Anya might have been human only for a few years, but sometimes she acted like it had been centuries. It was like she’d been reading Cosmopolitan for decades, at least, absorbing all the girl stuff possible, so that you really couldn’t tell she was only a recent addition to the family of Homo sapiens. On the other hand, sometimes Xander wondered if there was much of a difference between the female of the species, and any female of any species anywhere, and he was especially curious about verifying this when certain cycles happened to align themselves with the torture of Housework Day.

      He hadn’t expected her to come home early from the party.  He thought she’d stay there, bitch about men and demons, and maybe come back in just enough time so he could clean up the junk food wrappers and score rare brownie points for being both neat and addicted to health food. Instead, he found himself rocketing up off the couch, chips geisering out of the bag as he clutched at it convulsively.  He wondered if Halfrek had decided to throw him a demon bachelor party, but before he could decide on his hiding place of choice, the door flung open and he found himself in the headlights of Anya. It was just amazing how demon-like she could look when she was either pissed-off or shortchanged.

    “Uh, Anya…? Honey? Sweetie? What’s…” He swallowed. “…wrong?”

    She kicked off one shoe, glared at him, then the other. “Everything is the matter. I can’t remember everybody I got revenge on, can I?”

   “Well?” Xander cautiously laid the chip bag down as if it would explode with rough handling. “Um, An, why would you want to? I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought that was all behind you?”

   “But I keep getting reminded of it!” She exclaimed. “And I don’t want to be.”

   “What-- happened?”

  “Hallie came to Dawn’s party and talked about all kinds of stuff, and it just brought back memories of how Spike became a vampire, and then Buffy and I had…words…and I don’t want to talk about it.”

    “Huh?” He shook his head as if to loosen the brain cells. “What was Halfrek doing at Dawn’s party?”

    “She wasn’t invited.” Anya said sulkily. She flopped down on the couch next to him, tugged at his shirt hem, and he sat down, hard, next to her. “ But she came anyway.  And then…” She sighed in a way he recognized; the pay-attention-to-me-because-I-feel bad sigh. It was going to be a loooonnnnnng evening now, he realized. No hockey for me. “I can’t remember everything I do.”  She looked at him. “Do you remember what you had for breakfast ten years ago yesterday?”

   “What?”

   “Well, then, why should I have to remember everything I did a hundred years ago. Or a hundred twenty?”

   He noted the second figure, wondering why a little sensor in his brain was telling him the same thing it always told him, for example, on Housework Days: Here be Dragons. Nevertheless, he had a duty, a calling, a death wish, so he plunged on ahead. “What are you talking about?”

    “I don’t see why Hallie’s so pissy.” She sniffed. “It’s not like he killed her. You can’t be a vengeance demon and dead, you know?”

   “Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, sweetie, but what in the hairy hell are you talking about?”

   “Ugh, Xander, that’s gross.”

   “Well, okay, then what are you talking about?”

   “Spike. He used to know Hallie. She’s the reason he’s a vampire, and he’s the reason she’s a vengeance demon, so it really doesn’t have anything to do with me, and you know what? I think I’m going to stop returning her calls.  Every times she’s around, things just get so complicated.”

    “Well.”  Great. There goes the seating chart again. However…. Fewer vengeance demons around the house? A good thing. More confusion around the house? Business as usual. Once again, he found himself compelled into No Man’s Land.  “An? What are you talking about again? Spike and Hallie? An item?”

   “No, they’re not an item, it’s Spike and---“ Anya clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh. My. God.” She jumped to her feet and to Xander’s bewildered eyes, started doing the Macarena. After a moment, he realized instead she was digging in her pants pockets, although he was completely confused as to why. Confusion ended abruptly as she yanked out a pendant and dangled it before his eyes.  She stared at it and then at him. “It’s Hallie’s vengeance pendant. Oh. My. God. She’s helpless without it. I have to call Buffy. Oh my God, poor Hallie, who knows what could happen to her?”

    Phone. 

    Crap.  

    Phone ringing in ear.

   Fumble, fumble, mmm, Spike sighing himself awake under her cheek, oh, no, house full of girls…Buffy jerked awake with a violent start and sat up in the darkness. Crap. She rolled over to grab the phone off the nightstand, rolling on top of Spike to do so, and finding herself unable to roll back when he wrapped his arms around her and kept her on his chest.

    “Hell—o?”

    “Buffy, it’s Xander. Do you know where Hallie is?” 

    Buffy stopped a moment to consider this. Why, yes, of course, Xander, I keep track of her movements religiously so I can worship her more effectively. Clamping down heavily on the sarcasm pedal, she counted to ten and found a tepid answer. “Not a clue, Xander. I encouraged her to leave.” Spike raised one eyebrow at this, and Buffy glared back, wriggling to try and get into a position where she could talk in a normal tone of voice. He slanted a look up at her under his lashes, wondering what he could get away with.

   “Why, uh, did you encourage her to leave?”

    Oh, crap indeed, she thought. Because she hurt Spike’s feelings. Because I couldn’t let her do that without wanting to smack her around for some reason.  Crap. “She was causing trouble.”

    “Anya said something about Spike being there.”

    “He was at the time. He left, too.” Of course, he also came back, and currently is lying in my bed, under me, looking up at me with the sort of eyes that mean big trouble, but why mention that? “Why?”  Mm. Big trouble.

    “Well, would he know where she was?”

    “Who, Hallie? Xander, you woke me up after a day full of boybands so we can talk about a vengeance demon who….what?” Who hurt Spike really badly? Definitely not to be included in the conversation.

    “Anya’s worried. She has Hallie’s pendant.”

   “So…she can’t accessorize now?” 

    Spike pulled himself higher on the pillows and loosened his grip. Buffy, without even being aware of it, made a sulky face at that, and sat up, sheets tumbling off her to curl around her legs. She looked so pouty that he cocked his head at her thoughtfully, finally reaching out and brushing the hair out of her eyes.

    Anya danced around Xander, making grabs for the phone.  Xander, very much in the manner of King Kong batting away bi-planes, waved her away.  “No, Buffy, she’s helpless without her pendant, right, Anya?”

   “Well, not exactly.” Anya said. “I’m really not sure how bad it is. I think they tell us that so we won’t try stuff without it.” Spike sat up slowly, shifting, the picture of caution, till he was beside her, face buried in her hair. His hands slid with infinitesimal slowness over her skin, and she began to sweat under his fingers. “Uh, well, it’s always been understood, sort of…” Spike, kissing her neck now with the lightest of touches, sucking on her earlobe….. She arched, and he slipped closer, eyes glittering in anticipation, sliding his hands around her….

    “Huh?” Xander and Buffy said simultaneously.

    “At least I kind of think so. Officially, she’s helpless without it.”

    “Officially?” Xander and Buffy said. Xander sounded slightly squeakier. 

    “Well….” Anya said guiltily.

    “I’ll call you back.” Xander said tersely.

     With that, they both turned to their respective companions at their end of the phone line, and hung up.  Xander planted his hands on his hips and shook his head at Anya, and Buffy reached around and grabbed Spike, kissing him onto his back, and only then remembered that she was supposed to be perturbed at the way he’d tried to distract her during the phone conversation.

    Somehow she managed the bi-athlete-like feat of rolling her eyes and shaking her head at Spike, then crawled forward a bit and lowered her face onto his chest. He tried not to give any indication at all that this was unusual.  “Good thing he hung up.”

    “Tedious, isn’t he? Nice to see you admit it.”

   She poked him in the side in an especially ticklish spot, and he wriggled like a hyperactive ten-year-old for a moment. She gave him a sphinx-like look, savoring his reaction and filing it away for future reference. He subsided as she continued to blink up at him with solemn eyes, till finally he leaned down and unleashed the ultimate weapon; the nose tip kiss.  Poking him in the ribs again briefly seemed a good idea, but she decided to settle for wriggling closer and nudging against his face. He eyed her consideringly, thoughtfully, before he consented to be kissed, smiling against her mouth, urging her closer.  Biting her lip, she pulled away. “Sleep.” She muttered.

    He kissed her again, rolling them onto their sides, pulling her closer, till it Buffy pulled back, sulking up at him. “Can’t.”

   “Why not?” He punctuated this by kissing her chin.

   “Girls downstairs.”

   “We were quiet.”

   “You tried that one already.”

    “Worked too, didn’t it?”

     “Well, not this time.” But she looked into his eyes for so long, blinking up at him, that he was content to lie there, indulging in periodic kisses while she made up her mind. Only when he slipped from her mouth to her breast did she sigh and shift, pulling him back up to face her, smiling slightly and shaking her head.

    He supposed in the name of men everywhere he should put up a fight, but she was warm against him and the best was a nest of soft blankets. She wiggled under him, pulling him closer, and he subsided on her breast, stroking her arms with hypnotic sweeps of one hand.  He could feel her sigh as much as he could hear it, feeling her breath in his hair, her fingers playing across his back.  They were both asleep in minutes.

    “What the….?”

    Hallie blinked with eyelids that seemed glued shut, and tried to figure out if she was dead or not. She was in too much pain to be dead, but she couldn’t move, either, which made her wonder if she was paralyzed.

   “Well, Sleeping Beauty finally woke up.”

    Hallie didn’t recognize the voice; it was male, human, and excessively optimistic, if he thought had a chance against a pissed, hungover and impatient vengeance demon. “Who are you, human?”  She began to realize that her hands were cold from the wrist down.

   “Human? Who do you think you are, Spock?” The voice shifted, steps approached her, and a male face topped by a frizzy rodent appeared in her vision. She squinted, and realized it wasn’t a rodent, it was his hair. The sight actually made her hangover worse.

   “I’m a vengeance demon, human!” She hissed, but he looked blank. “A vengeance demon?” She clarified. “ A justice demon!”

   “Yeah, but you look human. You’re just trying to scare me.”

    Hallie rolled her eyes, which made her head throb like it was going to explode. She couldn’t necessarily exert her powers on her behalf, but she could certainly defend herself.  She sniffed scornfully at him, and concentrated….

   Nothing happened.

   She blinked, running through her pre-curse checklist; she hadn’t missed anything. When you did something every day for a hundred and some years, you got the routine down. She hadn’t omitted anything. Her concentration, however, was distracted when Warren ambled closer and leaned over her. Her fists involuntarily clenched, and she realized that she was tied down.  “I don’t know, she just doesn’t look like a demon.”

    “She has a name.” Hallie spat out furiously. “It’s Hallie.”

