“Well,” said Anya with a predictably self-satisfied air, “it's the end of another working day. My favourite part of the day, too. Time to brightly work out if we have profited or lost, and whether we have proved the old saying...”

“Another day, another dollar!” came an unwanted chorus from the other side of the counter.

Anya sniffed. “And here comes another regular feature of the working day: a night shift for a store that closes at five.” She shut the ledger with a thump, sending little motes of dust flying up into the air. “And how was your day at the Conference, then? From what I saw, they didn't look like our sort of clientele...”

“Well, no, they probably weren't,” replied Buffy. “But when one of your old schoolfriends is a budding writer and the screen-writer's convention comes to town, well, you kinda go along to cheer and support her. Well, most of us do.”

Anya frowned. “Somebody had to stay and watch over our profit margins while the rest went off having fun...”

“Fun?” echoed Xander. “I was working!”

“Do you know, I'd never even considered the idea of a night shift,” mused Giles, coming around the counter to stand behind Anya. “Did nobody from the Conference come in, then? Strange, seeing how many business cards we must have handed out.”

“Well, maybe some did,” allowed Anya, “but unless they had special t-shirts or badges on, how would I know? Not that we've had much in the way of business at all today, really.”

“I think it has merit,” said Buffy brightly. “The night-shift idea, I mean. Most of Sunnydale only comes out after dark, after all. Spike could be manager. Never late...”

“No chance of overtime wither, though,” pointed out Xander.

“Wither?” echoed Anya with a puzzled frown. “Don't you mean either? Or Hither? As in come...?” she teased.

“Either,” said Xander defensively. “Definitely Either. Couldves worn I said that, too...”

Giles peered at him more closely. “Are you sure you're feelingalright?” He paused, considering what he had just said, a worried look gradually creeping across his features.

“Okay guys, creepy time doesn't officially start until sundown,” snapped Buffy. “Now stop it, both of yiu. What??”

Anya joined Giles in a Worried Look. “This is getting a bit too fequent to be funny I agree with Buffy we need to make thisstop”

There was no reply from any of those assembled. Anya looked from one face to another, but all she found was polite enquiry. “Whats wrong” she said crossly.

“we were waitingforyou to finish” said Giles.

“It sounded as if you were going to say something else babe” added Xander, although there was clearly an effort involved in getting the meaning behind the words to be heard.

“wheres willow When we needher” stuttered Buffy. She looked at Giles pleadingly. “thishasgototbeoneoftheworstthingsweveeverfaced” She clamped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide and fearful.

“I... need...to... look... up.... a... few... things...” Giles managed very slowly. By the end of the sentence there was sweat on his brow. “find... willow... tell... her... no... write... might... be...easier...” He threw up his hands in despair and sank onto the stool behind the counter.

Buffy nudged Xander and made signs to indicate writing. Soon the pair of them were rummaging through the cupboards and drawers of the Magic Box, engaged on a desparate quest for something as mundane as a pencil and some paper.

“Isthislike theGentlemen?” wrote Buffy when they had eventually found some. Giles shook his head.

“Why not” wrote Anya. “Whats, different”

“TheGentlemenonly stolepeoplesvoices,” wrote Giles, “but thisisverydifferent thishasntaffected our voices just the,waywe speak”

Anya tapped his pad with her own pencil and pointed at the scrawled words. Giles was a teacher of English; his face said it all.

“Ohcomeon,” wrote Xander, disbelief and incredulity written across his own visage. “apunctuation monster?!%”

“Ah!” The silence was suddenly broken by Anya. She jumped up and pointed towards the stockroom. The others just watched.

“Ohh!!” she growled, and ran through the door, returning a few moments later with a laptop computer. She put it down, placed her pad carefully on top of it and, after a deep breath, began to write.

“a man came in today meght hive baan ferm yeure cinfartanceHe Said Hewasa researcher foratelevision company. Heasked a few things I thought they were quite good, questions for this dimensionbut when he had Gone: i noticed, his alptop.” She patted it gingerly, as if afraid it might explode.

“Dontopen! It,” shouted Buffy, and instantly regretting it. “I find wilLow” she wrote, and ran for the door.

Xander looked at the laptop with a similar wariness to Anya. He made circling motions around it, and looked questioningly at Giles.

The former librarian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. “it caN;t doan yHarm,” he muttered, and cursed under his breath.

