Chapter 10: Grey

And as the loneliness inside her

And she'd do anything to fill it in

But all the colors mix together

To grey

"Grey Street," Dave Matthews Band

She kicks him and he staggers, off-balance. She's swinging the sword towards him, aiming for his neck, but he manages to dodge the blow - almost. He feels the blade just above his eye, slicing open the flesh. He rubs a hand across his brow and it comes away covered in blood. Long tongue curling, he licks his hand clean; a vicious smile breaks across his face. "Just as I pictured it. This good for you?" He backhands her, and then she's flying through the air to land hard on the ground, her sword skittering away.

Catlike, she's on her feet, punching furiously to drive him back. Suddenly he has nowhere left to go; he's pinned against a column, her foot at his throat, her stake raised. He pants, waiting for her to strike, his entire body throbbing for it. Something explodes outside and she falls away from him, disoriented, dropping her stake. Then he's on her, landing blow after blow, gaining the advantage. He has her now. He spins her and she's trapped in his arms. He sinks his fangs into her throat.

The hot, sweet blood burns a path straight to his brain, straight to his groin. He pulls her closer, grinding against her. She submits, and he's tearing at her, sucking greedily, letting the blood run down his chin. He feels her heartbeat slowing and he wants it all, every last drop, but he needs to see her face, her eyes. He pulls his fangs out of her throat and she turns her head. Hazel eyes lock with his. "Tell Mom I'm sorry," she whispers and her eyes roll back in her head. He opens his arms, releasing her. She slides bonelessly to the floor, her blonde hair curling into the pooled blood.

Spike bolted upright, disoriented and wild-eyed, knocking over a nearby table as he fell off the edge of the bed onto the ground. He pressed his forehead to the cold dirt, sobbing, his muscles trembling. Tasting copper in his mouth, he gagged weakly. He swiped his hand across his face; it came away wet with blood, sweat, and mucus. He realized he had bitten through his own lip. Not hers. Not dead. Not real.

"Spike?" Dawn jumped off the ladder and peered into the dimness, trying to find him.

Christ. No. He stayed down on the ground, his fingers digging into earth and rock as he willed his erection to subside.

When he didn't respond, Dawn walked farther into the room. "Spike? I heard a noise. Are you he--?" She caught sight of him lying next to the bed. "Spike! Are you okay?"

He sensed, rather than saw her rush towards him. "Don't," he snarled. Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me.

Dawn stopped short, withdrawing her hand. She watched Spike push himself to his feet slowly and then sit on the edge of the mattress. She sat down warily next to him, making sure to keep some distance. "Better?"

"Yeah."

She raised her eyebrows at the blatant lie. "What happened?" He didn't respond, his face averted from hers, motionless except for the visible shuddering of the long muscles of his back. "Spike?"

Spike squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on slowing his breathing. "Was napping," he said hoarsely. He gripped his knees hard in an attempt to control the shaking.

"On the floor?"

He finally turned his head and looked at her. Her eyes were wide and dark. Bugger. He was scaring her. "S'nothing." Off her disbelieving look, he said, "Nightmare."

"Nightmare?" she repeated. "You get them a lot? 'Cause it sounded like a doozy." Silence. "You should see yourself. You had more color when you were dead." This time she got a shrug out of him. "Spike..."

He scrubbed his hands over his face and forced a change in subject. "Why're you here?"

Dawn tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Uh...well, you haven't been around since…"

"Since you almost made yourself the blue plate special at a demon buffet?" Better. Distract her with snark.

"Technically, that was partially your fault because of the whole 'hiding from Buffy' thing...." Seeing Spike's eyebrows drawing together, Dawn quickly changed course. "But only in some bizarro alternate universe because of course you told me over and over not to go traipsing through the cemetery at night." Her expression perked up. "And see? I came during daylight this time. Not at night. Just like you said," she finished triumphantly.

"Uh huh." Spike's skeptical look was worth a thousand lectures.

Dawn forged ahead, trying to forestall any further comment from Spike. "Anyway, I wanted to ask a favor."

"'Cause your credit is so good with me right now."

