DICHOTOMY

Spike hauled Seth into his room and set him down on the edge of the bright red four-poster with the Star Wars quilt, the ‘Big Boy Bed’ that they’d so proudly picked out at the furniture store only weeks earlier. He knelt down, cupped Seth’s puckish face in his hands, and stared deeply into his eyes, searching.

Yeah, there they were. Vivid sparks of gold flaring behind the blue.

The vampire let out a heavy sigh, his own eyes falling shut to hide the apprehension he felt. What the hell were they supposed to do with this? Parenting books didn’t cover supernatural powers.

Best way he figured was to go at the problem the same way he’d done everything else in his long life: head first.

"So, what’s set off the fireworks now?"

The boy had gone unusually quiet during their journey up the stairs and now he just stared mutinously at his father, the gold sparks intensifying, spreading out to form solid rings of color around the contracted points of his pupils and completely obliterating the blue.

Spike switched to his Dad voice, harder and rife with warning. "Nip? You listenin’ to me?"

Seth blinked rapidly, but the burnished gold didn’t disappear, it only grew brighter and more crystalline as tears welled up. "Mommy’s mean," he said finally, lower lip trembling. "I don’t like her anymore."

Spike was almost glad. Par for the course, this. Familiar ground. Seth clashed with Buffy all the time.

"This just about the nap thing?" he asked. "Was my idea all along, you know. You hate me as well?"

"You never wish I was different."

"Neither does your mother."

"Does too. All the time. She wishes I was like Butt."

"And how’s that then?"

"Like a normal kid."

Spike frowned. "Buffy loves you just as you are, same as I do. You got that straight?"

Seth sniffled and swiped at his nose with the back of his sleeve. He gave a half-hearted little shrug. "I guess."

"Hey, she loves me, and I’m not normal. No such thing in this house, isn’t that right?" They stared at each other until Seth finally nodded in agreement, his eyes making the transition from bullion back to blue. Spike gave the boy a reassuring smile, ruffling his hair. "You just got to try and hold that Slayer temper of yours. No more flashing the sparklies when company’s about." He got to his feet and moved toward the door. "Have a bit of a kip now, and we’ll chat it out later on."

"Dad?"

Spike stopped. Seth hardly ever called him by his proper title. This was serious. "Yeah?"

"Can you show me your bumpies?"

Spike pivoted to look at him over his shoulder.

Seth had always been small for his age; a consequence of being premature, Spike supposed, and of having a couple of dimensionally-challenged parents; but right then he seemed unbearably tiny, flopped back on the bed, short legs dangling, blonde curls falling away from his high forehead as he peered up toward his father, awaiting an answer.

As he took in the picture his son presented, there was a sudden pang in his chest, his heart contracting painfully behind his ribs. The sheer magnitude of the feelings evoked by this little being never failed to set him reeling. There was no greater love in his life, not even for Buffy.

He had to thrust aside the overwhelming desire to just blockade the door, lock and bolt it and throw away the key; anything to keep the cruel old world away from his boy, to protect him for just a little while longer. He took a deep breath to steady himself, absentmindedly pressing his left hand to his breastbone, and exhaled the next question.

"Why?"

"I jus’ wanna see."

Spike hesitated. He hardly ever made the full transformation these days, and found it uncomfortable when he did. Flashing the fangs was as far as he usually got, and because of that Seth had really only seen his true features once or twice. After concentrating for a bit, he managed to go full game face for a few seconds, then immediately changed back.

Bugger all, now he was going to have a headache for the rest of the night. He rubbed his forehead where the brow ridges had been. "Good enough?"

Seth rolled onto his stomach; firm little chin resting in the back of his folded hands. "Will I get pointy teeth too? After my baby ones fall out ‘n’ stuff?"

Spike frowned and leant against the doorframe. This wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment Q and A, something had upset the boy.

"Where’s all this coming from, Nip? Something happen?"

Seth grimaced as if anticipating a blow. "I kinda broke my present."

"How’d you break a metal scooter?"

"Dunno. I was just ridin’ it an’ I pulled the handlebars an’ they came off."

"Probably wasn’t screwed together right."

"Nah. It’s broke. I busted it." Seth pushed one finger along his quilt, tracing the outline of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s light saber, not wanting to meet his father’s eyes. "Butt freaked."

"Butt would," Spike snorted. "Boy’s got Harris genes, after all." He tipped his head to one side and regarded his son speculatively. "You, on the other hand may have more of you mother in you than we anticipated. No worries, though, mind. We’ll get it figured out."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

-x-

Buffy had been pacing again by the time Spike made it back downstairs. The moment she felt his approach she marched straight to his side, grabbed his arm and dragged him across the hall to the dining room, away from prying eyes. Secret linky conversations were all well and good, but they often tended to give themselves away through body language.

Spike eyed the hand around his biceps with interest. "Haven’t time for any rough n’ tumble, love," he drawled, gesturing back to where they’d come from. "Visitors and whatnot."

She ignored the innuendo, sending rapid fire through the link. "He did it again, didn’t he?"

"Yeah." Spike was instantly serious, bowing his head. "Yeah, he did."

Buffy absently reached up and began massaging his temples in an attempt to ease the ache brought on by the vamp demo upstairs. "We’re gonna have to tell someone, you know that right? We can’t keep making with the hush-hush-and-bolt routine."

"Hmmm." He leant into her touch like a big cat, blue eyes slitted in pleasure. "Have to do it soon, too. Been happening a lot more often of late. Not to mention certain other developments."

"Yeah. I got that part. And why’s he getting the super-duper strength now? And today?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." The corner of his mouth quirked in a tiny smile. "More than likely the same as mine."

"Maybe he inherited my sadly deficient birthday genes. Whichever way, it can’t be a coincidence, not in Sunnydale. Plus, he’s supposed to be starting school… Ugh!" She sagged forward, butting her head repeatedly into his chest like a mutinous sheep. "Crap. Crap. Crap."

Spike brought his hands up to rest supportively on her shoulders, thumbs stroking along her prominent collarbones. "Hey now, none of that."