    “Well, nice to meet you, Hallie.” Warren said sarcastically. He directed an irritated look at Andrew. “You must’ve done the spell wrong, doofus. She’s supposed to be still unconscious.”

    “I did it all right.” Andrew shrugged. “She said she was a demon.”

     “She sure looks like one.” Warren said. “Damn.” She couldn’t see for sure, but the two of them looked like they were exchanging accusatory glances. “So, demon, why don’t you curse us?”

    Hallie tried to push aside the hangover and remember what it was she was doing wrong. “Untie me and I won’t hurt you.” Much, she thought to herself.

   “Why should we?” Warren demanded skeptically. “You just look like any old chick to me.”

   Hallie focused on recent setbacks, current irritations. That ridiculous Spike, the Slayer standing up for him, undoubtedly because there was something going on there, Anyanka taking her pendant….!

   Her pendant!

   Fury temporarily overcame alcohol fumes and she snapped into demon face abruptly. Warren froze, and Andrew wilted to the floor with a yip that got cut off once he made impact with the cheap linoleum.  “OH, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” Warren muttered. “You are a demon.”

   “Untie me, and I’ll let you live.”

   “How can I trust you?”

    Warren eyed her carefully, assessing the distance to the exit out of the corner of his eye. “Hell with it,” He muttered, and bolted.   

    Angel soaked a towel under the cold-water faucet, and draped it over his head. Cordelia, having tucked Connor into bed, watched this sympathetically but a certain amount of anticipation. After all, she didn’t often get to tease him, and here was the opportunity of the year. “Two new looks in one day.”

    A baleful eye glared at her from underneath the dripping towel. “I’ll remember that when I’m…”

   “Sober? Oh, I can hardly wait. You consumed the equivalent of the gross national product in one sitting, assuming they measured it in spew units, and you’re threatening me with what you’re going to do when you’re what? Less pickled? If you open the fridge again, you’ll spoil Connor’s milk.”

    Another baleful look. “Why is this funny?”

   Cordelia shrugged. “Because you’re not exactly funboy, Angel. It’s good to see you go out and have fun with your friends.”

   The eye disappeared, guiltily. Angel looked away. Cordelia didn’t notice, and went on. “So what was the occasion? Did you get the wedding invitation?”

    “Huh?”

    “Xander’s getting married.”

    “Xander…?”

   “Xander? Buffy’s friend? God, you really are drunk.”

   “No so drunk.” Angel muttered. He cocked his head at the sound of Wes banging around in what had once been Angel’s own office. “Not so drunk I don’t know people are lying to me.”

    Spike, in love? Who was it? Dawn? Willow? That other person Buffy had mentioned, Willow’s new girlfriend? Joyce’s memory? It seemed to intensify his pain, not knowing, not being able to warn this anonymous woman. At the very least, Buffy would be able to..?

     There was a thought forming in the mass of alcohol-soaked marbles that made up his brain. Buffy should know. Buffy would know. Wes. Buffy. Wes. Buffy. Phone call. He’d crashed before then, what had Wes found out?

    He raised his head, and tried to squint at the hallway to see how many miles’ away Wes’ office was. My former office, one of the more pickled parts of his brain piped up. Enough of that, admonished the mature brain. He wasn’t sure how that part had gotten less alcohol, but it was distinctly unpleasant. “Cordelia, can you do something for me?” 

   “What?” She asked cautiously.

   “Ask him what Buffy said when he called her.”  

    She gave him a resentful look. “I knew I should have gone with you guys. Men just don’t know how to gossip effectively.”  Unwilling to miss a minute, she backed out of the room, and kept her eyes on him till she’d covered the three feet or so to Wes’ office.

   “Hey, Wes?”

   “Yes?”  He looked up from his suitcase. Only Wes packed for an overnight trip as if it were for an expedition to Sri Lanka, Cordelia thought, conveniently ignoring the contents of her oversized bag, which included shampoo for those emergency situations.

    “Angel wants to know what Buffy had to say?”

   Wes blinked at her, flummoxed. Angel remembered that? “Um, about what?”

   “Hey, Angel, about what?”

    Angel cringed at her tone of voice, which was, admittedly, slightly above normal speaking level. “What?”

    Cordelia turned and looked back at Wes. “Do I have to act as interpreter here, Wes?”

   Wes looked out. “What were you asking, Angel?”

   “What. Did. Buffy. Know. About. Spike?” Angel whispered, clutching his head, or rather, his towel.

    “Um, not much.”

    “But what did she know?”

    “I, ah, couldn’t get a lot out of her.”

    Angel thought about it, weighing consequences in his brain. “I can get a lot out of her, Wes.”  He straightened up. “I have to go with you.”

“Buffy!”

    Buffy stirred to consciousness reluctantly, too comfortable to want to wake up. She was curled up against some male-shaped object, which, in turn, had its arms wrapped around her. Nice arms. She wriggled closer, then realized there was a lot of niceness to be had pretty much everywhere…. Her eyes snapped open. Spike, eyelids at a sleepy half-mast, gazed at her drowsily, too peaceful to move, and naked to boot. He was lying face down, so if anyone poked their head in her door---and why shouldn’t they, who knew he was here?----the first thing they’d see would be his flawless behind, then perhaps his arm flung across her, his head pillowed on her shoulder.  She rather suspected that perfect though his butt was, it might be rather startling to come upon it unawares. She jumped out of bed before that could happen, tripping over their clothes, all of which were strewn around the room. She grabbed garments at random and wound up in jeans and camisole, then poked her head out the door. “Dawn?”

    “Hey, we’re leaving.”

   “Oh, shit.” Spike one’s visible eye looked amused at this, then shut. She slipped out the door, seizing her sweatshirt on the way and yanking it on as she went.

   At the foot of the stairs so much gear was piled up, it looked like the invasion of Normandy, assuming Normandy was invaded by either drag queens or teenagers. She saw bags, suitcases, deflated air mattresses, comforters, pillows, and more makeup boxes than there were actual girls in the house. Among them were Dawn’s. She looked around for the clock, then Tara and Willow. Nowhere in sight, and the girls milling in the living room looked distinctly uncomfortable with her presence. “Hey!” She thought. “I’m a cool older sister! Honest! No dork cooties here! Seriously!” She nodded and waved at them as if to indicate her own harmlessness, and they responded by staring in appalled silence and then huddling in furious whispers. With a queasy smile, she thought, “You’re all going to wind up dating chess club members!” and headed for the kitchen, where voices of the witches alerted her to perform a nookie check in the hall mirror. To the uniniated eye, this looked, in fact, like nothing so much as an itching attack, as she frantically patted various body parts in the reflection and checked not-so-surreptitiously for hickies. A cough made her freeze. Three of Dawn’s guests, arms folded across their non-existent chests disapprovingly, stared at her from near the front door. As she blinked at them in horror, they exchanged glances, then whirled and escaped to the living room, where another furious storm of whispering erupted. She tiptoed after them, and beheld a group of girls, each of whom seemed to be hissing into her own pastel-hued cell phone. She shrank back from the doorway, and made her escape.   

     At the kitchen door, she paused, trying to compose her features into that of someone who had not just spent the night, naked, in the arms of a vampire. The club was just not ready for that quite yet, she was afraid. Hell, look how she’d dealt with it, and for her there’d been the definite compensation of orgasms, not only her own, but Spike’s, which were…She derailed that train of thought with effort and plunged onward.  “Hey, guys.”

    Tara and Willow were on opposite sides of the island, and as she glanced from one to the other she felt the sinking sensation of She Who Has Been Talked About. Fine.  What, was she not supposed to…? She dragged herself back to the present with almost-visible effort. “What’s up?”

    “Well….” Willow said. “Dawn wants to go over to Janice’s house.”

    Janice, the very definition of The Bad Teenage Influence. “Uh…” Buffy started to say.

    “She wants to make it up to her for not being able to invite her to the party.” 

   Buffy thought about it. “Kind of defeats the whole purpose of it, doesn’t it?”

   “Well, there’s that.” Willow said. “But, you know, Buffy, if you try and keep them apart any more than you have, they’ll just, you know…”

   “Act like you and I did when we were their age?” Buffy asked wistfully. “But Janice just doesn’t have any sense…”

   “That’s why we invited them over to my places,” Tara said proudly. “You don’t know about that, by the way.”

   “I don’t?”

   “No.” Tara said firmly. “That way, they get to have a little slumber party, and we get to curry teenage favor, and Dawn gets to feel like she pulled one over the Authority Figure’s eyes.”

   Buffy was impressed. “Is this a two-person job?”

   Willow flushed. “Well, you know, chaperoning and all that…”

    The front door opened and there was a flurry of voices and commotion. Buffy poked her head out and found herself confronted by a man she’d never seen before. “Hi?”

    “Hi. Are you Buffy? Jake Long.” Her hand disappeared into a huge mitt that could have caught baseballs. “Nice of you to have my girls over. We’ll have to have Dawn over real soon.” 

   “Oh, no problem.”

   “Oh, no,” Dawn said suddenly. ”No, this was like the best party ever. Really.”  She put her arms around her older sister’s shoulder and hugged her a little too desperately to be convincing. “It was great having you.”  She followed them out onto the porch, casting an innocent glance in Buffy’s direction that implored her to stay inside.

   Spike’s upstairs, sleeping, Buffy thought. Her own private mantra, tailored to the occasion.  She drifted back to the kitchen, noticing once again the odd feeling of unease with her friends. Willow seemed more comfortable with Tara than she did with Buffy, and Buffy herself was suddenly tired.  She’d told Willow something about Spike, but Willow had not offered her anything about herself. How’s the magic addiction going? What’s up with that?

      Parents sifted through promptly now, making her wonder if there had been some pre-arranged signal. If she were a parent in Sunnydale, she sure as hell wouldn’t leave her kid unattended even during the daylight. She hung back, uncomfortably aware she hadn’t brushed her teeth yet, certain that if she ducked upstairs to do it, they’d all vanish behind her back. She kept her mouth firmly closed, smiled, and waved. Tara, Willow, and Dawn were the last to go, and she tried to feel bad about locking the door behind them. Even before she turned away from the lock, though, the reason for that was behind her.

    Spike came padding down the stairs in bare feet, bare-chested and rumpled. He was wearing sweats. More importantly, he was wearing her sweats. She was torn between two thoughts, looking at him, looking at the narrow line of hair that led from his bellybutton to where the waistline loosely floated, inches below.  If I pull that drawstring, she thought…Bad enough, that one, but even worse was the sequel; I guess vampires get morning erections, too. She swallowed suddenly, her face abruptly flushing, her throat dry, her temples hot. Heat bloomed through her veins, as she looked back into his eyes.  She leaned back weakly against the front door, watching him swallow, too. “They gone?”

