“You know…..”

   “Hm?”

   “Weeeeeelllllll…..”

   “Yes?”

   “You’re not working this weekend, are you?”

  “Not. At. All.” This was said with relish.

  “Weeeelllll……”

  Uh oh.  The tone was familiar; she remembered using it on Joyce, and with dread realized what it signified. A fun-filled evening of sibling blackmail awaited her.

   “This is going to be bad, isn’t it?”

  “No.” Dawn said firmly. Not for me, at any rate, she thought. “I was just thinking…”

  “You realize your chances of getting what you want decrease in proportion to how much you drag the suspense out, don’t you?”

   “Oh, okay. Bummer. So much for the long, subtle buildup and the surprise conclusion.”

   “We had that last week.”

  “It was kind of fun, though.”

  “What? The demon trapped in the house, the…Oh no. You don’t mean…?” Buffy looked at her sister with horror.

   ‘IreallyhadfuncouldIhaveaslumberpartyandthenI’llbegoodtillI’manadultpleaseplease?”

  Dawn did everything but get down on her knees in front of her and clasp her hands together beneath her chin. Buffy could only blink. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to find yourself, yet again, being faced with something that wasn’t so removed in one’s past, but somehow from the opposite side. She found herself wondering why her mother had never committed infanticide. Or adolescentside.  Weird. 

    And not fun. She had gotten the impression (coughGilescough) that being a parent involved lots of disapproval, but she had just worked a ridiculous number of hours, and had spent two Spikeless days getting rid of suspicious amounts of excess energy by cleaning the house from the basement to the attic.  Odd how it was almost as hard being apart from him as it was to be around him. And the idea of a slumber party aroused some pleasant memories that didn’t involve unexpected demon visitation.

   “No demons?” Buffy ordered.

   “No demons.”  Dawn agreed.

   “No supernatural occurrences, no felonies, no, ah…”

   “No, no, nope, none of those, I promise.”

   “No Janice.”

   “Awwwww…..”

   “No whining, either. And you pay for the videos out of your allowance.”

    “What about pizza?”

    “What kind?”

    “Pepperoni? Sausage?”

    “We’ll split it.” Buffy decided, because I will be pigging out. “When?”

   “Friday?” A day away.  Time enough to get the stun guns, earplugs, and tranquilizers ready. Doable.

   “Did I mention no demons?”

   “You did, and I agreed. So we’re good?”

   “Yes.”

   “Can Tara come?”

   “Well, it might be uncomfortable for…” Buffy trailed off, watching Dawn’s chin do a fascinating little crumple that seemed composed of equal parts rage and disappointment. And why not? It wasn’t as if Willow had really apologized, except in the moments after the car crash, and Buffy put that down to panic. The omission was bothering her, but she simply didn’t know how to approach her best friend anymore. “But the real thing is whether Tara says yes.”

    “I’ll call her right now.” Dawn jumped up and ran to the phone.  Buffy watched her, seeing for the first time in too long the little sister who’d used to be her own personal Barbie Doll. She didn’t think it was the idea of the slumber party that had intrigued Dawn; it was the idea of a whole evening to talk with Tara. Buffy wouldn’t have minded that herself, but she cringed at the way they were monopolizing the witch’s time. Really, they were both taking advantage of the sweet tempered girl, and using her nature against her.  

    Taking advantage of Tara was one thing; listening in on Dawn’s side of the conversation was quite another.

   “So, hey, Tara, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

    This was followed by a pause during which Dawn twisted one ankle around the other as if she really, suddenly, badly, had to go the bathroom and had reverted to six years old. The answer was evidently favorable, because she squealed, and bounced. “Cause I’m---“ She looked guiltily at Buffy, who was almost amused at the sudden attack of conscience. Wouldn’t do to offend the slumber party-giving Big Bad Sister.  “We’re having a slumber party. No,” She said sarcastically, “I didn’t think it was that bad. Well, yeah. But it was nice to have everyone in the same house again. Well, it wasn’t exactly. I don’t think so.”  She listened intently, and Buffy pretended to be reading the magazine she found on the coffee table. She glared suddenly at the coffee table, remembering; hadn’t Spike brought it over after he claimed to have tired of it in his crypt? She eyed the table as thought it were the table’s fault. Did he have to insinuate himself into her life the way he did into her thoughts?

   Not to mention her…

   She brushed that thought away promptly.  When did you become such a….?

   “Huh? Why? I don’t know.” Dawn turned and looked at Buffy. “Has Spike been around?”

   “No, why?”

   Dawn waved the phone at her, and Buffy got up and took it away. “Hi, Tara.”

  “Hi, Buffy. How are you?”

   “Oh, fine, you know. Bored.”

  “Bored with…working sixteen hours a day. Or…?”

   “Or? Oh, no…I meant, well, you know. You do, don’t you?”

  “No, actually. What’s wrong?”

   Buffy noted Dawn’s extreme studiousness with her school books. What a little scholar she was. Did Keys have really sharp ears? Or was that just vampires? She turned her back to Dawn, and hunched over the phone. “It’s just that he hasn’t been around for two days, and it’s been really….You know.”

   “Hm. Boring?”

 “Yes, exactly.” Boring. No long hours in bed, wrapped around each other, not even talking; no one else in the tub. Scary. No sudden kisses out of nowhere. No surreptitious touching, no rather frighteningly vivid memories with which to entertain one’s self at soul-sucking job. Of course, she actually had memories, but who wanted to remember stuff that was two days old? No, just boring. Not lonely.

    “So,’ Tara said, “Let me sum up. You don’t miss him or anything, but it’s kind of blah without him around. Sleeping okay?”

   “Fine.” Buffy snapped, then cringed.

    Tara laughed. “It is okay, Buffy. When I first realized that I didn’t feel the same way about men than my cousin did---“

   “You mean, you didn’t think that they were evil but financially attractive?” Buffy interjected, thinking of Tara’s cousin.

    “Yeah.” Tara laughed again. “I didn’t want anyone to know till I came to terms with myself, you know? So I know what it feels like.”

    Hm. Buffy thought. That was interesting. I need to come out of my closet. Or maybe it’s Spike’s closet, because he’s the one who’s so good at getting me out of my clothes. She idly considered this, then sighed, realizing that there would be no changes in clothing status till he got back. Then she remembered she was supposed to be conducting a coherent, adult conversation with Tara, not thinking rather unpleasantly wistful thoughts about a certain absent vampire.

   “And I heard that.” Tara said.

   “What?! Heard what? There was nothing to hear. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

   “You sighed.”

   “Did not.”

  “Buffy, this is me, remember? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

   Yes, there is. Buffy’s mind countered. Yes, there most certainly is. What do I feel about him? Something, dammit, but who knows? “Yes, there is, Tara. I just feel it.”

   Tara couldn’t find an argument against that. “We can talk about it in depth when the kiddies are asleep.”

   “Didn’t you go to slumber parties when you were a kid? They never go to sleep unless you drug them. Hey…” Buffy looked around thoughtfully, raising her voice. “I bet there’s some drugs around here. I bet if I looked really hard, I could find enough to really give them sweet dreams.”

  “Hey,” Dawn objected. “They’re my friends, not your experiments.”

  “Hey, share and share alike.” Buffy said. Then she turned her attention to Tara. “Tara, bring drugs. Lots of drugs.”

    “Real simple, request, Spike.” Angel pointed out. “Don’t come back to LA---“

    “Like you actually care.” Spike scoffed. “Besides, you know what happened to me. Can’t hurt anyone.”

   Angel regarded him steadily, this contradictory offspring of his, and shook his head. If he had stopped to think about it, he would have recognized the gesture: it was one his own father had used on him many times---at least before he’d killed the old fart. “And the coat.”

   “Then it’s a whole hell of a lot more money.”

   “Okay, then,” Angel said, “All that or….” He sipped at his drink “…..the truth.”

   “I told you the truth.”

   “You never tell the truth.”

   “Christ.” Spike snarled. “What a poncy, smirking, self-righteous bastard you turned out to be. Liked you better when you were Angelus.” He turned his head to look at the waitress, who mistook his look for entreaty, and consulted with the barman quickly. “But of course,” he smiled, “that was in no way, shape or form, the truth.”

    “You’re hesitating.”

    “Bloody hell.”

   He was saved from immediate danger by the waitress, who had brought another tray of absinthe, despite the fact that of the four of them, only Angel’s was now gone. “Cheers,” She whispered, and scurried off, looking fearfully at Angel. Lorne frowned at that, then muttered his apologies, and went after her.

    “I’m just curious, William,” Angel gave him a hard, flinty look, so much inferior to what Angelus was capable of doing.

   “Grandchild,” Spike corrected helpfully, trying to smirk, but not quite achieving it. Wes was now glancing back and forth between the two of them. The correction didn’t buy him much time. Shitshitshitshit. Hoist by his own petard yet again. Perhaps that had been the motto on the good old family crest. Hoist by their own petards. Putting their feet in it since 1679 or… something. Dithering in the face of danger.  Here he was, and what was he hesitating over?  Telling Angel something he wanted Buffy to shout from the rooftops.  The irony of it all. 

   “What were you like when you were human?”

  So who was the one hesitating now?  Just a jacket, after all. Nothing special there, nothing at all. Not compared to Buffy.

    Angel took another gulp of the absinthe, and rolled it around in his mouth. Spike eyed him sourly, wondering what would happen if the bastard choked. Could vampires choke? He’d have to look it up. “Who is it, Spike? I mean, even if I believe you could love somebody….”

   “Do you realize how Republican you sounded just then?” Spike asked, genuinely curious. “What’s next? Lecture me on the smoking?”

   “No, it’ll kill you.” Angel gave him that dead-eyed stare, so different from Angelus. “Save me the trouble, maybe.” He stood up slowly, looming over the table. He’s going to go all Angelus on my ass now, Spike thought. And he will kill me. This is it---He feinted sideways toward the aisle, but Angel still caught him by the lapels, picking him up and shaking him like Darth Vader. The thought remained, clear in his head, like a note of music. He’s not Angelus; he’s just pretending. He’s got an excuse now, and he’s using it. 

   He’s got an excuse, Spike thought….

   I’ve got an excuse.

   Buffy’s got an excuse.

   Dawn’s got an excuse. 

  They stared into each other’s eyes for ages, Spike’s slowly changing expression, filling with a sort of disgusted wonder. Couldn’t be true, Angel thought. Oh no, not possible. Sarcasm, maybe. But if anyone was in a position to feel contempt, it was him, shaking this much smaller vamp over the aisle like he was trying to shake coins out of his pockets, this much smaller, lighter vamp who really didn’t have a chance of fighting back.  This much smaller vamp, who, if the rumors were true, had gone through some interesting reversals, according to Dru. As he himself had.  

  He dropped Spike, ignoring the six or eight inches that separated his feet from the floor. No, Spike was not some sort of noble vampire, he’d never been good, never been tormented, what right had he to expect any sympathy?

     He straightened his clothes, aware of many eyes staring at him. Disapproving eyes. Wes was staring up at him, with the sort of look he hadn’t seen since he’d fired them all last year. Lorne, trying to get a date with the waitress from the looks of it, looked down at the floor, as if he were embarrassed about something.

