The ride from L.A. had been uncomfortable for Wesley and enjoyable for Fred, mainly due to his underlying attraction to her and her obliviousness to it. She pointed out fast food restaurants and shopping malls with her natural enthusiasm, while he nodded and tried to make normal, everyday small talk. His inability to protect Fred from himself still haunted him, causing his brain to malfunction whenever she smiled at him in that certain way, or if her physical presence was too close. Having her in the car with him for two hours was the most pleasurable agony he'd ever experienced.

Wesley found quickly enough that Buffy wasn't home, so they continued on to the magic shop. When Fred saw it, she said it was cute and quaint, and he could certainly see the traits. But in truth, he was more interested in what was inside.

The female ex-demon he remembered from years ago looked up as he and Fred entered, and her face brightened in recognition. He knew she ran the shop in Giles' absence, but it was hard to fathom how she could have gone from nearly destroying the world by way of a wish, to being so trusted by the Slayer's friends.

She walked over and guided them to a round table set away from the register. "You're here! And you're early!" She sounded just the slightest bit miffed at the notion, despite the smile.

"Oh, where we not supposed to be early?" Fred asked.

"Well, I guess it's okay, but there's no one here but me. Xander's at work and Willow's in class. And who knows where Buffy is?" Anya shrugged, then started back towards the counter.

"Anya, could I see the Mohra demon blood? I think Willow said that it was here. I realize that the others aren't here, but that doesn't mean I can't do research on it. And Fred, too." He smiled at her, and Fred grinned back.

The ex-demon shrugged and went into the backroom. She emerged a couple minutes later, bringing a small glass vial with a faintly-glowing green substance. He and Fred both stared at it in amazement, surprised that something so powerful could be so simple and elementary.

Wesley turned to Fred, an eager look on his face. "Let's get the books and equipment from the car. I have the feeling we've got a bit of work to do."


 

Spike stood on the porch, holding a plastic bag containing a box of Clairol #1452 in light medium brown and another box that seemed to invoke the illusion of Greek warriors as condoms. Or something to that effect. He didn't claim to understand it, since for all of his worldly knowledge, this was one area he'd managed to avoid.

He watched as Buffy waved before pulling out of the driveway once again, this time without him. He wasn't too sure why she had to confront the remainders of Ash's gang at the docks--was it payback, or information gathering as she'd said? Either way, she was gone, leaving him with a bagful of products that Spike as a vampire would have never needed.

Grimacing, he went into the house and made his way to the bathroom, deciding that if it was going to be done, he would do it alone. No one had to hold his hand through something as simple as hair coloring, and besides, it would be fun to catch people off-guard again. He might even fool the rest of the gang for a while, wondering if they depended on recognizing him due to the bleached hair and leather duster.

He made sure the condoms were out of the prying eyes of teenage girls, then went to work on deconstructing the old Spike, in favor of the new, human one.



Buffy found Pier 9 soon enough, despite the disorientation from seeing it in daylight. The industrial area of Sunnydale was right next to the once-prolific docks, which enjoyed a sheltered presence from the direct impact of the Pacific Ocean. Wood planks greyed in age and roughened by the blasts of sea air creaked underneath her feet, letting her know that its continued existence was more due to luck than strength.

The abandoned warehouse was leaning ever so slightly, signs that the winds had taken their toll. She tugged on the door and found it was locked, but a sharp pull broke the rusted metal and let the sunlight pour into the depths.

Three vampires were in the far corner, asleep and dead to the world. Without thinking, she dashed over and staked two of them before they could wake up. The third started to rise, snapping awake as fast as he could, but Buffy was there and had him pinned to the wall before he could blink. A couple slits in the wood near his neck allowed thin rays of light to filter in, causing the vamp to hiss in pain as his skin smoldered.

"I don't have the patience for niceties, so I'm only going to ask you this once. Where did Ash get the Mohra blood?"

"Mohra blood?"

She sighed, exasperated. "The glowy green stuff. I have some of it if I need to jog your memory..."

"No, please! Don't use it on me!" The vamp's eyes widened in horror. "I'll talk!"

"Fine, then talk. Who gave it to him?"

"It was a Quathra demon, I think his name was Frar-something. Fraraka, Frarasa...y'know, like that. Ash met with him, I don't know what he looks like."

"Not necessary." She eyed the scared vampire, trying to visualize him as a human. How long had it been since he was alive? Did his family miss him, or were they long dead? "How do I contact this Quathra demon? Chants and rituals?"

"No, he's got voice mail. It was an L.A. area code, that's all I know, I swear."

"Thanks. You've been a real help." She let him go and pulled away. The vamp only had the chance to sigh in relief before she plunged her stake into his chest, and watched him turn into dust.

"Wish I could have helped you, too," she added in remorse. The clothes he had worn were only a few years out of date. He might have been turned before she arrived in Sunnydale, or sometime after. If it was the latter, then she had failed to save him.

Without knowing if the blood would still work, she couldn't have taken the chance of leaving him to turn or kill someone else. For not the first time, she loathed her job as the Slayer. She prayed that her hunt for this Quathra demon would prove to be worth it, if for no other reason than for wanting the endless nights of dusting vampires to finally come to a close.



The sight of himself in the mirror was still a jarring thing to behold, but the man looking back at him was nearly a stranger. The hair color turned out well, if a bit darker than his natural color--he wouldn't have his roots showing this time. The tape holding the gauze over his bite mark was barely sticking, and he was tempted to peel it off and show it for all to see. It was proof of what he was, what he'd used to be...and what he could be again.

He pushed the thought away angrily. Being maudlin was something he abhorred, and ever since he'd become human, it seemed like every emotion he produced was overwrought. Why did he feel so sad? Why did he have this...tightening in his chest, at the thought of his past as a vampire? Looking at his own reflection only caused the pain to grow worse, and sometimes he trembled uncontrollably. The new hair color didn't hide the fact of what he'd done, even if it fooled the mirror.

His fist raised in the air, ready to smash the glass and shatter the reflection. However, something within him stopped it from happening, and after a second, reality and common sense settled back in. It was a sensation of restraint he hadn't felt in decades...not since he was human.

Spike sank to his knees on the cold tile floor, the truth grabbing hold and unwilling to let go. He understood now why Buffy had been scared at the prospect of being with a vampire--he'd never had that moment, that knowledge of what shouldn't be done, to keep him from hurting himself or others. Being a vampire was guilt-free, for the most part. He'd only paused in hurting someone due to extenuating circumstances, not because it was wrong.

That was why Buffy could love him, now. He felt as if the clouds had parted, revealing a hidden light. Buffy wasn't giving him a chance in spite of being human...she was doing so because of it. Even if it meant that he wasn't the monster he used to be, that the level of passion they'd achieved couldn't be duplicated.

He laughed in relief. Some of the weight lifted from his shoulder, as he realized Buffy wasn't expecting him to be the vampire. Recalling how receptive she'd been the night before, and just this morning, made him curse himself a fool. There was hope in these new circumstances, something he hadn't believed could ever exist for him, just a few months before.

