Author note: Yes, I know "Sweet Revenge" gets a lot of fan treatment. I think that’s because this particular show tells such an incredible story and we all want to bask in its glory. So, please bear with me while I give it the "Spike treatment." And special thanks go to my lovely beta-reader, Sue, whose editing prowess has enabled me to polish Spike’s Chronicles to a nice shine. Anna M.

Spike, G.A. Chronicles #4

By

Anna M

   I knew the bliss that followed the departure of the Blonde Witch couldn’t last. To tell the truth, every time I basked in the warmth of their renewed partnership and watched them, forehead to forehead, weak in the knees with laughter over some shared joke, I was as nervous as a cat invited to be the guest of honor at a dog show. That old sayin’ about waiting for the other shoe to drop? I was prepared for the whole shoe section of Macy’s Department Store to come tumblin’ down on our heads. What scared the holiness out of me was the feelin’ I got around Curly. See, one of the not so nifty things about having made your "departure" is the ability to sense Death. I’m not talkin’ danger. I’ve gotten drenched in that little sensation followin’ the Dynamic Duo around, lemme tell ya. No, I’m talking imminent RIP. The kind of death that says the Grim Reaper has got you on the RSVP list for his next party. Well, I was practically smellin’ it all over Sapphire and that was drivin’ me up the Great Wall of Terror. And Clarence had gone and shut himself away and wouldn’t even respond to my meditation calls. What, is this their version of throwin’ you in the deep end of a pool to see if ya can swim? Was this my final test before I got those coveted wings? Well, they could keep their dam--- durned feathers if it meant that I had to wade through Brooklyn’s blood to get ‘em, let me tell ya that. Blondie acted like everything was painted in shades of perfection and paradise. Well, kinda easy to understand, I guess, when he threw sun bright smiles around every time those Adidas stepped within a full mile of him. Not that Bogey wasn’t acting equally thrilled to have their friendship reach the 10^th Stage of Enlightenment.

   So that particular morning I trudged behind them into the station and maneuvered around the painting scaffolds with a heavy heart. I just about grabbed both of my boys by the throats and hauled them back out the door when I spotted Wimpy hanging around Dobey’s doorway giving me a sad smile instead of a sneer and smirk combined. Okay, something major is going down. What? Where? A bomb…their car? Hmm…got to check that out. So I left them happily playing ping-pong and babbling about frontal lobotomies and three-course dinners while I scanned every inch of the Tomato. Then I looked around frantically. I couldn’t sense any members of the Nether Regions. The Blonde Beast was nowhere in sight. Nothing but police cars, uniformed officers, and a perfectly normal-looking police parking lot. Okay, Spike, quit being paranoid. You’re acting like a hen with ten sick chicks. But I was quaking all over with the same feeling I’d had just before that VC operative stepped out of a perfectly harmless Vietnamese orphanage where I was delivering aid supplies, and slit my throat. Something about that rang enough bells in my head to fill the tower at Notre Dame. Something that appeared harmless but wasn’t really…hmmm. I looked around again. Police cars, policemen. Then I was distracted because my boys were stepping out into the sunlight, still chatting about food. Don’t be talking about food, dummies, something is about to crash down outta the sky on us!

   Then I saw it. The perfectly harmless thing that was anything but good. A couple of uniformed men sitting in a police car, but holding a very non-police weapon. An automatic job. Good God, the damage they could do with that piece of nastiness. What to do!? Got to give Darkness-and-Light some kind of warning, I decided, and forced all my strength against the car beside the hit men so when they pulled past, they scraped against it and gave a SCREECH of angry metal. Yup, my Blond Genius’ instincts are first-rate. He picked up on the disaster barreling toward them and screamed out loud for Curly to get down. I thought the situation was under control until I realized I had underestimated New York’s Protect-Blintz gene. Insteada hittin’ the ground, he tried to draw his gun, but there wasn’t enough time, and he turned against the Torino just as the automatic opened fire.

   I felt every single cell in my heart liquefy. I sank down on the asphalt and buried my head in my hands, and then I got my durn fool act together and rushed over to the scene because Golden Boy looked in immediate danger of needing a coronary bypass. Oh, it was bad. People, I’m a combat vet, I know when it’s bad. Blood trickled lazily from the corner of his mouth and his breathing sounded like a cross between a rattlesnake and someone shaking a glass of marbles. Then my brain came back from the sudden hike it had taken and reminded me of my flash of the future…screeching tires, blood all over the place, an ICU cubicle…. An ICU room! That meant he’d make it to the hospital. I lost all thought of rules, the G.A. Tribunal, wings, or badges and draped myself around my frightened blond as he cradled his earthly protector and tried to breathe life back into him. Arms around his shoulders, squeezing tight, I leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Hang on, Baby Blue. You’re not gonna lose him here. Not right now." I heard the sudden commotion of sirens, police personnel, and Dobey’s muted bluster, and looked up to see Wimpy givin’ me an uncomfortable sideways glance.