*


Buffy headed through the graveyard, heading for home, heading for where she hoped Willow would be. Part of her hoped she didn't run into anyone, either alive or dead, not this time. On the other hand, part of her hoped she would: a dusting or two might clam her down. Her nerves were jangling and fraught: she couldn't ever remember being so unnerved by something as innocuous as a lack of grammar. Dawn would laugh. But then she recalled the strange demons who took voices before they harvested hearts, and recognised that same thread of being somehow violated, made helpless. Losing her voice had been bad... but losing the ability to make herself understood at all was starting to feel a lot worse.

She had lost focus for just a second: she cannoned into something soft yet firm, then bounced away in an uncontrolled roll. Her training reasserted itself, however, and she came up on her feet, eyes blazing, fists balled and stake at the ready.

“What the fuck's got into you?” exclaimed Spike, detatching himself from the shadow of a monument and rubbing his shoulder. He stared hard at the slayer. “What's the hurry?”

“sPi!ke? I don>th ave ti;me rightnow;” She made to duck past him, but the vampire put himself squarely in her way, his brows drawn low in a quizzical frown.

“What the bloody hell's that supposed to mean?” He peered closer. “You feeling alright?”

Buffy shook her head. “sOmeth;in'g wi,erd mustf iNd Wil;Ler come in,” said Tara, taking the slayer's elbow and guiding her gently to a settee. “What is it?”

“c'antt>lk a ny moRe so;me w%erD £pel! Al.l at _sh#p coMeq ui%k” The sweat had returned to Buffy's brow and she sank back breathing heavily, her eyes begging them to understand.

“What could it be” Tara wondered to her lover. Willow's own face was a mask of concentration; finally she felt around under the settee and pulled out a bag. Inside was her notebook.

“Does writing make it any easier?” she asked. Buffy shook her head.

“Same sort of problem?” The slayer nodded.

“Anyone else affected?” Again a nod. Willow frowned lopsidedly and went through the list of names.

“Giles?” Nod.

“Xander?” Nod.

“Anya?” Nod.

“Dawn?” A shrug of the shoulders. “Don't know?” Nod. “Is she headed for the others?” Nod. “On her own?” Shake. Buffy put fingers up to her mouth to try and suggest long pointed fangs.

“Oh i know shes with sp:ike>” exclaimed Tara. Buffy and Willow both turned slowly to stare at her. Buffy nodded her head, then pointed first at Tara, then to herself.

Willow shuffled quickly backwards. “Sorry guys, but we've just learned something...” She turned back to Buffy. “Did you meet Spike on the way here?”

The slayer nodded.

“Did he seem OK?” Nod.

“Did he touch you?” A pause, but then another nod.

“Did he seem OK after that? Did he speak after that... touch...?”

Buffy paused and thought for a moment. Then, slowly, she nodded again.

Willow snapped the notebook shut. “Are he and Dawnie headed for the Magic Box?”

Again Buffy nodded.

“Then that's where we have to be.” She looked sadly at Tara. “We can't touch each other sweetie, not until this is over. I'm really sorry...” the look on her face made her sorrow all too clear.

Tara shook her own head, long blonde hair flying out like a halo. “keE* yo,u sa^e” she replied. Her hands were clasped tightly together, but she smiled at her love.

*

Dawn was chafing. Homework was dull, but there was nothing on the TV and her DVD's were failing to inspire her. So she sat resignedly at the kitchen table and stared at the sheets and books in front of her, desperately trying to work up some enthusiasm. What she really wanted to be doing was to be going out somewhere, having adventures, seeing the world... but Buffy had been less than enthusiastic about going over to the Magic Box tonight anyway, so Dawn was pretty certain she wouldn't actually be missing that much. But it still had to be better than this...

There was a tap on the front door. No, she corrected, not just a tap: a series of them. With pauses in between, which made a bird less likely. Slowly, quietly, she got to her feet, one hand reaching across to the worktop and closing around the knife Buffy had left there. She knew deep down that there were many things in Sunnydale for which a knife, a mere piece of contaminated iron, held no fear; but it made her feel better. Thus armed, she crept into the hallway, towards the source of the sounds. Through the frosted glass panel in the door, she could see a shape: a human shape. Part of her relaxed, although the threat of demonic intruders was merely replaced by the prospect of burglars. Well they'd have their work cut out getting past her!

She flattened herself against the wall, the knife held ready in the hand furthest from the door. Her free hand reached out, as the knocking began again: maybe it was just because she was closer, but it sounded more urgent this time. Desperately trying to control the shaking in her fingers, she closed them around the latch and, suddenly, swung the door wide open, the knife poised to strike.

