-7-

GUIDANCE

Angel had walked Dawn to the entrance of the hotel car park after patrol and she was reeling from the sweet little chuck under the chin he’d given her before he’d disappeared into the night, leaving her to wander towards her room under her own giddy, head-in-the-clouds, hormone-induced steam. Never mind that the gesture made her feel about as big as Buffy and Spike’s ankle-biter, or that he’d still had demon innards smeared on his fingers – he’d actually touched her! Voluntarily!

She was still all aquiver when she let herself into the room. Leaning back against the closed door to try and regain some of her lost equilibrium, and to stop her knees from shaking, she didn’t notice at first that Lydia was on the phone. Not until the shouting started.

“Now you see here, you pompous ass,” the Watcher snarled, her control hanging by a thread. The hand that wasn’t holding the receiver was clenched in a tight fist and she was perched on the very edge of the bed like she was about to launch herself off it at any second. “I will not have you dictating to me like I’m some… some lowly minion!”

Dawn watched with interest as Lydia continued to snark into the handset. It had to be Peter the Great on the other end; she didn’t call just anybody names like that, and the Watcher’s ex-husband was way up there at the top of the pompous-ass scale.

She waved her hand a little to get Lydia’s attention, and after finally getting an agitated eye roll in reply, she belly-flopped onto the other bed and settled in for a good eavesdrop.

“That is not how the Council works and you know it! Father would never have…” Lydia yanked her glasses off and threw them to one side. “Yes, I know you’re not him. Believe me, I understand that, Peter…”

Dawn grinned. Score one for the observant Slayer Gal. Definitely his royal stuffiness Sir Peter Sherwood on the line. The grin turned into a conspiratorial giggle as Lydia mouthed the word “ass” at her with exaggerated precision.

“The biggest,” Dawn agreed, not caring if he heard her or not. The guy was a jerk, first order. She cupped a hand around her mouth and called out, sing-song, “Hel-lo Mis-ter Sherrr-wood.”

Lydia snorted at his response. “Well, of course it’s Dawn,” she said into the phone. “Who else would be in my room at this time of night?” Whatever his answer was this time, it did not make her happy and her voice dropped to subzero temperatures. “That is hardly any of your business.” A pause and then evil smirk curved her lips. “Really? And how is Charlotte, may I ask?”

Dawn gave a mock-horrified gasp and then mimed a clawing motion, “Meow.”

Lydia waved her off. “Oh, that’s lovely,” she continued, without a shred of sincerity. “Yes, Dawn is aware that your proper title is Doctor Sherwood, you’ve certainly told her enough times. Yes. I’m sure. Fine then, goodbye.” She hung up and then stared at the phone for a moment. “Wanker.”

“I don’t even know why you married that guy,” Dawn said, rolling onto her back and regarding Lydia from her new upside-down position, hair trailing onto the floor.

“Truthfully, I’ve been wondering about that myself,” Lydia admitted. She searched around for her discarded glasses, finally locating them hanging precariously from a pillow. “In comparison to some of our newer male acquaintances, he’s rather… well…”

“Dull?” Dawn asked. “Boring? Uptight? Completely lacking in any sort of studly appeal?”

“All of the above.” Lydia replaced her glasses and peered at her charge over the rims. “How was patrol, by the way?”

“It was awesome. Mass carnage on the vamp front, and Angel killed this demony slug-type thing, bare-handed. Like, grrr…” She made some twisty hand gestures to illustrate. “Aargh! Pop! Splat! Slimy viscera all over. You so should have been there.”

“Mmm.” Lydia contemplated her hands, giving her next words some serious consideration. “Peter wants to come to Sunnydale,” she said finally. “He has listed several credible reasons for this, the bottom line being that it’s to assess how you’re fitting in.”

Dawn sat up. “What? No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“There is no argument here, Dawn. Peter will be coming to Sunnydale, whether we want him to or not.”

“Oh, it’s ‘not’. It is so very ‘not’.” The young slayer stood and loomed over her still-seated Watcher. “You have to make them not come.”

“Dawn…”

“No!”

Dawn actually stamped her foot in childish protest and Lydia sighed, weary of these tantrums. The girl should have grown out of this stage by now. The Grey boy was better behaved and he was ten years her junior.