The idea of turning back wavered in front of him, still taunting and tempting him, pointing out his weakened strength and shortened life. With a resolute set to his jaw, he stood up and walked over to the window in Buffy's room, to stand in the sunlight streaming into the room. What had once scorched dead flesh now made it sing with life, its harmful rays now reduced to the mild threat of sunburn. He wasn't in the shadows anymore; he was in the light, the same as Buffy. Spike had assumed that Buffy would join him on his level, but in the end, the reverse had come true.

Lingering for a few minutes in the sunshine, he decided that staying indoors wasn't an option for today. He was going to walk outside, see the world in something other than shadow. And he certainly wasn't going to hang out in an empty house with nothing better to do. Maybe Anya wouldn't mind if he came by, especially if he promised to buy something.

With a sense of freedom that he hadn't felt in days, he left a note for Buffy, locked up behind him and headed off at a slow pace to the store. Being alive definitely had its moments, he had to admit, and this was one of them.


 

She didn't notice the dark-haired man who walked into her store, at first. Wesley was arguing over some trivial detail, and Anya knew he was wrong, but telling him that didn't make him capitulate. It was infuriating, the way he clung to his books, just like Giles...

When she looked at the newcomer, she smiled in the customer-friendly way that was almost second nature to her now, and opened her mouth to tell him she would right with him. Then she really looked at him, and she couldn't stop staring.

It was Spike, but human. Well, obviously human, but his hair was normal and he was wearing normal clothes. She liked it and disliked it at the same time, and she frowned as her mind couldn't decide which impulse was stronger. Finally, she went with stating the obvious.

"Spike, you're normal-looking!"

He smiled slyly, and Anya recognized him more by the gesture than his current looks. "Thought I could throw you off. Who's this? Giles the second?"

Wesley huffed indignantly, "My name is Wesley Wyndham-Price, if you don't mind. You must be William the Bloody. Hopefully, you're the sort that improves upon acquaintance."

Spike shrugged. "Depends on the other person, usually. For a proper gent like you, I'm surprised you haven't introduced the young lady sitting at the table with you."

At this, the lady in question smiled brightly. "I'm Fred. I came with Wesley to help out. Oh, I hope it's okay that I said it instead."

He took her proffered hand, smiling back at her. "Perfectly. So, you're all cracking the books, trying to figure out...what, exactly?"

Anya chimed in, "Well, Wesley's been hoping to find out if the Mohra blood is still potent enough to change vampires, but since it's daylight, we don't have any vampires to test it on. Plus, Willow's hell-bent on proving that the Mohra demon blood's power could be harnessed into a spell, but we all know that's a bad idea."

"Why is that a bad idea?" Wesley asked. "I think it sounds like a great plan."

"Bad in the sense that Willow can't hack channeling the dark forces anymore--she's power-loopy," Anya corrected.

"Still, it would be a tremendous boon to humanity. We shouldn't dismiss it as a possibility."

Anya shook her head, but said nothing. To her surprise, Spike responded in her stead. "Magic isn't to be taken lightly. And messing with something so big...well, all I know is, if the guys upstairs wanted vampires gone quickly, why bother with a Slayer? Why hasn't anyone else thought of it and tried it out?"

"Because it involves dark magic," Wesley intoned solemnly, now seeing the problem. "And those who use dark magic wouldn't want to get rid of them. Vampire dust is also a part of many dark rituals and spells. Wait, is that what you meant when you said Willow was channeling dark forces..?"

"Well, duh. What else did you think I meant? The dark side of the Force, as in unflattering cowls and scary facial tattoos?"

"No, but...Willow?" He seemed utterly at a loss to comprehend it.

"Spike will fill you in," Anya replied, patting the former vampire's shoulder before heading back to the counter.


 

Buffy found the note Spike left her, so she headed over to the Magic Box, more than a little curious at his sudden need for hanging out with Anya. When she opened the door and scanned the place, she wondered if maybe she'd read the note wrong--he was nowhere to be found. There was Anya, and hey, Wesley and some girl she'd never met, plus some other guy sitting at the table...

Her mind froze, as he looked up to meet her gaze. He smiled when he recognized her, though she admitted that it was probably due to her look of shocked amazement as much as anything.

"Spike? Your hair...it's..."

"Brown," he filled in, clearly enjoying the moment. "It isn't quite the shade shown on the box, but I think it's passable. How about you?"

She could tell he was nervous to hear her opinion, but was trying to hide it under an air of nonchalance. "I think it looks great. And I barely recognized you, so it accomplished the main goal, I'd say."

Wesley blinked at the comment. "Does Spike need to be unrecognizable for some reason?"

"Yeah, the vamps in town think Spike was dusted, so if he's spotted walking around as a human...well, it wouldn't be a good thing. Hence the lack of bleached hair and no leather coat."

Spike shifted uncomfortably, as if missing the feel of the coat on his shoulders. Not wanting to go into his inferiority issues in front of Wesley and the unknown girl, she settled on placing a hand on Spike's shoulder as a gesture of assurance and affection. To her relief, he became relaxed and calm under her touch.

"So, what's the what on the Mohra demon blood? Did you bring someone to help you?" She asked pointedly. Wesley took the hint and introduced her as Fred, his associate, then continued to explain what he'd found. All told, it didn't amount to much.

When he mentioned needing a test subject, Buffy grimaced in memory of the vamps she'd staked at the docks. If it didn't work, then they would know for sure that it had a short viability...but it would also mean tracking down the Quathra demon. Or going straight to the source by finding a Mohra demon on her own.

What if the blood couldn't keep its power for long outside the demon's body? What if they couldn't find a way to store it indefinitely? Would they keep a Mohra chained up somewhere, tapping it like a maple tree whenever they needed to gather more? The thought sent icky chills down Buffy's spine. Maybe Willow's solution was the only long-term solution, after all.

She mentioned it to the group, and watched as each of them had their own reaction. Anya was obviously against the idea, Spike was casually indifferent, Wesley was hesitantly in support of it, while Fred thought it was the most logical course of action. It was Spike's reaction that she wanted most of all, however. With some persuasion, he finally owned up to what he felt.

"I don't know what to think," he admitted. "I can see Anya's point, but after walking around in the sunshine, and being treated like something other than a freak...I can't say that vampires have it great. The demons think you're pond scum, and the humans either hate you or run in fear. Not that the last was so bad, but if you're in the mood to hang out with something other than your own kind, you're out of luck. And...I know that I didn't want to be turned into some dark creature of the night, back when I was first human. I didn't understand what Drusilla was doing, and when I saw her face--it terrified and mesmerized me. Kind of like a deer caught in headlights, you might say.

"As a vampire, I tried to live up to the ideal--killing, fighting, the whole lot. Angelus had his silly artistry, but I was going to be Spike, the toughest of the bad. No more William the ponce for me," he smiled wryly, saddened but amused at the irony. "The thing I tried to hide was that I was still that poncy bugger inside. It was all just a facade, something I created to make myself over into what I believed I needed to be."

Buffy sat down next to him, moved by his openness. "The accent, the hair, the leather--it's not who you really are."