     She nodded, knowing her voice would squeak if she talked.

    He hesitated, seeing the flush on her face, afraid his own voice would crack. They stared at each other. A long minute ticked past.  “Want to go back to bed?”

   “Oh, yes,” she whispered breathlessly, and then he crossed the five feet or so at the foot of the stairs and kissed her so hard that her head actually fell back against his arm.  She wrapped her arms around his neck so tight he gave a little grunt, then pressed her hard against the door, grinding into her, hitting the seam of her jeans just perfectly. The sweatpants revealed every line of him and he took full advantage of this, shoving against her at just the perfect angle, even while he cursed the concept of button flies.  She was making noises of her own in the empty house, urging him on with little pants and moans, till he grabbed her waist and pulled her around him.  She pulled back and gasped, “Right here?”

    Breathing hard, he jerked his head no. “Uh uh. Too fast the last few times.”  He stumbled toward the stairs with her wrapped around him like some pretzel. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she responded by tightening arms and legs around him and squeezing fiercely. “Just wait,” he hissed at the threshold of her room, then stumbling to the bed. He wanted to go slow this time, but his blood was frantic, his hands shaking. He’d thought, hours alone, an empty house, but he felt he was going to burst if she touched him.  She yanked him down against her, fumbling out of her sweatshirt, not even noticing when he ripped her camisole. He tore at the buttons of her jeans, pausing one moment to draw a finger over her crotch and feel how wet she was, even through the material. He was so hard it was physically painful, blood beating in his head in a way that shouldn’t even have been possible. Not that he noticed, not with her wriggling out of her jeans under his shaking hands, shoving them down to her ankles, and spreading her legs for him. The sight of her, wriggling for him, trying to skin the jeans off her ankles even while she sucked his tongue into her mouth, almost ended it for him right there. His cock was poking out of the sweats on its own and with something like desperation, he shoved the fabric down and shoved inside her as if she were some sort of finish line. It was harder than he’d intended, and she stiffened around him, clenching him so hard he arched backward like a bow, trying to stave off the crashing orgasm, feeling the minute throbs of her muscles around him as she slowly relaxed around him. Every muscle on his body was rigid with the effort, not helped by Buffy bracing herself as close to him as she could, her nipples hard and red, brushing his chest like little fingertips. He swallowed convulsively, not even able to look at her for fear the sight of her would set him off, not even daring to thrust.

      He breathed again slowly, letting it out, lowering himself to her, bowing his mouth to her breasts. Her gasping echoed in his ears as he found his rythm, pulling out as far as he dared, then sliding into her like some long wave at low tide, going as far as he could, then just a little bit further. He twisted on top of her, desperate to touch everywhere, cocking her leg against his side, and startled by the jeans still around one ankle. She toed them off behind his back and wrapped her legs even higher around his back, so that when she pulled him against her, her knees kept bumping into her own arms. The bed beat against the wall and his fingers tore holes in the cover as his hands clenched and released with the tide of her movements. 

    Ohgodohgodohgodohgod….he couldn’t tell if it was her or himself gasping that frantic refrain with each thrust, didn’t matter who did it. He could feel it, feel it start with her, twist her around him, till he shook against her, forehead against hers, gasping in time to a pulse he didn’t have, emptying what felt like his soul into her. If anything, she wrapped her legs even tighter around him, kissing his forehead, his hair, his shoulder, whispering things he thought he was hallucinating. Couldn’t be hearing it, couldn’t be thinking that he was hearing it, don’t trust anything anyone says at orgasm.

    Except she whispered into his hair, her body shaking against him, under him, and he remembered, that’s when I say it. That’s when she lets me say it. With the last strength he had, he pulled out of her, and tried to be surprised at the way she pulled his body back against her, and pulled his head to her breasts. Her hands traced him over and over as if she were taking an inventory, and he noticed it. It was what he did. She was shaking, her fingertips unsteady in his hair, but her lips were soft on his forehead.

     “Don’t tell Xander.” He muttered.

    “Huh?”

    “Don’t tell Xander.”

     “How romantic.” She lifted his head so she could look into his eyes. “Why?”

     “Because I like the idea of him not knowing.” He wiggled a little, till he was nose to nose with her. “Not knowing what,”---his voice dropped to a whisper---“what we do when we’re alone.” He bit his lip, looking at her lips. “I want to look at you across the room and see you the way only I see you.”

“Well, you and the football team,” Buffy said lightly, trying to look away.

     “Ha.” Spike said. “Isn’t that cute?” He sat up, between her legs, and was rather startled that she didn’t shift or act uncomfortable in the slightest. It was all he could do not to look at her till he lost consciousness, all that soft skin, the way she tasted so amazingly different in locations just scant inches apart. “That’s all I was thinking about, when I was…” He managed to see the cliff before he jumped off it. “When I was away.” He finished lamely, avoiding her eyes. Looking for a diversionary tactic, he picked up her foot, and tickled it.  She gave him a God-you-are-so-lame look that didn’t intimidate him in the slightest; as a matter of act, he found it so cute that it distracted him from whatever it was he had been thinking.  It took a minute, but the thought occurred to him, what did she just say? ‘How Romantic’? Wasn’t that it?

    Romantic. Sarcasm to indicate he wasn’t doing something that…he had been? Romantic. They had both been silent for seconds now, looking at each other, Spike watching her breathe, noticing that she was breathing faster, Buffy noticing his eyes going dark, and swallowing.

     Spike crawled over her, lowering himself to her body, and then wriggling. Buffy stiffened under him and he stroked her cheek with one finger. “What?”

   “That thing you do.” She whispered. Her voice got even quieter. “The way you..”She swallowed. “Just before…” With a visible effort, she steadied herself. “Just before you come inside me, you do that, you shift, like you’re settling in, getting comfortable….” He stared at her, sliding one hand down her body, slipping one long finger between her legs.  She blinked a bit as he did that, her face all rosy and guileless, and she looked so innocent, somehow, that all he wanted to do was give her pleasure.

    “Anything else you like?” He whispered, thinking, Damn. There is something to be said for making love in the dark. Her eyes were going to set fire to him. He had his chin propped in one hand now, but his other hand was busy, relentless, and her eyes were getting hot and confused. She cocked her leg around his hip, trying to pull him closer, but he just gave her a half smile.  “Take notes, luv. There’s going to be a quiz. Can’t have you forgetting.” Keeping his eyes on hers, he kissed his way to her breasts, taking her shivers into his mouth. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her eyes closed now, but when he lifted his head she slowly opened her eyes. “Pay attention,” he teased.  He kissed lower and lower, licking her belly button, the little hipbone, the inside of her thigh. He checked; oh, he had her attention, all right. No time for finesse, now. He shoved her legs wide open, separating her flesh with cool fingers and honing in on his goal. She was a fresh peach, soft and liquid, her pulse pounding against his tongue, in his brain, through his nerves, straight to his heart, his cock, the roots of his hair. He kissed her, showing her some of the things a man can pick up with a certain amount of inspiration, like a Slayer making soft little inarticulate noises above him.  He clutched her hips to hold her still, lifting his head and clucking at her in mock disapproval for disturbing his rythm. Then he shook his head at himself, playing around when he had her spread out before him like a delicacy. He leaned in again, sighing in sheer pleasure when he could, murmuring appreciative noises in his throat, like some sort of gourmet. She clutched at his hair, the sheets, twisting, but she didn’t look away.  Tipping her hips up for more, she matched his motion, circling and twisting, till all her tension gathered in a little ball and shook apart, tearing her thoughts to shreds and fragments.  She was breathing hard, sweaty, her eyes heavy-lidded, her limbs quivering weakly, and Spike lifted his head, burning her image into his brain. Then he settled himself for another siege, thinking to himself that daylight wasn’t so bad, as long as it didn’t kill him. He could savor the sight and taste of her, the rare pleasure of seeing her clearly as he drove her mad with his tongue and his hands.

    Only when she came again, and again, and he felt her wincing did he stop, realizing she was sore. Her hand lay limply in his hair, the other against his cheek, and he had to smile against her soft little stomach to hide his smug male expression. She was all soft and boneless, breathing with soft little pants as she came down. He kissed his way back up to her mouth, and was startled to find her clutching at him urgently, her fingers digging into his shoulder. Then she took his cock in her hand, and he gulped. “Sure?” He whispered.

   “Oh, yes,” she breathed into his mouth.

   Oh, she was wriggling under him, and he wanted to, all right. He was hard all over again, and she wasn’t helping at all, or rather, she was helping much too much.  He positioned himself delicately, watching her close her eyes and shudder as he did so. “Buff?”

    “Yes.” She kissed him with both hands on his cheeks, licking her lips when they separated, and he bit his lip in response. She found his cock again with one hand, but he knew the way, sliding into her as gently as he could. She flinched a bit at that, and he froze. “Buffy…I’m going to…” He made to pull out of her, but she stopped him with her feet behind his buttocks.

   “No, it’s okay,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.” With gingerly care, he pulled back, feeling her relax slightly, and she urged him back with her mouth and hands, her little breaths against his shoulders. He went slow, a long languorous sweep into her body, giving them time they’d not had before. There was nothing like it, this slow leisurely fuck on a hot afternoon, having time to see her face, having time to see her body. Unreality hit him; this is really happening, the two of them rocking in each other’s arms, twisting and sighing, every sense rubbed raw and sensitive. He had to glance down to believe it, past her face, her breasts, his own body, to see himself, sliding into her.  She was tensing and relaxing around him with shivering little gasps, freezing at the top of every stroke, her hands fluttering to his face and back, sliding all over. “Oh, god…”She whispered. She caught his lips as he thrust and receded in her, kissing him slow, whispering things under her breath that he couldn’t hear.  She was boiling around him, turning him to ashes, so wet she was an ocean around him, the only thing keeping him from bursting into flames. He braced himself on his elbows to see her better, awed at the impossibility of it all.

     “What?”

    The very question deserved a kiss. Buffy Summers, demanding an explanation during sex. She shook her head at him, smiling slightly, and he wriggled his hips in the cradle of her thighs, watching her eyes widen. “You.” He whispered. “Trying to distract me.”

    “Is it working?”