Dawn ignored him. "Could you train me? You know, self-defense, take care of myself in a fight kinda stuff?"

Spike stared at her in disbelief. "Dawn..."

Playing with the ends of her hair, Dawn began to babble. "Buffy tried. She's a self-defense instructor at Sunnydale Gym now. Did she tell you? But the whole sister thing just got in the way. But you - I'd listen to you." Spike snorted. "Seriously, I would. I mean, you're still pretty scary when you get mad. And really, it would be like doing a favor for yourself, 'cause then you wouldn't be worried about me being demon bait all the time." The snort became a full-fledged snicker at her nerve. Undaunted, she pressed on. "Anya would let us use the training room."

Laughter fading, Spike's expression grew serious. "Not a good idea."

"Why? Would it cut into your extensive moping schedule?"

"Big Sis and I are hardly chums."

"Buffy's not mad at you, Spike." She sucked on a strand of hair for a minute, thinking hard, before continuing. "Well, she's maybe a little peeved about you going all avoidy on her and a little ticked off about you killing stuff before she gets to it. She's not real good with the whole sharing thing - and boy, was she pissed when she found that nest of dead Lurzak demons. She ate an entire box of HoHos." Catching sight of Spike's bemused expression, Dawn finished, "Okay, so not the point. She'll be okay with it."

"Bit." He rubbed fingers over his forehead, frustrated. "You asked her?"

Bit now, not Dawn. She could smell victory in the air. "Well, no. Not yet. But it's no biggie. I know she'll say yes." Spike shifted uncomfortably, about to object again. "Just promise me you'll do it if Buffy says yes." Deliberately, she caught his gaze and widened her eyes.

"Christ, not the doe eyes." He sighed. "Any point to me sayin' no? You'll just wheedle me 'round eventually anyway." Dawn just smiled, a Mona Lisa in miniature. "Better scarper. Slayer'll be wondering where you are."

"I told her I was coming here. But I do have to get to the Magic Box. I'm working tonight." She stood up, hovering over him uncertainly. "Sure you're okay, Spike?"

"Yeah. I'm…good." And this time, as he watched Dawn wave goodbye and climb the ladder out of the crypt, he realized it wasn't a total lie.

Humming, Anya swept the feather duster over the already impeccable display of imported Austrian crystal balls.

"You appear to be awfully pleased with yourself." Hallie sat perched on the research table, buffing her nails.

Anya stopped dusting and turned to look at her. "I admit it. I am." Twirling in a circle, she danced a few steps with the feather duster. "Business is good. Both the magical supply business and the vengeance business."

Not pausing in her nail regimen, Hallie raised a thinly-plucked eyebrow. "Inflicting temporary bouts of impotence and transmogrification gives vengeance a bad name, Anyanka. Everyone's talking about it."

Anya playfully pointed the feather duster in Hallie's direction. "But you must admit that man I turned into a frog still has a pretty nasty case of warts."

Hallie extended a hand to scrutinize her work. "It's so lightweight. It's like eating Chinese food. You're hungry an hour later." Noticing an imperfection on one nail, she frowned and resumed buffing. "More to the point, how long do you think D'Hoffryn is going to allow it?"

Anya's brow wrinkled. "Well, I can't see why D'Hoffryn would object. After all, he wants me to grant wishes and I'm granting them." She gripped the feather duster a bit more tightly. "Aren't I?"

Hallie stopped fussing with her nails and stared at Anya. "Sweetie. You know very well it's not about granting wishes. It's about...." Hallie gestured with her freshly manicured hand for a moment, looking for just the right word. "Pain. It's about the pain." She shook her head pityingly. "I've said it before and I'll say it again. You've gone soft, consorting with all these humans."

Dawn, serenely unaware of her inferior human status, rushed into the room, pulling on her jacket as she raced for the door. Over her shoulder, she said, "Anya, I'm done restocking all the bookshelves upstairs. I gotta run. Buffy'll kill me for being so late." She gave Anya a friendly wave goodbye, pointedly ignoring Hallie. The door slammed behind her then immediately reopened, the bell ringing wildly. Dawn poked her head back in the door. "Oops! Almost forgot. There's a letter for you by the cash register. Must be important. Came registered mail." With that, she was gone, the door crashing shut behind her.