   "You coulda given me a heads-up!" I glared at him. My momma always said I could shoot fiery daggers outta my green eyes when somethin’ moved me. I was mighty moved right then and Wimpy took note, quickly looking away from me.

   "What must be, must be," he said simply.

   I released Blondie and got right up in that over-sized junk food addict’s face, screaming, "Over my dead body! Ya hear me?"

   Wimpy frowned, "No pun intended, of course."

   I flung my hands up in the air. "How can you guard a man like Dobey and be the exact opposite of him?!"

   "I don’t make the rules," Wimpy responded, sullenly.

   "No," I said, climbing up into the ambulance and staring back at him. "Ya just get off on ‘em."

   During Curly’s surgery, I kept thinkin’ I was gonna lose Blintz first. I ain’t never watched a flesh-and-blood man turn to a skeleton in front of my face, but I think now I know how the process starts at least. By the time they moved Wounded Hero into that ICU room, his partner looked like something out of one of Curly’s Fright Nite features. He just sat backwards in that chair staring through the glass like moving would cause internal hemorrhaging. I spotted Wimpy in my periphery and lost my last shred of temper. He stood off to the side munching a donut and looking for all the world like he didn’t wanna be there. I slammed him up against the wall and confiscated the donut, tossing it into a nearby trashcan. "One o’ the best men to walk the face of this sorry Earth is in there dyin’ and you’re feeding your face! Can you remember for one everlovin’ minute that you’re a G.A. and keep your eyes open?"

   "Open for what?" Wimpy blinked at me. "My human is doing just fine."

   "Oh, for cryin’ out loud! You either find an ounce of team spirit or I’m gonna shove some down your throat, capische? Whatever’s goin’ down ain’t done yet, and I need some help."

   "Speakin’ of which, your human is wanderin’ off…."

   I turned around and saw Blondie heading in a daze for the john. Uh-oh. Can’t let him go anywhere alone right now. I dashed in ahead of him and was knocked over by the scent of Death. I ducked and looked beneath the stalls and found the orderly. Oh, God… that guy who just left the bathroom isn’t—Gotta give my poor Blond Zombie a chance to do the right math. So in the fraction of time I had, I yanked the body until at least his foot was visible and stood back sending up repeated petitions that Mr. Grief-stricken had his wits about him. He did. Nothing wrong with my blond’s brains even if they were scrambled by terror. One good look and he dashed out of the john with fury and determination steaming out his ears.

   Wimpy smiled at me while Dobey and Blond Avenger went ten rounds in the makeshift headquarters. "You wanted a heads-up," he mumbled sheepishly. I walked over and held out my hand for him to shake.

   "Thanks. Owe ya one."

   Then I followed Mr. Royally Pissed out to the elevators. On the way I shared a quiet word with Huggy’s G.A., an Italian actor who has the soul of a firefighter. He was spoilin’ for a fight with three times the esprit de corps that Wimpy displayed and I had to urge him to stick close to Huggy. I knew if the crap hit the fan, Blondie was gonna depend on the Bear to cling to his sanity.

   The parking garage fiasco tested my endurance, lemme tell ya. I mean, hadn’t the poor man suffered enough? How I managed to get him out of it with just a superficially sliced wrist is still beyond me to this day. G.A.’s must function better on sheer adrenaline, too. Anyway, we were already at Ms. Magazine Cover’s posh apartment when my heart fell out of my chest and went PLUMP on the floor. The Grim Reaper was in town and he wasn’t dancin’ attendance on Ms. Brown. I slapped Blondie on the back encouragingly as he was verbally lettin’ her hold it with both barrels and slammed out of the apartment on my back to Memorial.

   That’s how I came to be sitting in that visitor’s chair when a voice I thought I’d never hear directed my way said, "Do—do I know you?"

   I looked into a pair of amazing blue eyes and tried to smile despite the noise of the ICU crash cart team in the background. "Yeah, a bean-pole redhead with freckles is probably not the first person ya expected to see on this side. Spike, at your service. I’m your G.A.-- Guardian Angel." I offered my hand and shook the strong, capable one. Curly blinked at me and then looked behind him at the prone, lifeless body on the hospital bed.

   "I’m dreamin’," he said quietly, looking at me for confirmation.

   "Nope." I hummed a few bars of my Fleetwood Mac ditty.

   His sapphires turned into tea saucers. "That—that was you? We—we…So, I’m dead."

   "Not exactly."

