PROLOGUE

The slow, rolling motion of the ship was scarcely noticeable. That was a good thing. Not that he was some nancy-boy likely to get sea sick at the first little wave, but storms could cause ships as large as the one he roamed to become rather unpleasant. Spike laughed to himself. As if anything could be nearly as unpleasant as the Trials. He was still a little miffed at the demon's interpretation of his request. He had stalked into that country, that village, that cave with the intention of getting rid of that blasted chip. Apparently, the demon-whore-spawned piece of filth in the cave had thought that wasn't quite what the Slayer deserved. The fact that deep down at the bottom of his newly-reacquired soul Spike agreed was overlooked at the moment.

The large, slow freighter bound for New York was not Spike's first choice in trans-atlantic travel. The voyage brought back memories of Dru, and their escape from Prague. That had resulted in traveling over half of eastern Europe before deciding to head to America by way of a similar cargo ship. Still, for those that had to worry about a terminal case of sunburn--soul or no soul--a boat ride was a way for those who had to stay out of the sun, didn't care about a few days here or there, and needed to work their way home. *Work!* Spike thought with a sneer. Not that being designated rat-catcher was a terrible job. Spike was able to work all night if he chose, and the Russian crew didn't notice or care that the rats he tossed in the incinerator were de-juiced.

Spike headed back to his cramped room in the ship's superstructure. It had barely enough room for him to throw down a dirty mattress the first mate had assigned him, but it had no other occupants, and no portholes. The other thing the room had was an empty crate that served as a writing desk.

Aside from catching his quota of rats and standing firewatch, Spike had nothing to do but avoid the sun. He'd managed to bum some paper off one of the crewmen, and he spent a part of each day scribbling. He wrote bits of memoirs, his homage to those whom he'd killed over the course of his career as a demon. Not that he was going to mope around for decades like the pouf, agonizing over the dead. He did, however, feel more relaxed after he'd finished putting some bit of remembrance to paper. There were also letters to Buffy, of course. Nothing he would ever send, but things that helped him organize his thoughts and feelings about what had happened between them before he left.

One day as he wrote he came to the realization that the last time he had a soul he'd been trying too hard to impress Cecily, or some other silly bint of the week, when he wrote poetry. He was actually inspired to try his hand again on a couple of pieces. *Night draws near on velvet wings... Hmm. Maybe a soul’s good for something after all.* He hadn't been inspired to try anything better that Spam haiku since he was turned.

Now Spike lay on his mattress listening to the sounds of daily life on the ship. Something seemed off today. Then he heard a sizable portion of the crew headed down the hall in the direction of his room. *What? A bloke can't suck on a few rats without being found out and staked?* He could now hear several conversing excitedly in Russian. Spike stood in the small room and prepared to defend himself as soon as the door burst in.

But the crewmen continued past his room, down the hall that led towards the main deck. As their footsteps and conversation died away, Spike became curious. *What had all the bloody reformed communists so bleedin' excited?* He waited a minute, then noiselessly opened his door and stalked down the hall to find a porthole that was not in direct sunlight. As he entered one of the rooms near the door to the main deck, Spike heard noise in the background. It took a moment for him to identify it as a helicopter.

Spike peered out a porthole to the scene of most of the ship's compliment standing on deck. Some of them were busy clearing a section of the deck of various buckets and empty crates. The rest were watching a large camouflaged helicopter with Cyrillic markings descend toward the ship. All the crewmen in sight carried rifles or shotguns. *Bollocks! What the blazes have you got yourself into, mate?*

*          *          *

CHAPTER 1

"How was patrol?" Dawn was still awake when Buffy came in the front door. *At least she doesn't come home smelling like a DoubleMeat Combo anymore.* Not that her attitude had improved much when she was able to quit the nottaburger place.

At Giles' rather vehement insistence, the council had eventually agreed to pay Buffy a rather generous stipend. Dawn wouldn't have minded had they still needed to watch every penny, but she was glad her sister wasn't quite so miserable. About work, anyway. The older Summers hadn't been on a date in months. Not for lack of prodding from her friends. But after a single disastrous date with one of Xander's coworkers and a stunningly boring outing with a former classmate from UCSD, Buffy hadn't even pretended to put any effort into the dating scene.

