It was a year to the day, she remembered. The door closed shut behind her with a muffled, arhythmic clanging sound. Buffy winced.

Only Giles wasn’t around to remind. Giles was in England, in someplace called Bournemouth, according to the postcard, attending a Council Symposium. He hadn’t really wanted to go, but there was no getting around it because he was the guest speaker.

Buffy knew that he’d been secretly tickled by the concept of the Council regarding him as an asset. But he was, after all, the only living Council expert on the Gatherings…he’d muttered something about having his arm twisted, but the Slayer had a feeling that Giles would have gone anyway, just to see the look on Quentin Travers’ face. He’d left the shop in Anya’s capable hands, with inducements not to blow the shop profits on any dodgy share investments until his return. Anya had, with some grimacing, agreed.

She and Xander were both doing okay – they had a few minor scars, but they were well and truly healed by now. They’d both scored a couple of injuries in the madness that was the aftermath of the Balance – Anya would have ended up in Emergency at one stage except for Michael’s healing abilities. But now she and Xander were back making doe-eyes at each other, no problems. In a commemorative gesture, Xander had cut out all the newspaper headlines from the days after the Gathering, and stuck them up in the office. Stuff like "Freak Local Tornado Confounds Sunnydale Residents" was always good for a laugh.

At least Xander and Anya’s wounds had been only superficial – and only physical. Giles and Tara had both been so completely exhausted post-Balance that they’d taken months to recover.

As for everyone else…Willow had been a bit ‘zoned out’ for a while afterwards. Sometimes she would stop mid-sentence and kind of stare off into space, or you’d speak to her and she would blink and take a second to respond. But she normalised after about a week.

Examining herself in the dim sunrise on that Saturday morning, Buffy had realised that she was sporting quite a lot of minor flesh wounds, and some nasty bruises, and not much else. And Dawn… Dawn was fine – she just couldn’t remember a thing after about three p.m. on the Friday.

But as far as a touch of memory loss surrounding her involvement in the last apocolypse went, Dawn was way too busy growing up to let it bother her. She had too much other stuff to think about. This week, it was a school social – Buffy had been cornered (not entirely unhappily) into the role of fashion advisor and credit-card holder in a pre-social shopping spree of mammoth proportions. It had been fun, raiding the mall, but Buffy’s eyes were still watering from the bill. It certainly gave her a greater appreciation of how hard her Mom had worked to keep it together all those years, in the face of household expenses and two growing daughters (well, technically only one, yada yada – but still).

And that had been the main problem. After the dust had settled, and the heavenly hosts had dematerialized – she kinda missed Ray sometimes – and Angel had made his goodbyes, and life started getting back to normal generally…there had still been a big hollow place inside her that needed to be addressed.

The funeral had been intimate, and brief, and expensive all the same. Buffy and Dawn had finally had the chance to mourn, for real. It had hurt. It had hurt to remind herself about it, after the apocolypse was over and there was nothing else to occupy her mind. It had hurt to arrange all the formalities, and the family stuff, and other stuff. It still hurt. Times like these, when Dawn came to her for advice (about clothes and friends and, ye gods, boys), and Buffy felt like she was seeing a new change in her sister every day – these times were the worst.

But the stinging feeling wasn’t as painful or as long-lived as it used to be. And, as always, the sight of the figure at the research table cheered her up immediately.

He was working. Papers were liberally strewn over half the table, and his head was down, deep in concentration. She grinned softly at the view, and took a few quiet steps inside, trying not to disturb him – she was happy just to watch, for the moment.

He’d changed – well yeah, obviously – but he was still Spike. He wore the duster sometimes, but those occasions were getting fewer and further between. He still favoured the black leather pants, and ass-kicker boots – he had one steel-capped sole up on a chair at that moment – but his tight long-sleeved t-shirt was dark teal, not black.

It complemented him better, Buffy thought, considering that his hair wouldn’t grow back to its original colour. Something had happened to his internal chemistry that Friday when he’d been transformed. Now his hair was permanently white-blonde, not even able to take dye, as he’d discovered after some rather messy experimentation.