   He didn’t know why it struck him as funny, but it did, and he laughed out loud, burying his face in her shoulder and collapsing on top of her.  She giggled, too, despite being crushed, which only made him tip a glance up at her. “Now what?” Sad to say, he was having trouble keeping his concentration.

    “Well, I was just going to say, it’s a good thing that I didn’t say what I was going to say.”

   “What?” He slid forward in her, wondering if he could break her concentration. Slow and hard, as far as he could go, holding himself there, go a little further. He stared down at her, watching her watch his stomach muscles twitch as his hips rocked against hers.   “You were saying?”

    She brought up her fingertips to her face, her flat little stomach shaking against his, hands gripping his arms tight enough to bruise. “You.”  She took a ragged breath as he hit something exquisitely sensitive.  “God, you’re beautiful.”

   He stared at her, eyes huge, proving her point. With his wide, stunned blue eyes and soft mouth, he looked like a debauched angel. She’d never complimented him before.  His mouth opened and closed, and he looked bewildered. Her amusement faded away as she saw it---such a simple phrase---reverberate.  Reaching up with both hands, she pulled him down to kiss him as gently as she could, unnerved by the look on his face, the look that didn’t go away.  Slowly, he began to move, burying his face in her shoulder, faster, deeper, till one hard thrust made her freeze beneath him, hands clenching on his shoulders. Then he lifted his head, staring down into her eyes, and she back at him, face washed free of all defenses by orgasm.  Almost dazed-looking, he moved slowly inside her to his own orgasm, never looking away, not even when it hit him and his whole body trembled, shaking. You’re beautiful, she thought, never more so at that moment. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told him she loved watching him come. He was naked in more ways than one then, and she wondered if she was seeing William without Spike’s defenses.

         He rolled over onto his side, taking her with him, fingers on her chin.  His scrutiny was unnerving, the same serious look he gave her when it mattered, when she was most in need of it. “I meant it.” She said quietly. He didn’t exactly smile, but some of the look left his face.

    “Any other confessions you’d care to share?” he asked, too lightly.

    The question fell like a rock between them, and Buffy scrambled to repair the damage.

 “Lots of stuff.” He took a deep breath at that. “An awful lot of stuff. There’s…” She swallowed. “It’s easier for me to feel it than say it, you know?” She laid her hand anxiously against his face, swallowing when he turned his cheek into her palm. “But…”

    He nodded, never looking away from her eyes. He could cope with that. “There’s got to be something you want to tell me.”

    She moved closer to him, biting her lip to keep from grinning. “Well…”

    “What?”

    “You know what I was thinking?”

    “When?”

   “Before?”

   He let it go, amused at the air of Big Secrets About to Be Revealed. “So?”

   “You were wearing my sweats.”

   “So?”

   “So now both of us can say we’ve been in my pants.”  She dissolved into giggles, embarrassed but pleased, and he drank in the sight of his Slayer, making stupid jokes.

“Is this a preview of the wit I have to look forward to?”

     Buffy gave him a look that was so much like the old Buffy that his undead heart gave a jump. “If you’re lucky.”

      Wes had actually been looking forward to Sunnydale. First off, there was the drive itself, two peaceful hours of contemplation free of interruption, during which he could start to get some perspective. Then there was Sunnydale itself, scene of several humiliations. He rather liked the idea of putting those bad memories to rest, coming to terms with them. Not being loved in return might not hurt quite so much if he didn’t lump it onto the pile of everything else he’d fucked up, along with that handy mental list of flaws he kept at the back of his mind.  Even the thought of seeing Buffy again had a certain piquancy. The idea that she might be pleasantly surprised at the Wes he had become seemed to release a lot of his pressure, and perhaps they might even have an educational session of catching up. It would be good to discuss Watching, recent developments on the Hellmouth, new regulations in Slayerdom.

   Finally, well, there was Spike. The idea of chatting up a vampire would have been an alien one two years ago, something he once wouldn’t have dreamed of doing. He had to wonder, now, how many things he’d once never questioned were holding him back. Besides, he needed to talk to a kindred soul.  He couldn’t discuss lost love with Angel, seeing as how Angel regarded himself as the touchstone for the subject. Angel had never loved someone without reciprocation; how could he talk about it? Truth was, the friendship there had undergone some troubling sea change not helped by the last several months. Much as he hated to drag his friends down with his feelings, he also couldn’t help but think that they might have displayed some tact in the way they acted around him. Young love was difficult enough to take when one had loved and been rejected; when the object of one’s affections then joyously took up with someone else beneath one’s nose and on one’s payroll, well, there was something to make a sober man contemplate alcohol.

    Talking to Spike had been a curious experience, something he wanted to see if he could recreate sans alcohol. He wanted to talk about how much he loved Fred, how lonely he felt when he saw her with Gunn. He’d not only lost his love, but his best friend, hell, his only friend; maybe only another soul who loved heedlessly could understand that.

    And then, too, how ironic to think of Spike in those terms.

   All in all, it had been a pleasant plan, sort of like a mental process of packing, and he had found it immensely soothing.

    Unfortunately, things had worked out rather different.

    Instead of driving Angel’s convertible, top down and wind in his hair, he was driving, well, Angel’s convertible with the top up and blankets across the windows. Instead of the wind in his hair, he had air conditioning in his face, and he suspected it would give him a cold. Finally, there was the matter of two hours of thoughtful contemplation of life. It was just a tad difficult to think about life when one had a hungover vampire in the back seat, alternately moaning, and groaning, “Pull over,” so he could throw up by the side of the road. He’d pulled over so many times that they had probably left a quite clear trail of, well, clues, behind them, and if he lost his roadmap, unlike Hansel and Gretel, he’d be able to find his way back, thanks to Angel.

   He just wasn’t sure of his feelings toward Angel right now, and the fact that Angel was sicker than a dog---well, a dead dog----didn’t make that easy to admit. In fact, he wanted to be able to resent Angel tremendously, and it somehow seemed desperately unfair to do so while his putative employee curled up in the backseat and moaned in heartrending tones.

    He was rather pleased that he remembered the way to Buffy’s house; rather startled at the destruction of the high school. That was worth a second look, so he pulled up in front of the corpse of the building, and looked at it with a shiver. He got out of the car, crossing around the front, and leaning against the passenger side door to cross his arms and stare up at what was left of the building he’d once thought of as Hellmouth High. The class that had given Buffy her Class Protector Award.  The library where he’d kissed Cordelia---or tried to. Faith, all bravado and torment, now long jailed. He felt the familiar twinge at the thought of her, the loss of potential, the waste. Looking up at the building, he thought perhaps it was a good thing they’d let the burned-out hull remain. It was a good thing to remember one’s mistakes, to remember the consequences…and the rewards. He was no longer a Watcher, and he was troubled by what was going on with his friends, but at least he had friends. No posing as something he wasn’t. He  ran one hand over his chin, feeling the beard he’d not bothered to shave, and wondered where the old Wesley had gone. 

     There was a groan from the car. He winced at the sound, as much as at the reminder as the actual noise itself, then squared his shoulders and headed back to his duties.

       Warren zipped down the sidewalk at a faster clip than he’d ever attained in Phys Ed. The keys in his pockets jingled annoyingly, the change bounced out of his pockets, and his hair looked about ready to jump ship on its own power. Dignity be damned. Who knew those fucking demons could look so human they’d fool you?  Sure, vampires and all, but a drunken woman being a vampire…! It just wasn’t fair. It altered the natural order of the fucking universe.  Damn.  He dwindled down into a limping trot, then fell into an unsteady stagger, and doubled over, breathing like a two pack a day man suddenly embracing fitness. He coughed, hands braced on knees, and wondered how he could blame this on the Slayer. Not that he really needed a reason. That blonde bitch had it coming, just for the smug way she wouldn’t fucking get out of the way. Her continued evasion of his revenge was almost enough to make him turn around and figure out how to use the demon against her. Fucking women, he thought, with all the bitterness of a college geek who’d had a grand total of two girlfriends, one of which had required recharging. It never occurred to him that while he’d sneer at a girl with a vibrator, constructing a girlfriend who had her own voltage adaptor might indicate certain frailties in his own logic.

     He straightened up gradually, taking a deep breath that hurt his lungs. What in hell was he supposed to do now?  There had to be a better way to get girls. First there had been the unfortunate malfunction with Katrina, now this, but the device was the best way they had of getting some. Maybe there was something to be said for those drugs, after all. Maybe once they took control of Sunnydale, they could lay in a supply of those pills and just bag the babes that way.

   Hell, at this point, it had been so long for him that he…He turned thoughtfully, to look back at the way he’d come, and in doing so glanced across the front porch of the house he was stopped in front of.  He stiffened.

    Jonathon, sitting in a glider, sipping a shake, was looking at him calmly, no doubt filing the sight of him gasping for breath after his hundred-yard dash away for future blackmail purposes. “Hey, Warren.” Jonathon said uncomfortably.

    “Jonathon.” They eyed each other carefully, Jonathon trying to look unsuspicious, and Warren trying to avoid letting his contempt show. Then he realized that if he looked scornful, it would be normal, and Jonathon wouldn’t have any reason to think he’d been fleeing in terror from a feminist demon who no doubt wanted his balls. And not in the good way, either.

      They sized each other up. Why did I say something first? Jonathon thought. Why? I should’ve waited, made him squirm, made him wonder what I was thinking. What would Obi-Wan do? Which he promptly forgot, because he was so wigged out by Warren’s frazzled appearance. Frazzled on Warren meant only one thing, and that was bad.  Frazzled meant Warren was pissed, therefore Jonathon would soon be the butt of something.

     “So, Warren,” Jonathon asked softly, “Whatcha doin’?”

     “I’m out for a jog, you dwarf.” With a visible effort, Warren shook it off and glanced away, trying not to show too much contempt. After all, the demon had been pissed off at him. Who knew if it would be pissed off at Jonathon? Did anyone ever really get pissed off at him? How could they maintain their ire in the face of the soft voice, the boyish mop of hair, the virginal brown eyes? Even if they did, did it last long? How long could a demon hold a grudge? She had been really drunk, maybe she’d have passed out again by now. That could be kind of fun if she had. Maybe he could find stronger rope. He’d never had a demon. Well, actually, except for Katrina, he’d never had a human, but it could be time to branch out to other species.

    They stared at each other, Warren calculating, Jonathon puzzled. “I’ve got a new thing to try out.” Warren said finally. He actually hadn’t planned on sharing with Jonathon, useless little twerp that he was, but hey, he could adapt now.

   “What sort of thing?” Jonathon asked warily.