Neither Anya nor Hallie said anything for a moment. Then Hallie, galvanized into action, hopped down from the table. "Must dash. Places to go, wishes to grant, suffering to perpetrate. I'll just leave you to your correspondence."

"But..." Too late. Hallie was gone.

Anya took a few halting steps towards the counter, staring at the thick, cream-colored letter. She reached out to run her fingers over it. "Mmm...Linen. At least whoever sent this has exquisite taste." Trying bravely to smile, she said, "It's probably a secret admirer. That's it. Some handsome, yet shy, man who has been worshipping me from afar." She began to warm to this notion. "Too reserved to make bold overtures, instead he intends to seduce me with missives." She frowned. "Of course, Mr. Secret Admirer wouldn't need to send his tokens by registered mail." She smiled again, caught up once more in her fantasy. "Perhaps he's just remarkably efficient."

Putting the feather duster down on the counter, Anya hesitantly lifted the envelope, looking for any identifying marks. Turning it over, she traced her fingers across the woman's head stamped in the heavy, red sealing wax. Medea. It was from D'Hoffryn.

Her shoulders slumped, but after a moment, she squared them again. "This is silly. It's only a letter. It can't hurt me, right?" The silence in the shop mocked her. "Darn that Hallie, putting all those notions in my head. D'Hoffryn is probably just writing to congratulate me on my increased productivity. Yay me. Now see me, opening the congratulatory letter."

Carefully, she broke the seal and slid a single sheet of paper from the elegant envelope, which drifted unnoticed to the floor. She began to read, partly under her breath. "Our duty to inform you...blah, blah, blah...hereby notified...party of the first part...enjoined from any alteration of wishes...hereafter considered work product and sole property of the party of the second part."

Anya stopped reading, tapping the letter against her other hand in irritation. "Could this be any more annoying and wordy? No wonder Will wanted to kill all the lawyers. I should have made an exception to my 'no vengeance wishes granted for men' rule." She resumed reading. "Effective immediately...blah, blah, blah...noncompliance will result in immediate disciplinary action." She halted abruptly. "Well. This can't be good."

He wasn't stalking her. He was keeping an eye on her. It was a whole different vibe.

After all, he had to find out how things were going with their little vengeance-alteration scheme, right? He was Idea Man. It meant he bore a certain responsibility for the outcome. And he'd have gone right in to say hello if Hallie hadn't been there. Because after that whole Spike incident, he didn't think it was a good idea to add a Hallie incident. And since most encounters with Hallie soon became incidents, he decided not to chance it.

So he cased the joint from across the street. And when he ducked into a convenient doorway and hid his face from Dawn as she raced by, well, that was because he wanted some privacy, not because he was full of stalkery badness.

It looked as if the coast was clear. He couldn't see Hallie anymore. Anya stood alone, reading what seemed to be a letter. Time to make his move. He entered the shop, trying to act casual.

"An." She didn't appear to hear him. Xander tried again. "Anya." Nothing. She was still zoned out, staring at the letter. So much for casual. "Hey - Anya!"

Anya jumped, startled. "Xander. I didn't hear you come in." She held the letter protectively to her chest. "What...why are you here?" Steadying her voice, she added, "Have you come to throw more of my friends off the premises?"

Xander scuffed the toe of his shoe along the well-polished floor. Okay, this wasn't getting off to the best start. "Well, I just wanted to stop by and say, 'Hey.'" He paused, looked up, and smiled diffidently. "Hey." Anya said nothing, staring at him. Xander sighed. "I know I was a big jerk the last time I was here. Spike just…gets on my last nerve. I'm sorry I took it out on you."

A ghost of a smile played around Anya's mouth. "So this is something new, Xander?"

He chuckled, meeting her eyes directly. "Yeah, well. That's me. Foot-in-mouth guy. Able to swallow large shoe sizes in a single gulp." This time he was treated to the works -- a full smile. He decided to press his luck. "Anyway, I wanted to see how things were going with you. And, you know, with the whole vengeance gig. Is our plan working?"

