***************************************

The dream again.

Peace.

William tsk-tsked and began to straighten the mussed bedcovers. He surveyed her with an expression that she had seen Spike wear many times, the one that said, Use your head, Slayer.

William stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Yes, Spike is able to protect Dawn. So are countless demons.”

Spike cared about Dawn. Spike had rebuffed the other, really not-so-pleasant Buffy, so that he could save her sister.

William’s teeth clacked together audibly. “I’m hardly here to plead his case. I could go on for hours on the shortcomings of our Spike. This is about you, Buffy. Forget about whether you’ve changed him or not. The fact remains, he is what he is. A soulless demon who demonstrates love and compassion.”

***************************************

Spike hated L.A.

He stared at the car in front of him, a forest-green SUV with a license plate holder that read HAPPINESS IS…BEING BRITTANY’S MOMMY. Next to him, Dawn studied the map.

“Where’s the turnoff?”

“Get in the right lane.”

“I am in the right lane. That’ll take us to the 110 North.”

“That’s not right. We’ll end up in Pasadena.”

“What, then?”

Friday afternoon. His skin was itching, the way it did when he was up and about in the daylight. The sun beat down on the car mercilessly and he had to continually fight the urge to pull over and park beneath an overpass until dusk fell.

Next to him a car horn blasted, followed by an angry shout. Spike shut his eyes briefly. They’d been sitting in traffic for an hour and a half, and in that time had traveled perhaps four miles. That was an estimation, of course; Buffy had accidentally kicked out the odometer during one of their more frantic front-seat encounters.

Dawn’s voice broke his reverie. “We need a Thomas Guide. This thing isn’t any good.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to read a map.”

“I do! But something’s spilled on this one. Something gross and sticky.”

Spike quickly snatched the map out of Dawn’s hands, then relaxed.

“It’s just beer.”

“Hmm…gross? Check. Sticky? Check.”

“Excuse me, Your Keyness. Not all of us -“

“There! Turn! Turn!” Dawn pointed frantically at an off-ramp. Giving directions, she thought resentfully, was not easy when she had to do it through a three-by-five inch clear spot she’d scrubbed out of the black gunk covering the windshield. “Grand Avenue.”

Spike swore. The DeSoto swerved. The guy in the Boxster he cut off gestured wildly. A moment later they were off the freeway, cruising through downtown Los Angeles.

“Fifth Street, and then another right on Figueroa,” Dawn supplied.

At least, Spike thought with relief, Angelus and his cadre were gone. They’d disappeared after Buffy had descended, and with what Spike could admit was rather uncharacteristic eagerness on the part of his Sire. He’d expected him to brood, look for opportunities at martyrdom, and generally bust Spike’s ass. Of course, what with the new developments there and all, he supposed Angel might finally have decided someone else was more important than his own eternal and vocal suffering.

Spike looked at Dawn, who was busy scratching away at the windows. Maybe he could relate to Soul-boy, after all. Maybe.

“Here.” He tossed a manila folder across the front seat. “Look in there and see if our papers in order. Giles isn’t my first choice when it comes to falsifying documents.”

He heard Dawn rifle through the sheaf, and then a sharp burst of laughter. The sound was so foreign to their life now that he stared at her, perplexed. She just laughed harder.

“What? What is it?” She shook her head.

Keeping one hand on the steering wheel he leaned over and retrieved the IDs from her. Then he erupted.

“Son of a bitch! I’ll kill him. Oh, I’ll snack on his intestines. I’ll carve out his eyeballs with a soup ladle. He’ll beg me to finish him off! I - owwwww…” He clutched his head and then pointed accusingly at Dawn. “You! Stop laughing! Or you’re next!”

“Whatever, Chip.” She dissolved into giggles again.

Spike banged his head against the steering wheel.

***************************************

Buffy sat in a comfortably overstuffed leather chair, waving off an assistant who silently offered her a cup of tea. The aide melted into the background of the mahogany-paneled office. Across from her, Rodger Kehoe smiled.

“I must say, you’ve surpassed even my expectations,” he said admiringly. “I wasn’t quite sure how you’d take to all this.”

Buffy sat back, studying her recently-manicured nails. No more dishpan hands, she thought smugly.

“Are you kidding? This is the first time somebody’s paid me to kill demons. Better hours than I had as a Slayer, that’s for sure. And the benefits can’t be beat.”

“I’m glad you’re finding everything satisfactory. And, that other problem…?”

“The old, unimproved Buffy? She hasn’t made an appearance. Guess she finally took the hint.”

“Excellent. You know,” Kehoe leaned in, “the time will come when you’ll be asked to kill humans as well. Do you think you can do that?”

Buffy giggled. “Ask my friends if they think I’m capable. Look, you keep keeping me in the style to which I’m going to become accustomed, and I’ll kill Pokemon for you.”

Kehoe looked at her blankly. Buffy rolled her eyes. “I’m yours, okay?” Until something better comes along.

His face smoothed out again. “I knew I had happened upon an excellent plan when I chose you, Buffy. A human is hardly a threat to the…elements in my line of work. No one ever suspects how powerful you really are. Which makes you the perfect enforcer.”

Blah, blah, blah, Buffy thought. Yes, you’re a genius. Can I kill something now?

***************************************

Chip and Danielle Williams watched as the parking attendant stared dubiously at the DeSoto with its blacked-out windows, then at the keys in his hand, then at Chip. Chip growled. The attendant hastily got in the car and drove off. “Valet parking,” Dawn marveled. “This is so cool.”

The Westin Bonaventure was a massive complex, four glass towers housing over a thousand rooms. It had, among other amenities, a Krispy Kreme Donut stand and a revolving restaurant. Spike’s newly minted ‘sister’ somehow got him to promise to take her to both.

Checking in was a swift and relatively painless process, and in a few minutes they were each holding a glossy keycard to a suite on the thirty-second floor of the East Tower. “I’m keeping this,” Dawn said, waving it in his face, and he shrugged.

“You keep lots of stuff, Miss Sticky Fingers,” he answered. “Speaking of, how come I had to do all this stealing on this trip?”

Dawn sniffed as they walked to the elevator bank. “I don’t do that anymore,” she told him airily.

“Convenient, that.”

Inside the steel-and-glass elevator chamber, Spike closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He could fall asleep right here, he thought, with the soft soothing whoosh of the rushing air around them, the cool metal against his skin…

Dawn tugged on the duster. “We’re here.” He followed her onto their floor.

It was worth staying awake, he decided, just to see the look on her face when she entered their suite. Her eyes went impossibly wide, and she bounded from room to room, inspecting.

“You should see the bathroom!” she crowed. “Jacuzzi, hello…”

He shut the door behind him and locked it, then picked up her bag from where she had unceremoniously dropped it at his feet. He wasn’t in the mood to fully appreciate her exuberance, but he’d store the memory up for a later time. And at least Phase One of his latest genius plan had worked: she was impressed enough with the accomodations that, God willing, she wouldn’t whinge too much if he left her to her own devices here tonight.

He wandered into the master bedroom and glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table. Two hours until sundown. He still had no idea what he was going to do with - or to - Buffy once they were face to face. He should really spend this time elaborating on Phase Two of his plan, which currently consisted of: Find Buffy, Make Her Not Insane Anymore.

Or, he could enjoy what could very well be his last few hours among the land of the living and undead.

Dawn came out of the bathroom, clutching the courtesy shampoo with a rapt expression on her face.

“Wake me when ‘Simpsons’ comes on,” Spike mumbled, and pulled the pillow over his head.

***************************************

“Draw her out, Spike. Engage her, by whatever means necessary. The more focused she is on external factors - you, in this case - rather than herself, the greater the chance that the true Buffy will be able to reassert control over the body.”

Spike paced the lounge of the hotel room and glanced over once more to make sure the door to the bedroom was indeed shut tightly. “Yeah? And then what, pray tell?”

There was a strained silence. “I don’t know. Subdue her if possible. What little I’ve been able to uncover indicates that Buffy’s disturbance can be reversed by whoever initiated it. One of the gentlemen from the airport, I’ll wager. For the sake of all that’s holy, Spike, control yourself. We don’t know the ringleader, nor do we know how to counteract --”

“Right, right. Play nice, don’t have a bash at ‘em. Looked human, anyways. No fun to be had there.”

“Once we have the information we need, I’ll happily join you in giving them their comeuppance,” Giles said. The coldness of his voice took Spike aback. So it’s Ripper now, is it?

“Fair enough. Cheers, mate.” Despite the morbidity of the subject matter, it was as convivial a discussion as he’d ever had with the Watcher. He hung up and slid the door to the bedroom open, lingering for a moment at the entryway.

Dawn lay on the king-sized bed, happily scanning television channels. “Can I get pay-per-view?” she asked.

“Sure.”