Spike fell forward into range, heading for the carpet, the door-knocker having been wrenched from his hand. With an involuntary shriek, Dawn just managed to pull her arm upwards, and send the knife whistling mere inches from the vampire's head. Its blade powered into the wall with a solid thud; Spike made a similar sound as he hit the floor.

They both remained motionless for a long, long moment, Dawn's eyes fixed on the knife embedded in the wall, and Spikes' eyes fixed exhaustedly on Dawn.

Finally he spoke. “What in all the bloody hells is wrong with you women tonight? Is it family fruitcake day, or what?”

“I.... I'm sorry...” mumbled Dawn. “I thought you might've been a burglar...”

“If I was a burglar, I'd've come through the bloody window and not bothered to knock!” he snapped. “Now get your stuff: I said I'd take you over to the Magic Box.”

“What's wrong?”

He stared at her. “You're getting too damn perceptive, Niblet. I met your sister in the graveyard, but she could hardly string two words together. If I understood her properly, nor can any of the others, so something's up, but that's all I know. Buffy's gone to get Red, and I said I'd get you over to meet her there.” He brushed specks of dust from his coat and gazed thoughtfully at the still-quivering handle of the knife. “So that's two bad meetings in one night already, and if there's going to be a third, whoever else is involved'd better watch out; 'cos I'm getting pissed!”

Dawn started to say something, then thought better of it. She swallowed. “I'll get my bag,” were all the words that seemed necessary just then.

“So what exactly was wrong with Buffy?” Dawn asked as they set out. Spike lit a smoke before replying.

“Hard to say: there were words there, but they sounded wrong, as if she'd forgotten how to put a sentence together properly. Can't see that being allowed with Mr. Tightarse Giles around, can you?”
He grinned at her. “Don't worry too much: she wasn't bleeding, and she was still up for a fight, far as I could see. But I don't see any point in trying to guess anything more.”

“No, I suppose being on top of a hellmouth kinda takes the fun out of that,” answered Dawn. A thought struck her. “You said that Buffy said the others were affected as well?”

Spike never stopped walking, never stopped searching every shadow, every hiding-place for signs of danger. “No...” he said after a moment's thought, “no, she didn't. But she kinda implied it: she wanted you kept safe, and she needed to find Willow, so it's a fair bet that anyone else she was with when this happened has got it too.” He looked across at her worried face. “Makes me wonder whether taking you there is really the best idea if she wants you out of it...”

Dawn shook her head. “If that's what Buffy wanted, then that's what we do. It makes sense in that she won't have to worry about if I'm alright.”

“How could you not be alright?” protested Spike indignantly. “I'm with you!”

*

Left with little else to do at the Magic Box, the inevitable had happened. Books lay open everywhere as Giles, Xander and Anya searched for some sort of clue as to what was going on. At the counter, the black shape of the laptop sat squatly, menacingly, as if brooding. Amid the books, scraps of discarded notepads littered the floor, their contents becoming progressively less and less legible. Whilst Anya and Xander huddled together and seemed to find some solace in their closeness, Giles merely felt as if his brain was slowly dribbling out of his ears. To lose the very idea of language... but what, he wondered as best he could, would come in its place? Grunts and growls? Pictograms?

Thinking in terms of dialogue was becoming harder: his head hurt whenever he tried it, and he suspected that his companions had already given up on the idea. For them, there could be the language of touch, of togetherness, of gesture and expression. He realised morosely that all those he might wish to have such a conversation with were many thousands of miles away. But this was getting nowhere: and he could, if he concentrated, still just about read. He picked up another book and began turning pages.

Anya turned at the sound of Giles' movement and watched silently. Each turning of a page seemed inordinately loud, as if the rest of the world had been turned up to compensate for the absence of dialogue. Neither she nor Xander had said a word in some time, she realised: but for once, it didn't seem to matter. They were together, perhaps more connected even than usual without the words getting in the way. The demon part of her could see this very clearly: words had got in the way so often before, for so many of her former “clients”. She sighed, her shoulders slumping dejectedly. Irritating although they so often were – especially when other people were using them instead of her – the words could also be comforting, reassuring. Useful, like when she and Giles had to balance the books...

She jumped up suddenly, a look of pure horror on her face. Frantically she waved to try and get Giles' attention, but his attention was firmly focused on the book he held. Anya coughed theatrically: beside her, Xander watched in amused wonder. Well, she thought suddenly, at least not even he had the words to make a spiteful comment just now.