     He shrugged, trying to adjust his clothes, running one hand, suddenly nervous, through his hair. He looked at Wes again. “Hey, he’s Spike. He’s dangerous.”

   “He’s chipped, Angel, and you’re bigger than him.” Wes took a sip of his drink, and Spike watched the grimace that followed with great appreciation. Good lord, hadn’t any of these people ever gotten seriously drunk? He was dead and as bad as things were for him of late, he had more of a life than they did, despite lacking that crucial thing called a pulse.

    “You say you’re here to help the woman you love, a human. Can’t do it any other way. Is there anybody who could confirm this?”  He glanced around; Spike suddenly looking anywhere but at him, and Angel suddenly, utterly inscrutable. “I think I know who would know. I mean, really, it’s her job, isn’t it?” He sighed, considering the thought of handing off this dilemma to someone who could deal with it far better than he. 

    “I’ve got the solution.” Wes said quietly. “Let’s just call Buffy.”

    Buffy tiptoed round the corner, nerves zinging with electricity, darting glances for exit in case the attack came. She had one exit on her left, another on her right, so she should have enough escape routes.  She froze in place, breathing shallowly, in case the thing was close by and could hear her. No noise from her left. Moving one molecule at a time, she slid one foot noiselessly forward, closer to her goal. Was that a creak? She went rigid, waiting, Goosebumps rising from tension, only a couple yards away now. She listened again, Slayer sense attuned to the dangers that lurked around her. She slid forward, lithe and stealthy, closer; closer still… She could practically taste…

    …the pepperoni she kept swiping from one of Dawn’s pizzas.  The front door slammed down the hall from her, and she jumped several guilty-looking feet in the air, eeping as she did so. She whirled for the back door, but before she got to there, Dawn was at the kitchen door, scowling. “Buf-fy! Stop that!”

     “Hey.” Buffy tried for placating, but it came out….whiney. No, that wasn’t a whine, dammit. She did not whine. “I’m just hungry.”

   “You’ll spoil your appetite.” Dawn said, glad that she had one. “Besides, you always pick all the pepperonis off.”

   “I paid for half those pepperonis, I’ll have you know.” Buffy pointed out loftily. She pointed a finger at Dawn, but got intercepted again, because Dawn was eying her other hand and grabbed it.

   “Knock it off, I mean it. Or I’ll tell Spike that you—“

   Buffy’s jaw dropped. “What---what----? Dawn!”

   The doorbell rang, and Dawn, with the smirk of a successful small time crook, whirled off to answer it, leaving Buffy with several questions.

   Tell Spike what?

   And how?

   And what all over again?

   And when did Dawn get back to normal?

    She cast a resentful eye toward the front hallway, then picked a pepperoni off the pizza, firmly closed the box, and popped the slice in her mouth.

   “Dawn’s gonna get you for that,” Willow observed from the hallway.  There was something satisfying in the guilt on Buffy’s face, she noticed. 

  “Hey, aren’t I entitled to a pepperoni here and there?”

   “I don’t know if it’s the pepperoni bugging her so much.” Willow picked off a piece of pineapple and down the hatch it went. “It’s the sneaky part of it.”

   Weak languid kisses in the shadows of the Bronze, Spike’s coat wrapped around her…like he himself was. The secret sensation of moisture between her thighs, the sensation of him only just gone…She turned white, remembering. Willow’s red face, almost a match for her hair…Once this would have been a shared conspiracy, the two of them filching something they shouldn’t have, but she didn’t like the tone of Willow’s voice. “Uh, Will---I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something….”

   “Who with?”

   “You, doofus.” She nodded at the back door. She took a deep, steadying breath.  “Wanna huddle?”

   They stepped outside, sat down on the steps.  Buffy was sorry to notice how far apart Willow put herself from her, and how it didn’t seem accidental.  “So.” Willow said, looking at the toes of her sneakers. “Talk.”

    “Well….” Buffy said, and her throat closed up. “Well…” Oh God, how could this be happening? Once there had been nothing they wouldn’t talk about; now there was nothing they could.  “The other night…?”

   “Which other night?” Willow asked, still looking down.” Tuesday? Wednesday? Or I don’t know…maybe the night I saw you kissing Spike? That night?”

   “Will?” Buffy asked forlornly. 

    “Buffy, I know…” She swallowed and quickly glanced up, then quickly away. “I know, with the magic and all….I haven’t been a good friend. I’ve..been…” She swallowed hard and stared sternly and the wooden stair railing. “But what’ s going on there?”

    “I couldn’t tell you.” Buffy said. “I don’t understand myself.”

    “Well, how serious is…?” Buffy flushed to the hairline, and Willow regarded this with some amazement. “You mean…you….with Spike? Spike?”

   “Oh, God.” Buffy moaned, burying her face in her hands. She ran her hands through her hair, then stopped, recognizing the gesture; it was his, when he was particularly frustrated. It was almost as if he was hoping to shake some brain cells loose. And now she was doing it. Maybe it was the times she spent with her fingers in his hair…. Will, though, mistook the meaning of the gesture. “Buffy….? Really?”

    “Just don’t tell anyone.”

   “Anyone meaning…?”

   “Xander.” Buffy said firmly. “I’ll have to explain it to him, and I just can’t explain it to myself.”

    “Buffy, do you love him?”

    “He loves me.”

    “But do you…?”

    “I don’t know!” She burst out. “It just feels so different! I can’t tell what it means, it just feels so strange, so…new…I don’t know what to think. I just…” she shrugged helplessly.  “I don’t know what this is.”

    I didn’t understand that I didn’t think of men the same way my cousin did, Buffy’s mind prompted. “I never felt this way about someone like Spike…”

   “Angel?” Willow supplied thoughtfully.

    “He had a soul,” Buffy pointed out sadly. “So he was …different.”  She concluded lamely.  She couldn’t finish the thought precisely. Angel had a soul; Spike did not.

    Spike has you, her subconscious prompted.

    “So he’s different. Not the same species.” Buffy continued.

   “Vampire.”

   “Yes.”

   “But vampire with a soul.”

   “Right.”

   “As opposed to chipped vampire.”

   “Yes.”

    “Totally different animal.” Willow agreed, not seeing Buffy wince. “Didn’t feel the same at all?” She prodded hopefully, trying to be useful, trying to help. “I mean…You know, the way you felt about him…?”

    Not at all, Buffy thought. Lots of torment and denial; with Spike the only denial was in front of her friends. Was it just the difference between the two vampires, or was the difference in her? She only knew everything felt new with Spike around, as if she’d never felt anything before, tasted anything before…”I mean, vampire, right? Impossible. Angel was the exception; one-time thing. Once in a lifetime. For me, anyway.” She brushed away memory of their uncomfortable little meeting.” But this…If he weren’t a vampire, if he weren’t Spike….” She swallowed. “It would be…perfect.” She whispered.

    Willow looked at her, her face worried, then reached out across the bitter months, and brushed Buffy’s hair out of her eyes. “It’s okay, Buffy.”

    “You’re just saying that because it’s in the Best Friend Bylaws that you have to do that.”

   “No.” She said softly.  “I’m just glad we talked. I could tell something was bugging you; you had to come out with it.”

   Come out with it? Buffy thought with a panic. Come out? That was what Tara had said.

   “Hey…” Tara poked her head out the door. “Uh….” She hitched her shoulders up with tension, then regained her composure. “Hey, Buffy.”  Her voice dropped. “Willow.”

   “Oh, Tara, it’s so cool.” Willow jumped to her feet. “It’s so neat.” She gestured at Buffy, who was moving from puzzled to a little annoyed. “Buffy just came out.”

  “Uh…what?”

     “Well, of course, Spike,” Wes said with great, adult, calm. “Buffy should know what’s going on, shouldn’t she?”

   “None of her business, innit?” Spike glanced between the Watcher and the nemesis. “Don’t exactly go to the tanning salon with her, do I? Punches me in the face every chance she gets.” Not to mention the shagging.   He drummed his fingers on the table, wishing he had a watch to look at so as to give the impression he was completely without a care or time to care.  As if the thought that they would discover that he and Buffy wereohI’mdeadhaving sex didn’t make him wonder what it felt like to get staked. Well, actually he did know that part, the World’s Biggest Slice of Wonderbread having staked him with plastic the one time. He’d heard---the sort of tales that got told around campfires (or microwaves, waiting for the blood to heat)----that being staked, before you were dust, felt like being burnt alive.

    Kind of like what if felt like when he and Buffy….He jerked his thoughts back to Wes and Angel, wondering what they’d seen, what they’d noticed while he gazed off dreamily in the distance.  Was it that obvious? Did he look all wussy and poetic now?  They were frowning thoughtfully at one another, prompting a time-wasting smirk from Spike. “Want me to leave for a moment? Have something to discuss?”

    “No,” Angel said tightly. “Just something to do.”

    “We’ll have to call her.” Wes said, with more than a little reluctance.

    “Uh, let’s not and say we did?” Spike suggested.  The badness that would result from this phone call could not be contained by his brain cells; it would be like a nuclear blast, spreading debris over whole continents.

     “What’s the matter, William?  Afraid the Slayer’s going to slay you? Oh, she doesn’t know, does she? Wonder what she’ll do when she finds out.   I mean, who could it be? If you’d ever actually gotten anywhere with whoever this woman is, you’d be bragging to anybody who’d listen.”

     Spike forgot his apprehension for a minute, and just looked at Angel. He shook his head slowly.  It had always been Angelus who bragged of his conquests---or massacres, was the better word. Never did like a fight unless the odds were on his side. And women? Who did he himself have to brag about, Dru? How could you brag about poor Dru, when the slightest kindness did her in, the poor twisted little thing.   Angel was smiling unpleasantly, certain he’d struck a nerve. “Unless you have no hope of success with her? Have you even told her you’re a vampire?  Too scared to?” Spike shook his head again, and Angel, mistaking the gesture for a no rather than what it was ---a negation of him----continued to needle.   “Who is it, Willow? The lesbian witch? Or maybe it’s Joyce…that’d  be more your style, William, pining after someone you can’t have because she’s dead…”

   Spike flashed to his feet before he was even aware of it, but Angel stayed sitting, completely cool, as unaffected by the other’s vampire’s anger as he was by the errand that had brought him here. This has been entertaining but it really has gone on too long. Finally, having made his contempt more than clear, he languidly stretched to his feet, reaching out and dusting off imaginary specks on Spike’s collar. “Time to decide, Spike. What’s the truth? Your little girlfriend, does she know what you are? Or does she even know you exist? You’re not the Big Bad any longer, you know? So what are you? The…Medium Bad? “

   “Sod off.”

   “Afraid not. You come here, into my town, demanding what, my money?  and…I’m supposed to hand it over? Why? Because I feel sorry for you?  Maybe I feel sorry for your…” He chuckled unpleasantly.”….for your little girlfriend. If she’s your girlfriend. Because how could any human love you?”

   Spike lashed out, but before he’d even extended the punch, the pain bloomed in his head, twisting his features with anguish. He sank back down onto the bench. Wes and Angel exchanged glances. “Right, then.” Wes said. “Do you have any change?”