He’d conferred with Giles; now it was hell-raising time. The trail from LAX had led them to downtown Los Angeles. Other sources - Spike’s sources - had pointed him to a local Fyarl that had had a run-in with ‘a #@!&#% bad-ass human chick’, and barely lived to tell about it.

She was nearby. Spike could feel it in his bones; that strange tingling they sent up that used to say Slayer! and now said Buffy!

He couldn’t tell Dawn, though. Wouldn’t. If it didn’t pan out, or worse, ended badly, he didn’t want her to know.

“Cool.” She frowned. “Spice? Why would they make you pay for a cooking channel?”

Spike stepped fully inside and grabbed the remote control. “No pay-per-view.” He looked around the hotel room again, adjusted his duster for perhaps the fiftieth time that evening. He was edgy, nervous. He hadn’t left Dawn alone like this since they’d been on the run. Quick trips to the store or to assuage his appetite, no more than twenty minutes gone. Tonight was different. Tonight, if all went well, he’d be returning with her sister.

“So, ah, just gonna hook up with some buddies of mine, see if I can’t get a line on Buffy’s whereabouts. Maybe have a bit of a night out with the lads. You understand, yeah?”

“Uh-huh.” Dawn was skimming the room service menu. Spike relaxed marginally. Kid was so glad to have some time to herself, he realized, she wouldn’t care if he was going out to feed on a school bus full of Girl Scouts. He’d arranged for a few of Clem’s cousins to case the hotel entrances, make sure Dawn didn’t have any unwelcome visitors.

“Right, then. Here’s some cash,” Spike tossed the money on the bed and grinned when she scrambled to retrieve it, “order yourself up some room service. Burgers and chips, maybe an ice cream sundae. Sound good?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You ask for the name of the person who’ll be delivering the food when you order, and then you ask again before you open the door. Don’t answer the phone. If I’m not back by midnight, put yourself to bed. Remember -“

“Spike.”

She was going to be fine, Spike assured himself. Quit acting like an enormous nancy-boy and get on with it. “See you in a bit, Bit.” Before he knew what he was doing, he bent and kissed the top of her head, hesitating there for the briefest moment. Yes, welcome to Nancy-Boy Land.

Half an hour later, he had the Fyarl - who went by the name of Marti - pinned against a graffiti-laden wall in the heart of Skid Row. “Everything,” Spike gritted out. “Tell me what you know.”

“Crazy bitch, man! She kicked my ass six ways from Sunday and left me for dead. She was with a bunch of guys - humans, too - but they just watched. She was there on orders, I’m sure of it.”

“Orders from who?”

The Fyarl shrugged; it was a disconcerting sight. “Don’t know. I swear!” he squawked, as Spike delved deeper into his internal organs. “I owe money around town. Coulda been anybody.”

“Where do I find her now?”

“There’s a club they say she hangs out at. The Mayan. I don’t go by there anymore, so I dunno -" His last words were lost in a gurgle, as Spike gave his innards a last, vicious twist before dropping him to the garbage-strewn ground.

The Mayan was less than a mile away. Spike parked around the corner and was inside within minutes. If he’d learned nothing else over of the last hundred years, Spike knew how to get into clubs. As he exchanged nods with the bouncer and entered the pulsing, strobe-lit structure, he began to feel some of his old confidence return. He knew this scene, knew these people. He might not have the slightest idea how to properly feed and clothe a fifteen-year-old girl, but here, swallowed up by the nightlife, Spike was, well, Spike.

He liked this place, he mused as he walked through the club. A 1920s converted theatre with a Latin theme, its four levels were packed with nubile young people, laughing and drinking and loving as if this night would be their last. What a blast he could have had here just a few years ago.

He sat at the bar. And waited. While the last few weeks had been filled with uncertainty and speculation and doubt, he felt none of that now. She would show herself here, tonight. The Fyarl had been a little too helpful, his sources a little too forthcoming. This was Buffy’s way of extending an invitation.

How the flash of movement caught his eye, he couldn’t say. After all, the entire dance floor was a mass of swaying, pulsating bodies. But hers stood out, as always. Her dancing wasn’t frenzied, but langorous, sensual. She wore painted-on black pants and a tiny, strappy top that matched her flesh perfectly, making him remember the nights she had sprawled out in his crypt, naked and debauched.

When he first laid eyes on Buffy she’d been dancing. She’d been a child then - Dawn’s age, he realized. Carrying on with her friends, carefree and smiling and full of hope for the future. He had thought nothing of snuffing that hope out, leaving her friends adrift, family bereft.

Was it himself or Buffy, Spike wondered, who had changed more in the years since?

She was alone on one of the platforms near the stage and he simply watched her, until she finally climbed down and made her way across the floor. He tossed some bills on the bar and followed.

She pirouetted down to the lower level, where a pounding hip-hop beat made him grimace. He lost her momentarily as she was swallowed up in the blackness of an unlit, unused corridor. He reached the end - bathrooms in disrepair - and stopped.

Then she slammed him against a wall, and smiled. “Hey, baby.”

He smiled right back. “There’s my girl.”

“I knew you’d come for me.” She leaned in, nipped his bottom lip lightly with her teeth. “One way or another.”

Double entendre Buffy. Who would have thought? Oh, he’d forgotten how heady her presence could be. His control was slipping already, and all she’d done was slap him around a bit. Focus.

“What have you been up to, sweet?” He tried to keep his tone genial.

“Oh, this and that.” She finally backed up, releasing him, and he slumped against the wall, the very picture of carelessness.

“Kicking demon ass all over town, I hear.”

She preened. “Well, I am the Chosen One, aren’t I? This time, somebody chose to reward me for my troubles.”

“Reward…?”

“I can see the ocean from my new apartment. I always wanted to live somewhere like that.” She giggled a little.

“I’ll close the drapes when you come over. And those curvy new BMWs? He got me one. My boss. With bags and bags of clothes in the backseat. From Fred Segal and Neiman’s.”

This would certainly rock Giles. The Slayer had been bought off with brand names and picture windows.

“Tell me about him. Your boss.” He risked a playful nuzzle at her, and she arched eagerly.

“He’s rich. And boring. And he doesn’t care what I do, as long as I take care of problems for him.”

“What kind of problems?”

But she was past that. “Spike…”

“Yes, love?”

“He can get your chip out.”

Spike went still, inside and out. Her words echoed in his head, teasing, beckoning as he stared at her. Then thoughts came, too quickly, one after another until his brain was simply a blur of blood and sex and freedom: I’ll take her away from her, far away -- Won’t let her hurt the little one -- Show her the country - show her the world -- Kiss and kill and shag for nights, years, centuries - I’ll turn her, that’s what I’ll do -- She’ll want me to and we’ll be together forever, better than it’s ever been, we’ll finally fit, it’ll be bloody fucking fantastic…

She was pressed up against him, her lithe little body flushed from dancing, pulse throbbing like a siren’s call. His arms came around her without conscious intent and he found himself holding her even closer. Her eyes twinkled.

“I missed you,” she murmured, standing on tiptoe so that her lips brushed his ear.

“Did you, now?” His hands moved down, to grip her ass until her crotch rubbed blissfully, agonizingly against his. So hot, he thought dimly.

“You shouldn’t have run off,” she chided him. “I was all alone at night, thinking about you. About what we did together. I had to touch myself, Spike, but it wasn’t the same.”

“Poor baby,” he said hoarsely. He was supposed to be doing something, wasn’t he? Besides dry-humping the Slayer in the bowels of a nightclub. There was a plan. Yes. He had a plan -

“Oh, fuck, Buffy.” She had her hand between them now, palm cupping his jeans, where his cock was prodding insistently.

“Did you touch yourself too? Thinking of me?”

A strangled laugh escaped him. “With bite-size in the next bed? Not likely, pet.”

“Where is she? Your little charity case?” A petulant note had entered Buffy’s voice.

“Safe. I thought you and I deserved some time alone.”

She bucked up against him and he grabbed her up entirely, so that she was wrapped around him. Arms and legs and hot moist cunt.

“God, you’re so hard,” she was whispering. “And you’ve been saving it all up for me.”

“I guess I have.”

She had latched on to his throat now, kissing him there while his hands tightened around her. God, it had been so long, and he’d been so sure she’d never come to him again like this. And he knew it wasn’t his Buffy, knew that this was someone - something - else but it didn’t matter anymore. Because she looked and smelled and tasted like his Buffy. Right now the only difference was that she wasn’t telling he was disgusting, perverted, a thing she could never love. Yeah, this Buffy was close enough.

She was moaning, her tiny broken mewls vibrating along the tightly corded muscles of his neck. Her hand massaged him through the denim, and all the while she crooned her desire for him, only for him. He clenched his eyes shut, let his head fall back to the scarred wall behind him. Paradise, after so long in limbo.

And it occurred to him, suddenly: he could love this Buffy.