She rambled on regardless. "Oh God, we’ll have to tutor him here at home won’t we, or he’ll be beating up the other kids and breaking bones and stuff?" She lifted her chin a fraction, pinning him with huge panicked eyes. "I can’t teach him, Spike. He doesn’t even listen to me when I tell him to pick up his toys."

Spike smirked. "He listens to me. I’ll do it."

"So not the point."

"Buffy…"

"I hate this, you know," she whispered mournfully. "I hate that he’s going to grow up something other than normal. I wanted him to have a normal life."

"Since it worked out so well for you, you mean?"

She pouted at his sarcastic tone. "Again with the point missing."

He brushed her hair away from her face with a tender touch. "I’m just sayin’ there’s no point in gettin’ your knickers all twisted," he said softly. "It’s not the same for him as it was for you and me. Seth was born to it. He didn’t have the chosen gig thrust on him when he least expected it, bollocksing up the status quo. Odds are it’ll turn out different."

"I suppose."

"Look, I’m just gonna tell you the same thing I told the Nip. We’ll get it figured out. We always do."

"Promise?"

Spike shook his head in silent amusement. His wife and kid were so much alike sometimes… He leant in to plant a kiss on her forehead.

"Promise."

-x-

There had been some sort of furtive conversation underway while they’d been gone, but the moment Buffy and Spike came back into the lounge, there was a tense lull, like the very room was holding its breath. Willow seemed particularly guilty.

"What’s going on?" Buffy asked, folding her arms self-consciously.

"Precisely what we were wondering," Giles said. "There seem to be some… undercurrents occurring. Pertinent information you’d like to share with the rest of us, perhaps?"

Spike frowned, not liking that the Watcher was being so perceptive. He could sense Buffy’s unease underscoring his own and it was making him twitchy. Even though they’d just discussed revealing the truth about Seth’s abilities, they’d managed to keep the secret from the Scoobies for so long now that they were immediately on the defensive.

"Nothin’ to share," he said quickly. "We’re just a bit concerned about having a proper Watcher on the premises. Never know what they’re of a mind to do."

Buffy elbowed him in the ribs. "Hey, Giles is a proper Watcher."

"Actually, he isn’t at all," Lydia put in. "Strictly speaking, you’re a rogue Slayer, operating without Council guidance."

"Oh-ho," Spike chortled. "Rogue Slayer. Like the sound of that. Makes you sound all dangerous, pet."

Giles snorted.

"Faith was the rogue Slayer," Buffy said firmly. "Fighting on the mean streets of L.A. with Angel and the gang. I’ve been the settled-down, stay at home-sweet-home on the Hellmouth Slayer."

"True," Lydia acknowledged. "But that doesn’t explain why you’ve neglected to maintain contact…"

"Who’s the neglected one here? It wasn’t me being all avoidy after Giles got fired and Wesley’s Watcher career went so spectacularly down the toilet. Not to mention the whole trying to have Faith and me killed a few years back."

Lydia grimaced. "I believe that Mr. Travers apologized for-"

"No. He didn’t. Did he?" Buffy glanced at Giles. "I don’t remember any ‘sorry I tried to have you exterminated like a pesky bug’ cards. Not even a gift basket."

"There was no apology," Giles said matter-of-factly. "He would have believed it beneath him. Quentin Travers was a megalomaniacal little weasel of a man, he wouldn’t have admitted to any such wrong-doing."

"That megalomaniacal little weasel was my father," Lydia objected. She tried to sound offended, but knew that she hadn’t quite pulled it off. They were right; he really had been rather insufferable.

Spike’s face screwed up in distaste. "My condolences."

"I knew something was funky about her," Buffy relayed to him via the link. "This so explains the immediate hating of her guts."

"Thought that was because she had an eye toward jumpin’ these sexy vampire bones, Little Miss Jealous."

"Oh please! I am not jealous. I just…" She hesitated as Spike slowly angled his head to one side, quirking his brows at her, and then folded her arms huffily. "Shut up."

He grinned.

"You just keep in mind that it’s Mrs. Jealous now, Flirt Boy."

"Wouldn’t dream of forgetting. Taken quite a fancy this whole ‘existing’ gig."

Giles, meanwhile, was regarding the English woman with a new respect. "Ah yes, Lydia Travers, of course. A former potential. When you weren’t called, you married Dr. Peter Sherwood, the eminent demonologist. I re-read his treatise on vampire physiology only last week. It’s been quite helpful on a number of occasions. Is he still studying?"

"Actually, Peter has just taken over father’s place as Head Watcher." Lydia gave him an embarrassed little smile. "And we’re divorced now."

"Oh. I’m sorry."

"I’m not." Lydia flattened her hands on the portfolio in her lap. "Now, I believe we have some business to discuss."

Buffy sighed. "Right. A prophecy you said. Something to do with the new Slayer?"

"As I tried to say earlier, the Council’s Academics have discovered a prophecy that they believe pertains to my Slayer." Lydia opened a folder and pulled out a Xeroxed copy of some archaic glyphs. "It relates to someone called the Aurora Prodigy, who will apparently end dimensional discord by sealing the Hellmouth forever."

Giles held out a hand. "May I?" Lydia passed the sheet to him and he squinted intently at the black-and-white print. "Where was this found?"

"Originally in the third volume of the Ersatz Journals, and then cross-referenced in Vandershulster’s Prognostic Compendium."

Giles’ brows shot up. "Vandershulster? Impressive."

"Indeed."

Buffy scowled at them. "So, for those of us not up on their moldy-book-speak, this concerns us how? I mean, I’m all for shutting up shop on the Hellmouth biz, but if that’s not my responsibility then…"

"My proposal is rather boring I’m afraid," Lydia said. "You are the local experts on the Hellmouth and its culture and I would merely like to ask for your input regarding the gateway itself. For tactical purposes. I understand that you’ve been inside?"