    Buffy cast a gimlet eye at the arriving guests, while Tara sent a few sideways glances her way. “What?” Buffy demanded out of the corner of her mouth.

    “You gonna check ID’s, too?”

    “That’s a thought.” Especially seeing as how I wouldn’t put it past Janice to being a demon in her own right. “You know what we need?”

   “Hm?” Tara asked, smiling at a wide-eyed Sophie.

    “A demon detector.”

   “I was going to go for another bathroom, but hey…. Nice to have at airports.”

   “It would so simplify my life.”

    Then again, maybe not, as Anya, former demon, appeared at the door with…Oh. No.

     “Oh, no, I don’t think so.”

    “She’s in town for the wedding.”

    “She locked us all in the house.”

    “Oh, that.” Hallie dismissed this little contretemps with an airy hand wave. “That wasn’t personal.”

   “It was to me.” Buffy said through tight lips.

   “But, sweetie, you’re the one who had the vampire at your birthday party.  What’s another demon?”

   Ha! Buffy thought. That only works if you’re a bleached blonde vampire with a certain wit and a wicked tongue. The last two were not necessarily synonymous. She crossed her arms resolutely on her chest, and glared at the demon. “You’re not just another demon,” She pointed out. “You think I’m a bad older sister to Dawn. What are you going to do, hang around and wait till someone wishes something?” She glared at Anya, who shrugged. Then an idea visibly struck the former demon, and she held out a hand to Hallie. “Give it up.”

   “What? A cover charge?”

   “The amulet.”

   Hallie looked more aghast than any demon who didn’t intend mischief should have looked, giving Buffy a certain satisfaction. After all, at the very least, she was protecting the members of N’Sync from a room full of teenage girls.  She considered for a moment how much fun it would be to speculate on what form that would take, then shoved that thought aside as being very unworthy.

     At least till she could discuss it with Dawn, later.

   Sulkily, the demon gave up the amulet, which Anya pocketed without a second glance. “So,” She said with great satisfaction. “Where are the cookies?”

    The phone rang.

  Spike tried the puppy dogs eyes look at Wes, but it just wasn’t working.  Wes, covering the receiver with one hand, gave the vampire’s chest a shove. “Push off, Spike, I need to concentrate.”

   “It’s concentrating that I don’t want you to do.” Spike glanced back at the table, where Angel had spread out, almost triumphantly across one side of the booth.  He had one arm stretched along the back as if he owned the place, and the fingers of one hand were leisurely tapping in time to the music of the jukebox. Spike frowned. Angel didn’t like music much. What was…?

   “Hello, is Buffy there? It’s Wesley.”  There was a pause. “Wesley Wyndham-Pryce Buffy’s former Watcher. Yes, I was.” Another, lengthier pause followed, during which Wes crooked the phone on his shoulder, took off his glasses and wiped them. Spike eyed the stubble of a neglected beard, and wondered what that was about. Weren’t Watchers supposed to be all neat and tidy? He made a grab for the phone, but noticed two things simultaneously:  Wes had the plunger pressed down on the phone, and was staring past Spike’s shoulder with enormous eyes.

   Spike whirled around, just in time to see Angel’s eyes slowly cross and assume an extremely befuddled expression. Then he slowly rolled forward till his head banged on the table. There was a baritone chuckle, a sigh, and then all was silent. His own knees just about gave way; no more harangues, no more lectures, no more Ohpoormewiththesoul. Then he remembered Wes. He turned around to find the Watcher replacing the phone receiver back in the cradle and meeting his gaze with a certain---and, he felt, rather inappropriate---cockiness. He nodded at the phone. “What was that?”

   “Thought I needed to stall him.” Wes nodded at Angel. “And what was that?”

     Smile gave him an entirely appropriate smug grin. “I had the waitress put all the laudanum that should have gone into my drink into his. So I got half and he got twice as much. “  He turned and waved cheerily at the girl, who at that moment was stroking the silk of Lorne’s tie very gently, like it was a pet. Who knows, maybe it was. Lorne perked up right away and came sauntering over. “So it was a success?”

     “Depends on how big a hangover he has tomorrow.” Spike shrugged. He turned to Wesley. “Why didn’t you…?”

   Wes looked away. “Because it’s Buffy, isn’t it?” He scrubbed his glasses vigorously, ignoring the way Spike’s jaw dropped.

   “You won’t---You can’t…” Spike’s throat abruptly turned dry. “If he finds out…”

   “He won’t find out from me,” Wes said quietly.

   “Why did you…?”

    “It occurred to me, that a vampire can be a very useful ally. Or spy. Or lots of things.”

    All three of them looked at each other, then Lorne cracked up.  “That’s it, honey, no more James Bond movies for you.  You get all frustrated after you watch them. “

    “I was completely serious.”

    “I’m sure you are, sweetness. But see, I just thought how sweet it would be, two lovelorn kind of ….guys…..joining forces.” He sighed loudly, affixing a wistful look on his face. Given that he was green, had horns, worn an outfit that made him look like an Irish pimp, and was actually gazing wistfully at a bar full of tacky American vintages, this was an impressive feat. It also gave Wes time to look off in the distance, and Spike an opportunity to examine the toes of his boots.

   “I’m a former Watcher.” Wes pointed out stiffly. “And I am the director of this company, so I decide what gets done with petty cash.” He looked sternly at Spike.” This is not a gift. This is a retainer.” He glanced at Angel, face down in the booth. “And it just seems practical that we do this on a cash basis due to certain….tensions…That’s all. Now. Shall we?”

    They manhandled Angel out to the car, but Spike acted as a sort of UN observer: he absolutely refused to touch him, so of course the only thing left to was observe and critique.   They didn’t do enough dropping, in his opinion.  Also, there were some severe deficiencies in the head-banging department, too. Finally, they dumped the other vampire into the backseat with a satisfactory thud, and then headed back to the hotel, the three of them jammed into the front seat. Lorne didn’t help matters; he sat in the middle and hummed show tunes, occasionally breaking into snatches of “It’s May.”

    This was not helpful. 

    Wes kept glancing into his rear view mirror as if he expected Angel to revive suddenly in the back seat. Spike saw that and grinned at him. “Uh, Watcher? You, ah, do realize that if he suddenly wakes up, you won’t be able to see him in that mirror, right?”

   Wes flushed suddenly, then recovered enough to give him a haughty look. “I’m well aware of that. But I could see some things shifting if he wakes up.”

   “Why is it so important?”

   “There was an incident—was it last year? Or so, I forget precisely when. Angel was drugged, and it induced a false…euphoria. He became Angelus for a while. I’d like to get him home before that happens---if--if---- that happens---- so he can be restrained.”

   Hm. Interesting, Spike thought. “Was this when he set Dru and Darla on fire?” He asked pointedly.

   Wes pretended to be preoccupied with passing another vehicle and ignored the question. Hm again, Spike thought. So he went all Angelus and that wasn’t how Dru and Darla almost got toasted. What an interesting little tidbit that was. What was he when he decided to go all Firestarter?

    They screeched to a stop in front of the Hyperion, and again Spike watched as they maneuvered the larger vampire up the steps. Dead weight indeed. And how disappointing; if it had been him, he would have at least drop kicked him a few times. Lorne must have picked up on some of that, because he insisted on taking Angel to his room, and presumably tucking him in. Spike was amused by an image of the demon attempting to put Angel into his pyjamas. For a moment, he entertained himself by speculating on Angel’s choice of nightwear. After all, he certainly couldn’t wear the coat to bed.

     Wes poked his head out of the office, and beckoned at him. Spike, remembering that he was about to be given a fair amount of money, suddenly tried to remember what gratitude was. Certainly, there was that feeling he got when Buffy touched him anywhere, but he didn’t think Wes would appreciate that particular expression if confronted with it.  He peered around the doorjamb, hand scratching uncomfortably at the back of his neck, right about where Buffy usually put her hand when she kissed him. With a practically audible snap, he wrenched himself back to whatever it was that Wes was saying.

    “How much do you need?”

   “Well, house payments, for a few months at least…”Spike thought. In truth, he hadn’t planned for this, and now, confronted with his success, he had no idea what to ask for.

     “What are you going to do?” Wes asked curiously.

     “Thought I’d, you know, get some information from Dawn, make a few payments, take a bit of the heat off…” Spike trailed off uncomfortably as he felt Wes’ eyes on him. “Dawn will do that for me.”

    Wes shook his head, his eyes blank and amazed. “You know, she won’t even think it’s you when she finds out someone’s paid some of her bills.”

    Spike just shrugged. Big deal. Just as long as he could crawl into her bed, and this time not have to leave while she tried to persuade him to stay.

    “What if she thinks it’s Angel?” Wes said gently.

    “What if she doesn’t?” Spike countered. “They met after…she came back, you know. She won’t talk about it. And he set Dru on fire, and you already told me he wasn’t Angelus at the time.”  He stared away with some bitterness. “What did he do after she died?”

    Wes looked away.

     Spike scowled at him, even though he wasn’t the problem. “What’d he do, go party? Sounds like him.” He refrained from pointing out the misery of those 147 days. “Guess it wasn’t a timeless thing for him, like he told her, was it?”

   “Spike…I would like to ask something.”

    Spike nodded his assent, expecting something technical, but that wasn’t what he got.  “She doesn’t love you at all?”

   “No, it’s not like that.” He answered. “There’s something there.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Not sure I can handle it, if it does happen, you know? I know it, know she doesn’t love me, but sometimes I think I see it, in her eyes, it’s just that she hates saying stuff like that.” He glanced down at the floor, unable to meet the Watcher’s eyes. A Watcher and a vampire, talking about love. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing, but he did know one thing; it was extraordinary, and Buffy was the catalyst for it.  “Putting it into words---not her strong suit.”

    “You were a poet.”

   “When I was a human.” Spike thought about it, then added, “That’s what I feel like…when…..” He had to look away. “You?”

    Wes shrugged uncomfortably, leaning forward on his elbows on the desk, unwilling to answer, but unwilling not to; how could he not, when the vampire had been nothing but honest? He was momentarily silenced by the idea of it all; sharing confidences about love with a vampire. He sighed, swallowing a lump in a dry throat. “She…uh….she loves someone else.”

    “Then she’s not for you.” Spike said quietly. He thought of Dru, always willing to drop him at the crook of Angelus’ little finger. “Know what it’s like, I do. Won’t make that mistake again. It’s like you’re not there, when there’s someone else. She’s---she’s---aware---of me. I come up behind her, and she…senses me. Feels me. I know what that’s like, don’t I? That’s how I felt with…this…”His voice got very soft.”…this woman I loved. I felt her, when she was around me, like the air had a tide and she shifted through it like a current.” He shrugged with embarrassment. “Never felt that way about anyone till Buffy.” Not even Dru, he thought regretfully, but he wasn’t sure that was a bad thing. Dru had been so dependant on him, but Buffy could get along quite well without him, he knew. Nevertheless….She was still there, wasn’t she? Not like she was going with the first human who came along.

    “Can’t help what I feel.” Wes said ruefully.