Anya's hand tightened on the letter, crumpling it. "The plan. Oh yes, it's working. Of course it's working. Why wouldn't it be working? Has someone told you it's not working?"

Xander moved a little closer, frowning. "An, you seem a little weirded out. You sure everything is okay?"

Anya pasted a bright smile on her face. "Oh yes. Everything is fine. Fine and dandy." Reaching out, she tucked her hand under his elbow and began leading him out of the shop. "I'm just so busy. The vengeance business is fine. The shop is fine. I'm swamped with inventory, you know. But it's fine. I'm fine. The whole world is fine."

"It's the middle of the month."

"It's a new policy I've implemented. Mid-month inventories. Business has been so good, it helps me keep on top of things." She continued to escort him to the door. "It was so nice of you to stop by and check on me. But don't worry. Everything's..."

"Fine, right?"

"Absolutely fine." Opening the door, Anya widened her false smile and gave Xander a slight nudge over the doorstep. She waved gaily. "Come again soon. Bring some friends." She shut the door behind him, turned over the 'Closed' sign, and threw the deadbolt.

Through the window, Xander watched her walk away into the depths of the shop. Something was not fine. Very not fine.

She wasn't stalking him. She was keeping an eye on him. It was a whole different vibe.

After all, he was human now and that made him part of what she was sworn to protect, right? She was the Chosen One. It meant she bore a certain responsibility for him, to ensure his safety and to make sure he hadn't fallen back into any old, bad habits. And she'd have gone right in to say hello if she hadn't thought he wouldn't immediately disappear through the tunnels to avoid her.

So she cased the crypt from a nearby tombstone, not because she was fully of stalkery badness, but because sometimes stealth was required in delicate situations.

Buffy shifted her weight from one foot to the other; her spirit was willing to be stealthy, but her flesh was weak. Her boots might look stylish and affordable, but they were really cheap knockoffs without proper arch support. Were those lights - maybe candles? - flickering under the crypt door? Moving closer, she crept over and put her ear up against the crack in the door. Was that moaning? A woman's voice?

Enough with the stealth. Buffy pounded on the door, yelling, "Hello? Anyone home?"

There was a sudden cessation of noise, followed by furious rustling, a few thumps, and low murmuring. She frowned as the door creaked open a smidgeon. "S-s-layer?"

"Clem. Hi." Trying for nonchalant, Buffy leaned up against the wall and crossed her arms. "Just in the neighborhood. Doing some patrolling." She tried to peer into the crypt, but Clem was blocking her view. "Spike around?"

Clem looked uncomfortable. "Uh, no."

Buffy could tell he was hiding something. "You sure? I thought I heard voices."

"P-probably the television. I watch a lot of television."

"Hm." Suddenly, Buffy pushed the door with both hands - hard. Clem staggered backwards, struggling to keep both the door and his robe from flying open.

Robe? Suddenly, Buffy was seeing way too much loose skin inadequately covered by purple satin. She hastily averted her eyes.

Clem gathered his robe together and knotted the sash. "Slayer!" His ears quivered and his bottom lip trembled. "I'm...," he hesitated endearingly, "entertaining a lady." The tips of his ears turned pink.

"Oh." Buffy felt heat rush up into her face and suspected she was as pink as Clem's ears. "Sorry. But I really need to find Spike."

"Is Dawn in trouble?" Clem looked anxious at that prospect, twisting some purple satin in his hands.

Buffy hesitated; she was tempted to lie. "Well - no. I just need to talk to Spike."

Clem pursed his lips, considering, but then shook his head regretfully, not meeting her eyes as he spoke. "I don't know where he is. I'm really sorry I can't help."

An idea occurred to Buffy. "Mary Sue, right? That's your girlfriend's name." Her eyes narrowed. "Does she know about...Sophie?"

Clem paled and looked wildly behind him. "That was nothing," he whispered frantically. "Just a crush. And her skin was way too tight!"

"Well, we can keep that whole thing our little secret, Clem. Nobody needs to know what a dancing machine you really are."