Dawn never gave any indication that she thought Buffy should be dating anyone. She heard when her sister had restless nights, tossing and turning in her sleep, periodically calling out something that sounded suspiciously like a peroxide-blonde vampire's name. Dawn knew about the 'incident' that resulted in the vampire leaving, but she also knew Spike. Buffy had a lot of issues when she had gotten back from... gotten back, and she hadn't made it easy for Spike. So Dawn figured that there was some kind of Hellmouth-inspired misunderstanding in there that had led to the badness. If only Spike would come back, she was sure he and Buffy could work it out. And even if they didn't, Dawn needed Spike.

Sure, her sister was a super-hero, but when you're a former glowy key-thing thousands of years old, it takes more than that to impress a younger sister. Besides, Buffy was required to look out for Dawn, since now she was a real person and part of the family. Spike had stayed for her when he didn't have to. Sure, he made a promise to Buffy, but name one evil, soulless vampire that would have kept that promise. Spike knew she needed him when she had no family except a battery-powered Slayer doll, so he had stayed. And, of course, the whole 'Big Bad' persona did nothing to make him less exciting. So Dawn said nothing whenever the topic of Buffy and dating ever arose, but every night she prayed Spike would come back to them.

"How was patrol?" Dawn repeated, when the first question had elicited some kind of half-hearted grunt.

"You know, fledgling here, sewer monster there, no big." Buffy had dropped her sweatshirt and two stakes on the floor in the entry, and proceeded into the living room to flop on the couch. "Why are you still up?"

"Well, you know. It is Saturday night. There's nothing good on 'till nine, then I figured I'd just stay up a little longer and wait. Didn't think you'd be this late."

Buffy hauled herself up off the couch and headed towards the kitchen. "Is there any 'Very Cherry' left?"

"Um, actually I kind of finished it. Besides, we shouldn't really be eating it anyway. I heard that there's some hydrogenated artificial stuff in there, that it's not all natural like it says on the label."

"Great," Buffy grumbled. "Save the world from the forces of darkness again, and no ice creamy goodness." *Oh well.* She pulled a soda from the fridge and leaned against the sink. Not that they used to have ice cream in the fridge all the time. That was something Spike had done for her. Always kept a pint or two of Ben and Jerry's in the freezer box of his little fridge. God, she was so not going to go there. Thinking of Spike led to thoughts of badness.  And ice cream. *Spike licking ice cream oh, so slowly from her body, then-- Whoa! Bad thoughts.* Time for a cold shower, since neither of her post-slaying needs had been met. *I wish we'd hear from him. I know Dawn really misses him, even though she never says it.* Buffy ignored the little voice in the back of her mind saying that she missed him, too. It was second nature to ignore that little voice. She'd been practicing for months.

*          *          *

The helicopter sat on the deck of the ship, main rotor spinning in the sunlight. Half a dozen men in suits, most with automatic weapons, had gotten out of the helicopter as soon as its wheels touched the deck. One of the passengers from the helicopter, a large man with a briefcase, was speaking in Russian to Sergey, the first mate of the ship. 

Sergey appeared to be quite irate and was shouting loudly. The crewmen behind the first mate kept their weapons more or less pointed at the rest of the helicopter's armed passengers. One of the ship's crew opened a duffel bag to show the men in suits that it was full of green American money. Then the big man in the suit opened his briefcase to show the contents.

A hundred feet away and through a window Spike flinched. *I'm on a ship in the middle of the bloody ocean, and a bunch of Russian mafia bring the biggest gold and gem-encrusted cross I've seen in my whole bleedin' unlife!*

Out on the deck things took a turn for the worse. The crewman holding the duffel full of money was apparently unsatisfied with the negotiations. When he turned and started to head for the superstructure one of the suits opened up with his submachinegun. The others started up almost immediately.

In the first few seconds, half a dozen of the ship's crew were down. One of those still standing grabbed the duffel bag from his dead comrade's hand and ran sternwards. He took a round in the back, but managed to make it to the door in the bulkhead only a dozen feet from Spike's vantage point.  One of the men in suits wasn't far behind.

The sailor fell through the doorway as it opened, landing face-down on the floor. The money slid several feet down the hall. The Russian mafioso leapt over the body and landed in the hall. He looked around, and spotted Spike only spitting distance away, and began to raise his weapon.