He turned them, so that she was pressed against the wall now. “Show me,” Spike commanded. “Show me how much you missed me.”

In an instant her hands moved to her hips and shimmied the black pants down past her knees. She was not wearing underwear. The scent of her arousal assaulted him. Yes. It was good, so good to be with someone who wasn’t ashamed, someone who loved what he did to her.

Then her hands moved to his jeans, quickly unbuttoning them and drawing his cock out. “Inside me,” she panted. “Need you…inside me - Spike -“

She was wet, and he slid in, slid right in. He slammed her into the wall, no gentleness or hesitation. She keened her approval.

“You like that, do you?” he asked harshly. “My baby likes it hard.”

“Fuck yeah, do it to me…”

He rammed into her again, his whole being reduced to the most elemental urges. Faster. Deeper. Make her scream.

And then when he thought that the coupling couldn’t get more feral, she threw her head back and exposed her neck to him. He did nothing more than bury his face there, lips opening and closing vainly against the smooth flesh.

Until she spoke.

“Have a bite,” she gasped, still moving rhythmically against him. “You know you want to.”

He pulled his head back and looked at her, this brazen, blatant wild child.

“Spike.” She was begging him.

And then thought fled, his fangs were buried in her, his cock as deep as it had ever been, ever, she was all around him, scent and skin and quim and blood, all around him, all inside him, filling up he who had been empty and wanting -

She came with a half-cry, half-laugh; pure animal pleasure. He followed her, bracing her shoulders against the wall and fucking her so brutally he knew that she, even she would be sore for days afterward. Finally the motion of his hips ceased, the last jerky movements dying. The rich taste of her blood, delicate and earthy at the same time, remained on his tongue even as his face shifted back to human. He let his head rest there, at the hollow of her throat, for just a moment. Then pulled back.

He put everything he had into keeping his voice steady although he was pretty sure his hands were shaking. “Come now, my naughty girl. Time to go home.”

She remained clinging to him like a limpet. “Sure, Spike. Right after I stop by Angel’s and beg his forgiveness.”

With an effort he dislodged her - hell of a grip for such a tiny thing, but then, he already knew that. “Not joking, Buffy. Get yourself together -“ he eyed her disheveled clothing - “and then we’re off.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “You can’t be -" He met her gaze with equanimity.

“Spike! Goddamn you, what are you doing?”

“Giles is meeting us in Sunnydale, and we’re going to get this whole mess sorted. None too soon for my liking, either.” He began buttoning his pants.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind! Everything you’ve ever wanted is right in front of you and you want to go back to being a whipping boy? And bring me with you!”

He smiled indulgently at her furious expression. “Oh, don’t look so sad, princess. You gave it a good try.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He smirked. “C’mon, Slayer. Did you think you could fuck me into following you around? You’re good, love, but not that good.”

“You’re dead,” she hissed. “You arrogant asshole. You bastard -"

“Please. Look at you,” he surveyed her, up and down. “Trying to be all ruthless and amoral. Too bad you’re not operating on all cylinders.”

“Your girlfriend is gone,” Buffy shot back. “Get used to it.”

“Get used to what? You, movin’ into her old digs? I don’t think she’s cleared out entirely. Has she?” Buffy looked away. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. And you know what else?” He patted down his pockets for a smoke, seeming to warm to the topic.

“You figure you’ve hit on something, turning to the dark side and all. I know how it feels. But here’s the thing -" He lit a cigarette and enjoyed her vicious glare - “You’re not that good at it.”

“Not good at it? Buddy, I was born to it. You’re the one who told me that.”

He shrugged, nonchalant and freshly satisfied. “I did at that. ‘Course, you were more than half a Slayer at the time. Now?” He blew out a stream of nicotine. Really, Spike thought, smoking added so much texture to a conversation. “Now,” he went on, “you’re nothing but a cheap Glory knockoff. And unless you’re looking to compete with her in the Overstyled Hair category, you’re not even in the running for Bad-Ass Bitch of the Universe.”

She flung herself at him, propelled by rage and pride, and it would have been a near thing had she not suddenly crumpled and fallen mid-leap. He knelt next to her and cautiously extended a hand. “Buffy --?” Could it be? Her head was bent, face hidden.

A voice, scraping and rusty from disuse, from beyond the curtain of her hair. “Pr - Present.”

“Oh, God, Buffy…” He scooped her up in his arms, this broken girl who never stopped fighting. Words were pouring out of his mouth now, bottled-up revelations and pleas and utter nonsense.

“So long, baby, I was afraid you wouldn’t come back - Dawn’ll be so happy, she’s been miserable without you; both of us, lost - how do you feel? Are you ill? Come, just hold on to Spike and we’ll get out right out of here. Buffy, I love you, always, ever -“

“Spike.” Wavering fingers pressed against his lips, and he paused in his babbling.

“No time, Spike. She’ll be back.” Even as she spoke faint tremors wracked her body. He watched in horror, held her tighter. But when she looked up at him, she was still Buffy.

“How do I stop it, Buffy? Who did this to you?”

“Kehoe,” she breathed.

That’s more like it, Spike thought. Now that he had a name, he’d relish tearing this poxy town apart until he found the meddlesome bastard -

Then he realized that Buffy was looking past him, at the entrance to the corridor. Blue-gray light illuminated the space, and Spike could see a small group of suited men gathered.

“Which one?” he whispered, but the words faded into a hiss as he glanced back down at her.

She was convulsing, and his own inhuman strength could barely contain her spasms. Limbs flailed and Spike suddenly knew he was watching a struggle for the body and soul of Buffy Summers. Knew, too, not sure how, that the men at the other end of the hall had provoked it.

“Make it stop!” he roared at them. They simply smiled, amused.

She wasn’t getting any better, and Spike had a feeling that he was ill-equipped to help Buffy regain her subsumed morality. Fine, then. There were other ways he could be of use. Rip those sneering bastards open, for one thing. Make them tell him how to stop it. Oh, how they would suffer, all his skills put to use -

Even as intention rose in him so did the familiar forewarning of the chip, a buzz and crackle of pain that he ignored. Maybe he could pull it off in time…

He lunged, was halfway across the passageway when he staggered, brought low by the radiating agony in his brain. Still he stumbled on, aware of their far-off laughter, of Buffy behind him, writhing, fighting herself.

And slowly he realized he couldn’t do it. Wasn’t strong enough to take them down, not like this. Didn’t even know where to start. Another failure, when he’d promised her this time he’d come through. Were the walls laughing at him? Or was it just the men? Or the chip? Silly Spike and his foolishness. He heard Giles’ voice, tight with disapproval like the headmaster of a hundred years ago: Spike, control yourself. I tried, he argued soundlessly, but it all got away from me. It does that, you see, so often…His vision hazed, though from the pain or tears he couldn’t say and what did it matter anyway? Sorry, my love, my sweet, my life…

He was crumpled on the stinking, sticky floor now, and one of the men kicked him in the gut as he advanced on Buffy. Buffy who was huddled just as he was, the two of them wounded, whimpering animals. Caught in traps of someone else’s making.

So sorry, Buffy, so sorry…

From the entrance to the corridor, an explosion that sounded to Spike’s already ringing ears like the boom of a cannon. Plaster fell around him like chalky, dusty rain. The abruptness of it all pierced his heartsick surrender; the acrid smell of gunfire had the strange effect of clearing his senses. He braced himself on his hands and rose, slowly, to his feet.

And promptly dropped back to his knees.

At the mouth of the hallway Dawn stood, Spike’s shotgun hoisted on her bony shoulder. She jerked it once, menacingly, and the three men who blocked her backed away. They formed a motley group: Buffy prostrate, in the throes of something ravenous and evil; Spike kneeling like the supplicant he could never be; four suited men who watched this lanky teenager as they would a hairy, poisonous spider.

“Dawn,” Spike mumbled, surprised he could form words.

“I found it in the trunk,” she said. “Remember? You made me practice on mailboxes.”

***************************************

For several moments, the players merely stood and stared at each other. Dawn was now alone at one end of the corridor, and Spike, Buffy and the men in black (suits) were gathered haphazardly at the other. Spike had managed to get himself upright for the third time tonight, but remained staring stupidly at the haze of smoke that slowly dissipated from Dawn’s direction.

“Spike?” Dawn asked, and he realized that she was waiting on instructions from him. At this sign of uncertainty, one goon began to step closer. Spike snapped out of his stupor and went to her side.

“Give it here,” he said, and she handed over the gun without protest. He turned to face the men.

“Everybody’s who’s not Kehoe can leave,” he told them.

No one moved. Spike raised the shotgun.

The three largest hastily trooped past Spike and out of the hallway. After a moment, the smaller, older fellow that remained belatedly tried to follow. Spike grabbed him up by his pressed shirt, nearly lifting him off his feet.