"More than once," Buffy admitted, relieved that they’d apparently only be taking an advisory role in this undertaking. It wasn’t like they didn’t have other stuff to deal with right now. Having a new Slayer around might prove to have some side benefits. "We get a pretty regular stream of demon traffic through there. They have festivals and stuff, try to open portals. It’s like Demon-palooza, but without the loud, over-rated music part."

"Hey," Spike protested. "What about those Scorn Brethren blokes last year? They had a bloody ripping guitarist. Put Hendrix to shame."

"Well okay, except for them. Much coolness to be had there. Indigo Scorn even gave me an autographed CD after we vaporized all those creepy salamander thingies."

"Elemander," he corrected. "More legs than the regular variety."

"And really big ears. But we’re not due for another crowd until… when? Giles?" She clicked her fingers trying to get his attention. "Fill in blank please."

Spike sniffed when the man’s focus refused to waver from the sheet of paper he was perusing. "Proper Watcher," he muttered under his breath, then, "Giles!"

The other man finally glanced up. "What? Oh, er… the Fall Equinox, I believe."

"Oh, that’s a big one," Willow commented. "There are a lot of spells that are really potent around then."

Lydia pressed her lips together tightly. "And it’s precisely when the Aurora Prodigy is supposed to make her move."

The redhead frowned. "What makes you so sure that it’s a her? And that it’s, you know, your her?"

"The word ‘prodigy’ has several different meanings," Lydia reported. "Someone young, an omen, a champion or wise person. An expert in a particular field. But it is the aforementioned ‘Aurora’ that is the true indication of who this prophecy pertains to. My Slayer? Her name is Dawn."

-x-

Willow kept a careful eye on Lydia.

She was trying to be stealthy about it, but she’d never really been all that big on the stealth - not her specialty, sorry - and she could tell that she was beginning to make the other woman nervous. More nervous, anyway. She was already on edge and acting fishy.

Case in point: in the ten minutes since Lydia had phoned to contact her Slayer and tell her to come over, she’d done nothing but stare at Spike and Buffy.

Well, mostly she stared at Spike. That wasn’t an unusual occurrence in itself, a lot of visitors, especially female ones, made with the Spike-staring, but there was something not quite right about the depth of this one’s interest. It was almost like she was evaluating him somehow. And she was making a whole lotta notes…

Lydia suddenly glanced up and met her eyes, and Willow’s attention skipped furtively to the depths of her coffee mug. Wow, look at that. Almost empty.

Not that the mug actually contained any coffee. After all these years it still made her too jumpy, even decaf. Not that she needed any help in the jumpiness department at the moment either.

When Tara had left, needing to get an early start in the morning, she had whispered some reservations about the Watcher in Willow’s ear on the way out the door, telling her to keep an eye out. And if Tara was gettin’ a wiggins, then…

"Am I bothering you?"

Lydia’s voice, all snooty, disdainful tones, broke in on the witch’s meditations like a splash of cold water.

"What? No. N-no. I’m fine." Willow blinked, pinning on her best innocent face. "Are you…fine?"

"Why, yes. Yes, I am. Thank you for asking."

They stared at each other for a minute, sizing each other up. Lydia cast a cautious glance over her shoulder to where Buffy and Spike were talking to Giles by the stairs, and then leant forward conspiratorially.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me your version of how this entire situation came to pass."

"What situation?"

"With the Slayer and her… husband." Lydia adjusted her glasses, settling them more securely on her patrician nose. "He’s really quite a unique specimen."

"Spike’s not unique." Willow stopped, struck by the blatant wrongness of that statement, and gave a nervous little titter. "Well, yeah he is. I mean, obvious right? Living, breathing vampire? But - but I wouldn’t be so kind as to tell you anything. At all. That would be so far out of line, you couldn’t even see the line anymore. And besides that, it’s just not my place. I have no place. I’m completely place-less."

Lydia ignored the babble-fest and sighed, absently tapping her pen against her notebook while she went on gazing moony-eyed at Spike. It was really starting to get on Willow’s nerves. Before she could make any comment, though, the blonde turned back.

"They’re keeping a secret of some sort."

"A secret? No. No, they’re not. They… wouldn’t…" Her voice trailed off.

Except maybe they would. They had been acting sort of skittish, she’d said so herself just a little while ago. But if there was something going on, she’d have to suss it out on her own, without getting the Watcher involved. Discretion was the key word here.

"I’ve been observing them quite closely," Lydia went on. "The signs are all there."

Willow shook her head. "Sorry. Not seeing any signage."

Lydia shrugged. "I could be wrong. You would know much better than I."

"Yeah. I would."

And she did.

-x-

Dawn Wells was not what Spike had expected - all long coltish limbs and flowing sable hair, with eyes bluer than the summer sky. Pretty. And young too; so very, very young - fifteen years old. He had difficulty wrapping his head around the fact that Buffy had been the same age when she’d been called.

She was also the barest smidgen taller than he, a fact that she’d had no compunction at all in drawing to his attention.

He’d tried the intimidation thing right off, testing her waters. The moment she’d walked into the house he’d given her the most wicked smile in his repertoire, flashing a bit of fang. "How about giving us a taste then, love? Bit of a nibble?"

She’d just looked down her nose at him with that patented adolescent disdain. "I’d like to see you try."

"Do a damn sight better than try. Done your kind before."

"Oh please, I could totally wipe the floor with your stunted little ass."

She gave as good as she got. He liked her.

Not that he was in any way considering upgrading his own Slayer for the newer model.

He smirked to himself as Buffy’s mouth dropped open in response to the thought.

She punched him on the arm. "Pig."

"Oink, oink."

"God, you’re so weird." Dawn crossed her arms and gave the older Slayer a contemptuous look. "I can’t believe you married a vampire. What a freak."

Buffy stared back at her, stone-faced. "I am not a freak. I’m a total freak-free zone. Spike’s the one with the Slayer fetish."

"Uh huh. So it’s really that you’re both freaks?"

"That is not what I…" She glowered. "Okay, shut up."

Dawn just smiled maliciously. "I hear you’ve got a kid, too. How’d that happen?"