He sighed in defeat. "There's a new demon bar on the outskirts of town. Spike went to check it out."

Buffy smiled. "My lips are sealed."

Spike took a swig of beer. He could say one thing for the demon bars of Sunnydale - they kept a much better American beer on tap than their more legitimate human counterparts. Probably because demons had a more refined sense of taste. Or maybe because dissatisfied demon customers were known to eviscerate bartenders.

He put the glass down and turned it, watching it form a series of wet rings on the bar's wood veneer. Thus far, his plan was working. The plan was fairly simple. Re-establish himself in the demon community by hanging out in demon bars and other low places. Gather any immediately available scuttlebutt about potentially nefarious goings-on about town. Get Giles off Spike's no longer dead arse. And finally, the best part of the plan: wait until some demons approached him and then kick the piss out of them to show them who was still boss.

Word of his new 'status' had spread throughout the demon underworld. He usually didn't have to wait very long for someone to show up wanting a bit of the rough and tumble. His mouth twisted. Apparently he had annoyed quite a few demons in his day and they all were lining up to get a piece of him now. The only downside was that his bruises took a little longer to heal than when he had been a vampire.

In Spike's experience, the simpler the plan, the less that could go wrong. The hardest part so far had been staying one step ahead of Buffy. But tonight his luck had run out. Five minutes earlier, he had watched her sneak into the bar and sit down at a table in a dark corner. He assumed she thought the trench coat and the hat would disguise her appearance. She was swimming in the clothing and he wondered if it had belonged to Joyce.

Spike shook his head, grinning to himself. Every demon in the place knew the Slayer had arrived. He debated just shoving off, but the way the Tchortang demon at the other end of the bar was eyeing him made him think he was about to get lucky. And sure enough, the demon stood up and began walking towards Spike.

"Well, if it isn't Spike." Not bothering to waste a glance in the demon's direction, Spike lifted his beer glass in a mocking salute before taking another swallow. Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell the Tchortang was put out at his cavalier response. "I'm surprised you'd dare to show your face in here, human."

"If you can show your ugly mug, I've got nothing to fear, pillock."

"Ah, little man. Talks so tough, but tears so very easily."

Spike carefully set down his glass and stood up. The Tchortang topped him by at least six inches. As far as he could recall, Tchortang demons weren't particularly nasty - no acid-like mucus, spiny protrusions, or even claws to watch out for. Spike gave him the once-over, insolently cocking an eyebrow. "Care to make a w-"

"Harold!"

Buffy smiled, pleased that her disguise was working. No one seemed to notice her. She pulled her mom's trench coat more tightly around her and then tugged the hat a bit lower on her head, making sure her hair was still well hidden. She had arrived a few minutes earlier and had immediately headed for a table in a dark corner.

Surveying the room, she saw Spike seated at the bar. Buffy raised her eyebrows. He was back to basic black - black jeans, black tee-shirt, clunky black boots. He had even gelled his hair back into some type of order although a few curls were already working themselves loose. Idly, Buffy wondered if becoming human again had also had a corresponding perm effect or if the power of evil had been straightening Spike's hair when he was a vampire. The Not So Big Bad was apparently back.

And in more ways than one. Spike and a vividly blue demon were obviously arguing. It hadn't taken Spike long to piss him off. The Smurfy-looking demon didn't seem all that tough, although he was quite a bit bigger than Spike. Just as she was thinking about breaking it up, she saw someone had beaten her to it.

"Harold!"

Buffy sat back, deciding Smurfette could take care of things.

Spike had forgotten. Tchortang demons mated for life. And this particular one looked very mated, judging by the female demon in the ghastly floral dress glaring at both of them. The pink and orange peony print seemed to glow against her turquoise-tinted skin and hair; just looking at her made Spike come over a bit queasy.

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

Spike noticed that Harold didn't so much pale as fade from a robust robin's egg blue to a sickly sort of moldy blue. "N-nothing, Eunice. T-talking."

"Talking? It doesn't look like talking to me. It looks like you were getting ready to fight. What did I tell you before we left the house?" Harold unwisely remained silent. "Well?" Eunice began to tap her black patent leather clad foot impatiently.