Time slowed for Spike. Years ago he had seen a show on the telly where psychologists and FBI instructors talked about a phenomenon. Those that were well trained and alert, the philosophy went, were able to use skills at the reflexive level. They knew what to expect, and it made their opponents seem slow by comparison. And then 'The Matrix' came out.

The muzzle of the submachinegun started to rise as Spike leapt forward. By the time the hole in the end of the barrel was at waist height, Spike's right foot had caught it and knocked it to his left. Spike continued to rotate, using the momentum from his crescent kick. Another half turn, and Spike kicked out sideways, catching the gunman in the stomach. The Russian gangster flew back and hit the wall. Spike finished his turn and moved forward again, then wrapped his right arm around his foe's neck. Left hand clasped right, and Spike leaned back. The snap was muffled by layers of muscle and fat.

Time resumed its normal pace. Spike looked around, waiting for something he couldn't put his finger on. Outside, the gunfight was over. All the suited gunmen were down, and not a few of the ship's crew, as well. The first mate came trotting towards Spike, the briefcase with the cross in one hand, a pistol in the other. Spike stepped back from the sunlight in the doorway--and only incidentally the gun and the money on the floor--with his hands at shoulder height.

Spike finally realized what he was waiting for. *I made out like a bloody bandit! A shiny new soul and chipless, to boot. The Big Bad is back!* His laughter surprised Sergey, who was careful to keep out of what he perceived to be Spike's lethal range.

*          *          *

Spike sat in a chair in the officer's mess. Sergey faced him across the small table bolted to the deck. One of the crew Spike didn't know stood at the door with a rifle. They'd brought Spike here even as the remaining portion of the crew was busy cleaning up after the firefight. The helicopter would be dumped over the side of the ship using the deck crane. The bodies were searched, then tossed overboard. Between the losses on both sides, the sharks would eat well.

Sergey looked intently at Spike. "You help us. You want money, yes?"

Spike considered. If he said no, he was dead. If he said yes... Almost a century of killing and poverty under Communism had bred trust and compassion out of all these folks. Greed was almost all that was left. Kind of like vampires. These blokes would think he was up to something if he took the money, but they'd be sure of it if he didn't.

"Yeah, mate. What's it worth to keep my trap shut?"

Sergey looked thoughtful. "Five hundreds American dollars."

Spike laughed. If he took too low a bribe, they'd be almost as likely to kill him as if he took nothing. "C'mon, you think I'm a bloody ponce? Two thousand."

Sergey didn't even pretend to be annoyed "Last offer. One thousands. Take or not."

"Yeah, mate, I'll take it." *And both of us think we got the sweet side of the deal. Now, if I can just get to New York without gettin' killed...*

*          *          *

CHAPTER 2

"Oi, Rupert, I've got to speak with you." It was night, and Spike stood in a phone booth fifteen minute's walk from the Port of New York, with one hand jammed in his pocket and a cigarette between his lips. It was a testament to his state of mind that he didn't realize the cigarette wasn't lit. Silence on the end of the line stretched long, longer. Just when Spike was about to hang up, a hard voice spoke at the other end.

"Spike, you bastard. You will never call here again, do you understand? If I so much as--"

"Rupert, don't hang up. Just listen for a mo'. It's about the Slayer."

"What is it Spike? This had better not be some twisted prank of yours."

"Okay watcher, here's the scoop. I'm in New York, and I know where there's a mother-huge gold and gemstone cross that some Russians smuggled out of Europe. Now I nicked stuff from church or three in my day, and things like that are usually not to be found. I'm thinkin' that it's likely to be trouble, 'specially 'cause the buyer is some pillock back in--"

"Sunnydale."

"Yeah, mate. What do you reckon?" It had been a shock to Spike. He just wanted to be left alone to start fresh in New York, but apparently the cosmos had other plans. 'Sunnydale' didn't translate well into Russian. Hearing the word in a conversation between two crewmen on the freighter convinced Spike he knew where that gold cross was going. Despite a strong desire to head off to the nearest bar to spend his ill-gotten gains, Spike felt compelled to call the Watcher. *Must be the bloody conscience.* Spike didn't want to think about the fact that he'd helped those in Sunnydale many times before he was resouled.

"Well, Spike, a detailed description of the cross would certainly be helpful, as would the identity of the buyer, should you be able to discover it."