She finally had both men's attention on her. She waved her hands frantically, trying to think of a mime that might convey what she wanted to say. Finally, she put her hands together, then opened them out flat, palms up.

Xander put a hand up excitedly, then hunted for a notepad. “Book”, he wrote. Anya nodded, and spread an arm to include the whole shop.

Confused frowns replaced the dawning comprehension. She could feel the impatient frustration building inside her, but managed to fight it down. She repeated the gestures, then hopped over to the register and pointed at it.

Giles adopted a silent “Oh!” expression, and went into the back. He returned carrying the rest of the shop's ledgers and held them up inquiringly. Anya clapped and nodded.

“nied todo boohs,” wrote Giles. Again, Anya nodded, then screwed her face up for a gargantuan effort. “Audid,” she managed to say. “thyme Fir orthic”

Giles waved aside the whole matter of auditing the accounts impatiently, pointing at his mouth and head to indicate that he at least considered their present predicament to be of far greater importance. But Xander knew better. He knew that Anya couldn't let it rest there.

*

Spike and Dawn approached the mall containing the Magic Box at around the same time, but from a different direction, as Buffy, Willow and Tara. Catching sight of each other across the street, the two parties ran towards each other, Dawn racing past the vampire in a bid to reach her sister – but not fast enough that he couldn't catch her. He hauled her to a stop, nearly pulling the girl off her feet.

“Oh no... no running into each other's arms, now; whatever it is Buffy's caught, we don't want you getting it as well, now do we?”

“But I... oh, no, I suppose not.” Dawn stopped struggling and allowed Spike to lead her forward more slowly.

“doN; t&ank Dog y,u,re .Ok,” panted Buffy. Dawn looked at her in astonishment. “Holy shit,” was all she could think of to say. She looked at her sister's companions.

“Tara's got it too,” confirmed Willow, “she opened the door while Buffy was still knocking and caught her when she fell.”

“You OK though, Red?” Spike made it more of a statement than a question. The redhead nodded.

“I was in the kitchen.”

Buffy was looking at Spike with accusation in her eyes. “H?ow cumyur t:okk£ng sowell”

“Eh?” he replayed the sentence in his mind for a moment. “Oh: how come I can talk?” he shrugged. “Dunno. Was hoping Mr Tightarse might be able to tell us both.”

“bUtItou;ch...d U”

“Yeah...” replied the vampire. “Been wondering about that. Red here's easily explained: you lot got contaminated somehow, by something, and she hung back, and escaped. Niblet's not touched you either – and it had better stay that way,” he growled at Dawn. “But me? Who knows?”

“There's only one big difference that I can think of,” said Willow hesitantly. Spike politely raised an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.

Willow took a deep breath. “You have no soul,” she said.

*

Inside the shop, the chaos appeared to have spread. Anya was clinging to both the register and the account books as if her life depended on them; neither Giles nor Xander appeared particularly willing to try and prise her away. It looked as if every single book had been pulled off the shelf and then dumped on any convenient surface once it had proved unequal to the task. Very often, that surface was the book underneath. Around the mystery laptop, however, a clearly-defined circle of emptiness existed. All three looked up as the door opened to admit Buffy and the others.

Spike pushed past her in the doorway. “Right, first thing: nobody touches Dawn or Red. They're not infected with... whatever this is... so it's hands off, right?” He glared around the scene. “Hands up if you understand, then: I don't think I've got the energy to translate any more of this gibberish than I have to.”

Behind him, Dawn giggled despite herself. Three hands went hesitantly up. Spike folded his arms with a satisfied grin.

“Good!” he said, clearly enjoying himself. “Now then, made any progress?”

“w*a' du yuh thi%k” replied Xander sulkily. The vampire merely shrugged and began prowling around the shop. In truth, he hadn't a clue what he was looking for, but he figured it was better to do something – anything – than just stand there and appear as gormless as the rest of the gang.

Willow looked at the chaos of books. “There's nothing at all in any of these?” she asked forlornly. Giles shook his head, without taking it out of his hands, his elbows on the counter and weariness in every line of his body.

“The only clue I've got is Spike,” Willow continued. “I'm shooting in the dark a bit, but this thing seems to spread through physical contact – except for Spike. Buffy says they touched, before she reached our place...”

“Touched?” repeated Spike explosively. “She damn near knocked me over! I'll say we bloody touched!”

“... but there seems to be no effect on him,” continued the witch resolutely. “The only thing I can think of is that it's because he has no soul... or the demon in him is making him immune.”