Spike gave her willowy figure a slow once over, tongue snaking across his teeth. "Figured you were green, Nibblet," he purred. "Didn’t realize you were that green."

When the young Slayer flushed a furious shade of crimson and nervously shifted her weight from one foot to the other, he smiled. Gotcha.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Great, more nicknames. That’ll help."

Dawn straightened, back on the defensive. "Yeah. What’s up with that?"

Spike put on his best kicked-puppy face, playing to his audience. "You don’t like it?"

The younger Slayer shrugged.

"Better get used to it," Buffy told her. "Once he christens you, you’re kinda stuck with it. Took him forever to start calling me by my proper name. He only used my title. Still does sometimes, when he’s asking for a smack down."

Spike leered. "Is that right? Sla-a-y-e-r-r." He drew the word out tauntingly.

Buffy made to punch him again but he scuttled sideways out of reach and then swept her legs out from under her, only to catch her in his arms as she fell. She boxed his ears and rolled, crawling away, booted feet scrambling for purchase on the polished floorboards. He dived after her, but it was plain from the uncontrollable giggling that he wasn’t intent on inflicting any real harm.

Dawn watched them, almost overwhelmed with the sense of belonging.

They were still weird – and sort of violent - but they were also cool. In a not-overly-embarrassing older brother/sister sense. And unlike the losers back home, they didn’t treat her like she was Bizarro Girl. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad here after all.

She tensed, immediately on the alert as Lydia rushed into the room. "Big trouble in Watcherville?"

Lydia blinked at her, as though trying to decipher her complicated teen-speak. "Oh. Er, no. It’s nothing of consequence, I was just wondering what the commotion was."

Dawn gestured toward Buffy and Spike, who had ended up in a twisted, pretzel-like wrestling-hold on the couch. "Ask the freaks. They started it."

"Manners please, Dawn. You’re a guest in their home."

"You heard her, Nibblet," Spike interjected, struggling to sit up. "Be polite."

Buffy rammed an elbow into his stomach, earning a pained grunt. "Oh. Sorry, honey." She clambered to her feet and peered down at him, an exaggeratedly saccharine smile on her face.

He scowled back, brows furrowing together, darkened eyes boring into hers.

Buffy gasped and kicked him in the shin.

Dawn got the feeling that the battle was still underway even though neither was speaking. It was… freaky.

"Freaks," she muttered again, but this time she didn’t hold back the smile.

CONTACT

Lydia glanced up from her notebook, pen poised above the page. "So, you were actually associated for several years prior to your... um, romantic involvement?"

"Yup."

While Lydia was scribbling fanatically, Buffy looked anything but interested, gazing longingly toward the front door of the Magic Box. They’d agreed to this interview in exchange for Lydia keeping the remainder of the Council off their backs, but as far as Buffy was concerned, the whole thing was totally ridiculous. She didn’t see why they had to make with the ‘splainy.

Spike was taking his sweet time getting there to bail her out, too. He was on his way. She could sense him prowling along Main Street, that smooth, lupine stride drawing the admiring eyes of males and females alike. She hunched her shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling of their hungry gazes tickling her spine. It was creepy.

Stupid vampire, being all attractive in public.

Buffy turned her attention back to her immediate surroundings. The Magic Box hadn’t changed in forever. The store had come to be a second home to them all over the years, the training room even had a corner set aside as a play area for the kids. Seth and Buck were back there now, the occasional thump and pattering of running feet reassuring her of their presence.

She continued to ignore Lydia's attempted interrogation in favor of watching the familiar scene of Giles and Anya arguing behind the counter. She smiled as Anya whacked Giles with her feather duster and made a good show of storming away in huff despite her condition. Honestly, if Xander and the ex-demon hadn't been so tight, Buffy was certain something would have happened between those two. Sparks practically flew when they were together.

She sighed. And Lydia was still babbling away at her.

"Look, can't this wait for a minute? Spike's better at the answering-annoying-questions thing than I am. Better at all things annoying, really."

Lydia blinked; her spectacles having the unfortunate effect of making her dark blue eyes look owlish. "Are you saying Spike is...?"

"Turning the corner, taking a minute to fix his hair in the window, and -" Buffy swept a hand toward the doorway just as her husband sauntered in, jangling the bell.

Lydia had seen him in passing a number of times since that first night a week ago, but she still gasped aloud when she saw him, struck anew by his sheer physical presence. The man was quite simply magnificent, even more so in the bright Californian sunlight which set his figure aglow like that of a High Renaissance saint.

Almost in defiance of that comparison, he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt; both ominously black, both clinging to his form like a second skin, and overlaid by a long leather coat, a garment peculiarly at odds with the warmth of the day.

Buffy let out a heavy, martyred sigh. "Oh, God help us. It's the Big Bad."

He bestowed them with the most sinful smirk. "You'd better believe it, baby."

A snort came from behind the counter. "I'm afraid points must be deducted for unnecessary alliteration," Giles said.

Spike frowned, turning to glare at him. "Shut it, Rupert. Or I'll have your guts for garters."

"Not scary, honey,” Buffy chipped in. “You should quit while you're still behind."

“Wha-? But, but you said… He’s…” Spike’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Forget it. Damned conspiracy is what it is,” he muttered. “‘Oh, let's all make the vampire look like a prat’.”

"You do that well enough on your own." Giles shook his head and went back to his inventory taking.

Anya rounded the corner on her way back from the reading nook, only to stop dead and give him a confused once over. “Why are you wearing that? It’s not Halloween yet.”

Buffy snickered. “Halloween!”

Spike shot her an irritated look back over his shoulder. “Mouthy little chit today, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” she countered. “But you love that about me.”

“Well, you got me there.”

“Seriously,” Anya went on. “Why are you wearing that?”

He ducked his head, sheepishly scuffing the toe of his boot against the tiled floor. “I was just, I dunno…”

“Feeling nostalgic?” Buffy prompted. “Having some particularly vivid flashbacks?”