But he’d grown it out long, just for variety, and now kept it slicked back into a tight cue at his nape. Dawn was forever complaining that he stole her black hair ties. He’d been threatening to dreadlock it for the last few months, to which Buffy’s reply was that she would absolutely and categorically leave him if such a thing ever happened. But she was kidding – he could do whatever he liked with his hair, it would suit her just fine. Although she liked it long – particularly when strands at the front slipped out, and he tucked them behind his ear, as he’d done now.

He was sitting in a position she was now accustomed to: leaning over the table, taking notes with his left hand, and propping up his head with his right, a curl of smoke rising from the cigarette end between his fingers – some things never changed. He still smoked like a chimney – she’d gotten used to the taste of Morley’s on his lips. She’d also gotten used to the way he drove too fast, gunning the engine of the DeSoto (which he’d staunchly refused to sell) at the lights, dragging off the town motorheads with a wicked grin, something suitably manic (Iggy Pop’s ‘Lust for Life’ was a favourite) invariably blaring out of the stereo, while she sat with a mixture of terror and excitement in the passenger seat.

She grinned when she saw his face at an angle – he had his reading glasses on. Cute. Now that had been a surprise, but only one of many.

Not content to become yet another Magic Box helper – he’d rolled his eyes at the suggestion – he’d gotten a job at the UC of Sunnydale, fronting up to the administration there one day with a look of theatrical confusion, accepting their profuse apologies that his appointment details had gone astray, and handing over a very bona-fide-looking set of transfer papers from Oxford. The admin had been more than happy to have such a distinguished young linguist/historian on its staff ("Why don’t we show you around the lecture hall, Dr. Graveson?") and of course, faculty hearts had been a-flutter from day one. She remembered that he’d gotten quite a kick out of that.

And she’d gotten a kick out of how impressed Giles had been at the discovery of Spike’s previously unrevealed talents. He’d pulled her aside one day to tell her about it, looking slightly flabbergasted.

"You know he speaks nine languages? Nine. And five demon dialects. Good Lord, talk about the proverbial light under a bushel…"

She knew. She could tick them off on her fingers – French, Italian, German, Dutch, Mandarin Chinese (he’d confided that he’d made ‘a bit of an effort after 1900’), Spanish, Russian, Latin, and Greek. Benefits, he’d mentioned drily, of a classical education. The last two had gotten Giles terribly excited – he’d plied Spike with moth-eaten texts for weeks, trying to get his help with translations.

Buffy had been trying to persuade Spike about the dire need for her to learn Spanish, but so far they hadn’t gotten any further than his poetry recitations – but that could have been the circumstances, of course…

("Quiero comer el rayo quemado en tu hermosura,

"Who wrote that?"

"Pablo Neruda," he’d chuckled, trailing his fingers down her waist to her thigh.

"And what does it mean?"

She’d smiled sleepily, anticipating the response already. She’d closed her eyes as he recited the words, enjoying the vibrations in his chest as he spoke, and his low, husky tones.

"I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue."

She’d gazed up at him limpidly, sighing with the rich flavour of the words.

"It’s beautiful."

"And so are you," he’d said with a grin, coming in closer to kiss her…)

The linguist/historian job was useful. It wasn’t like he needed the money – he’d discovered, to his considerable surprise, that investments he’d made as an afterthought back in the early 50’s and 60’s had matured to the point where he was able to live comfortably on the copious returns. But the job kept him from moping around aimlessly, and it was a good cover, even if he did complain about the paucity of intelligence amongst freshman tutorial groups. A part-time lecturer’s position was useful if he ever needed an explanation for why he was often out and about after dark – lectures, or library trips – or why he made such regular forays into the cemetary – local research, ostensibly. And if Buffy accompanied him on his jaunts, then that was his personal business.

In fact, Spike had proved to be more than useful on patrol. He no longer had the speed and agility of a supernatural, but his muscles carried the memories of fighting styles and techniques that he found easy to adapt. It had frustrated him, at first. He kept trying to do things that were now beyond his capability (jumping off the cemetary wall, one painful example), and it had taken a bit of practise in the training room to work out where his limits now were. It had come as no great surprise, to Buffy anyway, to discover that he was still a fast and talented warrior - it was just that now, instead of being a graceful undead combatant, he’d had to resign himself to being, oh, probably just the best human streetfighter in the world.