“oHgr Eatno, wEh:av t obe^om£v ampire?s” muttered Xander. Anya threw a pencil at him but kept one hand firmly on her ledgers. Spike noticed the gesture. “What's she doin'?”

Giles reached over for the pencil and resorted to writing. “she...wa..n..t...s...oadui...tttt” He scribbled out the last word and tried again. “a...u...d...”

“Oh, I get it!” grinned Spike. “She wants the books audited? In the middle of all this?”

Anya frantically pointed to the calendar on the wall. “OK, so it's the new year: big deal,” retorted Spike. “If we don't find something to do about this soon, there'll be no shop or stock left to audit, from the looks of things.” He scratched his head absently. “And I suppose we'll have to take steps to stop this spreading to all the other good citizens of Sunnydale. Don't we even have any idea where it came from?”

Giles pointed at the laptop. Spike wandered over and examined it, ignoring Anya's whimpers as he got closer. He bent down and peered into the slot where screen was folded over keyboard; then, gently, he opened the machine up. An eerie blue glow lit his face; Anya squealed and curled into a ball under the counter.

“Oh do grow up,” muttered Spike, looking down at her. “Did none of you think to turn it off?” His finger shot out and pressed a button. There was a series of quiet whirrs, and the glow faded. “There,” he exclaimed triumphantly, “nothin' to it.”

“Nonot!ingat,a?l” replied Buffy with an inane smile. Spike's brief glow of superiority in the face of technology faded.

“S!On,oww %at” continued the Slayer, glaring at him. He shrugged.

“I never said it'd fix anything, pet. OK, I might've been hoping it would; but we're no worse off, are we? And it might fade away...” he faltered into silence before unbelieving faces.

“We just have to keep on thinking,” sighed Dawn. Her sister poked her tongue out: it seemed safer than trying to speak. Behind the counter, hand firmly on account books, Anya's eyes narrowed as she thought. When Spike went towards the little kitchenette behind the stockroom, the former demon unobtrusively followed him. She stood hesitantly at the doorway, watching as Spike rummaged through the fridge in the hope of a little leftover blood. When he straightened empty-handed, she coughed discreetly.

“Jesus holy fuck, what're you doin'? I never even heard you there – mind you, that's you, I suppose.” Spike stopped his habitual monologue to regard Anya for a moment. His brows creased in puzzlement. “Somethin' you need?”

Anya nodded and silently closed the door behind her. The vampire stood completely still. “What's goin' on?”

“Inee,dtob eAb:e tospeak,” Anya began forthrightly, if confusingly.

Spike nodded. “I understand that, luv, but you all need to be rid of this.”

“INEeDm?re” insisted Anya, moving towards him with menacing purpose in her eyes. Her hand strayed up to her buttons and began undoing them. Spike backed away.

“Hey, hey – hold it right there! This ain't the time for... well, you know...”

“iTis” retorted Anya wildly. “Y&u c anta?kb^ticantandine£dtotalk and,iCant%hin*of ..a,ny*therwa£!””

“What? You crazy mad bitch, what makes you think screwin' me can give you your bloody chatter back? Buffy's already nearly knocked me for six and it hasn't helped her any!”

By now he was backed against the wall, and Anya was already down to her underwear. Obliquely, Spike reckoned Xander would approve but as usual, what the whelp thought was the least of his worries. What bothered him more, he realised, was what Buffy might think. It was the only reason not to call for help that he could think of... but he was buggered if he was going to be raped in the name of clear English by an ex-vengeance demon!

“Listen here, and listen good: it's not going to happen, you hear me?”

“iTHasto,ha&penspi;keInee?tobePunctuated!”

He took advantage of her bending to remove her knickers to vault past her and slam the door shut behind him as he ran. Unfortunately, his escape took him straight back into the gaze of the Slayer.

“Spike?” asked Dawn as he reappeared, and noticing the slightly wild look in his eyes – like a hunted animal, she thought suddenly. “What's wrong?”

The vampire pointed back towards the storeroom. “That crazy woman was trying to rape me!”

“L!keb,lo#d yhell” answered Xander angrily, getting to his feet with fists ready.

“What bloody reason have I got to lie about it?” snarled Spike, feeling his own demon rising to the fore. “She's got it in her head that if she shags me she'll be able to bloody talk again. Fuck knows where she got that one from – and no, it wasn't from me, before you start!”

Buffy didn't answer immediately. She looked instead to Giles, eyebrows raised. In mute reply, he spread his arms with a noncommittal shrug. Neither of them seemed inclined to even try to speak, whilst their gestures had become considerably more expressive. Something in that bothered Spike; he waved Dawn and Willow closer.

