window.
"How are we going to know which of his customers is the
thief?" Buffy asked.
"You can figure anyone who comes to pawn a telly after hours
probably didn't buy it at Sears," Spike said.
"Yeah, but what good does it do if we nab a thief, but it isn't
the one who's been robbing the demons? We might get a
burglar off the street, but the robberies will go on."
Spike shrugged. "We can worry about that when we get there."
The pawn shop owner locked his front door at 9 p.m., but
stayed inside.
"I thought so," Spike growled. "His clientele doesn't keep
regular hours." He lit a cigarette.
They sat for a while in silence, watching the shop across the
street.
Buffy saw the coal on the end of Spike's cigarette flare orange
as he drew a breath preparing to speak.
"Does it ever bug you, Slayer?"
"What?"
"That there is a whole community of people in this town that
has no access to the law and no rights, because as far as
Sunnydale's upstanding citizens are concerned, they don't
exist."
Buffy was quiet for a moment. "Sometimes," she said at last.
"But I honestly don't know what I could do about it."
"Care."
"Well, I'm here, aren't I?"
"Yeah, but only because it's Clem who got ripped off. You
know him and you like him. What if I'd just told it was demons
in general?"
Buffy frowned. "I'm feeling bad enough about what I said
before. You don't have to rub it in. I was acting like a spoiled
brat. I admit it. The Medrel has as much right to not having
people take his stuff as I have."
"He has a name -- not that you asked."
"OK, what's his name?"
"Rawl."
"OK, Rawl has as much right to security as anybody else. But
honestly, Spike, I don't see what can be done. It's fine to talk
about civil rights and tolerance, but you aren't going to get
humans to accept demons as equals just because you say it's
right.
"There are worse things than being ignored, and most of them
would start happening to the demons here if we started calling
attention to them."
"Yeah..."
"You don't sound convinced."
Buffy heard a slight movement, probably Spike shrugging.
"Doesn't much matter if I'm convinced, does it? I'm just a
demon."
"Then tell me what I'm supposed to... Look! I think we have a
suspect."
Across the street, a scrawny young man with a shaved head,
dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans, got out of a battered
blue van. He went around to the back and took out a VCR and
portable television.
"Yeah, I think that may be our guy."
"But is he just a burglar, or the burglar we're looking for?"
"Well, how many of Sunnydale's legitimate residents would
have a VCR hooked up to a little black and white telly? I think
we're looking at loot from someone who didn't have a lot to
start with."
"Good point."
When Tommy Cress returned to his van a small blonde woman
and a tall, slender man with platinum hair were leaning
casually against the driver-side door. The platinum hair was the
giveaway. He knew who this had to be. He gave the pair an
unpleasant smile.
"Get much for it?" Spike asked.
"Not much," Tommy said with a smirk. "It was junk."
"Too bad, 'cause it's gonna cost you."
"Oh right. I'm supposed to be shaking in my boots, aren't I? But
I know who you are. Spike, the vampire who can't bite. Get out
of my way."
Buffy's eyes narrowed. "Maybe he can't bite, but I don't have
that problem, and I can guarantee you aren't going to like what
I'm going to do."
In a flash, she was behind him with his arm twisted behind his
back. "Now come along. We're going to go across the street to
that empty store, and have a little ... talk," she said sweetly.
"It's all about things that belong to you and things that don't
belong to you -- and telling the difference."
"You can't do anything to me, bitch!"
"Think not?" She twisted his arm harder, until he cried out in
pain. "Get moving."
"Wait," Spike said. He reached into Tommy's pocket and took
out a switchblade. Next, he pulled up the thief's pant leg and
took the small knife that was tucked into his sock. "Now, get
moving," he said.
Buffy tossed Tommy across the dirty floor of the empty store.
He skidded on the dusty linoleum, leaving a wide smear -- just
visible in the dim light coming in from the street.
"Now, we're going to have that little talk," Buffy said coldly.
She advanced on him and hauled him up by the front of his
sweater.
"There are two kinds of stuff in the world. Stuff that's yours,
and stuff that isn't yours. You can do what you want with the
first kind. But YOU.DON'T.TOUCH.OTHER.PEOPLE'S.
STUFF," she said, punctuating each word with a tooth-rattling
shake of the thief's slight frame.
"Hey! It's not like I take *people's* stuff," the boy sneered. "I
only take from demons."
Spike had been standing off to the side watching with his arms
crossed in front of his chest.
"Yeah, strange that," he said. "And not very bright. You'd get a
lot more if you went for people who actually had stuff."
"Shut up, vampire!"
"He's right. You're stealing junk. You're not just a thief, you're
a stupid thief," Buffy said angrily. "And you're getting some
very dangerous beings mad at you."