Spike could practically hear Giles cleaning his glasses over three thousand miles away. "I didn't get a great look, seein' as how it was a long ways off AND it was right 'bout the time a whole bunch of machineguns started shootin'--"

"Good grief!"

"Yeah, Watcher you can say that twice. Anyhow, it's at least a foot tall and got lots o' sparklies on it. Makes some of the Queen Mum's stuff in the Tower look poorly."

"Well, I'll start researching and see if we can get more information here." Spike would have been shocked if Giles hadn't used the phrase in their conversation.

"Right-o then, mate. I'll call back when I get more info."

"And Spike?"

"I know, Rupert. I won't be calling her."

"Thank you."

Spike looked at the phone in his hand for a moment. *Bloody hell. Mixed up with the Scoobies all over again. Least the topic of the chip didn't come up.*

Three thousand miles away Giles set the phone down. *I hope this isn't a trick of Spike's to get back into Buffy's life. He'll regret it for all of the two seconds it will take me to stake him.*

*          *          *

The bell above the door chimed as Buffy walked into the Magic Box. "What's the new news, Giles?"

Giles looked at her for a moment, knowing he had only to wait a few moments before his Slayer would feel compelled to explain her question.

"You know, all the news that's new and approved for the U.S. Slayer? What, you never saw 'Good Morning Viet Nam'? We must invite you to the next Harris and Summers video screening extravaganza!"

"Yes, well, that would be, ah, most enjoyable, I'm sure."

"Giles, don't feel like you hafta to lie to save my feelings. I'm sure there are a zillion things higher on your list that watching Dawn and Xander work themselves into sugar and caffeine-fuelled frenzy while watching videos that have 'no redeeming social value whatsoever." Buffy paused for a moment. "Come on Giles, you're supposed to disagree."

"Oh, yes. Right. Terribly sorry. I've been rather busy trying to track down descriptions of a stolen religious relic." Giles did not appear to be the least bit sorry.

"What, did someone lose a super-special dreidel? A self-cleaning cauldron? A glow in the dark cross?"

Giles' eyebrows threatened to crawl up off his forehead. "Actually, the latter." He hurried on to explain when he saw her 'superior smirk' start to form. "It doesn't actually glow in the dark; well, we assume it doesn't, but it may have some sort of mystical powers. I'm concerned because it was apparently smuggled out of Russia to be sold to someone here."

"So you're thinking 'relic plus Hellmouth equals badness' basically?"

"Well yes, Buffy, but--"

"Wait a minute, Giles. You said 'we.' Who's 'we?'"

"He, he's actually a, a colleague from England. Rather knowledgeable on the supernatural." *And please don't ask me for any more details or I'll have to lie for your own good.*

"Oh. Okay. I just thought it might be Olivia or some other Giles-worthy woman." Buffy was busy poking through a bin of little 'j' shaped bones while she spoke, so she didn't see Giles' face turn beet-red at the last suggestion.

"Thank you Buffy. I believe if you're finished embarrassing me I'll continue with my research. And by the way, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't play with the baculum."

"The what? Fine." Buffy dropped one of the raccoon penis bones back into the bin. "I'll be doing cardio workout in the training room, so if you need me yell loud."

*Loudly,* thought Giles. *I must insist that she take some sort of grammar class when she re-enrolls next term.* Rhythmic bass began to throb through the door of the training room. *And possibly music appreciation.*

*          *          *

CHAPTER 3

"No, Watcher, I don't know if it had both emeralds and rubies in it!" Spike leaned against a pay phone outside a rather sleazy hotel in a fairly dangerous portion of New York City. *I bloody well told the prat that I didn't get that good a look the thing.* "Yeah, like I told you last time, one crosspiece I think. Yeah, it looked like it was solid gold." *Like I could figure that out from just looking at it from a distance.*

"Well I think you were right to be concerned, Spike. If my suspicions are correct, you're tracking the Cross of St. Timothy of Eritrea. The only prophecy I've found that pertains to a golden cross is quite dire." Giles pulled one opened, dusty tome from under several other old, leather-bound volumes also written in Latin. "It says here, now I'm paraphrasing and translating, mind you, '... and should the Cross ever be taken from it's rightful place on the altar, the very mouth of Hell will open.'"