    “No, you can’t.” Spike said thoughtfully. “All you do is ride it out. Like an undertow, mate, that’s what it is. You fight it, it will drag you under. Just have to go with it, because you’ll use up all your strength against it, and it won’t matter. It’ll kill you.”

   Wes nodded silently, looking at his desk. Spike looked at him soberly. “Who?”

    “I beg your pardon?”

    “Who is it? You used to be sweet on Cordelia, didn’t you?”

    “Oh, that…” Wes brushed that infatuation away. “Things were so different then.” He considered it for a minute, the pleasant certainty of that crush, crumbled in a heap on a library floor. It was almost sweet, compared to the twist he felt in his gut every time he looked at Fred. He knew he should try and feel glad for her sake, but he just couldn’t.  The fact that Gunn obviously treated her like fine china only made him feel guiltier. “No, it’s not her. Not that she’s not a wonderful woman.”

   Aha! Spike thought. She’s still in love with the father of the kid. Isn’t that the same old story? “You have to give it time, Wes.” He said. “’Course, what do I know, I’m a vampire.”

   Wes blinked at him. “Spike, I’m beginning to think you might be as unique as Angel himself.”

   “Uh, yeah.” Spike brushed that away. “Well, that I am, but not for the sort of thing I’d like. William the Bloody has reverted to his true roots. Next thing you know, I let the hair go, start listening to harpsichord music, ‘f you can call it that music. Please stake me if I do, would you? I don’t mind being a—a---house pet--- quite so much as I mind the idea of being…a….tacky house pet.”

   Wes blinked at this, having no idea how to cope with a vampire suffering an identity crisis. He’d figured he’d reached the limit of his adaptability with the whole vampire-in-love thing now, but now here was something else. Really, he needed to write this stuff up to truly cope with it.

   “Ah---I’m sorry. Spike, how much was it that you wanted?”

  Lorne flipped the blankets over Angel’s prone form and considered that maybe being a vampire wasn’t a bad thing. No snoring, for example. Definitely a plus. On the other hand, to adequately nurture a grudge and a desire for retribution, it appeared there was nothing like a centuries-long life span to truly give one an attitude. He’d of course been around for the whole half Angelus thing the previous year, but unlike the others, well, he hadn’t found it depressing. At first. Killing lawyers? Well, darn. Now, he hadn’t had anything personally against Dru or Darla, but nevertheless, vampires, that whole thing, why couldn’t they go vegetarian or something? Or pick off obnoxious people? So, again, there, not exactly feeling the dismay.  It had taken him a while, he admitted it, but maybe it had been the cumulative effect, but finally it had gotten to him. Still, wasn’t it unreasonable of well, some people, to expect Angel to be…so…well…angelic…all the time? There was some poetic justice there somewhere, and he really didn’t know quite where.   

    He was good at dealing with..stuff; had to, with his abilities. Nevertheless, he found tonight to have left a rather unpleasant taste in his mouth. He’d read Spike, and never before had Angel doubted him. It was as if Angel had changed the rules just for this one night, this one case, this one vampire.  It wasn’t like him, although it was perilously close to last year’s Angel for his taste.

   He’d heard all about Spike; he’d heard about Buffy. He knew about the chip as well. What he just couldn’t figure out was how the one affected the other. He had no doubt about Spike, but he didn’t know nearly enough about Buffy to make up his mind.

   Why do you care? His subconscious asked.

    Because one lovesick vampire was more than enough.

    And, maybe, just maybe….He sighed heavily, unwilling to bring that thought to its sappy conclusion. He hadn’t had nearly enough to drink for that. A vampire in love with a Slayer? He looked at Angel again. So different this time around, wasn’t it? 

   Spike poked his head in. “How’s the poofter?”

   “And people say you don’t care, you crazy kid.” Lorne adjusted a pillow, and Spike wondered how he could resist the temptation to press it over that face. Of course, it wouldn’t kill him, but it would mean one didn’t have to look at him.

   “I don’t, actually,” Spike said. “But there was something.” He swung the bag he’d brought with him, and out came a cascade of Playboy magazines, in a satisfying flurry of pages. Angel did not so much as flinch. Spike wondered what it would be like when he woke up; he was sort of sorry he’d miss the fallout, but not if it kept him from Buffy for any longer than necessary.

   “It’s interesting you stopped by.” Lorne pointed out.

   “I needed to do some more gloating.”

    “Sure it wasn’t something….more…compassionate?”

   “Uh…Yeah.” Spike fixed him a perfectly balanced scowl in which scorn, amusement, and disdain were evenly mixed. “I just wanted to make sure he hadn’t thrown up all over you.”

  “Oh, ack.” Lorne said, backing away. He brushed off his hands unconsciously, turning Lady MacBeth for an instant.  Then he tiptoed gingerly around the bed. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Smarty Pants. Just for that, I’m coming with you.”

     “So…I thought we were leaving.”

    “Just one more thing I have to do.”

    “Are you going to tell me what that is?”

    With that, Spike slowly, patiently, turned his head and glared at him. Lorne was impressed by the deeply annoyed quality of that scowl, but on the other hand, Angel had the patiently-enduring-thing perfected to a more subtle degree. Spike looked as if the next notch up his particular ladder of pique might involve ripping off heads. Angel always looked as if he were going to sigh repeatedly, then get tight-lipped, and finally threaten to rip off heads. He wondered if impulsive head-removal was just something one outgrew, like impulse shopping;  after all, Angel had at least a hundred years on Spike in the age category. How did vampires mature, anyway?

    Spike yanked the car over to a parking spot in front of a store, and leaped out, duster practically flapping with glee. Lorne shook his head. What on earth was going on in that bleached blonde head?  Was it the peroxide?

    Spike pegged the clerk’s look instantly: Huh, leather good, but attitude sort of scary. Customer or potential robber? Let’s walk in front of one of the fitting mirrors, he thought, and really freak this guy out. “I need something that looks like this.” He said, gesturing, and watched as the clerk visibly relaxed. “Except,” he savored the thought, “in the smallest size you’ve got.”

     It didn’t take long; the clerk was only too eager to placate him and then see him on his way, his unease in no way alleviated by the way Spike haggled over the price. Oh, for the good old days, when he’d dealt with indecisive twits like this by making them dinner instead of commission. Bastard.  Damned if he was going to pay that much for something he’d never use.

  Finally, he intimidated the git enough for the purchase to be rung up as a sale item, then snatched the bag and raced out. Just closing time: how fast could he drive, and he still had a final stop to make.  He completely ignored Lorne’s skeptical expression as he performed a fast and highly illegal U-turn, then went screeching back to the Hyperion.

   “Hey, I’m not coming back here just yet, sweetie,” Lorne pointed out.

   “Relax, leprechaun.” Spike muttered, grabbing the bag and dashing back in the building. “Just one last thing….”

    Careful now, he tiptoed up the stairs, looking in both directions at the landing, checking for noise. Nothing. He went to Angel’s room and was pleased to see his grandsire both unattended and still deeply unconscious. Even better. Once he’d not have hesitated to get revenge for a century of irritation both so extreme and so petty he’d have called it human. Now he had a better plan…

    He pulled the new coat out of the bag, ripped off the price and size tags, and threw it over the sleeping form. Bastard wanted a coat? Well, then see if this one fit. At least the size was appropriate….Soul or not, Angel always had been nothing but an extra small.

    Light-hearted again, and light-headed with the thought of seeing Buffy again---how many centuries had it been?----he sauntered out to the car, duster swaying around him. He slid behind the wheel, sighed with as much contentment as a vampire could muster, and then cranked up the CD player to The Ramones.

    “Don’t you dare sing.” Lorne said. 

       Buffy had just decided which pepperoni was going to be next when there was a thunderous sound in the hallway, and Anya appeared, panick-stricken and flushed, in the doorway. She grabbed at the doorjamb for support, and gaped first at Tara, who had just missed a real good swat at Buffy’s hands, and at Buffy, who was using her Slayer reflexes in a rather unscrupulous extra-curricular kind of way. At first Buffy cringed at getting caught pepperoni stealing, then glared accusingly at Tara, who didn’t seem to think it was stealing if it was pineapple chunks. Somewhat abashed, both of them avoided each other’s eyes, focusing brightly on Anya. Tara recognized the look on the other woman’s face, but was rather startled by it; it was the frizzy look that Miss Kitty Fantastico got after she’d gotten too stimulated with catnip, and was looking around for something else to destroy.

   “What’s wrong?”

   “Cookies!” Anya gasped. She staggered to the sink, yanked the faucet to ‘gush’ and gulped down the whole glass of water in practically one gulp.

  “Is, um, your next word going to ‘Rosebud’ or something?” Tara asked. “Because I just don’t quite see…?”

   “We’re out of cookies.” Anya whispered. It was the same tone of voice that Buffy remembered using in reference to mascara, a combination of horror and realization.   “What are we going to do?”

   “Uh…mug a Girl Scout?” Buffy suggested.

   “Oh, yes, that’s so funny.” Anya filled another glass and drank it slowly. “But she’s in such an awful mood, I don’t know what to do; it’s only the cookies keeping her calm.”

   “Uh, get her some more maybe?”

    “Where?” Anya demanded. “I don’t think there’s anything open at this hour anymore.”

   “There’s got to be a Seven Eleven or something,” Tara said. “Besides, shouldn’t Hallie be leaving soon?” It’s not like she was invited, she thought. But how did you eject a vengeance demon who supposedly couldn’t exert the forces of revenge according to her own desires? She checked the time: eleven thirty and the girls were still up. Judging by the squeals periodically being emitted from the living room, they were quite up.

   “What are you guys talking about in there?”

   “Uh, Anya, you’re not talking about sex with them, are you?” Tara pointed out gently. Buffy, thinking she had a clear shot, snatched a pepperoni and popped it in her mouth.

   “No! They’re the ones that brought the subject up.”

   This caused such a long glance between Tara and Buffy that even Anya noticed. “Well, it’s rude to change the subject, isn’t it? Besides, I didn’t know any of the words. I thought they would be helpful in my retail career. A good vocabulary is always helpful. And, besides,” she muttered, “Hallie was telling them all about the good old days.”

   “The---“ Buffy swallowed, envisioning the lawsuits in her future---“the good old days?”

   “When Hallie was human and I was a vengeance demon.”

  “Oh, and what else was Hallie saying?”

  “Well, sometimes I was on the front porch. But Willow was telling them about the boyfriend that used to be a werewolf.”

   “Oh, good.” Tara said mildly. “Buffy?” There was a loud shriek, a chorus of “OHS!!” and Anya froze, jumped, and whirled, all at once, disappearing back toward the living room. Tara blinked. “I think that actually violated the laws of physics.”

  “You know, it really is getting kind of late….” Buffy gestured for silence, and headed toward the living room, expecting to hear occasional shrieks, but it was suddenly, ominously, quiet.  This was good, perhaps…or was it? She paused outside the living room. She could hear a soft voice, soothing, rising and falling as gently as water on a shore, almost sense the in held breaths of eleven girls. Did Vengeance demons also cast spells of silence?