"No fighting," Harold mumbled.

"That's right. No fighting." Eunice opened the matching purse which hung by a strap in the crook of her elbow. "Is it too much for me to ask that we have a quiet drink without you getting into a brawl with the first bit of human riffraff you run across?" Spike opened his mouth to object and then decided against it when Eunice looked up from rooting in her purse to shoot him a venomous glance. "I go off to the Ladies and as soon as my back is turned, you're picking a fight." Eunice removed a pair of white gloves from her purse, which she began to pull on. "I'm going to the car. You have two minutes to settle our bill and join me or else you'll be sleeping on the sofa tonight. Do I make myself clear, Harold?"

Harold hung his head and said miserably, "Yes, Eunice dear." With a pleased nod that her will was again law, Eunice marched out of the bar. Harold began to shuffle over toward the bartender.

Spike snickered.

The Tchortang demon turned with a roar, picked Spike up by his collar and the seat of his pants and then threw him down the bar. Two Mesroch demons hastily grabbed their yaks' bollocks martinis and got out of the way. Sliding arse over teakettle, smashing glasses and bottles, Spike flew off the end of the bar to land hard on the floor. He bounced to his feet, grinning. "That all y'got, mate?"

With another bellow, the Tchortang charged. Spike leapt up on the bar like a cat, leaving Harold to crash headfirst into the wall. He stood, swaying and confused. Spike slammed his heavily-booted foot into the Tchortang's jaw, knocking him out cold. Spike smirked. Too easy.

Thwack!

Eunice's large purse hit Spike behind his knees, toppling him from the bar. Picking up a barstool, she headed towards Spike. "Human scum." Lifting the stool over her head, she brought it down on Spike; he managed to roll away at the last moment, the stool glancing off his shoulder and splintering into several pieces when it slammed into the floor. "How dare you touch my husband?!" She towered over him, breathing heavily, her skin having darkened to an alarming shade of cobalt.

Eunice swung a broken leg from the barstool like a bat as Spike struggled to scramble away from her, crablike, on the floor. "Look, ma'am." He tried to adopt a conciliatory tone. "Don't wanna hurt you."

"Then let me do it." Buffy kicked Eunice from behind; the demon staggered forward, landing on a nearby table, the club flying from her hand. She lay there, unmoving, momentarily stunned. The other patrons in the bar, who had mostly been ignoring the fight, began to seek safety in the corners of the room.

Spike got to his feet. After a quick glance to make sure Eunice was out of commission for the moment, he swaggered over to Buffy. "Just in the neighborhood, Slayer?"

Buffy shrugged, keeping one eye on Harold, who was beginning to stir. "I was out patrolling when I heard a noise."

Spike snorted. "Yeah, right. Admit it. You've been following me." Harold, conscious once more, growled as he stood up.

"Get over yourself, Spike." Eunice began to stir, moaning a bit.

"Come off it, pet." Buffy and Spike assumed a defensive stance with their backs to each other, warily watching Harold and Eunice, who were now circling them. "Saw you." Harold attacked, throwing a punch at Spike's head. He ducked and Buffy spun quickly, repelling Harold with a kick to the gut. "Lotsa times." Harold stumbled back against the bar, clutching his stomach. The bartender moved swiftly away, joining a group of demons trying to be inconspicuous in the corner of the room near the pinball machines. "And what's with the disguise, Mata Hari?" Spike jerked his chin towards the trench coat and hat, now lying discarded on the floor.

"Huh?" Enraged, Eunice charged forward, purse held high. "Maddie who?" Buffy sidestepped her. "You know I can't afford designer clothes anymore." Spike grabbed Eunice around the middle, twisting to catapult her up and into Harold. Eunice landed on Harold, knocking them both to the floor in a tangled heap. "And I'm not following you. I'm doing my sacred duty."

Spike turned to face Buffy. "Sacred duty, my arse."

"Hello? Human now. You're on my watch." He stared at her, without comment. "What?" she asked defensively. "It's cop talk."