   “A new thing for getting girls.”

   Jonathon felt his stomach drop several stories. Great. Just great. What would Obi-Wan do? He thought. Well, for sure, Obi-Wan wouldn’t be pandering to this budding Ted Bundy. This was definitely Darth territory. His stomach dropped several more stories. A new thing. Who now?  He carefully brushed aside thoughts of the twins he himself had bewitched, and focused on Warren’s beady eyes. Warren definitely had beady eyes, therefore he was in no way shape or form a good villain.  Jonathon knew from long contemplation of his mirror that he had big brown puppy dog eyes, and was therefore not a bad guy, but maybe a Tortured Anti-Hero, like Heathcliff from the sort of chick flick he secretly watched when the other two weren’t in the lair.

   “What sort of thing?”

   “Oh, I still need to get some ingredients.” Warren said casually. “Figured I’d go see what I could find. It’s really rough.”

    Too casual, Jonathon thought. Something here he wasn’t talking about. Knowing Warren, that meant there was something he had that he didn’t want him to know about.  The bad stuff, like disposing of bodies, he’d dump on Jonathon just fine.  But the fun stuff? That was definitely for Warren and Warren alone.

   “Oh, just the usual stuff…” Warren looked off into the distance. “I gotta go get some, you know, stuff. Why don’t you come by later?”

   “How much later?”

   “Oh, much later.” Warren said with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want you to get intimidated by my expertise or anything. So I gotta go now, John-boy. See ya later, right?” He turned to walk away. “Much later, okay? Don’t screw up this time. I don’t want any interruptions. I’m going to make this special. You know how chicks like that. Even sex slaves.  Especially sex slaves.”  He gave Jonathon a wave, sighed like a man who’s done a job very well indeed, and ambled off as if he didn’t have a pissed-off demon plus an unconscious minion in his lair.

   Jonathon stared at his back. It didn’t occur to him that Warren turned at the wrong corner to go downtown; it didn’t occur to him that Warren had turned in exactly the wrong direction to go downtown, and it didn’t occur to him that Warren might be pulling Jedi mind games on him while he was wondering what Obi-Wan would do. There’s a girl there. The bastard already got a girl. The bastard’s going to…He stared at the corner Warren had taken, unaware that his erstwhile buddy was peering at him through the hedge. Bastard, he thought. Of course, once again, the whole twin affair was overlooked. Somehow it just seemed so different when he had done it.

   That’s it, this is really it, he thought. I’ll rescue her. And it will really piss Warren off. All of a sudden, he felt all Jedi-like. Actually, it was the first time he’d felt all Jedi-like since the whole super villain thing had begun. Maybe she’ll be grateful, he thought. Maybe we can watch Star Wars together, on that pirated DVD I downloaded off the Internet. Oh, boy, maybe he kidnapped a cheerleader.

   Warren watched as Jonathon whirled around like a startled cat and dashed back into the house. Delegate, delegate, delegate, he thought. The secret to good management and successful world domination.

      Xander knew it was serious when Anya rang up a hundred dollar sale and didn’t step into the back room to do the Dance of Capitalist Superiority. He knew it was worse when someone tried to break a twenty for a cup of tea, and she didn’t even snap at the luckless fool for depleting the precious change that was meant for better customers.  And when Dawn came in with Willow and Tara, Anya did not bodily separate her from the merchandise. But when Willow came in and Anya didn’t do the subconscious Willow face, he realized how very bad it was.

    “An,” he sidled up behind her and whispered in her ear.”Wanna talk?”

    She was sadly fondling the money, stroking the big bills with a gentle finger. Only big bills for my girl, he thought fondly, then saw it for what it was; she was trying to console herself. Willow and Dawn were giggling over something in the corner, and Anya didn’t so much as even glance up. Ever since the whole, “Willow’s a demon” thing, there had been a certain tension between the two, because Willow had not liked being called a demon, and Anya had not liked that Willow had not liked it. Women, he thought. It used to be simple to insult a woman. Tell her she wears combat boots, and it’s all over. Now accuse her of belonging to a different species, and not only might it be true, but the recipient of the remark might very well regard it as a compliment. Who knew? 

   “I haven’t heard from Hallie.” Anya said softly. “She didn’t call.”

   “Maybe, she, ah, forgot.”

    “She could only do that for a bit.” Anya said softly. “It becomes a part of you after a while. You feel naked without it. She should have noticed by now.”

    They looked at each other, and when Willow giggled in the background, Anya didn’t even so much as flinch. “We’ll call Buffy.” Xander said cheerfully. “Look! Problem solved.”

        Wes didn’t feel nervous till he pulled over in front of the house, and turned off the engine. Angel snored in the backseat, something that once would have made him flee, but compared with the nausea-o-rama the trip had been, was a delight in comparison. He did get out of the car rather fast, though.

     Buffy had to be home; there was an old DeSoto parked in front of the house, but as he looked closer at the car, he realized it only meant that perhaps Spike was home. The vehicle looked like the one he’d seen parked in front of the hotel; and it had blacked-out windows. Either it was a vampire’s car, and they weren’t really known for possessing them, or it belonged to an albino with a Sid Vicious fixation, if the bumper stickers were any indication. He stepped close to the car cautiously, as if the rust would infect him. Definitely Spike’s car. He glanced up at the house. Had Spike come directly here after returning? Hm. All of a sudden, he wondered if he should really go knock on the door. Maybe he’d be interrupting something. Shoving his hands in his pockets so they wouldn’t wave around like they always did when he was nervous, he tried the passenger door, and pulled it open.

     Hm again. It was surprisingly neat. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he hadn’t ever devoted a thought to the car-cleaning habits of soulless demons. No beer bottles, for example, no body parts, no smell, except, perhaps, of cigarettes. He glanced in the back seat and froze. Lorne, sacked out and peaceful, a pleasant smile on his lips, lay stretched out on the back seat. His shoes were on the back window shelf, and the windows at his head and feet were slightly cracked. His ankles were peacefully crossed, and he was wearing the most amazingly colorful socks.  He looked as composed as Sleeping Beauty herself, except for the green skin and the horns. Wes shook his head in amusement. God, how do you wake up a demon? He cleared his throat in preparation for making aloud remark.

     “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

    “Why not?”

    “Because I could blackmail you with the fact that you have a secret addiction to Patsy Kensit, and the only thing keeping you from plastering her eyebrowless face all over your apartment is the fear you might die suddenly.” Lorne grimaced at him. “Oh, my back.”

   “Buffy didn’t let you sleep on the couch?”

    “The couch was occupied.”

     “Ah.” Spike, Wes thought. Ah, well.  He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. Vampire, vampire slayer, but still, how boring was it if birds of a feather…?  He pulled himself back to reality at the look on Lorne’s face.  The green demon eyed him patiently.

    “You’re doing it again.”

    “What? I am not.”

    “You’re thinking of that Kensit person. Or Emma Thompson. Don’t even look at me like that, babycakes. If I said the words, “Much Ado About Nothing” in the lobby in front of a crowd of people, you’d blush like a schoolgirl.” Lorne sighed, and pulled himself up. “My mouth feels like the floor of this car.” He shook his head a bit, cracked his neck, rubbed his neck. “And I need a shower, so be warned. This wasn’t just a social call, was it?”

   “No, we came up here for you.”

   Lorne sighed happily at the prospect of home and shower, then focused abruptly on Wes. “We?”

   “Angel and I.”

   “Where is he?”

   “In the car.”

   “In what car?”

   “Angel’s car.” Wes gestured at the black convertible behind Spike’s, and then watched as Lorne’s jaw dropped in horror.

   “He’s not in a mood.” Wes said dryly. “He’s in a condition.”

   “Well, he’ll be in another condition if he gets out of that car.” Lorne shoved the door open and jumped out. “Let’s go.” He glanced down, grimaced, then snatched his shoes and shoved them off his feet.

    Wes fidgeted.

    Lorne jumped to the side door of Angel’s car and looked in through the crack on the shady side of the car. Sure enough, there he was, and he was so much paler than he usually was. If he got any whiter, he’d be see-through. “How nice to bring him with. Why did you bring him with?”

    “I can hear you, you know.” Angel mumbled irritably.

    “Great.” Lorne said. “Let’s whisper.” He yanked Wes down the sidewalk. “Just how good are vampire ears?”

   “As good as any predator’s, I suppose.” Wes shrugged.

   “What does that mean?”

   “Well, I’m sure he can hear quite easily into different rooms if he wants to.”

   “Even while he’s drunk?”

   “Actually, I suppose then it would be rather a disadvantage, wouldn’t it?” Wes said thoughtfully.

   “Well, it’s going to be a disadvantage now unless we get moving, Wesley baby, so what do you say we go?”

    Behind them, Angel blearily pulled himself up into a seated position in the back seat of the car. There was a fraught moment during which various internal organs tried to rearrange themselves and escape, but he won that battle and managed to focus his eyes. “Hey, that’s Buffy’s house.” He was, Wesley saw, at one of those weird pockets of bonhomie that sometimes interrupted really monumental hangovers. The vampire’s eyes peered unsteadily at the vehicle in front of him. “Hey, that’s Spike’s car.” He swiveled back to the house as if to confirm its presence. This was followed by the unsteady return on his gaze to the car. “You’d think he’d trade it in for a decent model.” He stared through the windshield and then his eyes slowly, steadily cleared. The fog departed, and the blank expression on his face gradually resolved itself to curiosity, and then bewilderment. “Why is Spike’s car here?” He looked at Wes, all goofiness gone. “Something weird is going on.” He gestured at them furtively. Cautiously, so as to avoid the alcohol fumes, they edged closer. Angel nodded encouragement, and beckoned them to come nearer.

Glancing nervously at one another, they tiptoed forward. Angel shook his head impatiently and reached out and grabbed. “I have an idea.”

    That was quite an accomplishment in his condition. “What’s that?” Wes asked, dreading the answer.

      “Let’s steal it.”

       Andrew found himself looking at ceilings tiles and struts.  This made no sense at all because he’d been dreaming about some universe where he got to wear a tight black uniform and play with all sorts of cool weapons. Also, his head hurt, and it was becoming apparent that there were going to be repercussions unless he could crawl upstairs to the bathroom. He closed his eyes to see if that lessoned the pain. No such luck. Cautiously, he turned his head; there was the entertainment center. He turned it the other way, feeling the cool concrete oddly soothing. In the other direction was a gurney-like thing that Warren had set up and…Oh, shit! He yelped and sat up, scooting backward on his butt away from the woman on the table. “Don’t hurt me,” he quavered.