    She peeked around the door, and saw Hallie, in game face, surrounded by girls sitting cross-legged at her feet, with Willow perched on the end of the sofa. “….And the Married Women’s Fair Credit Act enabled women to get credit on their own and buy things without having to….” Anya saw the thunder in her expression and unobtrusively slithered to her feet, the picture of guilt, sidling past her back toward the kitchen.

   Buffy sighed hugely and was suddenly the center of thirteen pairs of eyes. They all looked at her curiously, Dawn’s scary older sister, who reportedly had truly frightening weirdness cooties that were totally ineradicable. Now, she thought, why are demons less frightening than eleven disapproving teenage girls?

   She gestured enthusiastically---too enthusiastically, she realized; she looked like someone trying to guide in a jetliner on a runway----for the chat to continue, then backed away with a huge sigh of relief. She wondered just how many older brothers and fathers would find themselves the subject of lectures tomorrow.

    “Anya!” She snapped from the kitchen doorway.

   “What?”

   “She’s talking about the Federal Fair Credit Act or something. Not sex.”

   “Well…” Anya shrugged. “I think credit is sexy.’

   “Yeah,” Tara said, “You and Alan Greenspan.”

   Buffy and Anya exchanged blank looks while Tara took a deep breath. “Okay, well, I thought that was funny.”

    Anya patted her on the shoulder. “Maybe I just don’t understand lesbian humor.”  She squared her shoulders and headed back into battle, leaving Buffy and Tara shaking their heads.

   “Alan Greenspan?”

   “Chief of the Federal Reserve Bank.”

  “Lesbian humor?”

  “Can’t help you with that one, sorry.” Tara eyed more pineapple, while Buffy looked over the pizza and sighed. “So…what can I help you with?”

   Buffy groaned. “You’ve helped too much as it is.” She picked at a pepperoni, while Tara half-heartedly slapped at her wrist.” Buffy, why don’t you just eat the whole damn thing?”

   “You said damn, Tara! What’s next? Combat boots?”

   “It’s the pineapple, it makes me all aggressive.”  Tara watched her disapprovingly as she snagged more contraband from the practically-nude pizza.  “You know, you just pick and pick and pick, because why?”

   “Too many calories.”

   “How many of those have you eaten?”

   Buffy swallowed guiltily and tried to look innocent.

   “Yeah, okay, Buffy, but think about it. You’ve been picking all evening, picking at bits and pieces, but you’ve eaten so many of those slices, you probably might as well have eaten the whole pizza by now. Except this way you get to convince yourself that you didn’t really do that much, it’s calorie free because it’s just a bit here and there. It’s more fun just to admit it, and just take the whole thing.”

    Buffy stared at her.

    “Sorry, Buffy, I just….” Tara wondered suddenly if she had inadvertently inflamed some sort of eating disorder, the way Buffy stared at her with wide eyes.

   “No, you’re right.” Buffy gave her a strange smile, and shook her head. “You know what, Tara, you are right. You really are. You always are. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

   “Oh, Buffy, I didn’t mean it like that, okay?”

   “Oh, I don’t know….I think it worked….” Buffy slid off her stool at the counter. “Hold down the fort, okay? I need some air.” 

    “Slow down.”

   “Whose car is it?”

  “Certainly not yours, sweetness. So slow down so we can get it back to the rightful owner in one piece.”

   “He’s given up on getting it back.”

   “Okay, then, slow down so you can get me back in one piece.”

   Spike gave him the double whammy of a stare, and an exasperated sigh, made all the more impressive by the cut-glass cheekbones and the scarred face. It didn’t work. Lorne had too much sympathy in his face for Spike not to feel guilty, especially when he considered his ulterior motive in allowing the demon to come with. He wondered if Lorne had an ulterior motive. It was getting to the point where it was just easier to assume everyone had an ulterior motive and be pleasantly surprised when they didn’t. Although he wasn’t sure about Angel; his motive was crystal clear: kill him and/or make sure he suffered. Seeing as how this pretty much summed up his own ambitions for Angel’s future, this actually worked pretty well.

    “Remind me why you’re here again.”

   “Just curious to see the inestimable Buffy, who slays vampires when she’s not l-“

   Spike whipped out a hand, and Lorne was impressed by that; the vampire seemed to barely twitch, and then he was pinned to the seat with what felt like a hand of cool marble, utterly inescapable, and implacably squeezing off his air.

   “Talk about her like that again, mate…”

   Lorne gestured surrender, and Spike fixed him with icy blue eyes, releasing him. Lorne watched with some wonder as the vampire swallowed hard, then stared so intently out the small unpainted aperture in the windshield that it was surprising it didn’t melt.

   Lorne thought about vampires, about this vampire in particular. He didn’t have a soul, but he was puzzled as to why the humans bothered so much with that concept. Here was a vampire at his most evil, singing Bruce Springsteen for a woman he feared didn’t love him back. And a vampire in love with the Slayer!  He marveled at the concept. Even though he knew of two cases, it still awed him, and he’d heard too many awful renditions of “If Ever I Would Leave You,’ to not be a bit cynical.

    He had his own little guidelines for judging people, and Spike had effortlessly confounded them. Much as he resisted it, he had to contrast the two vampires; the one with the soul, the one without. He knew he shouldn’t compare musical tastes or execution, but it was impossible not to think about Angel’s rendition of ‘Mandy’ in contrast with Spike’s version of ‘She’s the One.’ Or Angel, brushing aside Buffy’s death with a lament about a wasted vacation. Spike, traveling to LA on some harebrained quest to get enough cash to take the heat off of her for a while.

   He knew none of it mattered, knew it was unfair to let it matter, but he wanted to see the woman who inspired two different men to two such extremes. Maybe, technically, they were vampires, but something about her made them behave like men, and he wanted to see that.

    He eyed the vampire beside him, face taut with concentration, and wondered if he was approaching the dilemma from the wrong direction. Maybe it wasn’t the things they did, the desires they had that was important. Maybe he shouldn’t be trying to solve this puzzle from this angle.  Maybe it wasn’t the woman he should be considering; maybe the key to understanding vampires in love wasn’t the vampire part, maybe it was the part about love. 

    “Hey.”

    Buffy whirled around in surprise. “What are you doing out here? You’re the hostess.”

   Dawn shrugged. “Too much Maybelline, I guess.” She displayed a hand on which every fingernail was a different color. “I think the fumes were getting to me.” She edged closer to where Buffy was sitting on the top step of the deck. “At least, I think it was the fumes. Maybe it was Halfrek.  They sure must have some strange perfume taste in Demon Land.”

    “No argument here. So I’m just your ulterior motive? Huh. Just a cover, that’s me.”

Buffy tried not to look too pleased.

    “Well, yeah.” Dawn scoffed. “So, um, you wanna be alone or something?”

    “Not if you have other plans.”

    “Oh…Okay.” Dawn scooted forward and plopped down on her butt next to her sister. She cocked her head tentatively at her, then snaked a arm through one of Buffy’s. “Just, you know, we used to do this. With Mom.” She glanced away. “I missed it.”

    “Me too.”

    “And you, too.”

    Buffy turned sharply and looked at her. God, what a knife blade teenagers put you on, she thought. A joke would be too flip; too serious and she’d smother. All she remembered from her own adolescence was panic, resentment, rules, mayhem, and Angel. Dawn was studiously considering the trees in the backyard, as if they had only recently just sprouted. When she was sure the coast was clear, she cleared her throat, and cautiously glanced in her older sister’s general direction. “So..um…is Spike back?”

   Oh. “No. I haven’t seen him yet.”

    “Well…damn.”

   “Dawn…”

   “What?”

   “Uh…” Buffy took a deep breath. Why shouldn’t Dawn know? If she found out that Willow and Tara knew before she did, the fall out would be nuclear winter like.

   “What, uh, made you think I’d know if he was back or not?”

    “There’s something going on, isn’t there?” Dawn shot back. “I mean, I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

    “Well, you know, there’s that whole thing last year….”

   “No, this is different. He looks at you different this year.”

   “Well, he’s… glad I’m…..back.”

   “I’ll say. He looks like….I don’t know.” Dawn struggled with what she was trying to say. “Maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s you.”

    Buffy gulped, and gave it away without a fight.  “Um, he’s been really….really….”

   “Really what?”

   “Helpful?”

   “Buffy….look, it’s okay.” She had just consumed an entire box of Girl Scout cookies on her own, after having rescued them from Halfrek by virtue of her own cunning, and she was feeling pretty benevolent. “Remember how Willow didn’t tell us about Tara? How she acted around her? That’s the way you act around Spike.”

    Buffy looked around for another sign of the apocalypse.

    Dawn tightened her grip on her older sister’s arm. “Besides, it’s really convenient, if I get that paper route….”

   “Oh, okay. It’s my priorities that are the problem. I must get a vampire boyfriend so you can get a paper route.”

   “That’s what I was hoping, anyway.”  Dawn was silent for a long time. She clutched Buffy’s arm hard and looked down at her toes, which were also color-coded. “It was awful when you were….”

   “It’s okay to say it, Dawn. I was dead.”

    “Okay, when you were….dead. Spike was….” She looked up, trying to find the word, sighing with impatience. “He was….just….He wasn’t even sarcastic with Xander. Xander just kept saying these things to him, and Spike just wouldn’t even notice. He just ignored him; I don’t think he even heard him most of the time, you know? He and Giles actually talked---“

   “You mean, about the weather or….”

   “No, shop talk, you know, Slayer stuff, but Giles talked to him, you know.  I mean, they actually talked.” Dawn marveled at it all. “It was polite and stuff. Giles would ask him questions, and he’d think of something, and then Giles would listen. But when you came back…Giles stopped being nice to him.”

   Giles, always with the protective instincts, just a little bit too late. Buffy did a mental gulp at the thought of telling Giles. Xander’s reaction paled in comparison to what her imagination could speculate about Giles’ response. “What, um, else, did he do?”

   “He’d baby-sit me every night.”

    Every night I save you.  

  “And he was real strict.” Dawn crinkled her nose at the memory. “Worse than Giles.”  She clutched again. “It was kind of weird, too.”

   “What?”

   “He wouldn’t talk about you.”

   “What do you mean?”

    “Well, you know,” She bumped her shoulder against Buffy’s like a cat. “Your name would come up, and Spike would just…disappear.”

    “What?”

   “And you know, if we kept talking about you, how much we missed you, he’d change the subject in the most rude way. He was nice most of the time---you know, Spike’s kind of nice. But he’d just get this look on his face; you kind of felt sorry for him and scared of him at the same time.”

   Buffy thought about it for a minute, then asked: “You were scared of him?”

   “Well, you know.” Dawn shrugged. “He might call you something terrible that you’d have to look up in a dictionary. So there was the delay issue, you know, in getting back at him. You know how he is; he would tease me”----and here Buffy watched with some amusement as Dawn preened just a little bit-----“but I never pushed him. It just made it worse.”

   “Why?” Buffy asked gently.

   “Because now, like, they’re pretending that summer never happened, you know? I mean, I watched him Buffy, and the whole summer, if your name came up, he just disappeared. And now it’s like Xander is---is---forgetting all that stuff, because it’s real easy to ignore somebody who’s not here, you know?”