"Well, then we'll just bloody well assume that it's the same cross as in the prophecy, and that some wanker is getting set to open the Hellmouth." *Again.*

*          *          *

"Come on Buffy. Puhleeez?" Dawn gave her best puppy-dog eyes.

"No, my Slayer powers render me immune to your feeble begging. Be gone." Buffy pointed imperiously. Her cow-chicken hat that she had 'forgotten' to return spoiled the effect, however. Dawn tried to swallow a laugh, but that turned it into a snort, and then both Summers girls were laughing uncontrollably on the couch.

"C'mon, please?"

"Okay, Dawnie. One small and reasonably supervised eighteenth birthday party. With NON-alcoholic beverages. And no wishes."

"Course not. I learned my lesson. No more wishing for Dawn, nope." *Unless it's that Spike comes back. I hope he's okay, wherever he is. *

*          *          *

CHAPTER 4

Giles was sure he'd misunderstood. "You're calling from where?"

"I told you, Rupert. I'm on a blasted train in the middle of bloomin' Texas. You know, 'Remember the Alamo' and all that."

"Spike--" Giles glanced towards the training room. The door was closed, and he could hear music. Still, he lowered his voice. "I thought you were going to follow the Russians in New York and see to whom they sold the cross."

"Well, it didn't work that bloody way, Watcher! After I got off the horn with you I went back to keep an eye on the blokes at their motel, but nobody went in or out for the day. When housekeeping showed up yesterday morning, the senorita found a bunch of stiffs. Before the police got there I managed to slip in and look about. The cross was gone, and the five bodies looked like they'd been put through a Chop-O-Matic.

"Why didn't you just fly back?"

"Bugger that for a lark! You think I want a bloody body cavity search if the nimrod at the metal detector decides I look like a threatenin' individual? I'll drink Holy Water first!"

"Very well, I see your point." Giles removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "When will you arrive?"

"Well, the train only goes to L.A., so I've got to transfer to another bloody train or take a lorry the rest of the way to Sunnyhell."

"No, Spike. I can't imagine what will happen if you hitch a ride in a truck! I'll come down to the station. Your train arrives tomorrow night after dark, I take it?"

"Of course, mate. 8:48 PM. Amtrak #2303 from the Big Apple Core."

"See you then. And Spike?"

"Yes, 'father' I'll stay out of trouble." *I won't bite anyone that doesn't deserve it.*

Giles walked to the back of the shop and stepped into the training room. Music pounded him as he entered. Buffy was on the pommel horse. Doing a handstand. And inverted, gravity-assisted splits. *Good Lord, that's distracting!* He cleared his throat, hoping to get her attention. No response. "Buffy?" Still nothing. Giles walked over to the boombox and turned it off.

"Hey! What's going on? I must feel the beat!" Buffy dropped to the mat and faced Giles. "Why'd you unplug me? This isn't MTV."

He didn't know if he'd ever get these pop-culture references she was so fond of. It was like Xander and any form of junk food, or Dawn and occasional inventory shrinkage. There were things he put up with because he loved them as if they were his own children.

"Buffy, do you recall the relic we discussed the other day?"

"Of course, Giles." She grinned. "I'm not the one at risk of going senile."

"Yes, well, er...ha, ha. I'm afraid I wasn't entirely honest with you the other day."

Buffy had been moving about, cooling down before she toweled off. She stopped and stood very still. "Giles. We agreed. No more secrets."

"I know Buffy, it's just that I didn't want to upset you unduly, and I thought the problem would be resolved without...interaction with certain parties."

"Huh?" Buffy's nose scrunched up. "Speak American Giles, were not on a little island."

"Very well, then. Spike has been following the cross for me. He's actually the one that brought it to my attention--"

"Spike. Coming here. I should have known! He just can't keep away." She began pacing. "He just keeps coming back for more. Well, you know what? Fine." She stopped pacing. "He can come here and deal. If he doesn't like how it is here the way we run things, he can kiss my ass!" Buffy grabbed her towel and began to dry off.

Giles left the room quickly, before Buffy started to rant again. Now that was not the reaction I expected from her.

Buffy heard the door close. She let out a breath. *Spike. Coming back. What does he want?* She didn't know whether to be curious, excited, pissed off, or scared. She opted for a mix of all four.