“Really, Dawn, you must learn some self-control. Letting your emotions rule your actions like this is not conducive to…”

“It is so conducive,” the young Slayer protested. “Buffy’s all emotional and actiony and stuff, and she’s the best Slayer ever. According to some people.”

Angel never failed to mention how good the other slayer was when they were patrolling, always making with the Saint Buffy anecdotes. She knew he was comparing them, and she hated it.

“The opinions of others should not sway your judgment of yourself or your station,” Lydia intoned. “The Council…”

“Oh my God, do you ever listen to yourself?” Dawn’s eyes were wide with incredulity. “I’m a teenager! Of course I’m swayed by other people’s opinions. It’s like, the rules or something.”

“The only rules you should be paying any attention to are the ones I give you. The ones governed by Council guidelines, the ones that have kept the Slayer line active all these years…”

Lydia stopped when she became conscious the absolute drivel she was spouting. She sounded like Peter, or one of those mindless automatons she’d loathed listening to as a Potential.

She sounded like her father.

“Yeah, well the Council’s wrong then,” Dawn was saying. “They’re a bunch of fusty old nobodies stuck in their own deluded fantasy world. They wouldn’t know a real demon if it barfed slime on their shoes. And if you’d even pull your head out of those stupid books for two seconds you’d see that too.”

Lydia slumped back onto the bed, defeated. She couldn’t argue with that. Since arriving in Sunnydale everything she’d been taught to believe had been challenged, stripped down and trampled flat under the weight of William the Bloody’s big black biker boots.

She thought of Rupert Giles’ sharp wit and steely resolve, the absolute surety he held of his place as rogue Watcher. Then she found herself thinking of his soft blue eyes and she sighed.

Everything they knew was wrong.

-x-

Buffy cupped her chin in the palm of her hand and clock-watched as the last customer of the day left the Magic Box. Since she would be taking over Anya’s position at the shop for the next few months while the other woman was taking her maternity leave, she was working some of the twilight shifts during the week to get her hand in. It was the practical thing to do. Responsible.

As boring as hell.

She sighed and wandered lethargically toward the door, intending to flip the sign and close up as quickly as possible. She wanted to get home to Seth and Spike. Maybe take a quick patrol on the way to shake off the cobwebs from her day of retail drudgery.

The door swung open before she was halfway there.

Buffy blinked. “Sorry. We’re closed.”

Angel frowned at her. “What?”

“Closed,” she repeated, continuing around him to lock the door. “As in ‘not open’.” She gave him a once over and wrinkled her nose. “And you’re all covered with demon goop.”

Angel inspected the dark purple streaks on his hands, and then glanced down at the matching splatter on his coat. “What’s your point?”

“Well it’s…” Buffy sighed. “Never mind. Come on, I’ll get you a towel or something.”

He trailed after her into the training room, and she peeked over her shoulder at him, wondering what was up. From what she’d understood of the conversation he’d had with Spike the other night in the cemetery, it seemed to be a little more involved than some residual guilt about a long-dead Gypsy Slayer.

“So,” she said, opening a linen closet and handing him one of Spike’s ratty old work-out towels. “How’re you doing?”

He didn’t answer her, concentrating just a tad overmuch on scrubbing the stains from his fingers.

Buffy raised a brow. “Out damn spot?” she asked dryly.

Angel froze mid-scrub and, realizing what he’d been doing, tucked the towel behind his back.

She snorted at his reaction. “That must be a guy thing. Spike does the exact same thing when he’s trying to hide stuff. Seth, too.” She leant forward, sharing a secret. “It doesn’t work, you know.”

“What doesn’t? The scrubbing or the hiding?”

“Either.” She crossed her arms and regarded him with that uncannily Spike-like head tilt that they all seemed to have picked up. “Do you want to talk about it or not? If you don’t, I’m not gonna to push, I promise.”

Angel toyed with the terrycloth in his hands, unraveling one of the frayed edges. “Spike’s gonna hear this, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Not a whole lot I can do about that. Oh, unless…” She went quiet, drifting off into link-land.