"No. Especially not now," he emphasized, but there was no bitterness in his voice. "Doesn't mean it's not a part of me, it's just not a big one. As for the spell, do I think we should do it? Yeah, as long as Willow's not casting the spell. We can't base the decision on what the Powers do or don't want. It's not like I'd listen to 'em anyway, granted, but it's us that have to live in the world, not them. If turning all vampires back into humans will save hundreds of lives, it's something we need to do."

He paused, looking as if he couldn't quite believe the words he'd said. Buffy had to admit she felt the same way. Curiosity got the better of her, and she asked, "Where did all that come from?"

The smile was fleeting, but the echo of it stayed in his tone. "Today, actually. Epiphanies are interesting things. They kinda hit you out of nowhere."

"That's what they do," Buffy deadpanned back. Her heart was so full, it almost felt like it would burst. "So, you're okay with being human?"

"Yeah, I am. I won't be sending out announcement cards, but I'm adjusting. One thing I need to do, though, is talk to Angel."

"What? Why?"

"Last time we...talked, we didn't part on good terms. And I want to find out if he knew about the Mohra demon blood, back during that attack you told me about. There might be more demons in the area, too."

"We have someone looking into that," Wesley answered, rejoining the conversation. "However, I don't think visiting Angel is a good idea."

"That book you brought with you, it's Angel's, right? If he knew about the blood's effects, then he obviously never used that information for his own gain. If we're going to cast a spell to turn all vampires human, I'd like to know why."

Wesley was more withdrawn than usual, something that triggered an uneasy feeling in Buffy. Finally, the man took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose--the gesture was so familiar, it made her instantly think of Giles.

"I can't...I shouldn't say anything."

The chill of those words, so non-committal and yet committing everything, were like icy fingers around her heart. The cold shot down her spine and into her legs, making her numb. "He knew. He knew and he didn't tell me."

He sighed, unwilling to continue, but having chosen his course, he pressed forward. "He didn't want to tell you...because he can't be human. Not until the Powers That Be deem it as the right time. There's something else, but I won't divulge it. You'll have to ask him."

"Why?" She asked bitterly, more than a little pissed off. "You spilled this much, why not the rest?"

"Because my knowledge of it is third-hand--and because he ought to tell you himself, in person."

"Fine. Then I'll go with Spike and talk to him." She noticed Spike's sudden balk, which he quickly covered. "I can come with you, can't I?"

"Well, sure, love. I just figured on getting my head handed on a platter without the audience, is all."

She rolled her eyes--boys and their egos. "Angel's not going to do anything of the sort while I've got something to say about it. If we leave now, we can get there by this afternoon. Are you ready, Spike?"

"As I'll ever be," he replied softly, earnestly. "Let's go find out what secret he's been hiding."




 

Willow stared at Wesley, hoping that somehow she had misheard him. "What you mean, they left? We're supposed to have a Scooby meeting, like, right now!"

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid it was something I said. Or rather, what I didn't say." She continued to look at him blankly, until he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. The girl by his side, Fred, glanced at Anya with a knowing look, while Xander remained as in the dark as Willow was. Wesley took the confusion as an opportunity to change the subject. "Anyway, as I understand it, you have an idea about turning the abilities of the Mohra demon blood into a spell...?"

"Oh, yes!" The prospect of making her theory into something useful overrode her curiosity. "It's totally cool, if it works. Using new blood, I think I could use it as the main component of a transmogrifying spell. It's kind of like the spell Dawn tried to use to bring Joyce back, with the Ghora demon egg, or the one I used to bring back Buffy."

Seeing how Wesley's eyes shot wide in alarm, she quickly hedged, "But that's not the real issue, because well, the spells aren't the same. In each of them, though, there's an element that represents life. For a vampire, a regular resurrection spell won't work because they're already walking around. With the Mohra blood, the blood of eternity, it won't be the spell itself that'll cause the change. It's just a way to capture that power and spread it out. Or in other words, the blood is like data, and the spell is like the CPU."

Her smile faltered as she realized that no one got her analogy but Fred. The brunette girl's eyes lit up and she replied, "I get it now! But how's the spell going to know what its target is? I mean, will it seek out only vampires? And won't the power from the Mohra blood be weakened over a really large area?"

"That's a good question," Willow answered back, her plan for creating a world-wide spell faltering. "I am, or I was, a really powerful witch, but you're right--it would weaken over distance. A normal witch could do a large crowd of vampires, I guess..."

"More like a small crowd, Willow," Tara replied, having just entered through the front door of the Magic Box. They weren't on the greatest of terms, but Willow had asked Dawn to ask her to come to the meeting. Just seeing Tara again made her heart leap, though she tried to keep a cool head. Mustn't be too eager, or else she might leave.

"W-what do you think of my idea, though?" Willow asked her quietly, nervous at her reaction. "Is it a good one?

Tara nodded slightly, and she let out a small sigh of relief. "But you can't cast this spell yourself. You know that."

"I know. That's why I wanted you here. I can try to help in creating the spell, but I'm still on magic probation-for-life. Maybe Wesley can help, too."

"I have cast a spell or two in my day," he replied, and he seemed to sit up a little straighter when Fred looked at him in amazement.

"As thrilling as the spell talk is," Xander interjected, "I'm more interested in getting results. And knowing why Buffy and Spike went to talk to Angel. C'mon, Wesley, you can tell us, right?"

At Willow's expectant look, the former Watcher's shoulders wilted.

"Oh dear."


 

There were undoubtedly a lot of justifiable occasions to be nervous. Your wedding, for example, or the moments aboard an airplane during a particularly nasty bout of turbulence. Spike was sure that visiting your former grandsire, who you'd last had tortured in an effort to retrieve a ring of importance, while having his ex-beloved draped on your arm was a solid contender for the top of the list.

He hated to admit that having Buffy with him eased his worries, but it was the truth. Not that he wanted her to be his bodyguard, but her presence might quell some of Angel's more...hasty actions.

The hotel looked like its era had come and gone, only to be on the cusp of being back in style once more. It spoke of starlets-in-waiting, days when smoking was not just acceptable, but almost required. He remembered those times, but not with the same fondness he might have had a few days earlier.

They walked in while the sun was beginning to set--Angel would be up by now, but unaware of their arrival. Buffy wanted it that way; she felt that calling ahead was a courtesy he didn't deserve. Probably so, he mused silently, but it never hurt to make sure the person you came to see was actually in. Wisely, he kept that observation to himself.

He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the shady interior of the hotel lobby. The poofter was nowhere in sight, but he did recognize the brunette who walked up to them, ready and eager to help. She started to give the company spiel, then croaked out Buffy's name in recognition once her brain caught up to what her eyes told her. Then she glanced at him in confusion.

"Do I know you?"

"Cordelia. As charming as ever," he smiled in the old way. "Love the haircut, by the way."

"Spike!" She caught on quick--good for her. Around Angel, she would need it. "Wow, you look way different. Not half as dangerous, but it just might be the clothes. I like the jacket, though. I guess you want to talk to Angel, huh?"

"If he's around," Spike shrugged, ignoring how Buffy was tense as a spring. "Sorry about dropping in without calling, but this isn't the sort of conversation you have over the phone."

Cordelia's demeanor softened, almost in relief. "You know, don't you?"