*          *          *

The ride from the train station hadn't been all that bad, Giles reflected. On a scale that included trephination without Novocain and spontaneous human combustion. For the first half hour Giles had been adamant that Spike not smoke in his new-used car. His 'little red number,' as Spike had referred to it, had been sold before he went back to England last year. The dark blue Honda Civic was decidedly smoke-free. They were barely out of the greater L.A. area before Spike's hand tapping and foot stomping to an imaginary beat became unbearable. "Fine, smoke your bloody fags, but keep the window rolled down!"

"'Preciate that, Watcher." Spike smiled as he pulled out his worn Zippo and a cigarette. He knew he could have gone at least another fifteen minutes before he really needed a smoke, but it was fun to screw with stuffy people.

*          *          *

The Sunnydale phone book was nearly useless. Half the entries were disconnected or had new subscribers due to deaths, business fires, and general Flight From the Hellmouth. Spike resisted the temptation to throw the book through the nearest glass display case. *Sodden thing may as well have been put out by Qwest.* "Oi, Rupert, you gonna ski the net, mate?"

Giles looked up from the computer screen, willing Spike to be struck mute. "No, Spike." *Bloody infernal machine! No words on the screen that said 'internet,' just a bunch of stupid little pictures. What the blazes was a 'Network Neighborhood'?* "I'm afraid if you can't use this piece of shite, either, we'll have to resort to more, ah, traditional means."

"Great! I've missed ol' Willy the Snitch. "And I 'aven't 'ad a decent spot o' violence in..." Spike stopped talking as he realized the Watcher was looking at him peculiarly. *Bloody hell. Can't let him know 'bout the chip and have him go off half-cocked.* "...well, not for two years if you count people. A month if you figure that African clicky-name demon I saw..."

"Spike, perhaps we should talk now." Giles looked concerned. "You've told me bugger-all about what you were even doing in...Africa? I had understood that you'd been in Europe."

'Sorry, mate." Spike looked as if he was going to take out a smoke, then resisted the urge. "Russian ship. Picked me up in Somalia."

"And what the blazes were you doing there?"

"Getting a soul, mate."

Giles was about to call Spike a liar. Then he paused, reconsidering. "Really?"

"Bloody right, Watcher. Went through the Trials and all. Came out all soul-y."

"I'm sorry if I don't believe you Spike, but you don't exactly seem all..."

"What? Broody and mopey like the nancy pouf."

"Well, yes. Quite." Giles tried not to smile. "Don't you have guilt over the people you've killed?"

"Course I do, it just don't eat at me like it does the bad-haired boy scout. See, way I've got it figured, it's related to your soul before you gets turned. Angel was a right bloody bastard, he was. And when he gets resouled, the soul tries to--"

"Overcompensate? But Spike, how do you fit in? You seem to be the same pain in the arse as always. Didn't getting re-souled change you?"

"Sure enough, but like I said, I think it's how you were 'fore you got demonically upgraded." He looked at Giles, willing that the Watcher not make him say it.

"And before you were turned Spike, you were, that is, you weren't..."

"No. I was a decent bloke. Figure you actually would have gotten along with me back then. But, here I am now."

"Excuse me if I don't throw a parade past Buckingham Palace with the Queen's Guards, Spike, but I need more that your say so. If you don't mind..."

"A test? Knock yourself out, mate." At Giles sharp look, he grinned. "Not literally, of course."

*          *          *

"That's fascinating, Spike." Giles had done a second spell to confirm the findings. He wanted to be sure that the vampire hadn't just had some sort of soul-mimicking glamour put upon himself.

"If you say so, Watcher."

"But Spike, forgive me for asking, but why did you want a soul?"

"Didn't."

Giles grew still. "But the demon..."

"Grants requests. I didn't ask for a bloody Jimney Cricket, I asked for the Slayer to get what she deserved."

"Good God!"

"Just so, Watcher, just so." Spike lit a cigarette. Giles was too amazed by Spike's revelation to even notice. "The only thing is, mate..."

"Er, yes, Spike?"

"I'd like to tell Buffy myself, when I think the time is right."

"Certainly, Spike. Of course." Giles was still trying to comprehend the ramifications of Spike's request being granted in such a fashion.

"Drink?"

"What's that, Spike?"

"Got anything for a bloke to drink 'round 'ere."

"Of course." Giles went to the locked drawer behind the front counter, and returned with a triangular green bottle.