   Hallie was not feeling good. She, too, had a distinct premonition of oncoming digestive difficulties, and the idea of what that would be like while tied to a table made her forget that she was tied up. If she had felt better, the knots wouldn’t have been a problem. The biggest item on her radar was her hangover, and Andrew was just an annoying noise that she’d slap away as soon as she felt better. If I ever feel good enough to get revenge on anyone again, it’s Jack Daniels I’m going after, she thought. Her mouth felt like the bottom of an coal miner’s laundry hamper. She turned her head just slightly. Strange. Ratboy was gone. In his place was some boy she knew she should have some vague memory of, but really couldn’t bother to waste the energy on. She tried to focus on this one, who skittered away from her as soon as he saw her looking at him. He looked like he was going to cry.  She just hated that. A surprising number of these sleazeballs did all kinds of crap—murder, rape, whatever---and burst into tears when she so much as threatened their golf handicap. She’d told OJ Simpson she was going to curse him with girlfriends who were as beautiful as he was innocent, and he’d promptly displayed more acting ability then than she’d ever seen in his movies. Of course, D’Hoffryn just loved OJ’s movies, so she’d seen the damned things numerous times. Shame, really, that there was no category of artistic revenge….She drifted pleasantly for a few minutes, occupied by thoughts of making N’Sync pay for their crimes, when she realized she was still tied up. Damn. This reality was so unpleasant. Next time she was definitely going to pop out before the hangover arrived. She concentrated her brain cells and focused on breaking the ropes. Nothing. Not even a fizzle. What the hell was going on…?Then she remembered. Her pendant. Anya had her pendant. She stared at the ceiling resentfully for a while. Then she licked her lips and tried to figure out which of the two boys she saw actually existed. “You.”    

   “What?”

    God, how pathetic, she thought. Human. “Untie me.”

     “You’ll hurt me.”

   Well, duh, you fool.  Then she realized, mournfully, that minus her pendant, and severely hungover, she might not even be capable of that. Unless, of course, she could scare the little bugger.  She turned her head the other way and tried to morph into demon face, but the hangover was rapidly getting worse, and all she could manage was a really bad case of acne. She sighed and turned back. “I won’t hurt you.” She paused. “If you untie me.”

    “Oh, I don’t know.” Andrew said tremulously. “Warren will be so….” His eyes widened at the way she glared at him. Hm. Think like a Supervillain! He thought. She was tied up. Warren was not. Warren might come back. Besides, how many people could boast they’d caught a demon? However, in order to get away, he had to get by the table to the stairs. Hm. How pissed would Warren be? Hm. He looked at where her hands were tied to the table; there were several thicknesses of rope around each wrist, and he knew her ankles were just as securely tied. She wasn’t going anywhere, at least as long as she was tied up.  Tied up, she was just another woman, just another experiment. He smiled slightly to himself, relieved. His favorite solution to every problem was simple; do nothing and wait for Warren. Here was a perfect opportunity.

   Hallie cleared her throat. “Well?”

   “Well, I don’t think I should.”

   A scraping noise on the stairs made them both turn.  Jonathon stood on the stairway, wearing his Superman Tee-shirt, jaw agape. His expression of astonishment gradually faded into one of disappointment as he realized that Halfrek in no way, shape or form resembled a cheerleader. She hadn’t bothered to morph out of the demon face she’d managed, so she had a rather severe skin condition as well. “Oh,” Jonathon said faintly. No cheerleader. No gratitude. Rescuing her no longer seemed interesting; disposing of her seemed to be the problem now. He grimaced. Supervillains or superheroes were supposed to get all the cool girls; what was going on here?

    “Uh,” Jonathon said. She was conscious, too, which meant he was about to experience conversational awfulness that no doubt would eclipse whatever torments had he’d survived in high school. How did you make polite conversation with someone your evil genius buddy had kidnapped for purposes he’d forced himself not to think about? Crap. He’d wanted to rescue a cheerleader. This person just wasn’t pretty enough to rescue. He sank down onto the steps and sighed.

   Hallie looked at him, then waited for five seconds before looking again. He was still sitting there, pouting, and she wondered if she’d inadvertently turned him to stone. She looked at the ceiling supports for a while, then glanced back. Nothing. Was he just going to sit there? “You.” She said. “Untie me.”

    “Uh,” Jonathon said, nervously standing up. It occurred to him he would have untied her if she’d been unconscious, but he just couldn’t do it while she was looking at him. He hesitated, completely flummoxed by something he hadn’t expected. “Uh. It’s …the phone.” He said faintly.

   Inspiration dawned on Andrew’s face. “Yeah, I’m expecting a call.”

   “No, it’s for me!” Jonathon said. “I’M expecting a call!”

   “No, I am.” Andrew snapped, jumping to his feet.

    “Are not!”

    “Are too!”

    “Are not!”

   “Am too!”

   Jonathon leaped and whirled up the stairs, Andrew at his heels. Out of Hallie’s sight, there was a thump, and a scuffle, muttered threats and insults, and then a door slamming. Her sigh reached only the ceiling.

    She looked around again. No phone. No company.  No pendant. No way to get a hold of anyone.  She was hungover, sick, and not likely to improve if she didn’t get some aspirin. Plus, she just was not in fighting shape, and if those three twits came back, she’d have a great excuse for revenge, but not a lot of opportunity.

   Oh, God, this is going to look so bad on my quarterly review, she thought. She closed her eyes and began chanting, softly and uncertainly.  Before she’d gotten far, there was a roar, a puff of smoke that did her stomach no good at all, and an irritable-sounding cough.  She tried to spot anything in the green smoke.  There were tentative footsteps on the concrete, and the smoke swirled as someone waved irritably at it. Horns emerged from the soupy fog, and D’Hoffryn peered at her, only his head and face visible. “Hallie?!”  He looked over her predicament. “What happened?”

     For the first time, Hallie let herself get good and joyously angry. “You know that rule about us getting revenge on our own?”

   “Yes?”

   “Well, we need to talk about changing that.”

    God, the phone again.  Buffy jerked awake and glared at the thing. She was curled up against Spike’s back, her arms looped bonelessly around his middle, his hand curled back around one of her thighs. She groaned in a very un-Slayer like way, and rolled over to grab the phone, vowing to turn the ringer off when she was done.

    “Hello?”

    “Buffy?”

    “Xander, don’t take this the wrong way, but if it’s another missing demon, your birthday present is in serious jeopardy.”

   There was an interesting pause. He was calling from the Magic Box; she could hear the noise of the cash register behind him. Behind her, she heard and felt Spike move, rolling over onto his back as she had, then beside her. She glanced down and Spike was stretched thoughtfully out on his side next to her, cheek propped on one hand.

   “Well, does it count if it’s the same demon?” Xander asked.

   “Tell me again why I should care?”

    Anya was saying something in the background, her voice alternatively buzzing and clearing in the earpiece. She sounded like a giant bug. “Anya says Hallie left, then Spike…” He let that phrase dangle suggestively in the air.

   “What are you talking about?” Buffy demanded.

   “Well, evidently there was some sort of history there between Anya’s friend and…Spike. I know you’ve been all buddy-buddy with him lately, but…”

  Buffy’s mood slid from irritated to outright pissed in one second flat.

   “Why don’t you just spit it out, Xander? What are you trying to say?”

   “Well, like I said, you know, Hallie broke his heart when he still had a heart, so who knows what he’d do if he had the opportunity?”

    Buffy thought rapidly, frowning, trying to figure out something she knew she was missing. Spike reached out with one finger and traced her thigh, distracting her from whatever it was that  she was trying to remember. “This was Anya’s little vengeance demon friend?”

   “Well, yeah.” Xander said cautiously.

   “So if she broke his heart, how come she’s a vengeance demon?” Buffy demanded triumphantly. “He didn’t kill her then, why would he do it now?”

   More muttering buzzing sounds just a bit too far away to hear. Buffy glanced down at Spike, sensing impending distractions.  Actually, she was actively hoping for them. “Anya said Hallie left first, then Spike took off.”

    “So?” Buffy said. She had the perfect defense, right in front of her, and she couldn’t use it. He was here with me, all night.

    “Jeez, Buffy, what is it? You’re sticking up for him.”

    “Somebody’s got to.” Buffy snapped. “You just automatically blame him for everything.” Something like shock slipped over Spike’s face, and he looked up at her with wary eyes. “ Dawn was telling me about this summer, Xander.”

     There was a tense silence, and when Xander finally broke it, his voice was tight. “Yeah, so what does that mean?”

   “He fought alongside you all summer, and you might be able to forget that, but Dawn and I can’t. And Glory tortured him.”

    “That’s what he says.” Xander said scornfully.

    “You saw him, Xander. Do you think he did that to himself?”

   “He’s always getting into fights.” Xander said contemptuously. “He’s always got bruises and stuff all over. Look at that shiner he had at your party, and he didn’t even bring you a present, did you?”

   “Xander, you have whatever opinion you want.” Buffy said. “But I have an opinion, too, and at least I change mine when the person it’s about changes. I’ll ask around about Anya’s friend. “ She slammed the phone down, hard, then picked it up and ripped the cord out of the base.  Spike watched this with unreadable eyes.

   “Talkin’ about me, were you.” It was not a question.

  Buffy flopped down next to him.  The day was at that perfect time of afternoon, not too hot, not too bright, not too dark, not yet cooling off into desert chill. Except Xander had spoiled it. “He talked, I just…”

   “You were sticking up for me.”

   She turned and looked at him, giving him a fierce look. “I’d do that no matter what, you know? I change my mind! You’ve changed, you’ve done things, and Xander just doesn’t change…” She glanced away sullenly as he brushed her hair out of her eyes.

   “You talked to Dawn about more than boys, didn’t you?”

   “Well, let’s face it, boys…” Buffy’s shrug encompassed the entire gender. “Not a big subject.”

    “Oh, really, Little Miss-I-Change-My-Mind?”

   “Living or dead.” She amended with a smirk.

    “Well, thanks.” He was looking at her again, far beyond serious now, and she simply couldn’t look at him. She had stuck up for him to Xander, it was true. She wanted to believe she would have done that no matter what, but she really wasn’t sure. Desperately, she clung to the belief of Fair Buffy, able to change her mind, able to grow. “So what did Dawn have to say?”

     It was her turn to reach out and brush his face, not because his hair was anywhere long enough to obstruct her view, but because she had to touch him. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

     “Well, what did Xander say?”