The woman's quietness only made Buffy's attitude harden further, if it was possible. "Not all of the details, which is why we're here. Where is he?"

"Right here," Angel called from the stairs, the sleepiness wearing off as he took in who his guests were. At Spike's appearance, he first stared in disbelief, then nodded as if it were expected. "Spike."

"Angel," Spike replied in the same non-committal tone. It wasn't reconciliation or hatred, but at least it was a place to start.

"What's the deal with you and the Mohra demon?" Buffy asked without pretense, her arms crossed in defiance. Spike glanced at her, though not in surprise. Her directness was one of the things he loved about her, and it was good to see it again after the post-death melancholy.

"Nothing to tell," Angel insisted, heading for the mini-fridge behind the counter. "Would you like to see Connor? He's upstairs taking a nap, but he should be awake pretty soon."

"Angel...no. Don't avoid the question." Buffy was trying to be demanding, but he knew her--the sense of betrayal was eating her up inside. "You knew about the Mohra demon blood, that it could turn you human, and you didn't tell me."

"Buffy, I--"

"You didn't tell me!" Her voice cracked, and both of them felt the pain under restraint. "Why? I don't understand any of this. Isn't it what you wanted?"

"It wasn't...I didn't want to hurt you. The circumstances were all wrong..."

"What circumstances? Being in your office? Wrong time of the month? What?"

He blew out a sigh, then put his hands on the counter. Cordelia watched him in sympathy, and Spike got the feeling she knew exactly was the problem was. "I didn't want to tell you, for this reason. You can't understand what it was like." Angel looked at Spike with an odd sort of appreciation, and the former vampire quickly understood what his grandsire meant.

"You were human for a little while, weren't you?" Spike said quietly, but the words echoed in the large chamber. "And you didn't tell Buffy."

"No, she knew. But that day never happened. I'm the only one who remembers, now. It was for the best. It had to be done."

Inside her heart, Buffy felt the last burning ember for Angel flicker and fade into ash. He'd made the decision without her consent, without her knowing...twice. He got someone to turn back time--without asking her, she was sure--then let her stay oblivious to it all. Maybe it had been done with mercy in mind, but she didn't care anymore.

"You arrogant son of a bitch," she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. "When did you think it would be the right time? The battle never ends, Angel. I know better than most people that you have to grab for what you can in this lifetime, because it may not come your way twice."

Angel had the good sense to look guilty. "I know that now. I didn't, then."

"And that makes it okay?" Buffy's eyes glistened with tears, but they didn't fall. Spike wanted to reach out to her in comfort, but decided this moment needed to be hers, and hers alone.

"No, it doesn't. I couldn't tell you, and then I buried it down deep, so I wouldn't think about it every minute. That day...was the most exhilarating and terrifying day in my existence. But I couldn't be the champion for the Powers That Be as a human being. The prophesies were for a vampire with a soul, not a human being who'd once been a vampire."

A modicum of understanding flickered across Buffy's face. She knew the pain of prophesies all too well. "Have any of those mystical portents done you any good?"

"It gave me Connor," he said matter-of-factly.

So, that was it, then. Somehow, Buffy thought it would be more painful. Instead, there was a sense of relief and a lightness that she'd hadn't felt in years. "That's good for you. I'm glad."

Angel seemed to sense the break, too. A whisper of pain crossed his face, then it smoothed out into bland concern. "Thanks. Would you like to sit down?"

"No, I'm good. But I could...well, see the baby?"

Angel smiled with fatherly pride. "Sure. Cordy, could you take her upstairs?"

"Uh, sure thing," Cordy replied, caught off-guard at being addressed. As she followed Buffy upstairs, Spike caught how she looked at Angel and gave him a consoling pat on the arm. More of importance, he noted how Angel responded back, when he didn't think anyone was watching. It was probably the first time he'd ever felt pity for the big lug.

"You didn't come just to gloat, did you Spike?" Angel said as soon as the two women were out of earshot. "Why don't we head over to the office and have a talk?"

Spike opened his mouth to refute the statement, then closed it as he realized how transparent he must be, even to someone of Angel's thick-headed stature. "Lead the way, mate."


 

The infant boy that was Angel's son stared back at the Slayer in blank fascination. He burbled something which Buffy took to be consternation, then he realized his toes were incredibly compelling and something to be tasted.

"How can he exist?" She asked in wonder. It was unbelievable to think of Angel as his father, but Darla as a mother? It was impossible.

"It's a prophecy thing. We've gotten used to it."

"We? Oh, that's right. The visions." Buffy remembered what Angel had during their excruciating visit together, only a few weeks after she came back. She could tell how worried he was about Cordelia's health.

"Yeah, but it's better now," Cordy replied breezily. "I haven't gotten a headache since they put a little bit of demon in me."

Buffy stared at the other woman, unaware of how much her own gaze resembled Conner's earlier one. "They did what?"

"Oh, I don't have a tail or anything, if that's what's freaking you out. I can float, but that only happened once. Haven't figured out how to do it again. Anyway, it's what I had to do to keep the visions and also keep myself from dying. It wasn't a hard decision."

Slowly, the fact that the woman Buffy was looking at wasn't the Cordelia of old seeped into her consciousness. "It doesn't bother you, being part demon?"

"I don't think about it much, honestly. I'm still me, you know? Cordelia Chase, the former wanna-be actress turned seer. Plus, there's so much more to worry about--the mission, all those people who have real problems. It's too important to let myself wallow in self-pity and misery."

Buffy felt a fair amount of shame. If Cordy of all people could put her goals and duties first, even in the midst of such a personal upheaval, then she had no excuses for not having her own house in order. She wanted to brush it off as being a difference in circumstances, but there was only so far she could take her self-delusion. It was time to start acting like Buffy the Slayer, and not Buffy the Slacker.

And she knew exactly where to start.


 

There was something very odd, Spike thought, and it wasn't just the fact that Angel was calmly sitting at a desk, not threatening him or scowling darkly in his direction. Even more odd, Spike wanted him to be upset, to rail at him for daring to poke his head in Los Angeles once again. This calmness unnerved him, to the point where he wondered if this was Angel's secret agenda--to drive him mad with total serenity.

Spike broke the silence, unable to take it any longer. "Look, I came here to say something to you, and I might as well do it and get it over with. I wanted...to apologize, for, for everything. Especially the torture."

He swallowed, noting Angel's passivity, then went on, "I know I don't deserve forgiveness for what I've done in the past, and I can't ask it of you now. But I feel like if I don't, something in me is going to shrivel up and die. It hurts so much that sometimes I can't breathe. It's confusing and scary, and I used to wish for it all to go back to the way it was, but now I can't live without it."

"Your soul is convicting you," Angel explained. "You're trying to deal with more than a century of murder and mayhem. And you're right, you shouldn't come here expecting to be forgiven, but I've been where you are right now. In a way, I still am. It's not easy to ask for forgiveness, and you won't earn it from everybody. It took me a long time to learn this, so I'm passing this on to you in the hope that you take it to heart. You won't ever earn atonement for the lives you've taken. The only thing you can do is to continue on the path you're on, fighting the good fight. It's what I tried to tell Darla, before...before it was too late."