“Don’t think so, mate. You must be the man of the hour.”

Relieved of the shotgun, Dawn seemed suddenly deflated. She walked slowly past Spike to crouch at her sister’s side. “Buffy?” she asked timidly. “Is that you?”

The was no response from the whimpering, jerking figure. Dawn reached out a hand to still Buffy’s flailing, and Buffy’s arm shot out at the contact, backhanding Dawn across the face. Dawn fell back, clutching her stinging cheek, confused and frightened. Spike watched the exchange with growing disquiet.

“We’re out of here,” he said, whether to himself or the others he wasn't sure. “Dawn, come back here. Come, now,” he snapped, when looked uncertainly down at her sister. Never letting Kehoe out of his sight, Spike walked to Buffy and scooped her up in his arms.

She mumbled unintelligibly, fought him, cried out in a pain Spike could only imagine. He wanted to sit with her for hours and soothe her and pet her until she calmed, until she was untroubled.

He settled for a light brush of his lips on her forehead. A little whisper-kiss, but she seemed to still briefly. When the convulsions started again, he nodded curtly to Dawn. “Out the back,” he said tightly. “There’s an exit behind the deejay booth on the first floor.”

They formed a curious procession through the club: the lanky girl who led; the twitchy, middle-aged gentleman who trotted nervously behind her; and finally the punk -- steel-eyed and sinister, carrying a thrashing young woman in his arms.

The crowd stirred uneasily as they walked through the belly of the club, then up the stairs to the main level. But no one interfered. Even the beefy, unruffled bouncers simply stepped aside as they passed, mindful of Spike's easy handling of the weapon.

As they neared the back exit, Spike could hear sirens approaching. Half a mile, maybe less, he surmised. Their little floor show was running out of time.

He poked Kehoe with the shotgun, hard, between the man's shoulder blades. "Keep moving," he ordered. In front of them, Dawn's head weaved and bobbed as she made her way through the crowd.

Finally, finally they were outside, and Spike briefly entertained the idea of killing Kehoe then and there -- for all the trouble he'd created, the hurt he'd caused Dawn and Buffy, and for the sheer pleasure of watching the man die slowly and tortuously from a gut shot.

But someone had to fix Buffy. And according to Giles, Kehoe might be their only hope.

Afterwards, Spike comforted himself, after Buffy was right again and Dawn had her sister back and the Summers girls were safely ensconced in Sunnydale where they belonged, then Spike would have his opportunity.

Chip or no.

"What now?" Dawn asked.

Spike glared at her. "You know where the car is parked," he said sarcastically. “Lead the way.”

Dawn blanched a little at his tone. “You’re going to be really mad when we get home, aren’t you?” she asked in a small voice.

He cocked his head at her, and his gaze softened. “No.”

Dawn let out a breath.

“I’m really mad now. I’m about ready to take a strap to your bony ass,” he continued furiously, and Dawn’s eyes widened.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking? Did your brain turn to fucking tapioca since I last saw you? You could have been killed back there. I’ve a mind to do you in myself. How the hell did you even get in, with this monster?” He waved the shotgun recklessly, and both Kehoe’s and Dawn’s attention followed the direction of the barrel. He shifted Buffy’s weight with his free arm and went on. “How did you even get out of the hotel? Where were Clem’s boys? And didn’t I distinctly tell you when we practiced that you were only to use this gun if a boy got fresh with you -"

Footsteps sounded behind them. Running, and drawing ever closer. Spike’s hand tightened around the shotgun, and Dawn was afraid for a moment that he’d mow them all down out of sheer frustration.

Instead, he gathered Buffy closer to him, prodded Kehoe with a rough kick, and looked back at Dawn. “Had enough of the Father Knows Fucking Best routine anyway,” he said coldly, and Dawn flinched.

“Go,” he told her. Dawn took off, chastened, running as much from Spike’s wrathful displeasure as from their unknown pursuers.

Fifty feet around the corner was the DeSoto, and Dawn hurriedly yanked the doors open. Spike pushed her none too gently into the backseat, then laid Buffy down carefully next to her. “You,” he motioned to Kehoe. “Up front with me.” Kehoe slid into the passenger seat without argument. Spike then transferred the gun back to Dawn. “You keep that muzzle trained on the back of his head,” he ordered her, noting with bitter amusement Kehoe’s wince. “If he moves, pull the trigger.” He shut the doors and went to the driver’s side, shutting the door just as six extremely burly bouncers rounded the corner with a pair of LAPD officers in tow.

Let’s fly, Pigeon.

***************************************

Fly they did, through the deserted downtown streets and onto the freeway - which one Spike didn’t know. He only wanted to make tracks away from the area, until the police presence receded and they could safely return to the hotel. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, because if he didn’t he’d tear his hair out by the seldom-seen roots. They drove for long minutes in silence. Dawn restrained Buffy as best she could, while balancing the shotgun precariously. She cradled Buffy’s head in her lap, crooning to her.

“Tell me what you did to her,” Spike said to Kehoe.

The little man eyed Spike with no small amount of trepidation. He appeared to sense that there was no good answer.

Spike’s right hand left the steering wheel and balled into a fist.

“It was a-a-a spell! An enchantment!”

“A spell. Color me surprised,” came Dawn’s peevish voice from the backseat.

“Keep going,” Spike prompted him.

“It’s,” Kehoe swallowed audibly, “it’s Polynesian. The Huna teachings, the old ways. I couldn’t possibly explain it to an uninitiated such as yourself.”

Spike digested this, nodded. “Roll down your window,” he told Kehoe. Kehoe, confused, stared at Spike, who stared back impassively. Kehoe did as he was told.

“Dawn?” Spike’s voice was deceptively calm.

“Um…yeah?”

“Shoot Mr. Kehoe. From an angle, if you please. I don’t fancy brains on the dash unless I’ve put them there myself.”

“Wait!” Kehoe was visibly shaking now.

“It’s - I - the effect of the spell was to remove her aumakua. Her higher self,” Kehoe explained. “Leaving her devoid of compassion, of inhibitions. That was the kind of Slayer I wanted. One who would understand my needs, and satisfy them.”

Spike’s balled fist shot out, seemingly of its own accord. The blow caught Kehoe on the chin and knocked the man against the passenger door. Spike hissed as pain rocketed through his brain.

“Bastard,” Spike ground out. “You touched her - you fucking molested her -“

“No!” Kehoe yelped. “I swear, I didn’t lay a hand on her. I had no prurient interest in her, I assure you.”

“You probably go for, like, sheep and stuff,” Dawn piped up from the backseat, while Spike, in his relief, found himself wondering how many years it had been since he’d heard the word ‘prurient’ spoken aloud.

“Then what?” Spike asked. “What did you want with her?”

Kehoe rubbed his faintly wrinkled forehead. “In my line of work, I deal with many…unsavory characters. Individuals that are simply too powerful for a normal human - even a wealthy and influential one - to combat successfully. I had assorted demons in my employ, but they were a notoriously unreliable lot.”

Spike knew this to be true, and was pretty sure he had pieced together the situation. “So, let me see if I’ve got this right,” he said carefully. “You figured with a Slayer - the Slayer - on the payroll, you’d clean up your monster messes around town. Accounts receivable, Welcome Wagon, that sort of thing.”

Kehoe’s shoulders slumped. “Yes.”

Spike shook his head. “You were using her as muscle?”

Kehoe nodded.

“Well.” Spike thought for a moment. “That’s…that’s actually quite…”

“Lame,” Dawn supplied.

“Yeah,” Spike said. “That’s…really…lame.”

Kehoe frowned. “Then why did no one do it before?” he asked a bit huffily.

“Because it’s so lame,” Dawned shouted, and kicked the back of Kehoe’s seat.

“All right, then,” Spike said. “We’re going to bring her higher self back, to stay. Is that clear?” His eyes pinned Kehoe.

“I need materials. Unique ingredients that can’t be found within a thousand miles of here.”

Spike smiled. “Oh, I wager they can be found very close to here. You seem a practical sort of man. Cautious. Prepared for any eventuality. I think you have plenty of ‘ingredients’ squirreled away in whatever hole you call home. Isn’t that so?”

Kehoe hesitated, then hung his head.

“That’s more like it,” Spike muttered. Kehoe’s voice trembled as he directed them toward Buffy’s release.

“Take then 10 west. It ends at the Pacific Coast Highway. My estate is in the Pacific Palisades…”

To Spike, Kehoe’s words were sweet salvation. His focus whittled to a pinpoint, a tiny glowing promise. It guided him across the sprawling wasteland of Los Angeles; it blocked out the wrenching sounds of Buffy’s miserable struggles; it ignored the hurt and fear that emanated from Dawn. It was singular and without dispute.

***************************************

Kehoe’s place seemed deserted when they pulled into the wide circular driveway.