    “He said that that friend of Hallie’s was still missing.”

   “So?”

  “He thought  that you…”

  “Ah….” Spike shook his head and dropped his head back to the pillow. “And Anya said that?”

   “How’d you guess?”

   “I’m psychic.” Spike said sarcastically.

    The phone rang. Buffy jumped,  staring in surprise at the phone she’d disconnected, then realizing it was the one downstairs. She jumped up, grabbing her robe, and dashing down the stairs. Spike got out of bed and stretched, noticing that all the blinds were drawn. He looked around, startled. She’d closed all the blinds so the sun wouldn’t shine on him? No, probably just a coincidence.  He ambled his way across the floor, tripping over his clothes, then kicking them out of the way. He scrounged in his pockets for smokes, pausing as he encountered the big roll of bills. God, he had to talk to Dawn, and who knew when that would be? He leaned in the hallway door, trying to catch bits of the conversation downstairs.  All he could catch was a series of  “Oh?  Ew. Oh, no. Crap. Uh. Huh.”  Then the sound of the phone being hung up rather more enthusiastically than  was necessary. After a moment broken by the sound of stomping feet, Buffy appeared at the base of the stairs, not looking happy. She started up about the time he started down, and they met in the middle. He turned her sideways till they on the same step, then turned around, so that she was a step higher.

   “What?”

   “Bad news.”

   “And that would be?”

    “Something weird is going on.”

   “This is Sunnydale.” He got his hands into the pockets of her robe, and she squirmed against him, grumpy but still persuadable. He kissed her just once, hands cupping her bottom through her robe, inching her robe open. Warm skin against his, heat spreading to his bones, he leaned against the wall, kissing her again, gauging her reaction. “How weird?”

   “I guess somebody turned half the chess club into newts, and the trekkies at the Trek marathon were suddenly afflicted, with, uh, toaditis.” 

   He pulled back and looked at her. “You are kidding, right?”

   “Nope.” She leaned against him for a minute. “So now I really have to go and act all Slayer like.”

   “I guess that means you have to get dressed.”

   “That’s the plan.” She muttered.

   “Does that mean I have to get dressed?”

   “Well,” Buffy said thoughtfully. “I kind of thought, you could drive me there…”

   Visions of slow twilight driving, Buffy with her head on his shoulder, suddenly appeared in Spike’s brain. “I’ll think about it.”

    “Think about it fast, because…”

   They both jumped at the sound of the knock on the door. Oh, God, Buffy thought, then remembered that the door was locked. However, there were windows, and there she was with Spike,  with her robe half off, and him completely naked. “Oh, God.” Buffy said out loud. Spike rolled his eyes at the timing, and silently retreated up the stairs, giving Buffy a sarcastic look at she composed herself and her robe. All neatened up, she fixed a smile on her face, and headed toward the door. Of course, the house was so dark on the inside that whoever was outside in the bright sun couldn’t see inside anyway, but why care about reality at this point anyway?

   She positioned herself carefully behind the door so as to block whoever was selling Girl Scout cookies or whatever from seeing that she was still in her bathrobe. Definitely not good. She waited for the next knock, and opened the door a fraction.

    The green demon who’d come up from LA with Spike looked down at her.  She stared. He stared back. “Lorne?”

   “Hey, sweetie.” He looked at her, then smiled. “See you took my advice.”

   “Wha..?Huh?” She looked down, realizing that it was possible to see the fuzzy sleeve of her bathrobe as she held the door open. “Oh, uh, that, I, uh..”

   “Never mind, sweetie, I gave you the advice, didn’t I? You lucky thing. Uh, anyway, there’s been kind of an interesting twist. You might want to get dressed.”

   “Well, I was just…” Lorne stepped aside, and Buffy stared at someone she knew she should recognize, someone who looked vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough to actually place.

   “Hello, Buffy.” Wesley said uncomfortably. They stared at each other, former Watcher and Slayer, Buffy staring in open astonishment. This was not prissy Wesley, not with that five o’clock shadow, wearing jeans----okay, she could imagine, in a theoretical way, Wes wearing jeans, but she figured he’d press them or something, and probably make sure they were a perfect, dorky shade of blue. But here he was, wearing faded blue jeans, his hands stuffed uncomfortably in the back pockets.

   “Wes.” Buffy closed her mouth with a snap. “What brings you to Sunnydale?”

   “Well, it’s kind of complicated.” Wes said uncomfortably.

    I’m sleeping with my former mortal enemy, and somebody is turning geeks into amphibians, maybe kidnapping demons. So what isn’t weird around here? Buffy thought.

    “Try me,” Buffy said. “It can’t get any weirder.”

   “Yes it can.” Wes said grimly. “Angel just stole Spike’s car.”

Xander hung up the phone slowly, as if he were afraid it was going to bite him.Which, come to think of it, was pretty much what Buffy had just done. He looked at the phone as if it had betrayed him.  “Something’s going on.” He said slowly.

   “Do you think so?” Anya said worriedly. “Really? It’s not just me, is it?”

   Xander looked up at her. She was thinking, he saw, of Hallie; he was thinking of Buffy. Buffy, his erstwhile best friend, who had just defended Spike to him. He remembered the night at the Bronze, the weird affinity in the way they always wound up together, and what had once been dismissible, suddenly seemed real. Something unpleasant tiptoed around the edges of his brain, something sinister, something he most definitely did not want to deal with or see….It was like having a word on the tip of his tongue. He knew if he pressed for it, it would disappear back into the mist at the back of his brain. Blinking at Anya, he wrenched himself back to her. “So, sweetie, what were you saying?” 

   “Hallie.” She said, rather miffed. Her best friend was missing, without her pendant, and what was he thinking about? Buffy, no doubt. “But go right ahead, thinking about Buffy.”

   “I was not thinking about Buffy.” Technically, this was true. What he was thinking about was Spike, how the bugger always showed up…Oh, more unpleasantness there. His brain literally flinched at linking Buffy and Spike in the same sentence. Maybe we haven’t been there for her, he thought. But it’s so hard; she’s so different these days.

   Dawn ambled up to the counter, looking at him. “Nervous yet?”

    “You’re behind the times.” He said. “I’ve been nervous for a while. Weddings are a plot.” Anya glanced up, and he launched the punch line. “Make you totally forget the marriage afterward. That’s the part I want, but there’s no way you can have ‘marriage maid dresses’ or things like that.  Defeats the whole purpose of capitalism.”

   “Maybe you and Anya could start a new tradition.”

   “I like that.” Xander said. “Hear that, Anya? Our own custom.”

    “What would that be?” Anya demanded. Did Xander just diss capitalism?

    Uh-oh, Xander thought, hurrying into the breach. “Our own capitalist custom.” He said. “Marriage…rituals, with all the appropriate---and expensive----thingies that could be trademarked and sold here. Like a sequel to the store?”

   “Really?” Anya’s voice was squeaky, high-pitched, and pleased. She bustled over to give him a peck, which Dawn smiled indulgently at, as if they were two cute senior citizens. “Just like Martha Stewart.”

  “Except without the demonic possession thing.” Dawn said, trying to be helpful.

   Anya glared at her.”Hey! That’s mostly a myth.”

   “About Martha Stewart?”

  “No. About demons. Not all of us take hostages or anything.”

  “Okay.” Dawn shrugged uncomfortably. Oh, goodie, something else she’d done wrong. She kept trying not to do the same stupid things again, but she kept running into new stupid things to do. How was she supposed to know they were stupid till she tried them? Sometimes you just couldn’t tell. Anya looked at her a second longer, and Dawn could practically hear what she was thinking. Must keep Dawn away from small, portable items. True, but over, she thought. Why don’t grownups ever move on? She was sorry, it was over, she’d never do it again, but Anya didn’t trust her. It was like Spike; he totally hadn’t done anything evil for ages, but evidently that concept hadn’t gotten through the grownups’ heads.  She looked at Anya thoughtfully, an idea forming then, an idea so evil that her eyes popped out with it.

   “Anya?”

   “Here.” Anya said, thrusting a feather duster at her. “Go dust.” She paused a moment. “But only the big things. The things that make large bulges if you try to steal them.”

    Dawn eyed the implement skeptically, but took it. “Can I ask you a question?”

   “Are you asking me questions so you can delay paying off your debt by being forced to work?”

   “No.” Dawn glared at her for a moment. “No, I just thought of something.”

   “What’s that?”

   “How long were you a vengeance demon?”

     “Why is Angel here?” Buffy asked. The fact that she was in her bathrobe appeared to have been ignored by both Lorne and Wesley. Lorne she expected to ignore it.Wasn’t he some kind of love demon, anyway? But Wesley? Wasn’t it his job to be nosy? And disapproving? She kept turning around to glance at him suspiciously, awaiting the disapproval.  She made extremely bad coffee in the hope that this would distract them from the not-so-stealthy sounds of Spike getting dressed upstairs, which at one point included a yelp and a very loud thud. This brought the painfully nervous conversation to a heart-thumping silence.

     Lorne glanced with interest from be-bathrobed Slayer to scruffy former Watcher. Buffy folded her hands in her lap, and looked into her coffee cup. Shoulda listened to Mom going on about manners, she thought. There was silence upstairs. “So, uh, what brings you and Angel to Sunnydale?”

   “Oh, we had to pick up Lorne.”  Wes said.

    There were light footsteps on the stairs, and Spike suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Oh, hi, Spike.” She said, far too enthusiastically. “Did you get your clothes in the dryer?”

   Spike, never the best of liars when his heart was involved, came to a full stop, and stared at her. Her statement, and what it meant, visibly worked its way through his head till it connected with his mouth, at which point, he started to babble. “Uh. Yeah. Thanks. Slayer. Uh. Uh. All.. done. Sorry it took so long. Uh.” His eyes were the size of silver dollars. He scrubbed at his hair with both hands as if he were trying to either restrain brain cells or force them to work.  “Good thing, uh, Angel didn’t see me doing laundry. Yeah!  He gets all sorts of…So! Got any beer?” He finished desperately.

    Everyone exchanged a look. Wes smiled slightly, and with a certain familiar touch of prissiness, put his coffee cup, practically full, back on its saucer. “You two seem to be getting along fairly well these days.” Spike gave a massive twitch, as if he’d just backed into a light socket, and Buffy froze in place.