"Dru told me about that. I gather she didn't take having a soul very well."

"No, not in the least," Angel replied distractedly, his mind going back to that time. Spike thought he saw regret cross his former grandsire's face, but it was gone in an instant. "She did make the choice to live, even though it meant dying again in a couple months because of a terminal disease. I like to think it counted for something."

Spike was unable to give Angel any comforting platitudes, since for all he knew, it hadn't meant a thing in the end. "I don't understand how you could have given up the chance to be with Buffy, with all the niceties of being human going for you, for your prophecies and existential angst. I was tempted to go back in the beginning, but once I realized how she felt...there's no way I would give it up, now."

Angel was more silent than usual, and finally Spike realized that the other fellow's jaw was clenched rather tightly--almost painfully so. "What did you just say?" he asked, a hint of danger and imminent peril in his voice.

"They didn't tell you," Spike said flatly, now comprehending his error.

"Tell me what?"

"Um, maybe I should wait until Buffy--"

"Are you in love with her?" Angel managed to make it sound as perverse as possible, which didn't surprise him a whit. "And don't delude yourself that she feels anything for you, even if you are human."

Now immensely pissed off, Spike stood from the chair as if he meant to take him on. Angel was already standing, furious. The sound of a female throat being cleared stalled whatever Spike had planned to say next, and he turned to find the woman he loved looking at the both of them in annoyance.

"I can't leave the two of you alone for even a few minutes, can I? What's next? Peeing on the walls and scratching up the furniture?"

Spike glanced at Angel, since he'd started it, after all. Angel gave his usual, 'who, me?' look at Buffy, and to Spike's everlasting satisfaction, Buffy rolled her eyes at someone other than him.

Angel shifted gears quickly, though. "Buffy, you have to set him straight. He thinks you feel something for him."

"That's because I do," she replied, and sidled up next to Spike, wrapping an arm around his waist. In response, he pulled her closer--partly for her presence, and partly to rub it in Angel's face that he couldn't have been more wrong.

As for Angel, he stared in disbelief, his brow furrowed in a way that would provide shelter for small woodland animals. "How--when did this happen?"

The couple looked at each other, not sure themselves when it all began. "Maybe we need to start at the very, very beginning," Buffy said tentatively, her eyes asking for his approval.

The gesture floored Spike, who had only dreamed of a time when Buffy would reciprocate his feelings. To have her treating him like a partner--not in battle, but in life--stunned him into silence. Eventually, his mind returned and he stuttered out an affirmative answer. He let her tell the tale with an occasional clarification by him, but for the most part he watched her in undisguised adoration. He couldn't have hidden it even if he'd wanted to, and this time, he didn't think about how it might affect Angel.

It wasn't until she finished that he thought to check out Angel's reaction. He appeared to be somewhat numb, although his hands were clenched into fists and there was a dazed look in his eyes. His mouth opened as if to say something, then closed without a sound. He fiddled with a letter opener for a few seconds, then finally asked, "So, you're happy? With him, I mean?"

"Yes, I am," Buffy answered, twining her fingers with his. Her glare was practically daring Angel to make something of it, and Spike wanted to crow in delight. Then, it hit him that without his newly-gained humanity, it might have been him sitting by, while Buffy found happiness and joy with a bloke that wasn't him. It was enough of a dire thought to wipe the grin off his face.

"Then, that's all that matters. It's all I ever wanted for you," Angel said, a tad wistful. "I would never have guessed that it would be with Spike, but I can see he loves you. And I've seen how people can change, especially when put into dire situations. Sometimes, it can really surprise you."

Angel's line of sight went past them and over into the inner office. When Spike heard shuffling from that direction, it only confirmed his suspicions from before. He grinned, and the look on Angel's face when he finally saw it was priceless--like a boy who'd been caught in his sister's bedroom, rifling through her things.

"I only wish you could have the same happiness I do," Buffy said, obviously missing the fact that Angel was in the process of doing just that. Spike made mental plans to remedy that situation, but only once they were far, far away from the hotel.

Awkwardness descended soon thereafter, and while Angel played the perfect host and insisted they stay for a little longer, both Spike and Buffy agreed they ought to go. Angel grabbed Spike by the arm as Buffy left the office, and Spike tensed for the blow that didn't come.

"Spike, I know this is going to sound strange--heck, I can't believe I'm saying this, either--but if you ever need to talk to someone who understands, I'm here. Petty differences aside, I don't want to see you end up like Darla did."

A sudden thought sent a chill down Spike's spine. "D'you think Dru would come after me, if she knew? Wait, silly question--of course she would."

"How many people know you're human?"

"Just the gang. The vampires in Sunnydale think I'm dust."

"Keep it that way. Changing your look helps a lot, but it won't mean a thing if the wrong person hears you called 'Spike'."

"I know." Spike glanced back to Buffy, who waited for him in the lobby with severely restrained impatience. "But I don't want to be William, again."

"How about James? It's a nice name."

"Gah--what're you, daft? That's just as pansy. Hey, what about David? Killed Goliath and all that."

"Nah, it's not you," Angel replied, squinting as if envisioning the name on the former vampire. Then struck with an inspiration, he reached over to the bookcase and grabbed a good-sized paperback. "Take this--it's the baby book I used for naming Connor. I'm sure you'll get some use out of it."

There seemed to be a double meaning to that phrase, but Spike left it untouched. It was way too early to even think about going down that particular road. "Thanks. And next time we'll call before coming down, just in case you're...otherwise preoccupied."

Spike turned on his heel before he saw Angel's reaction, and suppressed the urge to whistle a jaunty tune until they were safely well out of earshot.



 

The bar wasn't the nicest or cleanest one in Los Angeles, by far. Clientele that would never have darkened--or lightened, in some cases--the doorstep of Caritas were crouched around rickety tables, grunts and garbled words exchanged as fast as the money under them. It was here that Lorne had traced the Quathra demon, a fellow by the name of Fraresaka, who was now squinting at his drink glass intently. Lorne knew from experience that he was looking for fingerprints on the glass, an action that spoke of the demon's personality almost as strongly as a stanza of "What's new, pussycat?" might do.

It appeared tall, dark and scaly was waiting for a customer, so Lorne stayed put at his table, a Recklek's throw away from where the Quathra sat. Sometime after he'd gotten near the bottom of his passable excuse for a Seabreeze, the appointment came up to the table--a Tfosorcim demon, looking horribly out of place in such a dive. They were considered the computer engineers of demonkind--overly literal, nebbish, and apt at causing others to flee at the prospect of holding a conversation with one.

After a bout of haggling, because frugality was another of the Tfosorcim's traits, the deal was done and goods changed hands. With palpable relief on both sides, the client left with his bag clutched tightly to his chest. Instead of getting up, however, the Quathra stayed behind at the table, sipping leisurely at his drink.

With a sigh, Lorne made an executive decision and got up from his chair, leaving the almost-finished Seabreeze behind. If it was true that the Quathra wouldn't deal with humans, then it fell to him to make the first move.

The Quathra didn't react as Lorne walked up to him, and he wondered if maybe he'd been too sneaky. Changing to a more flamboyant approach, he sauntered to the table and half-sang, "Fraresaka, dormez vous?"