“You live with anybody?” Spike demanded. “Bodyguard, housekeeper?”

“The maid has the weekends off,” Kehoe answered. “And you already chased off my men.”

Spike glanced at the backseat. Buffy had been nearly impossible to control as they grew closer to their destination. Even now, bruises were beginning to bloom faintly on Dawn’s skin. The…other Buffy had not appeared since their encounter at the club, but Spike wasn’t sure that Buffy’s condition now was preferable. She had worked herself into a frenzy and with her considerable strength, he worried that this could go on for hours.

He motioned Kehoe out of the car, then retrieved Buffy from Dawn’s strained grasp. He didn’t look at Dawn, only waited until she scooted out of the backseat and then slammed the door behind her. He pulled Buffy to his chest and listened to Kehoe unlocking the front door of the house.

Once inside, Spike took a cursory look around. The place was less like a home, he observed, and more like a museum - beautiful, clinical, lacking any discernable expression of life. Dawn’s eyes widened at the obvious affluence of the furnishings and artwork, and Spike noticed that her gaze lingered on the water beyond the sliding glass doors of the patio.

Kehoe reluctantly led them upstairs, past numerous guest rooms and lounges until they finally reached the master suite. The man bypassed the sleeping area and instead began rummaging in what looked like an enormous walk-in closet. Rather than clothes, however, this little room held an assortment of magical materials - offering bowls; ancient, crumbling statuary; scrying orbs and several unidentifiable liquids in amber-colored flasks. The whole setup looked like nothing so much as a miniature Magic Box - and wouldn’t the witchlets have a blast here?

At the thought he felt a sudden pang, followed quickly by loathing. He was not homesick for Sunnydale.

The icy metal of the shotgun’s muzzle brushed Kehoe’s ear, and the older man jumped. Spike smiled wryly. “Go to it, chum. You’ve got one minute to gather up what you need. You can try all the trickery you care to, but bear in mind: if this reversal doesn’t work, I’ve got no use for you at all. Do I?”

Kehoe grimaced at him, but immediately started assembling the necessary tools. His hands shook under Spike’s watchful gaze, and Dawn’s contemptuous one.

Standing there in the doorway to the closet, hearing Dawn’s breath at his back as it had been for weeks now, Spike felt utterly spent. It had been a fifteen hour drive from Texas - had they only arrived in Los Angeles this morning? Impossible. Seeing Buffy again after so long - and the memory of what had happened next. He looked down at her. She was just a wisp of a thing, but his arms were starting to ache. Ponce, he chastised himself. And he knew he still hadn’t recovered from the vision of Dawn, facing down these latest villains with Spike’s shotgun the only thing standing between her and certain death. He might never be the same again, he thought with growing ire, and it would serve the silly child right if he hung her up by her shiny hair -

“This is everything,” Kehoe announced stiffly, and Spike brought his attention back to their present circumstances. He inspected the items Kehoe had selected.

“Thought you said this was old religion,” Spike groused suspiciously. “I don’t see anything special - The Nathor Book of Shadows? Can find that in any glow-in-the-dark bookstore.” He flipped idly through the grimoire’s moldy pages.

“Don’t touch that!” Kehoe said tersely, and Spike raised his eyes in ominous inquiry.

“It’s required in the ritual. You - your nature - you’ll mar its purity.” Spike backed off sliently, still watching Kehoe, who walked to the center of the bedroom.

“The Huna religion focuses on spiritual peace, unity with self and nature. To divest Miss Summers of her higher self, certain…perversions of the tradition were required. That is where the magical influence is implicated.” Kneeling on the plushly carpeted floor, Kehoe began to fastidiously arrange the Circle.

Spike placed Buffy on the bed for the moment, bracing her legs and gripping her cold hands in his. “Dawn.”

His tone was utterly aloof, Dawn noted apprehensively, and he still wasn’t looking at her. Spike had never been this angry with her before. She didn’t think she’d seen him this angry with anyone before, although she was certain Buffy had tormented him skillfully during their acquaintance.

“Run downstairs now. Go look at the water or something.”

“But I want to -"

“Get out,” he barked.

Her head lowered. “Fine.” She turned toward the door.

“Stay!” Kehoe called after her. Off Spike’s murderous look, he explained. “Two beings are needed to call up the powers. This is to prevent unauthorized, self-gratifying invocations.” Kehoe at least had the decency to appear to understand the irony of his admission.

“So what?” Spike shrugged. “You and me’ll do just fine. Now get to work.”

Kehoe shook his head. “Forgive me, but you are not adequate to participate. You are - how shall I put this? - corrupted. A vampire is the bastardization of humanity, and the Ho’omana will reject you, and our plea, as an insult.”

Spike waited impatiently.

“I need the girl -" Kehoe nodded at Dawn - “to complete the Circle.”

“The hell you do,” Spike snapped. “You think I’m letting you come near her with your bollixed-up magics?”

Kehoe was visibly daunted by Spike’s reaction, but he held fast. “Then there’s nothing I can do. You may as well wait for your friend to die, slowly and in significant pain.”

“Um, hello?” Dawn said. “Standing here, still in the room.” She turned her attention to Kehoe. “Hook me up.”

“Don’t touch her,” Spike told Kehoe. He grabbed Dawn by the arm and dragged her to the other end of the room.

“Now you listen to me, little girl -"

Dawn’s chin jutted out. “Remember what happened the last time you started sentence like that?”

Spike thought back. ‘I hate you!’ ‘I hate you too!’ Spike, cooling his heels outside the bathroom door. He opened his mouth to threaten her with bodily harm, because it was all his overtaxed brain could come up with. She plowed on before he could speak.

“You can't stop from doing this. If it’ll help Buffy - make her like she was before…God, Spike. I would do anything for that. So would you.” He looked away abruptly.

“Spike, it’s Buffy.”

And it all came down to that one irrefutable fact, didn’t it? On the altar of Buffy, what wouldn’t they sacrifice?

Spike scowled. “Don’t think this makes up for your foolishness before. Soon as I get the chance, I promise you I’m going to beat your ass raw -“

He broke off. Dawn was smiling at him, hopefully. His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Then…after that you’ll forgive me?”

He suddenly wanted to sit down, to fully digest the unavoidable realization that he was, forever, beholden to females with the last name of Summers. He had the odd, abrupt mental image of Dawn and Buffy’s tiny hands wrapped unyielding around his dessicated heart.

He cleared his throat, tried to sound gruff. “Yeah. After that I’ll forgive you.”

And then there was hugging again, and Spike wondered if he would ever become so used to this as to take it for granted. Not anytime soon, he reasoned. Dawn released him finally, and Spike’s gaze locked on Kehoe again. “What kind of involvement are we talking about?”

“Nominal. Her presence is required, as a kind of witness. The activities necessary to harness the aumakua will be performed by me.”

Spike said nothing, but it was clear to the three of them that the decision had been made. Dawn returned to the center of the room and knelt beside Kehoe. He took her hand and began to sprinkle a reflective, charcoal-covered powder across her fingertips.

“Hey,” Spike growled. “Keep your hands off the girl.”

Kehoe spared him a withering stare. Damn, Spike thought. The old boy was becoming less fearful by the second. Have to do something about that.

“It’s her entre into the spirit world we will be petitioning. It must be seen that she comes as a humble servant.”

Spike didn’t argue anymore, but the glinting greyness on Dawn’s hands made him suddenly restive, uneasy.

Candles flickered in the darkness, and Spike wondered when the lights had gone out. Had they ever been on? Dawn’s face was eerily skeletal in the glow.

And now the chanting began, because what would a depraved mystical ceremony be without a little somber droning?

Spike rolled his shoulders, settled himself on the bed next to Buffy. She, at least, appeared to be merely tangential to this particular effort. Neither Kehoe nor Dawn spared her a glance as they concentrated.

“An appeal from your slave Rodger, member of the Order of Kane,” Kehoe intoned. “I beseech you, Ku, to reconcile the Afflicted One. Restore her aumakua, extend the silver cord to unihipili and uhane. Make her whole again.”

There was angry rumble, but to Spike it seemed soundless; it was vibration, shifting planes of disharmony. He held on to Buffy tightly, although Dawn and Kehoe seemed unperturbed. Unaware, in fact. To Spike’s supreme anxiety, Dawn appeared consumed by the ritual, although she took no active part. Her eyes were glassy and without focus, her lips parted slightly.

Beneath him, Buffy’s thrashing became, inconceivably, even more desperate. It was all Spike could do to keep them both from tumbling onto the floor. Finally he gave in and pinned her, wrists above her head, legs between his. She was beyond awareness, little more than an animal now. The suffocating, soundless tremors increased.

“Manawa! Now is the moment of power! Now is the triumph of self!” Kehoe’s voice was wild and demented.