    Buffy stroked her hair, looking into her worried eyes. “Well, Xander’s going to have to stop that, isn’t he?”

   “Are you going to tell him?”

   “Tell him what?”

   “Buffy, it’s totally obvious.” Dawn crowed.

   “Um, what? What’s totally obvious?”

   Dawn rolled her eyes, full of adolescent superiority. “You know how you used to glare at him when he came in the room or something?”

   “I, uh, glared?”

   “Yeah!  And then you’d kind of sigh or something. Well, now you don’t do that. You kind of don’t look at him. Because it’s like you know he’s there. You don’t have to look.” She sighed happily. “It’s so romantic.”

   “No, it’s not, it’s…”

   “Is it just sex?” Dawn asked curiously.

   “NO!” Buffy shouted, panicked now. She shrank back against the porch rail and eyed the alien who had stolen her sister’s body. “No, it is not just sex, it’s…”

   “Oh, is it love?”

    Buffy had to look away. “Dawnie, I don’t know. I really don’t.”

   “Will you tell me when you find out?”

    “Keep you updated, you mean?”

    “Yes. Now go away, you’re making my head hurt.”

    Dawn jumped up and sauntered toward the door, a Woman With a Mission. At the door, though, she stopped, and turned. “Buffy?”

   “No more sex!” Buffy cautioned her.

   “Okay.” Dawn agreed soberly. “No more weird sex talk confidences.” She paused thoughtfully. “At least till I have some myself, right?”

   Buffy’s eyes got very wide. “Which will not be till graduate school, right? Decades of graduate school, then graduation, then doctorate. Okay? And no vampires, and….”

   “Buffy,” Dawn sighed. “Chill. This is Sunnydale. Not like there’s lots of options. But when I do…”

   “Yes,” Buffy conceded, mentally crossing her fingers. “When you do.”

   “Buffy…will you promise me something?”

   “Uh..what?”

   “Will you keep Spike updated, too?”

   Buffy waited a long time before answering. “When I know, I will.”

       At first he thought he had the wrong house.  “Stay there,” he snapped at the demon.  Once he parked the car at the curb, and the engine died, he could actually hear screaming coming from inside. He froze for a second, startled, then jumped out, slamming the door hard behind him.  Halfway up the walk, though, he realized what it was, and relaxed.

   Teenagers.

   Then he realized what it was. Teenagers.  

He changed course to go round the back, and was not too surprised to find Buffy sitting, rather hunched, on the back porch.  She didn’t see him for a moment, staring off longingly into the back yard as if looking for escape routes. From inside, there was a shriek, then a flurry of giggles. Spike winced, lighting  a cigarette. At the sound of the cigarette, Buffy’s eyes widened, and she looked up at him as if he were a ghost. Cool Face, he reminded himself, Cool Face, but even he could see she was trying not to smile. “Suppose the crime rate dropped while I was gone,” he commented, padding noiselessly closer.

    There was a burst of giggling from inside the house, and Buffy was the one who winced. “Don’t be too sure of that.”

    He paused at her feet, tossing the cigarette away. “Victim or villain?”

    She nodded at the house. “Won’t know till I get the bills.” He sank to his knees on the step in front of her, and she stopped breathing. “You were gone….” Her voice trailed away as he looked down at his hands on her knees, pushing them apart, sliding his hands up her thighs, then to her face where, she realized, he must be able to feel how flushed she’d suddenly become. Damn. He was eight inches away, and she could feel him already, as if there were a charge between them.

   “Hey, Buffy….?” Tara called from the kitchen. Spike recoiled as if he’d received a shock. Tara glanced out the window, and paused at what she saw; Spike, one hand running through his hair; standing stiffly several feet from the porch, and Buffy, glancing guiltily over her shoulder.  She stepped out the door and looked at Spike. “Oh, hi, Spike.” She looked back and forth from one to the other. “Another cramp?”

   “Uh---well----she had something--- in her eye---“He glanced at Buffy, as if he expected her to confirm this.  ”Uh, yeah, terrible. Hay fever. Little bits of… things. In. The. Air. Horrible.” Evidently this concept was best demonstrated by flapping one hand in the air, as if to disperse all the rapacious little bits.  “But. It’s, uh, gone.   Gone.” He added helpfully, as if Tara hadn’t been paying attention, and the situation required note-taking or something.  “Trees.” He looked accusingly at one. “Nasty things. Grr.” He shuddered, which would have been more effective if he hadn’t done it like a big, wet, dog.  He checked to see if the story had any chance at all of working.

    Tara smothered a smile, not certain she wanted to give up teasing Spike. “I could get some ice?”

    “No, that’s okay.” Buffy interrupted. “Uh, Spike—“

   “Spike!” Dawn shrieked, and then jumped, ambushing him in a hug that made him stiffen in surprise. She’d never hugged him before. He waved his arms in the air, at sea, while Dawn clutched him in a death grip around his middle. “I’m so glad you’re back.”  She looked up at him with cat’s eyes of adoration. “Can you show my friends your vamp face?”

    He looked at Buffy for approval or confirmation, and was relieved to see she was amused rather than irritated. “Uh, that’s up to Buffy.” He gave Dawn a stiff pat on the shoulder, as if she were radioactive. “And her lawyers.”

   Dawn gave him another squeeze that threatened to rearrange his internal organs, and then sighed deeply and retreated. “Did you bring me a present?”

   “Not till your birthday.”  Is it today? He mouthed desperately at Buffy, who gave a tiny conspiratorial shake of her head.

   “Huh.” Dawn grumped, but she wasn’t upset, and Buffy stamped down a momentary spurt of jealousy. Where did that come from all of a sudden? Dawn looked from Spike to Buffy, and then smirked.  “I guess you two want to be alone.” With that, she was gone, missing the way Spike’s jaw dropped at her departing back.

   “What? Huh? How? You told her?” He shook his head. “I…wanted to.” He muttered. He could only imagine the way she’d handled it.

   “I didn’t tell her.” Buffy said. “She figured it out on her own.”

   “She….” He scrubbed his hair with his hands again. “And Tara?”

  “I told her.”

   “You…?” Spike shook his head again, and Buffy blushed so red that it almost hurt. Oh, God, here it is, she thought. Oh, God. He stared at her, so pleased that he wasn’t even aware how young it made him look. Buffy found herself suddenly confronted with a discomfiting glance of what he must have looked like as a human, all fuzzy and so happy he was flustered by it. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, blinking rapidly. It was rather disturbingly charming to see him so happy, and not have it be prompted by something major, like her returning from the dead. On the other hand, it was rather scary to be thinking of Spike in boyfriend terms, as if he were Ordinary Guy. She wasn’t sure she was quite ready enough for that particular milestone.

    “When…ah…did you tell her?” Spike asked gruffly.

    Oh, God. She sank down on the top step of the porch, glancing behind her for witnesses. If she’d found any, it would have meant postponing the Talk that she most emphatically did not want to have. She patted the wood beside her, and he plopped agreeably down next to her, much the way Dawn had. “I asked Tara if she would check why…you could hit me.” She said quietly.

   “Ah.” He said, equally quiet.  “And?”

   And, she thought. And how to phrase it? I was using an excellent excuse for what we were doing, and now that’s gone, and the only thing’s that changed is I have to find another one? Why do I have to look at you and see the past five years? Why don’t I just see you? 

    She looked at him, and tried it. What was there to see? Of course, there were the looks---the face that was not half so vivid as the one she saw in private; the lithe body, the intelligent eyes. What she didn’t see was problematical; the torture he’d endured in order to save her the pain of losing her sister; the comfort after her mother died; the fact that only he saw clearly she was drowning after she came back. That list entitled him to something, and she wasn’t sure just what it was.

    “Well…And….” She had to swallow, then. “That was after…” She swallowed again. “After what happened in the alley.” How could one atone for that? How could one make amends for deeds with words? “I thought there was something wrong with me, because you and I….” She took a shaky breath. “Because there had to be something wrong with me, because… You and I, that’s what I thought. Because I thought if you could hit me, it was the same reason why you could…”

   “Yeah,” Spike whispered wearily. “Sure.”

   “Because…because I’m the hero, I don’t kill people.  I thought I killed her. That girl. I …..”  She swallowed harshly then, her eyes tearing up. “I thought I killed her. I really did. I couldn’t bear it. I mean, if I had been better, I would have known I hadn’t, but everything was wrong, so that was…that was … I thought you were wrong, too. I thought that was just one more wrong thing. And then Katrina.  It was one thing to hurt myself…or you. But…she was….She didn’t deserve that, and it was my fault. And you tried to talk me out of it, so it seemed to me that you were bad, still, and that so was I because….” She blew out her breath, pausing to compose herself. “Because I…Because if all I wanted was you then, not my friends, not anyone else….She covered her mouth with her hand.  “And then Tara….” She looked at him, then looked down, so ashamed of herself that she couldn’t meet the vampire’s eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s some little cellular changes, but that’s all. Nothing. So I don’t have an excuse for…”

   “For beating me up.” Spike supplied.

   “Yes.” Buffy whispered. “Tara thought, at first, that I was talking about you beating me up.”

   Spike gave her a humorless little laugh at that. She bit her lip. “I have to go inside…” She brushed her behind off, from the dust on the porch, and quietly went inside. He sat still, staring off into space without a thought in his head. He heard her rattling around in the kitchen, cupboard doors banging open and shut.  He took a very deep breath, not knowing precisely what to do. Had that been an apology or not? He felt not too different than he had at the time. He knew she’d been tortured; but even he hadn’t realized how bad it was. It had seemed to him at the time that she’d been closer to the grave than he himself was, and that was like saying that one was closer to celibacy than a virgin. Now he knew it for a fact, and he wondered again where in the hell her friends were.  She was self-destructing before their eyes, and what did they notice? Not a damn thing. She’d had to pull her closest friends aside to tell them, although he got a certain amount of satisfaction out of the fact that Dawn had twigged to something, but not too much, he hoped, at her age.

      He got up and silently crossed the deck, peeking in the kitchen door. She was bustling around the kitchen, chin determinedly set, doing nothing more productive than moving one Kool-Aid pitcher from one counter to the other. When she saw him she lost he grip on the one she was holding, sloshing the viscous red substance all over her front. She looked down, Kool-Aid dripping off her hands. “Great.” She said, far too sarcastically.  “This stuff never comes out.”

   “Uh, then better go change it.”

   “Yeah.” Not meeting his eyes, she slipped past him. He tossed a dish towel on the drying mess on the floor, and ran over what had just happened in his head. The pained revelation on the back porch, followed by the retreat in the kitchen. She’d plastered over all that pain with that cheerfulness she presented to her friends, and he was suddenly nervous. Very nervous. He sidled down the hallway, peering into the living room. No one really noticed him; Willow was asleep on the couch; and Tara and Dawn were curled up together in one chair. Another woman was partially visible on the far side of that armchair, curled up against another chair.  Nine or ten girls were scattered in an abstract pattern of sleeping bags on the floor, riveted to the television. He slipped past them and up the stairs, gliding on the balls of his feet, a trick he’d picked up that made one practically inaudible.  Vampire silence had little to do with the supernatural, and everything to do with practice.