The other demon sighed with elaborate patience, twisting his drink in his taloned hands. "That wasn't funny the first time around. What do you want?"

"Ooh, touchy. I just wanted to lighten the gloomy mood, friend." At the other demon's glare, Lorne continued. "Right. Anyway, I hear you've got connections to items that you can't find at the local Wal-Mart."

"I do have such connections, but I don't make deals without getting to know my clients first. From the clothes and appearance, not to mention the ambiguous mincing, I'd say you were the Host of the former Caritas. I was sorry to hear of its demise."

"Me too," Lorne replied, a little surprised that instead of being too sneaky, he hadn't been sneaky enough. "I don't remember ever seeing you there, however."

"My cousin Haarjak was a customer of yours--Red stripes on his neck, likes the song 'Thriller'?"

"Oh yeah! He did a great moonwalk on stage, it nearly brought the house down...in a good way. Too bad about the glove, though."

"Yes, well," the Quathra flexed his taloned fingers, "it's hard to find gloves in our size."

"No kidding. Imagine me trying on hats." The other demon chuckled faintly, and Lorne knew he had his audience of one hooked. Time to reel him in. "So, I need to make an appointment with you about obtaining a certain item. Do you have a number where I can reach you?"

"What's the item?"

"It's Mohra demon blood. I don't need much, maybe a few ounces. And it needs to be pretty fresh."

"I can do that. It'll cost you fifty dollars an ounce--and I don't take kittens."

"Gotcha. I'll need to check back with you on the exact amount. I'm kind of acting on another's behalf."

"Human?" Fraresaka's eyes narrowed in distaste.

"No, strictly demon--vampire, in fact. Which is why I need it."

"Interesting. Another vampire came to me with the same request. This must be some new kind of revenge tactic, unless vampires are getting soft and rejecting their demon natures. Wouldn't surprise me--vampires have always been demonic step-children, of a sort." The demon reached into his robe and pulled out a small, colorful piece of paper. "Here's my business card. When you have the information you need, just give me a call. I'll need a few days to procure it, but it will be as fresh as you need it to be."

"Thanks," Lorne pocketed the card, outwardly nonchalant, while mentally he was doing an Irish jig. Angel wouldn't be happy about how much the blood cost, but Cordelia would talk him into it. They quickly said their good-byes, and Lorne glanced back only to check on his drink, which had already been cleared from the table.

The exhaust trickling through the alley seemed fragrant next to the odor from the bar, something Lorne noted as he started to make his way back to the hotel. It made him long for Caritas, for the classy and faint bohemian atmosphere, the easy camaraderie of humans and demons, and of course, the profit margin. He didn't pay rent at the hotel, but he didn't earn a share of the money, either. Maybe it was time to change his status quo--in one way or another.


 

The original plan had long been shot to hell, which explained why Spike was fidgeting in a discount store as Buffy sorted through the racks of shirts, trying to find nice yet inexpensive clothing in his size. They were supposed to be in Sunnydale by now, but Buffy changed her mind once she realized that she was in LA, the home of haute couture boutiques she couldn't afford. After perusing those for an hour or so, she'd come to the discount store to find the cheap knock-offs.

She hadn't made him hold her purse, but he was carrying their purchases, as most men seem to do at one point or another. Some of it was for her and Dawn--one particular outfit he'd selected for Buffy, for later use--but the bulk of it was his new wardrobe. Thankfully, he had money to pay her back; he knew she wouldn't take it from him, so he planned to leave a twenty here and there, stashed in coat pockets or in a different part of her wallet, hoping she would think it was found money. His resources weren't the cleanest, true, but he felt it would be put to good use that way. It would help the national economy and all that, putting money into circulation and increasing others' profit margin. In other times, the faintly patriotic sentiment would've surprised him, but he'd come to like the errant former British colony, soul notwithstanding.

Once Buffy had made her choices, with agreement from him, they checked out at the counter. The tired clerk didn't made eye contact as she started scanning items. Where the prior customers had seen rudeness, Spike saw a glimpse at what this young woman's job had done to her spirit. As the woman glanced up, he took the opportunity to catch her eye and smile. He marveled how such a small gesture could cause the woman's shoulders to straighten, her eyes to glint in friendliness, and a smile of her own to form.

Buffy must have caught his intent, because she smiled at the girl as well. The transaction finished with more energy than it started, and Spike lingered to watch her brightness fade at the next customer, who never looked the girl in the eye or muttered a single word as she rang up the items placed before her.

"It's a crime," he said softly as Buffy futilely nudged him to follow. "It's not the work that makes her remote, it's the way her customers treat her. She's little more than animated wallpaper to them."

"It's not intentional--their minds are elsewhere, worrying about their own problems." The way Buffy said it, he had the feeling she knew more about it than she would've liked. "It happens to the best of us."

"Still, she's a person, not a robot. And yes, I know it's ironic for me to be saying that," he added when he saw her eyebrows raise, "but it's true. I don't want to see that kind of a future for you, love."

Their eyes went back to the girl at the counter, whose next customer was a business woman talking into her cell phone, ignoring the girl's requests for payment. Customers behind started to get angry, and it only made her more nervous and agitated. She rose to the occasion, however, and began to cancel the sale in order to ring up the next person in line, which forced the woman on the phone to dig out and hand over her credit card. But after the minor crisis was averted, the numbness settled on her once more.

"Neither do I," Buffy replied quietly, then after a moment, lead him out of the store.



It was while they were in his DeSoto, heading back to Sunnydale, that Spike broached the question of future employment. Buffy figured it was triggered by the scene with the clerk, but she was secretly pleased he'd asked, even though she dreaded answering the question.

"I don't know, really. Nothing's changed--I'm still far from having a degree in anything, and have only waitressing as a job skill."

"I've heard temporary work pays well, and they're willing to work around what you can handle."

"Which would be slaying and shopping?"

He looked heavenward, as if pleading for help. "No, I meant your other skills. Organization, resourcefulness, leadership, problem-solving...shall I go on?"

Stunned, she turned to study his face in profile. His jaw was doing the clenchy thing, which made him endearing and infuriating at the same time. Where was all this coming from? Deciding it didn't matter, she leaned on the back of the seat like a child waiting to hear a story, smiling at him in unexpected delight. "Yes, please do."

He risked a glance her way, and she could tell he was fighting an unspoken impulse. After a second, he sighed and shook his head. "You're serious, aren't you? Don't you know it by now?"

"Know what?" She was truly baffled. Wasn't he just stroking her ego?

"You're an amazing person, Buffy. And don't give me that bashful fluttering, either--I'm not one to be impressed by modesty."

"Okay, no fluttering here. You think I'm amazing?"

"Yeah, I do," he replied sincerely. "I've never met anyone like you. Now, I'm not saying you're perfect, because who is, right? However, even when I first came to town, you amazed me. You have a heart for people, underneath the layers of careless indulgence you paint yourself with. You're the best Slayer not because you're stronger or better, but because of what you do with those strengths. A Slayer without an ounce of compassion would have staked me long ago...but not you, Buffy. You refuse to play by the same rules, and I think in the end, that's what will save you."