"Glenfiddich! Oi, mate, glad you've not been completely corrupted by the bloody colonials." Spike stood and pulled two matching pewter goblets off one of the shelves, then set them on the table. "What shall we drink to then, Rupert?"

"Ah, if you don't mind? To Buffy?" *I hope she can deal with this.*

"Right 'nuff. To Buffy!" *Hope she don't stake me before we get to talk.*

*          *          *

CHAPTER 5

Spike stood on the porch at the Summers' house. *Hey, pet. You're looking smashing. No, that was bloody pathetic. Have you lost weight, luv? Well, it had worked on the pouf's cheerleader, but Buffy probably wouldn’t be pleased. Slayer’s sensitive about her weight. Goes up and down as much as her hairstyle from year to year...*

Dawn stood inside, peeking through one of the panes and trying not to laugh. Spike, the Big Bad, former master vampire of the Hellmouth and vicinity, was having a silent conversation with the front door. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Dawn watched as Spike finally raised a hand to knock, then she jerked the door open.

"Sodden hell, Nibblet! Give a vampire a bleedin'--" Everything else was muffled by the girlish squeal as the former Key smothered him in a hug. After a moment, Spike returned the hug as a quick squeeze. Dawn stepped back and looked into his eyes, level with her own.

"Not meanin' to be all rude and such, but you took a decade off my unlife. Are you wearing heels?"

Long acquaintance with the vampire allowed Dawn to follow his changes of thought even when Spike didn't use turn signals. "No silly. I've grown. As living teenage girls do even when people leave without warning for months at a time. And don't write."

"We--"

"Need to talk. I know, Spike. You've got some unresolved stuff with Buffy. I can wait until you get that straightened out for us to have our talk."

"Okay, Little Bit. Is big sis around?" He hoped he didn't sound as pathetic as he felt.

"No, she's out patrolling." Spike stepped into the entry, then turned and looked out at Dawn still standing on the porch. That's when it hit him.

"The uninvite...?"

"We never did it again. Well, we thought about it, but it wasn't the top of the list and Willow wasn't supposed to be using magic, and then Tara died and Willow went crazy--" Dawn stopped abruptly to swallow a hiccup, and tears began to run down her face.

"Whoa, Bite Size. Back up for a mo'. Glinda's DEAD?" Dawn nodded, snuffling. She stepped inside, needing to be near him for emotional support. "How's Red doing?" Spike wasn't sure he wanted to know. He was bloody well pissed at Giles for not giving him a heads-up.

"It was so awful, Spike. Warren shot Buffy and Tara. Willow saved Buffy, then she used black magics and tortured Warren to death. She tried to end the world, Spike! It was awful. We almost all died. Again!" By this point he could barely understand the youngest Summers. Her nose was running and she kept sniffling while tears streamed.

"And now she's in the loony bin."

"But Buffy's okay now?" Spike asked.

"Why don't you ask her yourself," said a voice from the porch. "Dawn. Bed. Now." The tone was cold and hard.

Dawn closed her mouth and started upstairs. She knew that anything she said would just serve to get Buffy hopping mad, and Dawn wouldn't do that to Spike. Halfway up the stairs she turned, smiled and waved at Spike, then ran the rest of the way to her room. Spike looked over at Buffy. He found her staring at him with an intensity that was disturbing.

"Spike. Why are you here?"

"Well, luv, I was helping Rupert out with some work, and--"

"No, Spike. I know you came to help Giles research the Cross of Saint Whosit of Wheat-tree."

"Saint Timothy of Eritrea."

"Whoever. I meant why are you here, in my house, alone with my little sister?"

"Um. Yeah, well..."

"That's very British of you Spike. If you can't say it now, could we please have this conversation another time? When I'm not tired and cranky and covered with drying monster slime. Tomorrow? Magic Box?"

"Right, then. Tomorrow after sunset?"

Buffy nodded. Spike walked out the front door, shutting it carefully but firmly behind himself. Buffy stood staring at the closed door for a minute, then turned and called to the top of the stairs. "Dawn, I said bed. Don't eavesdrop. It's rude."

Dawn guiltily snuck back into her room. *At least she didn't hit Spike. I wonder if I'll be able to get to the Magic Box tomorrow evening. Spike might need someone to hear his side of the story.*