“Wanting to rip the Slayer’s bloody throat out, once and for all?” Spike whipped around and snarled at her, his coat flaring out dramatically, eyes blazing amber fire.

This time Lydia’s gasp was one of alarm, she fumbled amongst her books for a crucifix, her face ashen.

Buffy just smiled, resting her chin on one hand and coyly batting her lashes. “O-o-h, kinky!”

Anya sniffed. “You can’t play your lame sex games in the store during business hours.” She stroked her pronounced belly suggestively. “Though, I do think that Texas here was conceived during a strenuous after hours workout right there on the study table.”

Lydia lurched backward, tipping over her chair in her rush to get away from said table, both her crucifix-hunt and her dignity abandoned.

Buffy, used to the ex-demon’s plain speaking, was just curious. “Texas?”

“As in the state I’m currently the size of,” Anya told her. “I think the name has potential.”

“Texas Harris?” Spike asked, skeptical. “Dun’t exactly roll trippingly off the tongue, love.”

“But it’s a start.” Anya said. “Xander and I have done nothing but argue about this one’s name for months.”

Buffy nodded. “Been there…”

“…Done that,” Spike finished. “Came out alright in the end.”

Anya smiled brightly and then took a sharp right turn in the conversation. “Are you playing those kinky sex games in an attempt to conceive another baby?” she asked, without warning. “I wouldn’t wait too much longer if I were you. Spike’s very old, his sperm might run out of juice.”

A fleeting look of horror passed across Spike’s face before he slowly shook his head. “Uh, no. No. First one’s proving to be enough of a handful, thanks all the same. Not,” he defended sternly, “that there’s anything wrong with my ju… uh, my stuff. Fully charged up here.”

“You can’t know that for certain. Maybe Seth was a fluke. Maybe you just had the one shot, like in those spy movies Xander watches. You know, where a bomb’s about to go off or something and the hero’s got to make the lucky shot before the big ticking clock runs out, and he’s only got one bullet left in the clip. You know, like that.”

“Trust me, Anyanka, it’s nothing at all like that.”

Anya looked dubious. “Whatever. Either way, I’m proving to be much more fertile than Buffy.”

“Oh, for…” Spike grit his teeth in frustration. “It’s not a bloody competition.”

“Sure it is. You’ve never heard of something called ‘the human race’?” She patted her stomach smugly. “I’m being the most productive so I’m ahead of the game.” She punched a fist in the air. “We’re number one!”

“Think you’re missing the point.”

“Sore losers.”

With that, Anya turned and headed off toward the training room to check on the children.

Spike and Buffy exchanged baffled looks, then shrugged and simultaneously turned back toward Lydia.

“You been givin’ my girl a hard time?” the vampire asked her.

“No, no. Not at all.” She scrambled back to the table, gathering both her wits and her scattered notes together. “She has merely been filling me in on some of your more recent adventures. I would greatly appreciate your perspective on events.”

“Share the same one, love. If you got Buffy’s, you got mine.” Spike ambled over, righted her fallen chair and carefully placed it behind her. “Here, have a seat.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Lydia sat primly and smoothed her skirt, flustered by his chivalry. He was such a gentleman.

Buffy wrinkled her nose at him as he dropped down next to her. “Watcher’s pet.”

He scooted closer, that wicked smirk once again curling his lips, and tugged on a strand of her hair. Irritated, the Slayer slapped him away, tucking the loose strand behind her ear and shooting him a quelling glance.

Undeterred by the rebuke, Spike narrowed his eyes, contemplating. He reached out and retraced the errant strand of gold, his fingertip feathering the shell of her ear, tickling.

Buffy hunched her shoulder in defense, foiling his dastardly plan of attack, and bared her teeth in a ‘not now you idiot’ warning.

He grinned, eyes twinkling as though he was the only one who knew the punch-line to some unspoken joke. After a beat, she rounded on him with the most outraged expression on her face, but his only response was to tilt his head ever so slightly to one side as their gazes locked and held.

Silence descended, broken only by the occasional thud or shout from the other roomthe air thickening with the same oppressive force that Lydia had experienced before. She shifted awkwardly in her seat, feeling very much like a fifth wheel.

A long, long minute passed before Spike finally sat back, letting out a deep rumbling growl, not unlike that of a satisfied tiger.

Buffy continued to gaze him with heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re evil.”

“Always.”

Lydia sighed, hardening her resolve against the pull Spike exerted on her senses. As captivating as the man was, there was no doubting that he was utterly devoted to his wife, and she was being of no use to anyone just sitting there seething with envy, she had a job to do.

“I believe I was just witness to a demonstration of your psychic connection,” she said. “Would you care to explain in further detail?”

“Pfft. Details, schmetails,” Buffy muttered, staring off into space again. Spike was there now, he could deal. “Blah, blah, gag.”

“Should be asking Rupes for a gander at his diaries,” he suggested, blithely ignoring his wife’s running commentary, both spoken and unspoken. “Believe he’s more an expert on the subject than we are.”

Lydia twitched, stealing a quick look toward the counter. She didn’t really want to approach the other Watcher, he unsettled her. The man was a rebel, pure and simple. It was a dangerous business, associating with rebels, one tended to get pulled into their nefarious schemes. “I suppose I might ask...”

“Well, there you go,” Buffy said cheerfully. “Interview over.” She slapped both hands onto the table and stood up. “Can we go now?” Spike merely glanced up at her from the corner of his eye and she slumped back onto her chair. “Fine. I’ll stay. But I want it to go on the record that I think this blows. Big time.”

Spike’s face stayed blank, but some indication of what he was thinking must have passed through to the Slayer. She pulled a thin, poorly-whittled stake from one of her pockets and brandished it under his nose.

“You’re asking for it, buddy.”

“Well, well. Look at this.” He smiled, snatching hold of her wrist and eyeing the stake with a curious lack of concern. “Haven’t merited the wrath of Mr. Pointy for a good long while. What is it you’re expecting him to do exactly?”