Angel studied her. It was remarkable how she was willing to let go like that with him in the room. He realized with a strange kind of detachment that he could just reach out and tear her head off while she was zonked-out, and she wouldn’t even feel it. Not that he was planning to; it was just that the amount of trust there was unexpected. Miraculous really, especially considering that such a disturbingly brutal thought had even crossed his mind in the first place.

Buffy roused, staring at him in confusion for a moment before all her systems came back online. “Hi.”

“You’re back.”

“Uh-huh. Here’s the deal. Spike’s gonna hold off for a bit. He’ll still be lurking around back here,” she waved her fingers behind her head, “but he won’t really be listening in.”

Angel just looked at her.

“He won’t.” Buffy held up her hand. “Scout’s honor. He’s got a session with Seth anyway, so he’ll be all distracted and stuff.”

“You’re training Seth now?”

“Yep. There was this… thing the other night where he kind of pushed Spike down the stairs. He doesn’t quite get his own strength yet so, hence, training.” She poked a finger into his chest. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing with the question thing, Mister Avoidy.”

Angel sighed. She had him pegged. He wondered if she’d become so perceptive because she was a mother now, or because of her link to Spike. The other vampire was especially sharp in that regard, always had been.

Buffy was still watching him. “It isn’t just that stuff about that Slayer you killed, is it?”

“No it’s not.” Angel took a few steps back and collapsed onto the sofa. “It’s about the other Slayer I killed.”

“The other…?” Buffy was shocked. “There’s more?”

“Not like that. Not directly.”

Buffy squinted, trying to figure out the cryptic. She finally got a hint from Spike, who was right on the ball despite his vow to stay out of it. “This is about Faith.”

“I’m responsible for her death.” There was no doubt in Angel’s voice. He was convinced of this. “It was my fault.”

-x-

Spike pursed his lips and stared at Seth.

The boy was bouncing on the balls of his feet, amber-eyed and grinning, hyper from sparring. It was eerily like seeing himself in a funhouse mirror, one of those wobbly ones that made you look all short and stout. He didn’t know whether to be miffed or chuffed at the realization.

They were situated on the rug in the centre of the living room, all the furniture having been pushed to the walls after a particularly enthusiastic parry had resulted in the loss of another of Joyce’s arty curios, one that Spike had actually been quite fond of. He was kneeling now, Seth before him with his fists up in a traditional boxing stance. Disappointingly, the boy wasn’t showing any signs of being a southpaw like his old man.

Spike raised his own hands, both of which were padded up, the right in a baseball glove and the left in a cheery yellow oven mitt.

“Right then,” he said. “Once more from the top. Left, right, jab, jab. An’ remember not to drop your shoulder.”

Seth did as told, a look of such extreme concentration on his face that Spike amended his earlier observation. He looked like his mother when he did that.

After a final hard jab that just about snapped Spike’s hand off at the wrist, Seth stepped back and brushed a sweaty curl off his forehead. “Hey, how come I hafta train and vamps already know all this stuff?”

“Never thought that much about it, Nip.” Spike frowned, shaking his hand so that the oven mitt dropped off and gingerly flexing his fingers. The boy’d bruised him. “Demon’s got a natural inclination for a bit of crash and bash, I suppose,” he speculated aloud. “All that rage, a taste for violence… it’s not much of a step for ‘em to harness that so it’s more effective.” He shrugged. “That’s how it worked for me, anyway. Took a good long while to hone it to a point, though. ‘S not like our William was ever one for gettin’ physical.”

Seth ducked his head and began picking at the tape on his knuckles. “So, I’m a demon?”

Spike, still musing on the first question and somewhat distracted by Angel and Buffy’s little heart-to-heart back at the Magic Box, almost didn’t hear him. “What’s that now?”

“I’m a demon then, huh?”

“What?” Spike gaped at his son, horrified. “God, no. What kind of daft question is that?”

“Auntie Will says I’m a high-bridge. That I’m mixed up from you ‘n Mom, and you’re still sort of a vamp, and she’s…”

“You are not a demon,” Spike gritted, determined that he get the Nip’s mind set straight about this once and for all. He was of a mind to wring Red’s neck for putting these doubts in his boy’s head. He dropped down on his backside and pulled Seth forward into the ‘V’ of his legs so that they were eye to eye. “I don’t want to hear that from you, alright? Demons are evil. I used to be a vampire, so I know something about evil. You’re not evil. You’re the most special, beautiful boy in the world and we love you. Okay?”