    He got to Buffy’s door, and hesitated at the threshold for a second, realizing it was only the second time he’d entered her room through the door. He opened it and stepped in.

    It was a tie who was more startled; Buffy, who had tossed her stained sweatshirt aside, and was holding one in front of her; or Spike, when she stared into his face, and slowly lowered the shirt till she was standing before him, bare to the waist, and as still as a statue.  This lasted till they heard the soft footsteps on the stair. Buffy reached for him, shoving him toward the bathroom, and stuffing her arms and legs toward holes in the shirt. She closed the bathroom door almost all the way, and leaned against it.

   The footsteps came up the stairs, stopped for a second, and then came to her door. “Buffy?” It was Tara.

   “Yeah?”  She and Spike were pressed side by side against the wall, he with his front pressed against the wall, hands spread, she with her hands jammed into her pockets. She could feel his eyes burning into her, could feel the air heating up between them. 

   “I’m going to take off now.”

   “Oh…Okay. I’ll be down in a minute.” She stepped out into the room, gesturing to Spike to stay where he was. 

   “Okay. We’ve only got two pizza left.”

   “Okay.”

   She waited. Spike froze in the doorway of the bathroom, his eyes locked on her. She tried to avoid those eyes. She was afraid of what she might see in them. She waited, not breathing, for the footsteps to go back downstairs, and finally they did. When she was sure Tara had gotten to the foot of the stairs, she tentatively raised her eyes to Spike’s. 

    Two steps brought him to her, as he took her jaw in his hand and kissed her till her breath was gone. There was no sense to that kiss, nothing at all, coming out of nowhere, pushing them across the room to the wall, where he pushed himself between her legs and pressed her so hard that she gasped. There was one moment for air, then she took his face in both hands and pulled him back to her, twisting, turning, searching, till it got far too serious, and she had to push him away.

   “Stop.”

    “You don’t want me to stop.” Spike whispered back, illustrating his point by finding her neck and nibbling his way down it with such attention that her knees shook.

   “There’s people down there.”

   “We’ll be quiet.”

   “I can’t be quiet!” Buffy blurted, earning her a sloe-eyed look from Spike, even as he slid his hands under the sweatshirt, and filled his hands with her breasts. Gold sparks danced in front of her eyes, and all sorts of muscles trembled with anticipation. Two days of deprivation made it all but impossible to resist, especially as he slid down her body, his mouth cool against her flesh, shockingly so against her nipples. He wrapped his arms around her thighs, kissing her bellybutton, hooking the waistband of her sweats with one finger. “Spike,” she whispered.

     Oh, but this is unfair, she thought. He worked his way back up to her mouth, pinning her hands above her head, then leading them to his neck.  Do whatever else, she thought, but it was his kisses that made her weak in the knees, and that was saying a lot. “Girls downstairs,” she breathed.

   “We’re upstairs,” he countered.

   “I’m noisy,” She protested weakly. One of his hands returned to her breast, and every nerve ending in her body felt like a plucked guitar string.

   “You won’t be.” Spike took her hand and drew it to his crotch, part appeal, part demand. She watched his face as she pressed against him, watched his lips part and his eyes drift shut. They sank to their knees behind the bed, Spike lowering her onto her back with one hand, settling on top of her, between her legs, with another Spike motion she was adding to her list; the wriggle he did, the slightest shift from side to side as he settled himself on top of her, the slow slide on his weight on top of hers. He peeled her sweats and panties away from her body with one hand, freeing one leg and sliding one finger between her legs to find her so wet she was almost embarrassed. Almost. He ripped his fly open, not helped by the fact that she was pulling him down at the same time, shoving his shirt up, trying to find his skin. Except for one of her legs, and his pants shoved down, they were both fully clothed, and she felt as if the clothes around her were abrading skin that suddenly seemed painfully sensitive.

    There was no room or time for speed, or noise, so he shoved inside her, slowly, pushing inside her with an endless motion that took her breath away as he pressed forward, a long smooth curve that went so far he finally couldn’t go any further. He found room where there didn’t seem to be any, burning inside her.  He whirled his hips, and Buffy lost the ability to breath. She could feel it beginning already, as he withdrew, pulling slowly past what felt like every nerve ending in her body, scraping every sensitive one of them, taking centuries, taking her breath with him, shuddering with the effort it took to stay in control. He came back again, slower, harder, taking forever, dropping his head with the effort, going as far as he could, and then probing further, tearing a loud gasp from her. He clapped a hand over her mouth as her eyes widened, her hands clawing at the leather of his coat, her body already starting to shake, replacing his hand with his mouth, muffling her gasps with his tongue, murmuring into her mouth. Then he pulled back again, slamming back into her hard, muffling her gasp with his mouth as she stiffened under him, doing it once, twice, three times more…

     Every muscle she had seemed to tighten and hold, then, locked into endless reverberations, while she tried not to cry out. Caught squarely between the impulse for explosion, and the need for repression, she grabbed his shirt with both hands and buried her burning face into his chest, rocking under him and around him, half afraid it wouldn’t end, half afraid it would. She drifted back to herself, to find herself terribly sore, and Spike panting into the floor boards next to her shoulder.  She was almost too weak to kiss him.

   Almost.

   Oh, God, she snapped back to alertness, what was that? There’s a roomful of girls downstairs. Spike lifted his head wearily as he felt her stiffen, somewhat amused. He picked up her wrist and pointed out her watch.

   Ten minutes. At first she just glanced at it, then her jaw dropped. Ten minutes? “How can you have a slow quickie?” She demanded.

   He shrugged, which was quite a feat considering their positions. He shifted off of her, and watched as she scrambled to her feet, hopping as she ran to the bathroom with one leg of her sweatpants on, one off.  He rolled over onto his back, and put himself to order, wincing a bit. I have muscles you’ve never even dreamed of, he reminisced dreamily, even as he flinched a bit. It felt like she’d bit him again, too.

    She came dashing out of the bathroom, but he jumped to his feet and intercepted her at the door with a kiss that made her sag against him. She bit his lip and he eyed her with the ultimate weapon, that dropped-chin-sloe-eyed look. “You’re all flushed,” he whispered. “All over,” He added. 

    “Stay here,” she ordered, but before she could open the door, he grabbed her again and kissed her with soft lips. “Five minutes, okay?” Then she leaned forward and kissed him back. “Go out the window, okay?”

    He smiled a bit at her caution, but he plopped down on the bed agreeably. If he had his way, he’d just be climbing in the window in a few hours anyway.

   Buffy tumbled down the stairs on bare feet, to find herself greeted by a calm Tara in the kitchen. “Sorry,” she said weakly. “Kool-aid accident.”

   “That stuff, it’s dangerous.” Tara agreed. “You want me to come back?”

    “Yeah, that’d be great.” Buffy wondered precisely how flushed she was. “They’re still eating? I thought you said there were two pizzas left.”

  “Well, you know how it is.” Tara said dryly, just as Spike sauntered far too casually into the kitchen. “Some people are just insatiable…” Spike grinned at Tara, and Buffy suddenly felt the need to verify the pizza situation herself by picking up the box and shaking it. “…with pizza.” Tara finished.

   “Terrible stuff,” Spike agreed blandly.

   The witch glanced from one to the other, and made her escape. Buffy watched her go. “Hello, Child Protective Services.”

   “You were quiet.”

   “No, I wasn’t.”

   Spike examined his fingernails. “Yes, you were. Maybe it’s just that if felt so….” He smirked at her, which should have irritated her, except her knees were still trembling.

   Willow popped her head through the kitchen door, looked from one to the other. “Oh, pizza, good, we still have one.”

   “Think we’ll need more?” Buffy asked worriedly.

   “Maybe not.”

   “How are you doing, Will?” Buffy asked.

   “Oh, I’m perky.” Willow assured her. “Caffeine is a many-splendored thing. It’s just I’m hoping if I stuff them enough, they’ll get all full and sleepy.”

   “Really?” Spike perked up instantly. He nodded to himself thoughtfully. Willow rolled her eyes at Spike Plotting, and retreated to the living room.

   “What?”

   “Oh, nothing,” he said casually. He picked up the pizza box, took two steps to the kitchen door, and pitched it toward the garage. “Darn. Guess we need to get some more.”

   Buffy shook her head at him, amused in spite of herself, but the amusement disappeared fast as he stepped up to her. “I volunteer. Wanna ride?”  She nodded mutely, wondering where they could find some deserted place to park the car. Somewhat distracted, she went down the hallway and beckoned to Will.

   “We had a little pizza incident, Will. We’re going to get more.”

   “Okay.”

   Too easy, Buffy thought, trying to convince herself she was a bad person for remembering abruptly the dimensions of the DeSoto’s seats. She was so tense with anticipation that at first she didn’t notice anything unusual about the old car parked in front of the house.

    Nothing unusual about it at all, except for the big green demon leaning casually against the passenger side door.

Well, well, well, wasn’t this interesting?

    Lorne checked his watch. Yes, indeed, it had been about an hour since they’d gotten to Sunnydale, and Spike had driven with one hand clamped on the wheel and what had felt like both feet and several weights jammed on the gas pedal. Now, he was ambling with loose-limbed giddiness to the car, accompanied by someone who could only be the Slayer, and she, too, was suspiciously loosey goosey as well. Spike’s hair was tousled, and to Lorne’s interested eyes, it was pretty obvious whose fingers had done it. As far as the Slayer herself, she was tiny and mussed, wallowing in huge sweats, hair wild around her face, and lips obviously just-kissed.  Well, well, well, wasn’t this impressive. Back in town less than an hour, and they’d already gotten naked and--from all appearances--looked like they’d soon be going at it again. After the sterile confines of the Hyperion, it was rather refreshing in an unexpectedly vivid kind of way.

    Both of them smacked up against the same invisible obstacle when they saw him. The body language was exceptionally interesting.  Buffy, who had been glancing surreptitiously out of the corners of her eyes at Spike, tripped over a molecule, and thumped over her own feet, then flushed. Spike, who had been more or less blinking his long eyelashes non stop at the Slayer, stopped abruptly, probably at the same proton, and stared at him blankly as if he’d never seen him before. Comprehension dawned with visible slowness, probably at the same rate of speed as brain cells were repairing themselves, post orgasm. Lorne watched as the vampire visibly struggled for some clue as to his identity.  He waved helpfully, hoping to disperse the almost-visible pheromones clouding around their respective heads.   “Slayer,” Spike finally said, “This is Lorne.”

    “Slayer,” Lorne drawled. “What an unusual name for a girl. Did this make your life interesting in the public education system?”

   “Um, it’s actually Buffy.”

    “Well, that’s mundane by comparison.” Lorne said. “So where are we going?”

    They exchanged glances. “We?” Spike asked. “You’re not going anywhere with us. Right now. Because we have pizza to get.”

    “Uh, huh.” He eyed the way their hands dangled too close together, as if they’d just been separated. “Sure, sweetness, pizza. Thirty minutes or you get a freebie?” He eyed the house, more than a little curious. “So, what’s going on here?”

   “Slumber party.”