And apart from the martial arts discipline he’d maintained, he had…other gifts. Gifts that he’d cultivated, with Giles and Willow’s help – gifts that Dawn hadn’t shown any propensity for as yet, much to her disgust. Giles couldn’t explain why exactly, but Spike had a suspicion that it had something to do with Michael’s ‘parting surprise’.

The first time, it had been purely by accident – Buffy had been getting thumped by a particularly brutal species of demon, and he’d been too far away to help, and the rage inside him had built to bursting point, blinding, ferocious, and he’d lifted his hands…

…and there’d been a blue flash, and a tingling smell of ozone, and one dead demon.

He’d just about knocked himself out in the process, that first night, but with a little work, he was now almost at the point of controlling it. It was still a little bit unpredictable – it seemed to depend quite a lot on how well he controlled his emotions, and being Spike, that wasn’t easy. But Giles had set him some exercises to start with, and after much groaning and self-application, he was working out the boundaries of his new-found abilities.

In fact, he’d surprised Buffy one night with a demonstration. She’d been lying curled up beside him under the sheets, feeling sated and warm with afterglow, and he’d turned his head to catch her attention.

"Hey - you wanna see a trick?"

"I think I’ve just seen your best one," she giggled langorously. Then he narrowed his eyes at his hand, which he’d raised in front of her face, and she’d watched his expression as it took on a now-familiar look of concentration…

His fingers had made a tiny, twirling motion, seeming to gather something out of the air, and she remembered she’d gasped a little to see the delicate blue tone, like a mist about his hand. With a small exhalation of effort, he’d moved his fingers again, and they’d both watched as a tiny flower resolved itself from the mist. She’d felt the awed smile spread across her face, the little thrill, as the daisy-like flower opened gently to reveal a spray of thin white petals, and a red centre.

"Spike…" she murmured, her voice hushed. But he’d stopped her voice completely when he’d handed the flower to her with a soft grin.

"S’a present. That’s your flower. First time in existence." He studied his creation a little critically. "It’s not lopsided, is it?"

She’d turned to him, shock and amazement vying for dominance on her face. Her flower. He’d made a whole new thing, a living thing, for her… She made a soft sound, and threw her arms around his neck, and his expression of surprise and delight at her reaction had been as good as seeing the flower unfold.

That was only part of it, of course. There were times when she thought that having Spike around was going to drive her crazy – between him and Dawn there seemed to be an endless supply of small-time disasters that threatened to make her pull her hair out by the roots.

Like the fact that, in spite of being comparatively self-sufficient for a large part of the last century, his concept of household tidiness seemed to have been left behind in the Middle Ages. Ashtrays in the house – everywhere, overflowing, spilling grey drifts into the corners of the sofa. His apparent inability to understand the function buttons on the washing machine, and no Spike, I will not wash your shirt for tomorrow, you can do it yourself – which he would do by hand, messily, in the sink. That grungy car, parked in the drive and stinking up the front yard everytime he turned it over because the exhaust was shot and need repair.

But he kept doing these…these little things that made her stop, and suddenly she’d find herself smiling, or laughing, or there’d be a strange warm pain…

Watching him jerk sometimes, when Dawn opened the kitchen curtains too suddenly in the morning. The flare as his eyes widened, then the almost imperceptible exhale as he remembered, relaxed…

Waking up some nights to a cold spot beside her on the bed, and hearing the rummaging noises downstairs – knowing that he would be in the kitchen in a munchie fit, raiding the fridge for things that he could now taste properly and appreciate. And sometimes he would come up with a spoonful of peanut-butter-and-chocolate ice-cream or something, and push it towards her – "Look, taste this, it’s wonderful." – and she would laugh and roll her eyes, but take the spoon anyway…

Seeing him dancing around the bathroom in a towel, freshly-shaved and gleaming all over, listening to some indie-punk tune on the radio and playing air-guitar accompaniment…

Lying next to him as he slept, watching his chest rise and fall. And rise and fall. And rise and fall – for hours, breathing so strongly and unconsciously, and really breathing. Feeling warm skin under her the pads of her fingers. Blushing. Sweat. Body odour - the works. The whole, messy, human-in-a-Primordial-Power-kind-of-way kit and caboodle.