“Am not boot-full,” Seth grumbled. “That’s for girls.”

“Point taken.” Spike searched his son’s eyes. “But you get what I’m saying, yeah?”

“Yeah.” There was a pause and then the boy punched his father in the shoulder with enough force to make him skid backward a few inches. “Ding, ding! Let’s get ready to rumble!”

“Right.” Spike awkwardly dragged the oven mitt back on one-handed. “Round two it is.”

-x-

The next day had brought with it a new and exciting teen-Slayer mood. Dawn had been suffering from a double dose of tense and twitchy all morning, a side-effect from the day before.

Last night had been great; unbelievably great actually, what with the Angel-touching and the slayage and all, right up to the point where Lydia had told her that the Council was coming. Everything had gone downhill from there.

To say that she didn’t like the Council was an understatement. She hated them with a passion. Loathed them, despised them. They made her feel uncomfortable, and they stared at her funny and made notes; lots and lots of notes.

Now, to make matters worse, something was up with the Scoobies and they were staring at her funny, too.

She flipped over a page of the history book that she wasn’t really reading and glanced up at Anya and Xander who were engaged in a whispered conversation at the counter. They both looked startled and a little guilty before abruptly clamming up and giving her identical fake grins, all pasted on like a pair of psycho clowns.

Dawn frowned and closed the book. “Okay, what’s up with you guys?”

If anything, Xander’s smile got even wider, along with his eyes as he tried to act innocent. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing’s up.” He blinked rapidly and attempted to change the subject. “So how goes the studying?”

Dawn snorted. “Oh, right, like you care so much about my educational development.” She sat back and folded her arms. “Were you talking about me?”

“No. Of course not.” Xander was suspiciously shifty-eyed in denial. “Don’t be silly there, Dawnster.”

“We were talking about sex,” Anya offered baldly. “We were only doing it quietly because there are certain facts about pregnancy sex that aren’t for teenage ears.”

“You were talking about me.” It wasn’t a question this time. It was quite obvious to Dawn that they were hiding something from her. Something big.

“Again, not so much.” Xander gave the psycho-clown smile another shot. It was spectacularly ineffective. “In fact, none.”

Dawn pushed away from the table and stalked towards the training room. “I’m gonna find out, you know. And then you’ll be sorry.”

Xander grimaced as she slammed the door behind her, so hard the framework creaked. Several more loud thumps filled the ensuing silence that he assumed were from an attack on the heavy punching bag. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Anya drummed her fingers on her stomach, scrutinizing the door with a critical eye. “Do you think we can charge her for damages to the hinges?”

-x-

Willow hated when she had to sub. She didn’t like going into a class that was only half-prepared, that hadn’t been molded to her liking from the very beginning. It sort of made it worse that Dawn was going to be one of those un-molded students. She’d never had to teach a slayer before. Well, apart from some Buffy-tutoring a long, long time ago.

Okay, now she felt old.

With one final scowl at the sheet, she dumped her class-planner on the coffee table and crawled onto the sofa. She curled into Tara’s side, tucked her head under her chin and sighed in contentment. It was here, when she was happy and warm, that she did her clearest thinking.

“Do you think we should do a spell?” she asked suddenly and felt Tara tense beneath her cheek.

“For what?” Tara’s voice was quietly curious, but held within it just a hint of trepidation. She was well aware of how Willow’s need to help often got tangled up in some ill-conceived magic.

“For Dawn. You know, make it so she’s not so much with the hysterical rampaging Slayerness when she finds out that she’s not all Prophecy Girl like she thought.”

“I think it’s better if Dawn works through that for herself, sweetie. She’ll probably be better for it.” Tara brushed Willow’s hair away from her forehead and gave her a light kiss. “No people spells, okay?”

“Sure, okay.”

Willow replied easily enough, but if Tara had been more alert she’d have realized that she really didn’t sound all that convincing.

…TBC