"Right, since it's worked so well in keeping me not dead," she answered dryly, but regretted the words when she saw his hands tighten their grip on the wheel.

"Buffy, that wasn't--it was my fault. You shouldn't have jumped. If I'd done my job, like I should've..."

"No, it's not your fault," she said sternly. "Don't even think that. I was warned that this would happen--I just hadn't realized it was right then and there, until it was happening."

He shook his head, sorrow and self-recrimination still showing in his face and voice. "You don't understand. It is my fault. There's...something I didn't tell you. About this Doc character and why he was there."

She paused her initial reaction to deny it, when she saw how much this was killing him. And it scared her to think that maybe he was right after all, and that he did share some of the blame. "Go on," she said instead, trying to look supportive through her fear.

He stared straight ahead at the road, without a glance in her direction. She didn't think he would've been able to look her in the eye, regardless of him being behind the wheel. "I found Dawn at the cemetery, after Joyce was buried. She was going to try and raise her from the dead, using a book she'd taken from the Magic Box. I stopped her, but only because she was going to end up raising a zombie, and I didn't want that to happen to someone like your mum. So, I took her to see this Doc guy I'd heard about, who knew the ins and outs of resurrection in the demon world. He helped us, and I think you know the rest of that tale.

"God, I was so stupid...I never thought he was involved with Glory at all. He seemed to be a brighter fellow than that. But anyway, when Xander and I went by his place, I told him Dawn was in danger. I don't know why, but I thought he'd want to help, you know? Then I noticed he was going out of his way to not help us, and then all hell broke loose. I couldn't even fight the bastard--Harris stabbed him while I went after the scrolls. If I hadn't gone to him in the first place, he would never have found out about Dawn."

Buffy had digested everything Spike was saying with a mixture of anger, sadness, and disappointment. And also a growing sense of gratitude. "Do you think he wouldn't have been there, if you hadn't talked to him?"

"What?"

He seemed a little bewildered by this, so she explained. "You said he was a follower of Glory, which means he knew when the portal needed to open. He had the scrolls, which you stole from him, so since he showed up at the right place and time, it's not like he had to consult them before he left. How do you know he wouldn't have been there, anyway?"

This managed to cause his jaw to slacken, and his eyes to narrow in thought. "I hadn't quite figured it that way, pet."

"You would have thought it through, eventually. Now, I'm not thrilled that you took Dawn to him. I thought you knew better than to expose her to that sort of danger...but as you said, you didn't know what his allegiances were. And if you hadn't found her in the cemetery, who knows what Dawn might've raised? I don't blame you, Spike. If anything, I'm glad you were there when you were--and for all the times you were there for us."

He exhaled deeply, a sign of how tense he'd been. Relief crept into every muscle, until she could see him visibly sag, like a marionette cut free of his strings. Gradually, he pulled off the road until the car came to a stop, and then he began to cry softly, silently.

Her heart ached as she reached out to him, putting an arm around his shoulder and pulling him close. How long had he kept this inside? For a moment, her mind flash on a memory so pale it felt more like a dream. Spike sitting across from her, telling her how every night he saved her...and then it finally slammed home. For months, he'd thought that her death was his fault; therefore, her resurrection and despondency were also due to him. If she'd never died, she wouldn't have come back wrong...

His arms were wrapped around her tightly, his head buried in her shoulder. "I don't deserve you," he said brokenly, his words muffled by her neck.

She closed her eyes to keep away the stinging beginnings of tears, as she held him and whispered back, believing it for the first time, "Same here."


 

With the use of Tara's magic and the combined strength of Wesley and Xander, they were able to pin a vampire up against a crypt long enough for Willow to make a small cut in its arm, and dribble a tiny amount of the barely glowing Mohra blood onto it.

The vampire cringed, expecting the worst. As the seconds passed--and nothing happened--the group began to worry.

"Do you feel any discomfort?" Wesley asked, concerned.

The vampire thought this over, then shook his head. "Nope. Except for being pinned against a wall."

"All right, then. We have no further use of you. Xander?"

Thinking he would be freed, the vampire grinned at their stupidity...only until the stake penetrated his chest. The two men dusted themselves off in a casual way, then Xander smiled and flexed his arm, "It's amazing what a couple years of construction work will do for the slaying. No more scrawny high school kid, huh?"

"I should say not," Wesley replied, impressed at how much everyone had changed in his absence. The true stand-out, however, was Willow. The young girl who had melted into the background in high school now stood out with confidence. He'd heard of her rise and fall in witchcraft; a victim of her own hubris, much like Icarus and his wings of feathers and wax. He, too, thought he could fly towards the sun and stay unscathed--Willow's fate, thankfully, had been more merciful and kind.

Wesley noticed how Tara and Willow reacted to each other's proximity as they headed back to the shop, and wondered how the couple had come to this. He knew very well that an addiction to something, be it physical or emotional, could bring out the worst in people, but it was hard to see what Willow might have done to cause such a rift. Angel's obsession with Darla hadn't been wholly surprising, but he couldn't fathom a change so profound in the girl he once knew. Maybe that was the crux of the problem--he'd been away for so long, he still remembered them as they were three years ago.

As he watched Willow now, restrained and yet as upbeat as ever, he decided to start clean with the entire group. Mentally, he shelved away the high school memories and began to observe anew, seeing a confident young woman cowed by her failure, but not broken. He worried that her fall hadn't served as enough of a lesson, but he labeled it as a cautious fear, brought on by too many years working for Angel.

When they returned, Anya was waiting for them anxiously. "They found him!"

"Found who?" Xander asked.

"The Quathra demon who sells the Mohra blood. A friend of yours tracked him down."

"That would be Lorne," Wesley said, smiling. "It's a good thing he did, because the blood we have has lost its potency."

"It's not cheap, apparently. I wonder if he has a supplier, or if he gets it himself...?" Anya trailed off, most likely pondering the idea of making a profitable business connection. "Well, anyway, Angel and Lorne are posing as buyers. They should have some in a few days."

"Good. That should give us some time to work on the spell," he said, looking pointedly at Tara and Willow. Tara nodded, and Willow's initial eager look faded as she remembered her part would be in research only. Wesley felt a twinge of uneasiness, but put it aside once he saw her demeanor change into a desire to help in any way she could. If she kept the right frame of mind, he was sure she would straighten herself out with little problems. His only worry was the unpredictability of the human psyche.


 

Gladly, Buffy and Spike returned to her house just shy of eight o'clock, drained from the drive back and the impromptu emotional moment spent on the side of the highway. Dinner was from a fast food place along the way, eaten in comfortable silence. Rather than causing awkwardness, the shared moment left them feeling closer, a result they didn't mind at all.

A quick call had reassured Buffy that Dawn was at the Magic Box, and would be coming home with Willow as soon as they came back from testing the Mohra blood. As Spike dropped off the bags in the family room, she called again to check up on the status quo.

The failure of the old blood wasn't surprising, but it was good to hear that the Quathra demon was willing to sell more of it. Xander volunteered to drive Dawn home when they realized that Willow was going to be spending an all-nighter at the shop, helping Wesley and Tara in creating a spell.