    Lorne sadly reviewed his life; once the owner of a wonderful club with all sorts of interesting people, he now looked forward to a room full of teenagers. How art the mighty fallen? He smiled at the two of them. “Don’t be too long.”  Just long enough so I can plot something, he amended. The three of them stood there and eyed each other uncomfortably, and he wondered, were they going to christen the car right there in the street or something? Spike opened the passenger side door, and Buffy gave Lorne a curious glance as she climbed in. Spike squinted at him for just a second over the roof before he got it. “You’re not planning on having any little sing alongs, are you?”

   “What can I say?” Lorne asked. “I’m a musical kind of guy.”

   Spike shook his head, but Lorne was too much of a distraction from Buffy, who was leaning over the seat and looking up at him. He slid in and started the car, pulling away from the curb with such haste he left rubber behind. Buffy settled into the seat with a sigh, and he glanced over at her. It suddenly occurred to him that they were alone, for a while. Not necessarily alone in hey-let’s-shag-again-alone, although that was a possibility. Alone as in no-need-to-worry-about-putting-on-a-fake-face-type-alone.  Although there was the post-coital nervousness thing to worry about, the way she got all twitchy some times after the clothes came back on, which seemed to be what she was doing now. He sighed, wondering how long it would take this time.             

     Buffy stared out the open window, the breeze rustling her hair, suddenly confronted by more unnerving thoughts, on the order of, Oh, all alone, I see. No friends around. No need to deal with whatever this is, no need to pretend, no need to act.  She had gotten so used to the pretense that its absence almost made her miss it. Now, that’s bad, she thought.  My life has officially become a bad country song, although it’s going to be hard to work the whole vampire thing in there and still break the Top Ten. She glanced at Spike. Plus he definitely was not the country type. She had no idea what to do with worry-free time, and the idea of being worry free in Spike’s company was so recent an addition to her Theories of Life that she was still writing the play book out. Hm. 

   Uh oh, Spike thought. She’s thinking. This is not good. Thinking led to reasoning, which invariably involved not doing fun things, like shagging for hours, kissing where her friends might find them, and well, doing what they were doing right now, which might very well lead to more shagging. He stretched his arm out along the back of the seat and Buffy surprised him by turning her cheek into his palm. Her hair curled over his hand, and he found himself looking more at her than the road. She rubbed her cheek against his hand, and his fingers curled automatically, response to irresistible stimulus, feeling her skin flush even more against his hand as she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his arm.  He kept glancing at her stealthily, which he knew was stupid, but he couldn’t quite do away with the fear of getting caught. She usually only let her guard down with her clothes, and for her to snuggle while dressed was a milestone.

    They came to a stoplight, and the absence of movement made her open her eyes.  She blinked at her, then, after a moment’s hesitation, scooted over the seat, and nudged her head into his shoulder. Do not say a word, he ordered himself. Do not say a word. Saying a word invariably meant he was trying to say something, but would wind up saying it in such a fashion as to cause words. Even Iloveyou---said at the height of passion, and really uncontrollable----had been known to get her dressed and gone.  So he had to bite his lip every five seconds as yet another phrase would arise in his mind that seemed clever while merely a thought but would undoubtedly be disastrous if he ever dared let it out. These were in fact legion, but he refined his list while waiting for the light.

     I love you. Best said while arguing.

     The whole animal thing. She could climb him as nimbly as any monkey, ride him like a rocking horse, but if he ever wanted her to do it again, he’d best keep it to himself. Although the mental image was fun, and accurate, dammit, he sincerely doubted his ability to turn any reference to a primate into a complement.

   Her bounteous bottom. It wasn’t that it was huge, it was just curved, and lush, and there was no way on earth he could say that without putting parts of him in jeopardy.

   Any reference whatsoever to the way he adored her super Slayer strength in terms of duration or enthusiasm. One thing hadn’t changed in a century; (as if William would have known) Never, ever, imply, or infer, or suggest, or somehow indicate, speculate or otherwise give the slightest impression, that any woman anywhere at any time or in any place might have been to bed before with someone else and learned how to do a few things properly. Or improperly, which was actually better, once you thought about it, and oh, Christ if he was thinking about it, it was only moments till he was blurting it out.

   The light changed, and he stamped on the gas with more enthusiasm than necessary, startling Buffy, not a good thing, because it was possible she might suggest driving herself.

    Which he promptly forgot as Buffy snuggled closer, his arm around her waist, her arms around his waist, and sighed in his ear. Bloody hell. She pulled closer still, till her head was on his chest, and he got a brief chance to bury his face in her hair before he yanked the wheel over to the curb, and pulled her as close as he could without actually donating any organs.  Her hair smelled like mint and strawberries, and just that Buffy smell that she had, which invariably went straight to his nerve endings.  She twisted in his arms till she was curled up in the opposite direction, almost on her back in his lap, too easy to kiss not to, tasting his mouth while she touched his face with the slightest of fingertip touches. He spread his legs for her so she could wriggle into his lap and be that much closer, and then, not coincidentally, put her bottom right where he could fit it into his hands. It wasn’t a demand, he wasn’t trying to seduce her---any more than usual, that is----he just loved the way her bottom fitted his hands.

    “Pizza.” Buffy murmured between kisses.

   “Request, order, comparison, observation?”

   “Mm.” Buffy gave one of those little sighs. “Reminder.”

   “Bugger the pizza.”  He slid his arms around her waist, and tightened till she squeaked. “Kissing takes precedence.”

     “Kids waiting at home.”

     “Eating you out of house and home, no doubt.”

    Well, hell, he thought, that did it. “It’s worth it, because Dawn’s so happy.”  She sounded injured.

   “Is she?” He stroked her hair again, and she laid her head against his left arm. Pieta with Slayer, he thought. Interesting concept.

   “Oh yes.” Buffy smiled at the thought of she and Dawn on the back porch, arms linked, grossing out at the thought of Sex. With. Boys. Or boy vampires, she thought, trying not to giggle outright at the sudden thought of a vampire in a Cub Scout uniform. Spike raised an eyebrow.

  “What?”

   “Well, your name came up in the conversation.”

   “Probably in vain.”

   “Hm, dramatic much? No, this was the Talk.”

   “The Talk?” He heard the capitals, and wondered what sort of initiation rite he’d missed.

   “You know, the Talk. Sex came up.” He raised an eyebrow again, and she was torn between envy at his eyebrow skills and…well, more envy. She’d always wanted to be able to do that. “Sex with you.”

   “You talked about sex with Dawn?”

   “Actually, it was more like the other way around.” She made a gesture of collision. “I didn’t know what hit me. Train wreck time.”

  “Not fun, was it?”

   Buffy rolled her eyes. “I’ll turn her loose on you when we get back and you’ll see. “ He gave her one of his Spike looks, which mixed skepticism with just plain sex, eyeing her so challengingly that she leaned up and kissed him.  

   “Oh, hell.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

   “Why?” She wriggled against him, deliberately, he was sure.

   “Pizza, you said. Sooner we get back, sooner I can get you alone.”

   “In a houseful of girls?”

   “Worked before.” He pointed out silkily.

  Well. That was what was called an irrefutable argument right there. “Pizza then.” She sat up sulkily, sticking out her lower lip. He gunned the motor, then leaned over and kissed her lightly.

    “Pizza.”  Buffy sighed, in the way of reminding him.

    “Pizza,” he agreed, but he didn’t stop kissing her.

    “Pizza!” Buffy gave him a small shove, and he sighed, with great patience and pulled away. Domino bastards, he thought, and pulled out into traffic.

   Lorne ambled around the perimeter of the house, picking up fragments of conversation within, and nips of the scent of garlic. Garlic? Now that was interesting. It wasn’t present in the house any longer, but there’d been so much of it at one point that the scent lingered on. How interesting.  Spike had said she didn’t love him, but he believed she felt something for him, and at one point at least, that feeling had been fear.

   He came around the back porch, to find a voluptuous blonde sitting on the top step with her chin on her knees. “Oh,’ he said, startled. “Pardon me.” 

    She sagged visibly, as if he were the final straw, the last indignity. “Oh, God.”

   “I beg your pardon?”

   “Another demon?”

   “Well!” He snapped, affronted. “I’m not just another demon. Allow me to introduce myself, sweetness. I’m Lorne of the Deathwa clan, and my goodness, how you must moisturize. I’m impressed, especially in California.”

   “I beg your pardon?”

   “Well, you know, this dry air.” He waved his hand through the air as he said this, as if to specify this air rather than other air. “It does just terrible things to my pores, and I just don’t think I packed really well for this trip.”

   “This trip?”

   “Oh, you know, I thought it was just going to be an overnight thing, maybe, but well, I’ve seen the hotels around here, and all I could think is, the only way two people ever get in one of those showers together is if one of them is Norman Bates.” He added thoughtfully, “Would have done him some good, you know.”

  “Showering is definitely good.”

  “So, uh…” He looked around, searching for further conversational forays. “Known Spike long?”

  “Spike!” She smiled suddenly. “Oh, you’re a friend of Spike’s! Oh, that explains a lot.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well.” Tara was stumped by that one. “Your sudden appearance.”

  “Good save,” he said admiringly.

  “Well, I thought I recognized you, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “Oh, really?”  He gestured at a spot next to her, seeking permission, which she granted with a nod. “Spike has a lot of demon friends from my clan?”

   “Well, demon friends, at least.”

   “A lot?”

   “Well,” Tara thought. “There’s Clem.”

   “And…?”

   Tara thought about it for a minute. “There’s…Clem.”

   “He’s a very popular boy, our Blondie, isn’t he?” Lorne said thoughtfully. They sat in silence for a few minutes, long enough to hear a burst of giggles in the kitchen, plus what was unmistakably an adult’s voice. Tara froze at once, darting a startled glance at Lorne, and then jumped up. Brushing off his pants, Lorne followed curiously to the door, where he saw several teenage girls in their pajamas, plus another demon, of a type he couldn’t place.  He and the demon stared at each other for a few minutes, while the girls exchanged nervous glances. Then he remembered his manners. “Lorne.”

   “Halfrek.”  They shook hands, and Lorne had to shake off an uncomfortable feeling of invasion, as she held his hand far too tightly, and peered into his eyes.” How nice to meet you.”

    Dawn bounced up to him, sticking out a hand and shaking his vigorously, freeing him from the uncomfortable scene with Halfrek. “Are you a friend of Spike’s?”

    Well, well, well, Lorne thought, watching Halfrek stiffen. Really, these humans---or former humans---were so obvious sometimes. From Buffy, stealing virginal glances at Spike, to Spike, hovering next to her, to Halfrek acting like she’d just seen Bill Clinton when she was busy with someone else, they all might just as well have been wearing signs. 

   He thought about Spike, and what he’d told him; that sometimes there was so much of another person in the singer’s thoughts that he could pick up impressions of that person. He thought about Angel, long since over Buffy, but not likely to react well when he heard the news of precisely who she’d moved on to.  And he looked at the demon in front of him, a former human like Spike, who, unlike Spike, radiated waves that reeked of demon, and eyed the coltish little girls around her like a hungry cat. 

   “What a lovely speaking voice you have,” he tsked at her. “I bet you sing divinely.”