“Is it me, or are they all – well, except for mad bitch Anya – getting better at sign language?”

“I suppose it's only to be expected,” murmured Willow, “after all, none of us are exactly stupid, and we've all had to adapt to so much, so quickly, over the years...” She shrugged. “I guess it's just another thing to deal with until we can fix it.”

“Well even if Anya has got the right idea, I'm not buggering either Xander or Giles just to get them talking again,” Spike warned darkly.

“I don't think it would do any good,” said Dawn. “Not if touching Buffy got Tara... infected...”

“No,” agreed Willow. “If that was going to work, then Buffy ought to have been cured, not spreading it further.” She looked over at Tara, sitting quietly and alone to one side. “Hang on baby, it'll be OK,” she whispered.

“I'm glad to hear you agree with me,” smiled Spike. And he almost meant it. But the thought of giving Buffy such a gift would not quite go away. He added it to the big pile of other, similar thoughts that he knew he would one day have to deal with, and waited for the aching in his groin to subside. Nobody except he and Xander noticed when Anya reappeared, straightening her hastily-recovered clothing and red around the eyes. The two men exchanged a quiet glance of understanding and the subject was somehow magically dropped.


Spike was prowling again: the stillness and silence in the shop was getting to him, as was his inaction and inability to come up with some sort of plan, some kind of gallant, heroic rescue effort. He was chafing. Buffy watched him as he strode around, picking things up, putting them back down, fidgeting, desperate for action. She had given up on trying to talk, or even write, some hours ago; Dawn and Willow had created a sort of barricade of books and objects around themselves as they looked through everything they could find in the hope of finding some sort of clue that had somehow evaded the others. Finally, however, she could take it no longer. She stood up and caught the vampire's wrist as he slunk past her.

“sPi&e st,opi tyoUre'd rivin£ m;einsne”

“Huh? Oh: bothering you, am I? Well I'm sorry about that pet, but there's bugger-all else to do around here right now and if I don't find something that's gonna do some good soon I'll explode!”

Buffy made stabbing motions. Spike creased his brows; then, as she made walking motions as well, his face cleared. “You want to patrol?”

She nodded. Giles suddenly sprang into life and shook his head vigourously. He pointed to his own mouth, and gestured to include everyone else in the shop.

“What difference does that make?” replied Spike caustically. “If we go together I can keep the live ones away from her, and who gives a fuck if the dead ones suddenly can't talk, eh?” He glared at the Watcher, daring him to argue any further.

“Now listen,” Spike continued, turning to the assembled Scoobies. “Red and Dawnie are off-limits for any sort of contact, understand? From all of you. I don't want us coming back and finding this has spread any further, alright?” He opened the Magic Box door and held it as Buffy went through. “We'll be as quick as we can,” he assured them.



The two silently strode through the empty mall. This was not a place Spike tended to frequent during his usual waking hours: too bright, too public. Too... artificial. Built-up. Beside him, Buffy seemed equally lost in her own thoughts; Spike turned his attention to the shadows and dark alleyways around them, but there was nothing lurking. He sighed: a quiet patrol was not what either of them needed right now. There ought to be danger, action, distractions...

Buffy suddenly stopped walking: Spike, caught unawares, took a pace or two before realising. He turned to face her. “What's up?”

“A-ya.”

“What, mad bitch? What about her?”

“wSit rea;ly he$ideao...ris Thi? AN%th)rlie!”

“Hang on a minute while I work that one out.” He sat on a low wall and worked his way painfully through the convoluted sentence. “I swear to you that it was her: it happened exactly as I said,” he answered eventually. “I've got no way to prove it, but Xander saw her come back out after I did and he suddenly backed down, remember?”

“so£Ry i hadtoa:sk”

He shrugged, trying hard to mask the stab of hurt from her words. “Course you did pet. You've had enough reason in the past, I can see that. But this is different. Jesus Christ, it would've been easy enough to suggest it myself and get you in the back – but I think more of you than that. So I'm trying to be good, and I'm trying to help. No idea what I'm actually doing, though...”

Buffy wiped away a tear. “RI&htn,owIdv'egO ne”

Spike stood slowly and regarded her for a long, danger-fraught moment. “Well,” he said quietly after what felt like an eternity, “there's always my place... but Red and I agreed that it's not going to do any good.”

“ThEre’s other;thingsbe side thIs...”