   "Hmm?" that intelligent stare sizing me up and trying to read my mind. Yup, Curly’s always a cop.

   "Ya gotta choice. You’ve been made an offer from the G.A. Command Center. If ya want, ya can have my job. Looking after Blondie. I get promoted, set of wings, kinda like the lieutenant’s exam--"

   Partner-of-the-Year brightened immediately. "Ya mean I can keep Hutch safe?"

   Oh, cripes! Of course. Wild horses couldn’t drag Curly away from a chance to protect the Blintz with supernatural powers. Gotta make this proposition less appealing. "Look, Starsky," I stopped cold. I don’t often say his name: I felt honored to use it. "It’s not like you think. You won’t always be able to solve the problems. Sometimes you’ll have to sit back and let him suffer—"

   "Yeah, but I’ve had to do that anyway," his face turned sad, reflecting an oxygen tent and a bag of heroin. I shook my head.

   "Yes, but you been there through it and he knew you were. Like this, ya won’t be able to do that." I cleared my throat just as they slapped the paddles on that flat chest a third time. "Ya won’t be able to touch and hold him, comfort him--"

   "So, what exactly are ya tryin’ to tell me?" New York looked slightly confused.

   "I’m sayin’ why don’t we tell the Reaper to stick it up his shiny backside and you go crawl back in that body over there?"

   Curly smiled, that crooked grin that should be proof of God’s existence without someone needin’ to get dead to find out. "What about your wings?"

   I looked him square in the eye, my hands on both his shoulders. "Truth? I already got ‘em. One’s dark and funny and the other’s light and gentle. ‘Sides, d’ya have any idea how much it costs to keep the Real McCoy dry-cleaned??"

   Curly burst out laughing and turned around just as the doctor said, "One last time…."

   I heard the blip of the heart monitor at the same time as I sensed Blond Panic streaking through the double doors into the ICU ward. I sat limply back down in the chair and sobbed like an infant with colic. Sobs of sheer relief, folks.

   Not much rest for a G.A., though. Once my Nordic Warrior was reassured that the other half of his soul remained intact, he switched right back into Crusader-for-Justice mode. I was so proud of him when he took that Legal Eagle to task, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Then I ducked out to have a chat with Mario, Huggy’s G.A. "You good at the telepathy thing with him?"

   Mario laughed out loud and warbled in his beautiful Italian accent, "But, yes. Of course. Who you think get him to dress like he do?" Mario waved a colorful scarf at me that exactly matched the one around Huggy’s neck. I just about cracked up. Then I got serious and he choked down the last giggle. We looked at each other; then we looked over at the secretary’s desk. Mario’s got brains, people. He went over and whispered in Huggy’s ear and prompted Huggy’s Special Delivery.

   Now I’ve had some joy in my time on Earth. Never got married, of course, but I did have this girl once who said I didn’t just hang the moon, I created it. Of course at the time we were…umm…that’s need-to-know kinda stuff and ya’ll don’t. Anyway, that didn’t even compare to the screamin’ elation I felt when Curly’s nostril twitched. That was so momentous they had to feel the after-shocks in China. Blondie just sitting there agonizing over Goliath without realizing that his personal David was about to be back on the front lines of the living. So when he got up and walked around, frettin’, I sauntered over, pulled down on his goldilocks and whispered, "About face, Ollie. He’s coming back to ya."

   I know the angels had to be doin’ a conga line in Heaven when those dark blue eyes popped open the first time and blinked. In his outright mindless glee, Mr. Softhearted grabbed that nurse and squeezed her so tight against him he shoulda offered her a ring afterwards. I don’t think she’ll ever be the same. I swear she was really hoping for another hug when she busted in that room to bug Blondie about disturbing Curly’s sleep. I mean, really, how well thought out does "A man with a cardiac arrest needs rest," sound to you?

   Mr. Never-Pick-on-a-Man’s-Partner really didn’t even need me on that flight to San Fran. He had turned into a golden flame of vengeance and I don’t think Gunther woulda hit him if he’d been aiming at Blondie’s broad chest. Some days Good’s just gotta come out on top, ya know, and that day was one of ‘em.

   So, the following night when Blintz had fallen asleep all scrunched up in that excuse for a chair, I tiptoed over to the miracle patient’s bedside and cradled his forehead with my palm. I was so glad to have him back, alive and breathing and with his best friend. Just as I turned around to curl up in a corner and catch some Z’s, I heard a soft, sleepy voice mumble, "Nice to have ya here, Spike."

   Aw, gee, shucks, people! I finally found a shade redder than my hair: I was wearin’ it on every inch of ethereal skin. I just smiled and settled in my corner, happy and content because the only flash of the future I’d gotten in the last day involved veal, wine, and a monsoon.

THE END