“Make a really painful dent?” Buffy speculated, then blinked, looking faintly confused. “Huh. That’s weird. I haven’t threatened you with a dusting for years. Must be the coat. Brings back the good old days when those threats held water.” She frowned as she tucked the stake away. “Can a threat hold water? What does that saying even mean anyway? Stupid English language.”

Lydia barely restrained herself from commenting on the twisted path the Slayer’s thought processes must have taken for her wind up at that point. “You name your stakes?”

Spike came over all earnest. “Oh, yeah. She’s got a virtual community of ‘em at home.” He leant forward. “They speak to her, you know,” he confided, sotto voce.

“They do not!” Buffy slapped at his leather-clad arm in an affronted display that was a good deal more girlish than Slayerish. “Where do you get off making me sound like Dru?”

The vampire leered, lasciviousness turned up to eleven. “Anywhere I want, baby.”

Buffy rolled her eyes, unimpressed.

Lydia startled as Giles suddenly appeared at the table. She’d been too engrossed in the by-play to notice his approach.

He watched the duo for a moment, arms folded, then graced her with a small, sympathetic smile. “I did warn you.”

He had. He’d scoffed quite openly at her suggestion of an interview, predicting that the exercise would disintegrate into an argument within minutes. She hadn’t believed him. In her experience, a long-term relationship simply couldn’t sustain that level of passionate intensity without burning itself out.

She focused back on the Slayer and vampire, now engaged in a high-spirited clash over this Dru person. Apparently, her experience had been wrong. How typical. She wrote the name in the margin of her notebook and squiggled a question mark next to it; something else to investigate.

Giles leant over her shoulder, tapping a long finger against the page. “I have several journals dedicated to Drusilla alone,” he murmured. “You’re quite welcome to them. As well as those other diaries Spike mentioned, of course.”

Lydia squeaked, her attempt at expressing gratitude for his offer caught in her suddenly too-dry throat. He merely smiled again, gave her a nod, and wandered off toward the back room.

Buffy and Spike continued their little verbal scuffle, oblivious.

“Stop. Saying. That!” the vampire was hissing from between clenched teeth. “She’s not crazy anymore!”

“Sure, okay. ‘Cause a short stretch with a re-installed conscience so makes up for a hundred years of looping-the-mental-loop.”

“God! Would you just let it go? You don’t see me endlessly bagging on your idiotic chain of exes...” He paused to reconsider that in light of Buffy’s incredulous stare. “Right. Point taken. Still, at least I’m creative about it. None of this one-note harping.”

“Uh huh.” The Slayer began ticking off items on her fingers. “Angel’s forehead, Angel’s hair, Angel’s brooding…”

“That’s different. A lot of history between us, you know that. Blubbering poof deserves it.”

“Riley’s cardboardiness, Parker’s… stupid Parkerness…”

Spike slouched in his seat, pouting adorably. “Fine. Be that way.”

Buffy studied him for a moment, surprised by the unexpected capitulation. “Awww. Did poor widdle Spikey have his feelings hurt?”

“Shut up.”

She leant over and trailed a teasing finger across that petulant lower lip. “Make me,” she crooned, and then squealed in delight when he seized her around the waist and hauled her into his lap. She sat frozen for a moment, gasping for breath, caught in the seductive allure of his blue, blue eyes. “Okay, that works.”

“Mmmm...” Spike’s focus dropped to her mouth. Just as he was leaning in to steal a kiss, Giles returned from the back room, two small boys in tow.

“Please stop that,” the Watcher said mildly as he passed the table.

Seth and Buck stopped on the same dime and gawked at the adults.

Lydia smiled at them encouragingly. “Hello, children.”

She was particularly fascinated with the Grey boy. No one had yet seen fit to explain to her the circumstances behind his existence. There was no precedent for anything of this sort occurring elsewhere, but the child of a Slayer and a vampire must have some special qualities, surely?

She looked hard at the lad as he climbed onto the chair immediately to her right, kneeling on the seat and propping his elbows on the table. The family resemblance was really quite strong when in such close proximity. "My, you really have your father's eyes, don't you?"

Seth frowned at her, confused by the remark. "No. These are my eyes. Spike has his own."

Spike squeezed the aforementioned features shut, leaning his forehead into Buffy’s shoulder and shaking with silent laughter.

The Slayer grinned widely. “Lydia just means that you look a lot like your Dad,” she explained.

“Oh.” Seth shared an eye-rolling ‘check out the dumb old lady’ look with Buck, who stood silently next to his friend’s chair, chewing on his thumbnail.

Buffy reached out and ran her fingers through Buck’s scruffy crop of dark hair, brushing it away from his eyes. It was astonishing to think that two garrulous people like Xander and Anya had produced such a quiet kid, but he’d never been one to draw attention to himself, quite content to hang back and follow Seth’s lead. Buffy’d always had a soft spot for the solemn four-year-old, for as much as he resembled his father, he reminded her a great deal of Angel.

“How ya doin’, Mister Buck?”

“’Kay,” he mumbled around his thumb.

“That’s good.” Buffy slid off Spike’s lap, smacking his hand away when it lingered on the backside of her jeans, and settled back into her own seat to continue the conversation. “So, I hear you’re gonna be a big brother soon?”

“Yeah.”

Seth ignored them and flipped open one of the larger volumes Lydia had piled on the table, wondering if it had monsters in it. Poppy G had some really cool monster books.

Lydia made an abortive movement, almost like she wanted to snatch it out of his hands. “That’s, um, that’s a very old book,” she said carefully.

“How old?”

“Very, very old.”

“Like Angel, you mean,” Seth asserted with every last bit of his five-year-old aplomb.

Lydia gnawed at her lip. Angel, Angel… Surely he couldn’t mean… “Angelus?”

Spike lay a hand on the tabletop, stretching across to steal the book from his son’s possession and put it to one side.

Seth scowled at him, and was rewarded with the pointed arching of his father’s scarred brow. The boy sat back on his heels, sulking.

Battle of wills won, the vampire turned back to Lydia. “He goes by Angel these days, pet. The great ponce is a white hat now, all souled up and such.”