It's not easy, keeping the smells of damp and mould out of a crypt. Spike had started out with good intentions, but had given up some time back. The green moss was growing back over the stones, and the silt oozed slowly but inexorably though the cracks between the floor slabs. None of the decay had reached his furniture yet, however, so there was still one barricade between the undead and their inevitable companions, the rot and the mould and the dust.

Not that any of the surroundings made it into the awareness of either of the figures locked together on the bed. Spike lay astride Buffy, her breasts cupped in his hands as he gently nibbled her ears, her neck, her shoulder as she shuddered and moaned beneath him, her movements in time with his own solid, strong thrusts deep into her. He didn't care if she didn't recover her speech; nor did she, not now, not whilst still deep within the moment of oneness with the vampire. He was hard, he was deep, he was good... he didn't feel any need to remind her of how long he had been practising, nor with how many before her. But right then, he felt sure that there would be no others after her, and that was new. So he put all his energy, all his power and attention, into satisfying her need – and his own. He held and held until he could hold back no more; with a violent shudder he sent his half-dead seed into her, pulsing, pushing, holding her arms down and bruising her lips with his. She writhed and twisted beneath him, pulling him in as far as he could go, arching her back to get the utmost, the absolute maximum of him inside her. Then, suddenly, there was no more to give, and no more that could be taken. They sank down together, their bodies relaxing; he stayed above her for a few moments longer before lifting himself up and allowing her to slide across. As he lowered himself beside her, his eyes met hers.

“I'm not expecting words, luv: just don't start regretting this just yet, OK?”

“Spike, there's nothing to regret...”

“Holy shit!” He was out of the bed as if scorched, staring down at her. “Did you just hear that?”

“Hear what?... Oh...”

Spike grabbed his shirt and slid it over his lean, muscular torso. “Never thought I'd be happy about cutting things short, and especially not with you pet... but we have to go. People need to hear this.”

“I suppose...” she looked up at him coyly. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now! Although how we're going to break the news to demon-bitch I don't know: I've already turned her down once tonight.” He looked back at her, absorbing her nakedness, that strange glow her skin always had, and the fact that she quite resolutely had not made any movement towards getting out of the bed. “Actually, that's a strong incentive to come back, ain't it?” He started taking his shirt off again.

“No: I'm kidding. We ought to go.” Suddenly Buffy was up and beside him, back to being brisk and focused. Spike silently cursed and attended to fastening buttons.

“So that's it then? Back to business as usual, huh?” he asked.

“Oh no: not after this. Even if there was only the rescuing of my ability to speak, that would be reason enough to stay close to you. But there's more; you and I both know there's more.”

“Yeah; guess so.” Was he really going to get that lucky? Spike found himself looking for the catch.

“So,” continued Buffy, “we can go back to the Magic Box and we'll work out what's happened on the way. We owe the guys that much. But having come this far, there's no reason to think we needn't go further... in our own time...”

Spike handed Buffy her coat and followed her outside. He couldn't wipe the grin off his face; nor did he even want to.



The atmosphere within the shop had taken on the smell of a siege. Within a rampart of books and boxes, Willow and Dawn were frantically reading, thinking, trying not to talk too much or too loudly, for fear of upsetting the others. For their part, Tara sat on her own beside the piles of grimoires whilst Giles was slumped at the counter. Xander and Anya crouched together a short way off; the girl's eyes seemed fixed on the two talking women, like some beast of prey stalking a kill. Xander seemed unable to distract her: his usual tactics were all denied him, and he wondered if their entire relationship was built on nothing more than words. Surely there had to be more to him than that, than his ability to chatter inanely and make peole laugh?

The door bursting open sounded like a gunshot: every eye suddenly turned to watch as Spike and Buffy came through. Even Giles, who seemed to be feeling this curse more than his companions, managed to raise his head and look inquiringly towards them.

“Spike cured me,” Buffy began. Anya choked back a scream and glared furiously at the pair.

“You don't need me,” Spike answered her poisoned look. “You need him.” He pointed at Xander. “I think you'll enjoy the treatment,” he added with a smirk, and jerked a thumb towards the back room.

Dawn regarded her elder sister soberly. “Did what I think happened... happen?” she asked cautiously.

“Yes, it did,” replied Buffy levelly. “Don't judge me Dawn, and don't judge him, either. It was as much my idea as his, and nothing happened that I didn't want. And hey,” she said, brightening, “I'm cured!”

“So Tara and I should...?” added Willow.

“Yes,” nodded Buffy, “you probably should.”