Spike could no longer hear the words, or see the two kneeling figures; everything was blunted and blurred until unrecognizable. Distantly he could still feel Buffy’s writhing body, and he wrapped himself tightly around it. There was nothing else, no room, no house, no ocean outside or constellations above them. Just this bizarre blitzkrieg, the music of a thousand muted roars, a hundred thousand silenced screams of anguish.

And then the screams coalesced into one: Buffy’s.

***************************************

Spike hadn’t felt this hung over in a long time. The prospect of opening his eyes was an unworkable one, so instead he lay very still - very, very still - and tried to think of a time when he’d felt worse. Being dumped by Dru in a Brazilian café, of all places, came to mind. So did having a large church organ dumped on him. But neither quite captured his current head-to-toe wretchedness.

Underneath him, a warm body stirred. Spike’s interest was mildly aroused. Well, now. Things couldn’t be all bad. He risked a glance downward.

It was Buffy. She groaned and put her hands to her temples, then opened one eye and looked at him balefully.

Then it all came rushing back - a bloody kitchen knife and Buffy smirking ‘Get down with the sickness’ and he and Dawn going fugitive and drinking Buffy’s blood at the Mayan and Kehoe saying ‘certain…perversions…’ and Dawn asking ‘you’ll forgive me?’

For once, there were no words in his throat. So he just held her, perhaps too forcefully, but she didn’t object. She held on to him too.

***************************************

An hour and a half later, Spike, Buffy and Dawn were in the suite at the Bonaventure. As he slid the last of the locks on the door into place, he heard Dawn ask, “What did you do with Kehoe?”

He didn’t turn around when he answered. “Chained him to the sink in his bathroom. Guess you were too out of it to notice.”

She and Buffy were out of it yet, he observed. Questions could wait until tomorrow. Or never. Now there was just, secretly, love and relief and joy crowding in him, elbowing for space in a heart not meant to expand.

Buffy had been subdued since they left Kehoe’s. It was she who had shaken Dawn from the ritual-induced reverie, and then held her shocked and elated sister to her breast. Buffy buried her face in Dawn’s silky hair, and watched Spike over Dawn’s head all the while.

Spike knew, just from her gaze, that she remembered everything of the last weeks. But that, too, could wait until tomorrow.

Now Dawn was leading him by the hand into the bedroom, where Buffy was already curled up on the bed. She blinked at him drowsily as he walked in, then moved over. He didn’t resist as Dawn pushed him gently down on the mattress next to Buffy, and then settled herself at his side. In seconds both sisters were asleep.

He wrapped an arm around each of them, let himself be lulled into oblivion by the twin rhythms of their stomachs heaving with deep, healthy, sustaining breath.

“My girls,” Spike murmured. “My girls.”

***************************************

“Housekeeping?” The heavy metal door lock jangled. “Good morning, do you need housekeeping?”

Buffy jumped out of bed and ran to the next room. “We’re fine,” she called out automatically. “Thank you.”

Beyond the door she could hear Spanish chatter and the squeaking of wheels slowly fade into the distance.

Buffy remained standing motionless in the lounge of the hotel suite. Her eyes traveled over the desk, and the closet, and the loveseat as if expecting them to provide answers to questions she couldn’t articulate.

Turning around, she saw that Spike and Dawn were still out cold. She watched them for long moments, until Dawn snuffled and kicked Spike in her sleep, and Spike snuffled back and rolled away, still unconscious.

Feeling suddenly unsteady, she walked to the sofa and sat down. She crossed her legs primly and wished for something a little less revealing than the skank-wear she had pulled on twenty-four hours ago.

Then she remembered the way she had eagerly wriggled out of the pants, desperate for Spike to take her.

God! It wasn’t fair. If there were any mercy in the world she’d at least be spared the memories of the last five weeks. Then she’d be able to claim ignorance, widen her eyes in shock and horror when told of her recent transgressions.

The images rose up in her then, sickening in their clarity and brilliance: facing down Willow and Tara and Xander, confident in her ability to overpower them; the smell of sulfur, sweet to her senses at that moment, as she set the Magic Box alight; laughing and chatting with Rodger Kehoe; butchering countless demons at his behest.

Chasing her sister through the streets of Sunnydale, wanting only to see Dawn’s blood spilled.

Buffy gagged. She dashed to the marble bathroom, barely making it in time to drop to the freezing tile floor before retching uncontrollably. She vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach.

Dawn found her there, crouched over the toilet and still heaving. She shuffled into the bathroom and dampened a hand towel under the faucet, then firmly grasped Buffy by the shoulders and tugged her up.

“Here,” Dawn said sleepily, as she dabbed the towel around Buffy’s slack mouth. “Nothing like a round of barfing to start your day off right.”

Buffy swiped at her eyes, which had begun to water. “Guess I had some bad…food.”

“Guess so,” Dawn agreed softly. She gave Buffy a quick, impulsive hug. “I’m so glad you’re back. I mean, really back.”

“Me too.” Buffy smiled wanly.

She could live off this sight forever: Dawn, happy and healthy and safe, beaming at her in a temporary respite from sisterly sniping. And Spike in the next room, not killing and maiming but not bitching about it either. Yes. Everything was perfect now, just the way it was.

Oh, how do I not want to go back to Sunnydale? Let me count the ways…

“Dawn,” Buffy cleared her throat, trailed off, looked around for help. The shower curtain and bath mat remained impervious to her plight.

“I am so sorry. The things I did…I don’t know what came over me, I don’t know…”

“Shhh.” Dawn rubbed Buffy’s bare arm. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s over, and you’re home!” She paused. “Well, not home home, of course. But we can go back today! I can’t wait to find out how Xander and Tara are. And Willow too. I can’t really be mad at her crack-magic car accident anymore, huh? Sorta pales in comparison.”

Buffy blanched, and Dawn went on hurriedly, “Not that Willow has all the, um, good deeds stored up that you do. I mean, cosmically, you’re still on the plus side.” She looked at Buffy expectantly. “Right?”

‘How many people are alive because of you? How many have you saved? One dead girl doesn’t tip the scales!’

In her mind, Spike’s voice merged into Tara’s; kind Tara who said to her about death, ‘It’s always sudden.’

There was a sound from the next room. Dawn jumped. Buffy realized that she was covered in gooseflesh.

Spike appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, rubbing the back of his head and looking for all the world like an exceptionally elongated eight-year-old boy. His hair stood up in stubborn curls, and he eyed them blearily.

As she and Dawn looked back at him, Buffy wondered for the first time what he might see - when his gaze seemed to feast on them in the same manner that he had once feasted on the lifeblood of other girls. Maybe that propelled him now, Buffy ruminated. Maybe he missed the sensation of consuming someone, drinking them up until he lived again through them.

“Don’t be scared,” Dawn told her. “His hair is like that every night he gets up. He’ll fix it in a minute.”

“Ha, ha,” Spike grumbled, but he was looking at Buffy.

“Are you still mad at me?” Dawn asked.

“Yes.”

“Mad about what?” Buffy asked.

Spike just shook his head and wandered into the lounge. After a moment, Buffy and Dawn followed.

He was rummaging through the honor bar, tossing honeyed peanuts and diet sodas onto the Berber carpeting. Buffy hung back, unsure, but Dawn walked up behind him and began smoothing his tousled hair back while he sat. It was an intimate gesture, and Buffy felt abruptly excluded.

“Mad about what?” Buffy asked again, and Spike stood. He was holding a package of peppered beef jerky.

God, this awkwardness was cruel. She could tell that Spike felt it, too, in the way relaxed marginally under Dawn’s gentle touch, and in the way he avoided her when once he would have done anything to remain her satellite.

“Go on,” Spike said. “Tell your sister what you got up to last night.”

Dawn grabbed the beef jerky out of Spike’s hand and her face took on an expression of practiced innocence that was gratifyingly familiar to Buffy.

“I rescued you,” Dawn said airily, and Spike guffawed.

“Nearly got yourself bloody killed is what you did, and robbed me of the pleasure.” He finally addressed himself to Buffy. “The mad thing stole my shotgun and faced down those bastards yesterday. Scared me senseless, she did.” His voice became gruff. “And she rescued me.”

Buffy didn’t know what to say, but she was okay with that. It probably wouldn’t change anytime soon.

“Spike didn’t know,” Dawn said hastily. “He had Clem’s cousins guarding me so nothing bad would happen.”

“Like you firing a gun in a crowded theatre?” Spike asked, snark returned in full force. “And speaking of Clem’s boys -“

“Oh! I’ve been waiting to tell you for so long!” Dawn interrupted excitedly. Buffy sat down, suspecting she’d be glad she did.

“I left the hotel room right after you did. I mean, right after. I took the stairs while you waited for the elevator. I was already hiding in the backseat when the valet guy brought the car around. That’s why they never saw me leave. And then I came into the club through the kitchen door. I hid the gun under an apron.”