"Nah... I never steal from polgaras or fyarls. That would be
dumb. Just vampires -- they can't come after you if you get
back to your house, and the wimpy ones -- you know, like that
floppy-eared guy who hangs out in the cemetery."
Buffy was looking into the boy's face. There was something
familiar...
"Wait... Don't I know you? You're Tom Cress. You were two
years behind me at Sunnydale High. You were an honor
student and on the debate team. You could have had a real
future. You could have gone to college. What the hell
happened to you?"
"Demons!" the boy spat. "What happened to me? You mean
other than the Mayor turning into a snake and eating my sister?
Other than the school blowing up and everybody having to
finish school in other towns. Other than living in Sunnydale
where the friggin' demons are everywhere?"
Spike snorted. "So you blame the fact that you're a cowardly
little weasel on demons? It's our fault you're worthless? You
think it's my fault you've got a crack habit?
"Let me let you in on something, pillock. Sometimes things go
wrong. And when they do, the ones that are worth anything get
back up and go on. Then there are the ones like you who decide
that it's all someone else's fault that they can't wipe their own
bums."
"Let go of me," Tommy sneered. "I know who you are, too,
Buffy. You're the Slayer. You don't hurt humans. So there's
nothing you can do to me." He pulled out of Buffy's grip and
started to walk away.
"Hey, don't let him leave like that," Spike protested.
"You can't even turn me in to the police," Tommy said, gaining
confidence. "You can't prove anything I've taken is stolen!"
"It's not the police you have to worry about, pillock," Spike
growled.
"No, Spike, he's right," Buffy said. "He's had a hard time.
Anybody who was at Sunnydale High when the Mayor
ascended has." She reached into her back pocket, where she'd
stashed a few dollars wrapped around her I.D. She never
carried a purse on patrol, but it was always a good idea to have
some money and I.D. along -- just in case she wanted to go to
the Bronze afterward.
Buffy took the folded wad of money and pressed it into
Tommy's hand. "There, you didn't get much for the stuff you
pawned tonight. Take this, and for heaven's sake do something
with it. Get hold of yourself. Don't spend it on crack."
The boy looked confused, but he tucked the folded money into
his back pocket and headed for the door.
"What?" Spike protested. "You're going to let him walk out?"
"Wait..." She counted to five under her breath then ran for the
door.
"HELP! POLICE! HELP! He grabbed my purse! Help,
somebody help me! He's a purse snatcher!" she screamed
pointing at Tommy who was fumbling for his keys to open the
van.
Buffy kept up her screaming as Tommy realized what was
happening. He started to run, but a bystander on the sidewalk --
a burley middle-aged man who still remembered his days of
high school football -- tackled him and pinned him to the
ground.
"This the guy, miss?" the good Samaritan asked.
"Yeah, look in his back pocket. He's got my money and I.D. in
there. He threw away the purse," Buffy said, sniffling a little
bit and looking as frightened as she could manage.
The man pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and dialed
911.
"Are you all right?" he asked, looking up at Buffy.
She nodded, still keeping up her frightened but brave act. "He
hit me," she said pitifully. "But I think I'm OK."
"I wouldn't be you for anything," the stranger said to Tommy.
"Aggravated assault, unarmed robbery. You're in big trouble,
boy."
After the police took Tommy Cress away in handcuffs, Buffy
went back across the street to the empty store where Spike was
waiting.
"Gotta hand it to you, Slayer," he said. "That was slick."
Buffy smiled. "An idea passes through my blonde head from
time to time."
"Yeah, you're cute when you're smart."
"I didn't see Rawl's stuff in the pawn shop," Buffy said,
changing the subject.
Spike shrugged. "He may have pawned it somewhere else, or it
may have sold already," he said. "But it hardly matters. Since
we can't prove it was stolen, the only way to get it back would
be to pay for it."
"Yeah," Buffy said. "Doesn't seem fair."
"Lotta things don't."
It was two nights later that Rawl the Medrel demon came home
from a late shift at the restaurant. He was humming to himself
as he approached the ramshackle shed he called home. He was
still a bit sad about losing his possessions a week earlier, but
life wasn't all bad. He still had his job, and that gave him just
as much joy as it always had. And tonight had been particularly
good. A busy night for the restaurant, and the orders had just
kept coming. He wasn't a demon to brood over things lost.
But as he approached the shed, his heart sank. The door was
ajar. The thief had been back. It wasn't like he had anything
else worth stealing, but it was still a horrible thing to think his
home had been violated. Why couldn't they leave him alone?
He stepped inside and pulled the string that turned on the bare
light bulb overhead.
At first, it seemed nothing had been disturbed. But then a glint
of white caught his eye. Sitting on the table was a Cuisinart.
Not the one he'd lost. This one was brand new -- and it had all
the different slicing and shredding discs. He'd only had a single
blade for the old one.
There was a Post-it note stuck to the side of the plastic bowl.