“Back in London, during my training, I’d heard rumors of a vampire with a soul, but I dismissed them as fairytales.”

Buffy looked over, shaking her head in disbelief. “Jeez. I thought the stuffed shirt convention were bad enough with their Slayers but boy, did they ever keep you in the dark. Angel’s had a soul for… what, a century now?”

“Johnny-come-lately,” Spike sneered.

Lydia blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothin’.”

“Spike’s gotta soul,” Buck announced, wiping his sticky fingers on the front of his T-shirt. “Daddy says so.” Evidently his word was gospel.

Yeah, like Daddy’s a genius, Spike thought mockingly, then instantly regretted it when he received a scathing glare from his beloved. “What?”

“There will be no dissing of Xander,” she said tightly.

“Since when?”

“Since the embargo on Dru-invective. If I can’t, you can’t.”

“Hey, that’s unfair, now!”

Lydia peered from one face to the next, finding a complete lack of interest in these world-shattering revelations. “I’m terribly sorry, but did young Master Harris just say that you...”

“…Have a soul?” Buffy supplied. “You’re darn skippy. Always did, always will.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Is not,” the Slayer shot back. Lydia remained steadfast. “Okay, looks like its story-time after all. Remember that ‘rather human’ thing we talked about, with the fully-functioning? That’s because of the soul. See, what happened was Dru and Angel screwed up when they turned him, and it was like he had all these… parts left behind. Souly, feeling-stuff type parts. And then, when we got linked, I gave him back all his missing… parts.” She nodded, pleased with the explanation. “It was a whole big part party.”

Lydia was less pleased. “I’m sorry, I’m confused.”

“Join the club,” Spike mumbled. “Share the same thoughts and I still can fathom where she’s comin’ from half the time.”

Giles returned and dumped a high stack of books onto the table. Smallish, thick and sporting matching red bindings, they looked like a scaled-down set of encyclopedia. He slapped a hand on the uppermost volume to keep the pile from toppling over. “A little light reading should clear things up. I regret that this didn’t occur to me earlier.”

Buffy goggled at the collection. “God, Giles. Over-inscribe much?”

“There are many years worth of Slaying stories here, Buffy. Including a great deal I didn’t inform the Council of.”

Lydia frowned. “You’ve knowingly withheld information from us?”

“Oh no, it was entirely by accident,” he responded dryly.

She blinked at him in consternation, before returning her stare to the pile of books.

“I knew this interview deal was bogus,” the Slayer accused, wagging a finger at him. “You were making us dish the dirt while you went on withholding from your fellow Watcher-people. Giles, shame on you!”

He winced. “Ah, yes, well... Uh, speaking of information, Buffy, I - I’d like a word with you before you leave.”

Buffy’s brow knitted with concern. “Am I in trouble now? Because I was only kidding with the shame thing, okay? Actually, you know, that wasn’t me at all. It was Spike. Spike thought it. It’s Spike’s fault.”

“Yeah, yeah, blame me. I enjoy it.” Spike planted a booted foot against the table and pushed back, his chair rocking alarmingly on two legs. “’Specially if there’s to be some sort of punishment involved. Whips, chains…” He made an oddly suggestive sawing movement with his jaw, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “All nostalgic for a Spike in your bathtub, old man?”

“Don’t be daft.”

“Right. No chains. Just the whipping then? Pity.”

“Spike, do shut up. There’s no bother, really. Merely a private matter I’d like to discuss.”

“Sounds almost interesting.” Spike’s chair returned to the floor with a bang. “Didn’t know you had a private life, Rupert.”

Giles seemed uncharacteristically perturbed by the observation. His gaze darted toward his co-worker before he snatched off his glasses and began scouring the lenses, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “I do have interests outside the store, you know,” he grumbled.

“This about your top secret singing career then?”

Giles replaced his glasses and glared at the vampire. “No. It is not. And I will have no more cheek from you, understand? Honestly, as soon as that dratted coat comes out of storage, you revert straight back to your old ways.”

“That’s so not true,” Buffy said. “Spike’s always this annoying and you know it. No reverting necessary.” She aimed a wink at the children. “Right, guys?”

“Right!”

Lydia finally dragged her attention away from the swaying stack of Slayer lore, and regarded its author with utter disbelief. “You sing?”

-x-

An hour later, Buffy flumped into the empty seat on Giles’ right-hand side. “Okay, Spike’s taken the kids home, Lydia’s gone off to blind herself interpreting your teeny tiny Watcher scrawl, and Anya’s lost in the untold joys of Money-Counting-Land. We are, for all intents and purposes, alone.” She rested folded arms on the table and nudged him with her elbow. “So, what’s up with the privacy clause on this convo? ‘Cause you do get that Spike’s gonna pick up the gist of it anyway?”

He glanced up from his book. The same book, she now noticed, that he’d been carrying around all day. “I do realize that, yes. But I needed the others gone, Lydia and the children especially. I have some rather… delicate news.”

Buffy snorted. “Do I have ‘handle with care’ stamped on my forehead now? Giles, I’m twenty-six years old. Married with childre- Um, child. You can not be worried about my sensibilities at this point.” She shook her head at his stricken expression. “Sorry, but high horse? Get off it. I can handle the delicate. Between Spike and the slaying gig, I was cured of any illusions a long time ago. I mean, you should see some of his history. No way I could be corrupted more.”

“Well, I must say, while that evokes some very disturbing mental imagery, I wasn’t referring to that sort of… I - I only meant that there are some important issues I need to raise. Without an audience.”

Now he’d caught her attention. “For example?”

“I’ve discovered a more detailed translation of this so-called Slayer prophecy in the Chronicles of St. Basilisk the Smug. It puts a completely different spin on things.”

“There’s more detail? I thought the Council were the big experts on this stuff. Aren’t they usually kinda nit-picky with their whys and wherefores.”