Spike fixed Dawn with the evil eye - and when one was dealing with a morally bankrupt vampire, Buffy mused, that wasn’t just idle posturing. She, on the other hand, couldn’t bring herself to castigate Dawn.

“Wow,” she heard herself say. “Those monks didn’t spare any effort, did they?”

Dawn grinned. “When they made me…”

“…They broke the mold,” Buffy finished. She could see the humor in the situation, although maybe that was just residual BadBuffy. Spike, for his part, did not seem to have recovered entirely from last night’s ordeal. Against all reason, he seemed to have aged considerably.

Dawn shrugged. “I’m mystical, not stupid.” A lock of hair fell in her face. Grimacing, she pushed it away. “And I smell like smoke. I’m gonna take a shower.” She brightened. “I haven’t tried out the Jacuzzi yet.”

“Knock yourself out,” Spike said. Dawn tossed him the jerky and he caught it easily. Effortlessly, Buffy thought. He and Dawn were in tune; it was she who was discordant. She heard the bathroom door click shut.

Spike wandered around the suite, edging around the heavy, drawn curtains around which sunlight flared. Poor Spike. He always goes back to what hurts him most.

She wondered at this new forebearance she felt toward him. Had she left behind old angers when she escaped her latest, freakiest incarnation, like a snake that sloughed off venom with skin? And when the hell had she become so damn introspective, anyway?

She was Buffy again, one hundred percent, no question, but felt at once greater understanding and less certainty. The world seemed more full-bodied, as if a whole new dimension had unfolded.

Yeah, that’d be the psycho-killer perspective. Everything looks different from this side of the murderous rampage.

“How do you feel?” Spike asked, studiously averting his gaze.

“Hung over,” she answered truthfully. “Groggy, like when you’ve slept too long. And general, all-around weirdness.”

“Guess you’ll be wanting to head home soon.”

A short, panicked laugh slipped out before she could stop it. His eyes jumped to hers.

Oh, it was still there, that intensity. She still sizzled from the inside out when he looked at her like that, sizzled in places that really should be taking a breather right about now. His hand on the back of his neck, his face so terribly naked…he’d never been more inviting than he was now.

And she would have given a lot - a whole hell of a lot - to hurl herself into his embrace, to bury her head in the hollow between his shoulder and collarbone that she had once, many midnights ago, claimed as hers.

If she did, she knew without a doubt that he would cradle her there, cuddle her close and murmur soothing nonsense despite the fact that she had never offered him similar comfort or compassion. Because her unhappiness was his woe; because he’d help her friends, useless and bumbling though he considered them, if it pleased her; because he’d goof endlessly with Dawn if he thought it would coax a smile from her.

And today -

-- With her sister splashing happily in the bathtub like a child, the sound of the water dim and becalming to Buffy’s pulsing brain
-- With the early afternoon streaking yellow across the room, teasing Spike’s bare skin
-- With the furniture of Buffy’s world suddenly casting shadows she hadn’t seen before

One thought screamed in her brain, battered against its confines, refused to shut up until she listened.

Damnit, was I ever wrong.

Because she’d had a taste of true evil, in these past weeks. And Spike wasn’t it.

The thing that had uncoiled inside of her, spread like a virus until Buffy had been all but obliterated - that was evil. The memory of it was still on her fingertips and tongue, and she didn’t know if she’d ever feel rinsed of it.

But she remembered what Spike had felt like on her fingertips and tongue, as well. So different from this, she almost couldn’t believe she’d ever despised the sensation of him lingering on her flesh. Spike had been tobacco and old leather, the frequent tang of liquor or barbecue sauce.

And rapture.

She’d been so consumed with throwing ‘William the Bloody, scourge of Europe’ back in his pretty face that she hadn’t notice the title no longer fit. She had a sudden, irrepressible image of trying to explain this revelation to Giles, or maybe Xander: ‘And Buffy, what makes you so sure he’s not really evil?’ ‘Um, process of elimination.’

“I’ll let you get cleaned up,” Spike said, startling her out of her reverie. He nodded to the bathroom. “I don’t know what the kid does in there, but if you want to use it sometime today you may have to break the door down.” He gave her a quick, assessing glance. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Right - right,” Buffy answered nervously. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking - that was new. Usually Spike’s every fleeting emotion etched itself across his features, danced in his eyes. Now his gaze was shuttered.

“I’m gonna go settle up with Clem’s boys, idiots that they are,” Spike went on. “Then give your Watcher a call, fill him in on the excitement.” He paused. “’Less you want to do the honors.”

“No, no…I - I think I’d like to wait a bit before talking to him.” Or anyone. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a week or two; possibly fifty years.

Spike shrugged and reached for his coat. The branches of the ficus he’d tossed it on last night sprang up comically. He rooted in the pockets, finally coming up with a crumpled wad of bills.

“There you go.” He pressed the money into her hand, looking as though he half-expected her to rip the paper in two. Okay, she’d only done that once.

“Take Dawn up to the restaurant, get yourself something to eat. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Sure.” She suspected he was giving her and Dawn time to reconnect; part of her appreciated it and part of her wanted to throw him down on the loveseat and tie him there. Whoa, sex with Spike had changed her. No! she told BadBrain sternly. She wasn’t interested in getting her kink on with Dawn in the next room, she just…wanted to make sure he’d stick around. Not fall victim to the patented Buffy Summers drive-the-men-in-your-life-away-with-a-cattle-prod formula.

A day late and a dollar short, her father had been fond of saying. Was that the case with her? Was she too late in getting hit upside the head with the knowledge of Spike’s…not-evilness?

Something between an apology and a thank you was stuck in her throat, but the words just wouldn’t come. So she simply watched as he plucked the valet ticket from on top of the television, and walked out the door.

***************************************

Tara wouldn’t have wanted this, thought Xander.

The Maclays had claimed her body from the Sunnydale morgue, and taken it back to her hometown. Despite her father’s obvious disdain at her friends, they’d not been barred from the funeral. So now Xander stood flanked by Anya and Willow. He hadn’t been this close to his ex-fiancee since their abortive attempt at marriage - she’d skirted around him that first day at the hospital, and hadn’t returned since. He mentally chastised himself for thinking about Anya’s unique scent, a hint of perfume overpowered by the John the Conqueror incense she kept - used to keep, he corrected himself - next to the register at the Magic Box. ‘It’s supposed to bring good fortune,’ she’d informed Xander the first time he smelled it on her. He’d shaken his head and made some stupid - stupid! - crack about there being only one kind of fortune Anya was interested in. And then he’d divested her of her clothes, so that only he and John the Conqueror and naked Anya were left.

Jesus, what a fucking pervert he was. Zoning about sex while Tara was being lowered into the ground ten feet away. He looked around at the other somber faces, their staid, traditional black mourning clothes such a contrast to Tara’s ruffles and rainbow colors. The minister droned on, but the platitudes held no meaning for Xander. Nor did they, he suspected, for Willow.

She stood next to him, spine ramrod-straight, mouth set in a tight, angry line. Rage rolled off her in waves, and not for the first time, Xander worried about her mental state. Sure, for sheer craziness Buffy had them all beat right now. But Willow’s fury seethed, bided its time. Hadn’t he known her most of his wasted life? Since she’d gotten back at him for stealing her Barbie fifteen years ago - G.I. Joe wasn’t the same after that - Xander had never underestimated her capacity for revenge. Even against her friends.

Especially against her friends.

He didn’t look forward to getting caught between a witch and a Slayer. Willow could marshal powers beyond Xander’s comprehension, and Buffy - well, Buffy wasn’t pulling any punches these days. Xander sighed heavily. The idea dismayed him, but…maybe Spike could help keep things under control. According to Giles, the evil undead was doing a passable job of caring for Dawn. For that, Xander would always be in his debt. Which frankly sucked, but so did just about everything lately.

As the clods of dirt hit the coffin, Xander prayed for the first time during the ceremony. Please, God. No more pain. Not like this. My heart hurts with it, God…let this end okay. Let everybody just be okay.

***************************************

Two hours on three highways, in the middle of a bloody Saturday afternoon. Spike wished he could shake off the glare of sunlight the way dogs shook off rainwater. He dashed out of the DeSoto and into the house. Front door still unlocked - good sign.

Slowing now that he was safe from solar retribution, Spike wandered through the rooms he hadn’t seen last night. Oh, plenty of treasures here. He shoved gleaming trinkets of gold into his pockets, dawdled in the library before scooping up several first editions. Then he headed upstairs.

Kehoe was, not surprisingly, still slumped against his toilet. He stared with unconcealed loathing, and not a little trepidation, as Spike entered the bathroom. Spike surveyed him, satisfied with his handiwork.

“How you feeling, mate?” Kehoe didn’t answer, and Spike inspected the chains. Always helps to have a set of those around, he reflected.