Unnoticed by Buffy and Spike, Harold struggled to his feet and then offered a hand to help Eunice to hers. As Eunice smoothed her dress, Harold stooped to collect her purse. The other customers, sensing a different sort of fight brewing, inched closer.

Spike made a disgusted noise. "You've been hanging around the carpenter too much." He took a step towards Buffy. "And besides, I can take care of myself. Don't need some bird doin' it for me."

Buffy lifted her chin and glared at Spike, not giving an inch. "Yeah? Well, just stop with the vigilante killing of things, 'kay?"

Harold and Eunice exchanged glances, clearly having been forgotten by Buffy and Spike.

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Is that what's got your knickers in a twist? Me poaching on your territory?"

"There is no twisting of knickers." Spike tilted his head speculatively. Squirming a bit, Buffy insisted, "None." She crossed her arms. "It's very simple. Me Slayer. You...well, whatever you are at this point."

Eunice turned to glance at Harold. Softly, so that she wouldn't attract the attention of the bickering couple, she asked, "Does this remind you of anything, Hal?"

Tenderly, Harold took her hand. "It brings back fond memories of our courtship, dear." They resumed observing the argument, which was growing more heated.

Spike smirked at Buffy. "Better stock up on the HoHos, Slayer." Buffy flushed. "I do what I want. I find the nasties first, I take 'em out."

"'Cause you were doing such a great job with Papa Smurf and Smurfette over there."

"I had it handled!"

Eunice squeezed Harold's arm to regain his attention and batted her eyelashes. "Want to go home and get lucky?" she whispered. Harold nodded eagerly. Smiling, she tucked her arm into his as they headed for the door, unseen by Buffy and Spike. The throng of other patrons parted to let the demons pass and then quickly moved closer, not wanting to miss a word of the escalating argument.

Buffy flicked her hair off her shoulder. "So what is all this, Spike? Some kind of game?"

"No games. This is me, getting my rocks back."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Where have I heard that before? Shouldn't you have enough rocks to build a house by now?"

Before Spike could respond, a small weasel-faced demon stepped forward out of the nearby crowd. "May I interject a thought here?" Buffy and Spike turned to stare at him. "It seems very simple to me." Nose twitching, he pointed at Buffy. "As I understand it, you’re the Slayer." He pointed at Spike. "You're the vampire who became human for love of the Slayer." He smiled, his sharp teeth flashing. "You should be working together to fight evil. In point of fact-"

"Shut up!" Buffy and Spike yelled together. The entire bar quieted. The weasel-faced demon was summarily yanked back into the throng and muffled sounds of a fracas ensued. Ignoring that, Buffy looked around suddenly, confused. "Uh, where did the Smurfs go?"

"Okay if I talk now?" asked a sarcastic voice from the back of the crowd. Buffy nodded. The bartender stepped forward and pointed towards the door with a thumb. "They got bored and left."

"Oh," Buffy said vaguely. The Tchortangs immediately dismissed again, she turned back to Spike. "See? Even that stupid weasel demon gets it. Why can't you?"

"That what this is about? You want to work together?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

Spike threw his hands up in disgust. "Well, you not knowing what you want. That's new, innit?"

The crowd began to murmur. Buffy threw them a quelling look. "All right, then...yes. I want us to work together."

Spike stared at her, gobsmacked. "You want me to be like...what? One of your Scooby Gang?"

"Well - yes. I mean, you were before. Kinda. Except for the whole 'occasionally self-serving evil' thing."

"And the whole 'using me for muscle while treating me like dirt under all your feet' thing." Spike paused, his body suddenly as taut as a bowstring. "You think it's that simple, Buffy?"

Buffy shifted, uncomfortable, and crossed her arms again. "Look...what do you want me to say?" She studied the floor for a minute. Then, raising her head to look at Spike, she said softly, "You've changed. I've changed." She lifted her shoulders slightly. "Everyone else will have to play catch-up." It was Spike's turn to stare at the floor. Buffy continued. "I told you what I want. What do you want, Spike?"

You. Spike lifted his head sharply, biting his lip to hold back the words. He turned abruptly and left the bar, leaving Buffy alone. Again.