Giles grimaced. “Yes, well. Needless to say, I don’t trust their motives. And it seems for good reason. Their version is all wrong. The Latin must have been transcribed by idiots.” He held out his book and pointed. “See here what is clearly the word ‘aureus’, and not ‘aurora’.” He gave Buffy a significant look. “It doesn’t mean ‘dawn’, it means ‘golden’.”

“But that still doesn’t have to mean…”

“It also says that this Prodigy would be a union of both good and evil,” he went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “The Council made this to sound as though it was a virtuous and pure being who would fight the demons, a champion of sorts, but it’s much more complex than that. This person would be more of a link between the two.”

“Like a bridge,” Buffy concluded morosely. “You can stop reciting from the big list of clarifications now, okay? I get it. My baby boy is the prophesized Messiah.” She sighed. “This is so what we get for giving him a Biblical name.”

“No doubt it was a pertinent factor,” Giles said with deadpan dryness.

“In the immortal words of Indigo Scorn, this ‘fully siphons the cosmic gas tank’.” She frowned and looked back at him. “Hey, wait a minute. Wasn’t Basilisk the name of that booger monster from the Font of Knowledge, the Keratos demon who may or may not have something to do with the origins of the Serpiente link?”

“Why, yes.” He seemed inordinately pleased that she’d remembered. “I’ve been researching him on a somewhat sporadic basis over the last few years, which is why I happened to have this particular volume handy. It’s all connected, Buffy, all of it.”

“Yay.” There was no discernable enthusiasm at all in her tone, and after a few minutes of chewing on her lower lip, she took a deep, fortifying breath. “Giles, I think I need to tell you something really important.”

-x-

Taking the Nipper along on early patrol was not Spike's idea of good father/son bonding time, but for some mysterious reason Buffy had insisted, and he was nothing if not a willing slave to his Slayer. Besides, he reasoned, it was only middling dark and any real threats wouldn't be about until Buffy and Dawn took secondary around midnight.

The younger Slayer had slotted easily into their regular patrolling schedule. She was reasonably competent, despite her disturbing tendency to be clumsy with the heavier weapons; didn’t have anywhere near the same flair as Buffy, of course, but she got the job done.

They strolled amiably through Restfield Cemetery, taking the well-worn path toward Spike's old crypt. The vampire was hoping that the familiarity would make the boy open up. He'd been uncannily quiet for too long, and it wasn't right for him to keep things so close to his chest. He didn't allow Buffy to get away with it, and he was damned if he would allow his son to.

"So," he began, casting a surreptitious glance from the corner of his eye. "Got somethin' on your mind, eh?"

Seth was silent; a tiny tow-headed figure bundled in an outsized parka and a long stripy scarf, kicking sneakered feet through the grass. He shuffled along for a while longer before finally piping up. "Uncle Xan was tellin’ Butt ‘n’ me that when you die you go up to heaven or down to hell..." His tone was questioning, seeking confirmation.

Though he knew that this wasn't the subject that was really troubling the boy, Spike nodded, going along with the diversion. "'S right. What do you think about that?"

The boy's forehead crinkled up, the same way Buffy's did when she was thinking really hard. After a long thoughtful pause, he replied, "I like it here in the middle."

Spike smiled. "Me too, mate, me too. What say we stay here for as long as we possibly can?"

"'Kay." Seth's reply was distracted as he gazed off into the distance. He stopped walking and squinted. "Oh wow. Cool."

"What?" Spike tried to make out what his son was looking at, and failed to spot anything of interest.

Seth pointed and his father followed the gesture, even going to the extreme of leaning over to sight along the outstretched arm. He shook his head and straightened, still unable to see the fascination.

“Don't know what you're on about, Nip.”

The boy tipped his head appraisingly. "Can'tcha hear it neither?"

It was a well-known fact, on the Hellmouth anyway, that vampires as a whole had extremely fine-tuned auditory systems. Spike had lost none of that inherent capability with his human reversion, but right at that moment all he could pick up were his and Seth's own heartbeats. He felt as deaf as a post.

And stupid.

And old.

He hesitated for a moment at the thought, calculating in his head. His lean features screwed up in a horrified grimace at the realization that he'd be turning one hundred thirty within the year. Should just start calling him Methuselah. He was jarred out of his musings when Seth suddenly took off at a mad dash.

“Oi! Get back here!”

Spike tore after him. Bloody kid was almost moving at full vamp speed. That was new. Still not as fast as his old man, though. They’d not sprinted even halfway across the graveyard before Spike overtook his son, effortlessly gathering him up and clutching him tight.

“Don’t you EVER do that again!” he puffed, holding the little body to his chest.

Seth growled.

Spike blinked. This was also new. “Bloody hell. Did you just -?”

He held Seth up and peered at him. Sure enough, his eyes had turned a deep, dark gold. They were focused beyond him, on a nearby crypt.

Spike pivoted around to look, sensing the lone vamp lurking there even as he did. Buffy may have had a point about bringing the boy along on patrol after all. This display of his had all the hallmarks of what she called her ‘spider’ sense, the Slayer part of her that always knew when a vamp was in the vicinity.

Seth’s powers were developing faster by the day. At this rate he was going to be more powerful than they had ever imagined, and he was going to get there a whole lot quicker. The sooner they learned to deal with it, the better.

He lowered Seth to the ground, keeping one hand on his narrow little shoulder to hold him in place, and pulled a stake from his pocket, peering from it to the vamp and back. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to see how talented the boy really was.

Seth took the decision away from him, snatching the stake, lightning fast, and then charging the vampire.

Judging by the stupefied expression on the fledgling’s face, he hadn’t been expecting this either. “Hey, what the…” was as far as he got before his mini-attacker leapt through the air and staked him - right through the heart in one thrust – then landed soundly on the balls of his feet, surrounded by swirling clouds of dust.

Spike pursed his lips together, hard pressed to keep from grinning from ear-to-ear, pleased as punch. That’s my boy.

“No, Spike,” Buffy’s voice whispered in link-speak, sounding just as proud as Spike was. She’d apparently been keeping tabs on the whole expedition. “That’s OUR boy.”

TBC