“So, how long you think you got left in here?” he asked Kehoe. “I mean, you got water, and the facilities. How long before hunger starts to make you a bit off?” Spike smiled. “Maybe you’ll start gnawing on yourself. About…here.” He touched Kehoe’s left wrist, where the man had strained against his bonds. “Like those animals do, to get out of the teeth of traps. How long d’you think it’ll take you to get through the bone? Will you make it in time?”

The older man was becoming visibly unhinged at the picture Spike painted. Fine, then. Time for the next move.

“I’ll let you go. Just have to do one little thing for me.”

Kehoe didn’t bother to disguise his suspicion. “Indeed. And what would that be?”

Spike leaned close. “Buffy mentioned you’d be able to help a bloke out.” He smiled. “I got a bit of hardware that needs to be removed.”

Part 12:
***************************************

Buffy climbed out of the steamy embrace of the tub. She’d scrubbed herself raw for twenty minutes, then soaked until the water turned lukewarm. Pulling on a hotel bathrobe, she wondered if she’d ever feel clean again. She breathed deeply and pushed open the sliding door to the bedroom.

“Here. Put these on.” Dawn tossed her sister a pile of folded clothes. Buffy caught them without thinking, then looked down.

“Are these yours?”

Dawn snorted. “Right. You went crazy, Buffy. You didn’t get taller. Know what? If I were Choosing a Slayer, I’d pick one who could reach the top of the refrigerator without standing on a chair.” Sprawled on the huge bed, she kicked her own long legs proudly. “How tall do you think I’ll be before I stop growing?” Her face darkened. “Do you know what Spike told me? He said that maybe I’ll never stop growing, that I’ll be like the fifty-foot woman or something. He said that the monks probably forgot to magic that in, ‘cause they were expecting me to be all temporary.” She scowled, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. “He’s just being stupid, isn’t he?”

“Guys like to say stuff like that,” Buffy answered, and heard her own matter-of-fact, soothing tone as if it came from afar. “He may be undead, but Spike’s still a guy.” Mmm-hmm! BadBrain agreed wholeheartedly. Buffy hugged the clothes to her chest and shook her head. Dawn eyed her, and Buffy made a show of inspecting the garments. “You didn’t let Spike pick these out, did you?”

“Nah. We stopped at a strip mall in Kingman. Arizona,” she added. “He went to the bookstore while I was at Ross.”

“Oh.” It was rapidly becoming Buffy’s response of choice. She went into the bathroom and quickly changed into the undergarments, blue jeans and peasant blouse. No new shoes, so she was stuck with the backless heels she’d been wearing…earlier.

“Can we go now?” Dawn called from the bedroom. Buffy wasn’t sure if she should be eating at a revolving restaurant just yet - she wondered if there was some sort of guideline about this sort of thing. Do not swim within one hour of eating. Remain on stationary surface for twenty-four hours after reclamation of body from evil morality-erasing spell. But Dawn hadn’t eaten yet, and Buffy knew from experience that a hungry Dawn was a screechy, irritable Dawn.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she found the younger Summers counting the bills Spike had left with Buffy. “Look what you found,” Buffy said drily.

Dawn grinned but didn’t look up. “If I have to eat any more fast food, I’m going to kill Ronald McDonald, Wendy, and Jack in the Box.” She bit her lip. “Should we wait for Spike? He’s been gone, like, three hours. How long does it take to make a phone call, anyway? And why couldn’t he call from here?”

Because he knew I’d hate hearing all this described to Giles. “He had to pay Clem’s cousins, too,” Buffy reminded her. “They probably went to get something to eat themselves.”

The meal was quiet and uneventful. Buffy ordered a hamburger, and then worried about her sudden craving for red meat. Did it have some sort of sinister meaning? Should she now be afraid of her inner carnivore? When the waiter brought her diet soda, she asked him for two aspirin.

Dawn seemed fine - too fine, and Buffy worried about that as well. She appeared to have no lingering issues over the fact that her sister had recently attempted to carve her like a Thanksgiving turkey. Buffy searched Dawn’s gaze for disgust, or fear, or hatred, but there was none. Had a month on the road with Spike completely reset Dawn’s moral compass? Well, if she starts knocking over liquor stores I guess I’ll know.

Which was a lie. Buffy knew already; knew that her sister was a good, kind person who - in this case, at least - found forgiveness effortless. Of course, the next time Buffy grounded her there’d be hair-flipping and door-slamming. The waiter returned and Buffy downed the aspirin.

“Look!” Dawn gestured excitedly. She had acquired a disposable camera at some point during her journey, and was now squinting as she maneuvered it. “I can see the Hollywood sign.”

Hollywood…Hollywood…Hyperion. “Dawn,” Buffy called, but it came out a croak.

“Hmm?” Dawn took one last photo, then skipped back to the table.

“Did I - Angel -" Buffy didn’t know how to ask it.

Dawn’s smile faded. “Yeah. Um, do you remember…?”

Angel’s expression of shock and horror; Cordelia running, clutching something to her breast; two strangers flanking her as if they could somehow prevent the bloodshed…

“Are they…” Buffy swallowed. “How bad was it?”

“They got away,” Dawn answered, and Buffy closed her eyes in silent relief. “You took a bite out of Angel, though.”

“Oh, God. What did I do?”

Dawn frowned. “You took. A bite. Out of Angel.”

“Literally?”

“That’s what Giles said. You told Angel it was payback.”

“But everyone else is fine?”

Dawn shifted uncomfortably. “They booked it out of town real fast, I guess. They’ve got, um…a lot of stuff going on there.”

“And everyone in Sunnydale?”

“Last I heard, they were in the hospital. Giles…I think he’s kept in touch, but he hasn’t said much.”

Buffy was troubled by that. Should she have spoken to Giles herself? Was there any chance that the waiter had Valium?

Get over yourself, Buffy, she thought. You’re going to face this - all of this - with your eyes open. Apparently, she’d been successful in blocking out parts of her rampage so far. Buffy knew that when they arrived in Sunnydale, it would all come back. Every swoop of the blade, each scream of a familiar voice.

Their food arrived. As the plate was slid in front of her, Buffy found she wasn’t hungry after all.

When they returned to the room, Spike was there. Buffy sensed him before she saw him, and then he stepped out of the bedroom. He’d been cramming clothes and God knew what else into a battered duffel bag. He’d showered; beads of water clung to his skin and his feet were bare. Dawn bounced up to him.

“Dawdle much? Can we still get Krispy Kreme before we leave? You promised…”

He scratched the back of his head. “Did you eat lunch?”

“Yes!”

“Good.” He thrust the duffel at her. “Pack your stuff, monkey. We’ll get Krispy Kreme on the way out.”

Dawn trotted off, and Spike and Buffy were left alone.

“You were gone a long time,” she said lamely.

“Had to hunt down Josh.”

“Josh?”

“Clem’s cousin.”

“Oh. Right.”

There were so many things she wanted to say to him and she didn’t even know where to start. Thanks for saving me? Thanks for protecting my kid sister? Sorry about the way I beat your face in the last time you did me a favor? She remained silent. Everything in this hotel room seemed strange and sterile, Spike included. He might be sharing space with her, but his body was tense and his face deliberately distant. He was so wary of her, this Spike who once thought nothing of invading her personal space and her home and her heart. Now he was miles away.

Was he afraid she’d go off again? Valid, but she couldn’t think of a good way to convince him - or anyone else - that she was really and truly herself again.

She suspected that wasn’t it, anyway. She'd kicked his ass plenty over the years, but Spike could take care of himself. And Dawn, as he’d proven. No, there was something else. He was battening down the emotional hatches, and for Spike that was a painful task indeed. He’d always been so open to her, his devotion laid bare for her to examine and explore and ultimately reject. No more. Why?

He was giving up on her. The conviction rose up in her like a panic, even as Spike’s face remained impassive. Her lips parted, and she was ready to plead with him, for him.

“All done.”

Buffy gasped.

The voice was Dawn’s; her sister stood in the doorway of the bedroom, foot tapping impatiently. “Let’s go! I’m ready!”

“Slayer?”

They were waiting. Buffy smiled weakly. “Home, sweet home.”

***************************************

Could she tell? She’d looked at him, just now, like…like she’d suddenly seen her bleakest future. Did she think he’d hurt her now? Would he?

She couldn’t be sure, anyway. No way to tell on the outside. Spike had expected to spend the afternoon in bleeding agony - really bleeding. But there’d been no scalpel and gauze and squishy sounds of a brain being probed that had turned even his stomach, that last time. Nope, just a room full of computers and the occasional person, engrossed in their electronic endeavors. He and Kehoe stood behind a young woman while she typed efficiently, bringing intricate circuitry up on the screen in front of her. The final clack of the keyboard, a whoosh in his head and then --

Release.

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