   “Uh?” Former Watcher, Buffy thought. Oh, God. “Well, you know, I was dead, and Spike..is dead, so we have a lot to talk about, and uh…”

    “I think it’s good.” Wesley said firmly. He looked her right in the eye. “I think after your experience, Buffy, you desperately need someone to talk to. It’s good that you can change and grow. Some people can’t.” He took a sip of the God-awful coffee, ignoring the fact that now it was Buffy’s eyes that had gotten huge. “Look at me, for example.”

    Buffy was, quite frankly, already looking, partly out of a desire to gauge how much he was swallowing her story, and partly because she still hadn’t gotten over the idea of Wes in blue jeans. Plus the stubble.

   “I used to think that vampires were all the same. Animals. And now Angel’s my friend.” I hope. “What would have I missed out on if I hadn’t changed my mind about that?”

   “Oh.” Buffy gulped. “That’s good.”  She closed her open mouth with a snap. “Who are you? And what have you done with Wesley?”

    Wesley grinned, and again, Buffy frowned with concentration. Damn. There’s got to be a mark where they cloned him and gave him a personality, she thought. Where would that be? Someplace where there’s hair. Ugh.  Aside from which, she’d never seen Wes grin before. He’d always had the tight smile of some prissy dowager, afraid of showing off those facelift scars. Now he grinned, and all sorts of character lines appeared; much-traveled smiles lines at eyes and mouth, obviously often-used. She shook her head at her own astonishment. You’re shocked, little Miss I’m-Sleeping-With-My-Ex-Mortal-Enemy?

    “So, um,” Buffy said. “You guys planning on sticking around?”

    More glances were exchanged, except in Spike’s case; he twitched again, and looked around as if scanning the ceiling for leaks. “Well, obviously, we have to find Angel.” Wes said.

     “Why did he come with?” Buffy asked curiously, ignoring yet another massive flinch from Spike.

   “Well, he’s either really drunk or really hungover.” Lorne said. “I thought the Irish were supposed to be able to hold their liquor.”

    “Well, it helps it they don’t drink enough to…” Spike drawled, then had a coughing attack as Buffy turned to look at him.

   Buffy looked from face to face, wondering what she was missing. Coming to get Lorne, she thought. So, here he is, come get him. And Angel? Not exactly his style, but she’d never once seen him drink, either. A sharp pang cut through her, at the thought of all the things she didn’t know, all the things she hadn’t known, thanks to the curse.

    She glanced at Spike. Was it fair to compare the two? Spike felt her gaze and met her eyes, and the rest of the room spun away. It wasn’t fair to compare the two, but she kept coming back to that last glimpse of Angel as he walked out of her life, the way her legs turned to water beneath her from the pain.  Contrast that with Spike, beaten almost to death, and determined that she never know. Why was it that two such different memories made her feel exactly the same way?  Much as she didn’t allow herself to remember that moment with Angel, she also didn’t allow herself to think about that moment in Spike’s crypt, either. 

   “So,” she said brightly. “I’m going to take a shower. Now. That. Spike. Is. Done. With. All. The. Water.” Spike winced again,  and compensated for it by overacting.

   “Oh. Sorry about that, Slayer. Just let it built up. Had to do it all at once. Laundry. Not used to. Ah. Things. Laundry.” He specified.  Then they both looked around to see if anybody was buying it.

   “I’m going to go take a shower.” Buffy announced again, in case anyone had missed the previous bulletin. 

   “Oh, hell.” Spike said.

  “What?”

   “Well, it’s just that it’s been a while since I got to see Angel drunk, and I’d really like to enjoy it while it lasts. But, no, go right ahead, Slayer…”

  “What?!”

  “No, go ahead.”

   God, he would have to get all flirtatious now, she thought. She reasserted reality with a yank. “Well, maybe if somebody hadn’t almost used up all the hot water…”

   “Go.”

   She went, dying to know what was going to be said when she left.

   Spike waited till her footsteps were all the way up the stairs before he got up and dumped his coffee in the sink. Wes groaned, and handed his across, as did Lorne, with a sigh. “Lovely girl, and I’m sure she’s wonderful as a Slayer, but really, some people should not be allowed near the coffee filter.” An examination of the coffee machine produced a groan and an additional comment. “Actually, someone should just plain introduce her to a coffee filter. What the hell was that, fertilizer?”

    Spike leaned against the counter, and glanced around, anywhere but at the other two. Wes looked down at his hands. Lorne swiveled from one to the other, back and forth, like he was watching a tennis match, then finally gave an explosive sigh and spread his hands with eloquent impatience. “So? How are things?”

    Spike glared at him. “Well…Ah…Things….Ah…..”

    Lorne studied him, then slowly, gently, smiled. “Young love.” He said dryly.

   Spike avoided his eyes. Something about discussing Buffy in her own kitchen made him cringe. “Did you two talk?”

  “Yes, we did.”

   Spike fidgeted, unwilling to meet the other demon’s eyes. “So..ah…?”

  “Can’t tell you that.”

   “You can’t. You can’t? Whaddaya mean, you can’t?”

   “No, I’m like a priest.”

   “A priest wearing lime-green linen?” Spike blurted out.

   “Besides, my friend, I don’t think there’s any doubt now.”

    Something about Lorne’s obvious assumption irritated Spike, even though it happened to be true. Like talking about Buffy in her own kitchen, it just didn’t seem right. “I was doing laundry.” He lied stiffly. Worse yet, he knew he was stiff, and it made him irritable. Not a fun lie, he thought. What happened to all the fun lies? 

   “Isn’t that sweet?” Lorne demanded of Wes, who was once again eyeing his hands. Lorne nudged him for a response. “I said, and I quote, ‘Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Yes,” Wes said quietly. “It is.”

   “You’re afraid I’m going to make you say ‘sweet’, aren’t you?”

   “What?”

    “You’re afraid I’m going to make you say sweet, a word that most men are pathologically incapable of saying. If you keep being gloomy, I will, no doubt about it.”

   “No…I’m just concerned about Angel.”

  “Yeah, maybe he’ll get a sunburn.” Spike scrubbed at his hair again.

   “Well, he’s not in the best shape, admittedly, but…” Wes frowned and studied his own hands again, afraid they’d see his trepidation on his face. How to put into words his suspicion about Angel’s drunkenness, the fear it aroused in him, the memory?  Long forgotten, or suppressed, came the vision of his father, drunk, calculating, putting into action while intoxicated  all the spiteful things he said while sober. It was always the alcohol that was to blame, never him.   And now he couldn’t help but wonder at Angel’s behavior.  His insistence on coming here, his unshakeable belief that he could get information out of Buffy, made Wes wonder if in fact he could just grab Angel and get him out of Sunnydale before real trouble started. 

   How much did Angel remember of that incident with that actress? Wes thought, and shuddered. He realized that Lorne and Spike were both staring at him curiously. “What?”

   “You’re off in Never-Never Land, Watcher.” Spike said.  “Thinking of her?”

   “No, Angel.” Wes said without thinking.

   “Ah.” Spike stiffened at that. “First and foremost in our hearts, isn’t he?” He scrounged around in the fridge, and did, in fact, find a beer. “Gotta make sure he fulfills his destiny.”

   “Well, at this point,” Wes said dryly, “I’d just be happy if he’d sober up. If he had to retain some human characteristics, it would have been nice if they’d been useful ones.”

   “Oh, now that was evil.” Spike smirked at him approvingly. “Which ones are those?”

   “He was sick all the way up here.”

   “Bad?”

  “Awful. Now, stop it, Spike, this is beneath you.” Spike was clearing his throat repeatedly in an effort not to laugh. “It was terrible.”

   “For you, yes, I’m certain it was….How bad was he sick?”

  “Really, no, he’s my employee, it would be terrible if I talked about my employees behind their backs.”

   “Even after they committed grand theft auto?” Lorne pointed out.

   “There are still standards…” Wes protested.

   “Was he in pain?”

   “Stop it, Spike.”

   “Oh, indulge me a bit, would you? I never get to have any bloody fun at all. Well, except for the occasional demon hunt, that sort of thing…”

   “Demon?” Lorne said suspiciously.

   “Bad demons.” Spike amended. “Never pick on things their own size, if you ask me. Then they always whine when I take exception to it…” He took another swig of the beer, staring at his boots with ill-concealed disgust. “Once there was this time, Buffy and I, we’re patrolling and…What?”  Both Lorne and Wesley were giving him puzzled looks.

   Spike, Wes thought, not even aware of it. A vampire patrolling with the Slayer.  How come love turned some…creatures….noble and reduced others to pettiness?  And which group was he himself in? 

   “Yeah, what?” Buffy said from the doorway, all pink and flushed from the shower. 

   “Spike was just discussing your patrols with us.”

   “Well, huh.” Buffy said, scrubbing at her hair with the towel. “You know, I was thinking too…..”

   Just the tone of her voice made Spike nervous. I was thinking was a female code phrase, and he’d known that even as a clueless Victorian virgin. The only more-feared phrase in the English language was, “We have to talk.”

   Buffy tossed the towel over the back of the chair, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, you know, Spike had this big errand he had to run to LA. And he wouldn’t tell me what it was. The next thing I know, you guys show up. With Angel. So what’s going on?”

     Three males, if not exactly men, froze at the tone of her voice, each face startled into the immobility of fear. One of them was a green demon from another dimension, one of them was human, and one of them was a vampire, but all of them looked like they’d just been caught at the cookie jar with full hands.

    Buffy eyed each face expectantly, looking for the first one to crack. She tapped her foot for an added extra dollap of suspense, and watched all three of them cringe and gulp at once. “What’s the big….?”

   The phone rang.

   Buffy swore under her breath, Spike suddenly breaking into a grin behind her. That’s my girl, he thought. I never even knew she knew that word. She made a disgusted sound and stomped into the dining room, while the guilty trio huddled their heads together and tried to come up with an alibi.

   “What are you doing here?” Spike hissed.

   “Angel noticed petty cash was missing…”

    “Why didn’t you just tell him to..?”

    “Because he was all hungover, I thought he was going to have an episode!”

    “An episode of what?” Lorne interjected. Vampire and Watcher both glared at him.

    “One of those…episodes.”

   “Oh, like where he set Dru on fire? One of those little episodes?”

   “Well, not exactly…”

   “Well, what bloody exactly, then?”

   The phone slammed down and Buffy stomped back into the kitchen. “We have to go.”

   “What’s going on?” Wes tried to look as innocent as possible, but now Buffy looked rather suspicious.

   “Somebody’s been watching way too much Charleton Heston.” Buffy sighed. “Frogs, toads all over the place, they’re hitting every Radioshack in town. “