It was so bizarre, and so amazing, and so real. They were living together, for pete’s sake. What would her mother have said?

Probably, Buffy thought with a grin, something relevant.

Buffy sighed a little.

I’m trying, Mom. She blinked back as her view of Spike watered. I really am.

"I can’t hear you, but I know you’re there."

Rounded vowels slipping on the air. He’d moved his right hand to ash his cigarette, but his other hand was still scribbling. Buffy smiled as she slid up behind him.

"Wow. And I was really trying to be sneaky. You’re either very alert, or…"

He finally ground out his smoke, lifted his head and swivelled in his chair at her words. His smile was her mirror.

"…or I’m super-human. Right on both counts."

Warm lips, soft, and gentle pressure. The comfortable arrogance made her grin as he wound an arm about her and pulled her into his lap. She nodded at the paperwork.

"More marking?"

"Exams are a bitch."

"For students and teachers both."

He grinned again at her empathetic pout, then looked at her more closely.

"You alright?"

She picked at the collar of his t-shirt. "I visited Mom today."

"She doing okay?"

"Yeah. I replaced her flowers – made it nicer."

"She’ll like that."

She loved that he still talked about Joyce in the present tense. Apart from Buffy, Spike was the only one who did. She figured he had a slightly different concept of dead than most people.

She smiled, then frowned, glancing around the shop.

"Where’s Anya?"

"Down in the basement with Harris." He rolled his eyes. "They’re ‘stocktaking’. Frankly, I’m loathe to imagine."

She slid his wire-rimmed glasses off, still finding it amusing that she could do so. His eyes were flashing behind the lenses, while she tried to look speculative.

"’Stocktaking’…mm. Is that like ‘gathering weapons’?"

"I think it falls into the same category."

"Sounds like fun."

"Hussy."

"You can talk."

"’Scuse me – forgetting, aren’t we, which of us was raised in the Victorian era?"

"Yeah – but I think your two hundred years of debauchery kinda cancels that out."

"Really. Well, at least when I’m in the throes of passion I don’t yell out –"

- and he whispered in her ear, grinning shamelessly, and she smiled and forgot that she’d been melancholy. The kiss helped as well. She tore herself away with a tiny sigh.

"We should go."

"Mm." He was feeling quite comfortable exactly where he was.

Buffy jumped up and started closing books. "Come on – you can finish this at home."

"I can?" His turn to look speculative.

"Funny. C’mon, professor."

"Niblet home tonight?" Too casual.

"No, I think she’s having dinner at Janice’s…" She stopped helping him pack up to meet his eyes with a pixie grin. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

But his lips were quirked up at the sides – Buffy smiled and nudged him as he hefted the bag over his shoulder and they headed for the door.

"Hey, you wanna hear something weird?"

"Thrill me."

"At the mall with Dawn last night, when we were in HMV – don’t ask – I was sure I saw Gabriel."

Spike looked openly disbelieving. "Rubbish."

"Scout’s honour."

Buffy held up a palm to demonstrate her honesty. Spike squinted at her.

"He see you?"

"Don’t know – it was just a glimpse. I mean, I might have been wrong. What do you think?"

He couldn’t quite bring himself to be convinced, even though he trusted Buffy’s instincts on the matter.

"I dunno. After a year…"

"It’s possible," she said, trying not to let her own puzzlement colour the words.

Spike thought about it. "Dawn talk about him much?"

Buffy shrugged. "She’s been known to mention his name – from time to time."

"Then…I s’pose it’s possible," Spike admitted.

"I guess."

Spike regarded the door as they walked up the stairs slowly, as if the images in his head were engraved in the wood.

"An Angel and a mystical Key…"

Buffy had the same slightly wistful look in her eye.

"Almost as bad as a Slayer and a vampire…"

They snagged gazes, and their grins and words were simultaneous.

He opened the door suddenly to counterpoint, and the light blazed in as the two of them strolled out.