“Vigourously,” added Spike, his smirk getting ever-bigger.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Dawn cut in suddenly. “It's great that you've found a cure an' all, but what if we get it again?” She gestured vaguely towards Giles and the sleek black laptop that still sat on the counter. “I know Spike turned it off, but if this curse did come out of a computer, then maybe it's some kinda virus... it could come back...”

Willow nodded slowly in agreement. “We haven't really fixed the problem, have we? It's not like Buffy's actually gone out and killed anything, like you usually do.

“Hey!” retorted Buffy. “I don't kill: I slay. It's in the job description.”

“Good to hear you're back to your old self,” muttered Spike. “But surely if the computer's switched off, whatever this virus thing is, is trapped inside it?”

“There's only one way to test that out, and I can't see anyone volunteering,” replied Willow. “One night of this ought to be enough for anyone.”

“Poor Giles,” said Buffy suddenly, looking towards the source of the problem. “We've all got someone to love us back to health, but who's he got? We can't just leave him like this!” In her concern, she missed the look on her sister's face.

“He's been sitting right there, right beside the thing, all night,” confirmed Willow.

“Right then, I think it's time we took it away from him, don't you?” said Spike firmly. “Since it didn't affect me to begin with, how about if I take it away somewhere and bury the thing, drop it in the river, something like that?”

“Difficult to know what's best, being on the Hellmouth,” replied Buffy. “We need to be certain nobody – or no thing – can open it up and play some more.”

“Oh, that's easy,” said the vampire, “I'll stow it at my place. Bit of superglue around the lid, couple of heavy straps... piece o' piss.” He grinned. “You just leave it to Spike, eh?”

Buffy bit her lip. Could she? What if he... What if she... her mind suddenly opened up all sorts of ways in which this could go horribly wrong, with or without Spike's connivance. How much would it take for him to turn against them all once more? How careful would she have to be around him? Was it really, seriously possible for someone else to take control of something, no matter how little, without her constant supervision? And which, really, did she want more: the comfort of a companion who would shoulder some of her burden, or the comfort of exclusive, total control? Putting aside for a moment what his making the offer said about Spike, what did her own thoughts really say about her?

“Do it,” she said, too quickly to be able to rescind the decision. “Take it away: get rid of it safely. And Spike?”

“Yeah, pet?”

“Thanks...”

He grinned. “No worries, pet.”

Xander and Anya had already disappeared, although the sounds from the stockroom suggested that they hadn't gone very far. With that knowing smile still on his face, Spike swept up the laptop from beside Giles and headed out of the door, racing against the sunrise now, heading for the dark but not-so-cold place he called home. Willow and Buffy met each other's eyes.

“So are you and Spike...”

“Uh-huh; for now at least. You should get Tara and...”

Willow smiled impishly. “Administer the cure?”

“Something like that. Odd that Spike turned Anya down when she'd worked it out for herself – or almost worked it out.”

“What do you mean?” asked Dawn.

“Anya figured that since Spike wasn't affected by the virus, if she and he... well, you know... then his immunity might rub off on her. But he wouldn't. He said he thought more of me than to do that. I reckon that might have been more of a factor. I think there has to be some sort of deeper bond for it to work.”

“Yeah, OK, but out of you and Spike, one was affected and one wasn't. Like Tara and me – hopefully. But Anya and Xander were both caught by it... will love be enough?”

Buffy looked at her friend. “I've honestly got no idea. But what else is there to try? I'm not gonna let Spike be used as a cure-all, even if he was up for it – which he's not. He drew the line at Giles and Xander, and he turned Anya down.” She sighed. “We can only wait and see.”

“And hope,” added Willow. Buffy nodded silently. Willow gave her a brief hug before leading Tara out of the door.

“And then there were three,” murmured Dawn. “I suppose we ought to start clearing the place up...” she looked across at the counter. “Buffy? What do we do about Giles?”

Shouts and cheers of joy from the storeroom interrupted the Slayer's answer. She looked at her mentor: his eyes seemed dulled, filled with the despair of a man who knows he has lost those things he holds most precious. Buffy's, however, filled with fire and determination.

“Giles? Listen to me. You don't have to talk: you just listen, OK? We can fix this: I've had an idea.” She rummaged in her bag. “We're gonna take you home, and find your address book, OK?”

He nodded, despair slowly being replaced by confused inquiry on his features. Buffy smiled.

“That's better. Now. We're gonna find Olivia's number in England, right? You can dial if you want, but you let me start the talking... I'll explain the situation and then we'll leave you and her alone...”