As Buffy hung up the phone, she noticed Spike behind her, watching her thoughtfully. She turned and gave him her best attempt at being coy and seductive at the same time.

"Like what you see?"

"Oh yeah," he replied, amused at the sudden twist. He looked her up and down appraisingly, with the sort of confidence he used to bluff around her--now, he didn't need to. "I never get tired looking at you, love."

The sweetness inherent in the statement caught her off guard. For a moment, she'd expected the old leering tone and bawdy comment. He seemed to pick up on that, and added, "Especially from the back."

She scowled in mock indignation. He laughed, which in turn made her grin, then chuckle. It was a relief after all the crying from before. The emotional roller-coaster of the past few days finally felt as if it was in the last few hills and turns. There would be other ups and downs, she knew, but it would be a relief when this particular ride came to an end.

A few steps carried her over to him, and he folded his arms around her gently. She rested her head against his chest and heard the muffled beat of his heart, a soothing sound that seemed so normal--and yet, so odd at the same time.

"You tired?" He asked, his voice low.

"Uh-huh. You?"

"Dead on my feet...figuratively, of course," he answered wryly. "That's what happens when you start keeping daylight hours."

"I wanna wait up for Dawn," she mumbled back, and tightened her arms around his waist. "Don't stay downstairs tonight."

"Well, I don't see where--wait, hold on." He looked down at her, and she stared up at him in all seriousness. "You mean...with you."

"Yep."

"In your bed."

She nodded, enjoying the awed look on his face. Then he started to sputter out, "But Dawn is...and then Willow will be...not that I oppose the concept, mind you, but--"

"I meant sharing a bed to sleep in," she cut him off mercifully. "Side by side, asleep. I'm way too tired to even think about...that."

"Oh," he replied, more grateful than disappointed. "All right, then."

"But I'm not too tired for some cuddle-action."

He flashed a grin and replied, "Lay on, MacBuff, and damn'd be him that first cries 'Hold, enough!' "

She stared at him for a puzzled second, then rolled her eyes. "Ugh, Shakespeare--I'm too pooped to translate that into modern English. C'mon, scholar boy, to bed with you. Before you start quoting sonnets or something."

He knew better than to argue, apparently, since he took the bags from the family room and carried them upstairs. Buffy watched him go, enjoying the sight of his retreating figure.

He glanced over his shoulder and smirked. "Like what you see, pet?"

"Oh, yeah," she answered slyly. "Nothing turns me on more than a man with a nice package...except for when he's carrying all my purchases up to my room."

"Ha ha. Very droll," he replied sarcastically, although clearly not offended--if anything, his gait swaggered a little more. By the time he disappeared around the corner, Buffy was seriously reconsidering her plan to wait up for Dawn.

The sound of Xander's car in the driveway perked up Buffy's spirits, and soon her younger sister was walking through the door, looking glad to see Buffy there. Dawn's gaze fell on the unmade couch, and after a questioning look at Buffy, the eldest Summers found herself explaining where Spike was, and why.

Dawn's eyes widened as Buffy finished, but then she fell into a disinterested pose. "Okay, whatever. As long as you're not having sex loud enough to keep me awake, I'm fine with it."

"Dawn!"

"I'm going to sleep now. You'd better do the same," her younger sister replied, a small knowing smile taking up residence on her face. With that, she bounded up the stairs and Buffy could hear the girl's door close firmly, as if trying to seal herself away from the possibility of seeing something she shouldn't.

Sighing, Buffy climbed the stairs and went into her room, grateful for the end of the day. Spike was lying on his side, waiting for her. His chest was bare, and she hoped it wasn't the same underneath the sheets as well. Hesitantly, she started to strip in front of him, her modesty pointless but still emerging, nevertheless. He merely watched as she changed into her pajamas, then while she padded over to the side of the bed nervously.

"Tell me you're wearing something, please," she pleaded.

He pulled the covers away, to reveal dark sweatpants. "It's the closest thing I've got in those bags that'll do for sleeping in."

She let out a breath in relief, and joined him under the covers, fitting her body next to his. "Sorry about that. I wasn't thinking."

"It's all right. If all goes well, I don't think either one of us will have much use for nightclothes." His chin tucked into the curve of her neck, as his right arm draped over her waist. The voice was teasing, but she could feel his body tense.

In answer, she tilted her head just enough to capture his lips with hers. The kiss was soft and quick, holding a promise of more to come. At that, Spike relaxed, his arm pulling her closer. In seconds, he was asleep, and Buffy soon followed him...glad that the day was finally over.


 

The fishing town of Cordova was moderately large by Alaskan standards, which wasn't saying much. The local newspaper was more of a newsletter, written and printed out by one of the townspeople. One big news day was when someone found a dead otter in the middle of the road, which gave the town a nickname in honor of the fallen mammal--Dead Otter.

But even the smallest of towns have a bar, and that's where most of the inhabitants were that evening. Fishermen bemoaned the lack of a catch, and several complained that things were still bad more than ten years after the Valdez spill. Some of the salmon had mutated in horrible ways, and no one knew how long it would take for nature healed itself.

A dark-haired lady walked in, her eyes glittering with a child-like glee. Most paid it as the reaction of a tourist to experiencing the longer nights for the first time. She gathered a lot of attention as she strolled through the bar, her presence and strange beauty drawing all male eyes towards her. She seemed to gather energy from the crowd, grinning as she breezed past several captivated men to find her way to the bar.

The man she sat next to was handsome enough, his hair turned blonde by the sun and his skin toughened by the winds from the Pacific. He smiled his best smile at the woman, hoping to impress her with wild stories and maybe get some...gratitude in return. She eyed him appreciatively, and he felt his chances rising with each lingering gaze.

"Like what you see?"

"Oh yes..." she replied, and her accent immediately identified her as British. He didn't know where from--maybe London? "Lovely."

He didn't really feel like making the effort of being all polite, since he'd already attracted her attention. But it wouldn't hurt to give the girl a quick show of the northern lights before heading back to his place. "Would you like to see the lights? I know a great place to watch them, it's not far."

"My mother used to say it was fairy dust, and my mother was hardly ever wrong. I've come quite a long way, you see. And I knew that when I saw you, you could help me find it."

He had the feeling that all wasn't quite right with the lady next to him, but he didn't think it was his concern. She'd gotten here herself, so she wasn't an invalid--and if the lights ended up turning her on, so be it.

A hour later, they pulled up to a ridge overlooking a dense forest. In the distance, the northern lights played across the night sky, ribbons of color stretching around the horizon. Mike noticed the woman was transfixed by the sight, and he couldn't help smiling at the results. With a practiced ease, he put his arm in position for the casual drape behind the shoulders, figuring his chances were increasing every moment. But instead of the welcome he expected, she got out of the truck and headed closer to the edge.

A little worried, he got out and followed her, carefully watching for any signs of her planning to take a dive off the edge. She swayed and danced to music that played only for her, but didn't seem inclined to throw herself off the cliff. He counted it as a positive sign, and allowed her to continue her little dance.

When she turned to him at last, her eyes were half-closed in ecstasy, a grin on her face that made him think she was hearing a joke meant only for her ears. Then a shadow fell across her features, her eyes going wide in shock. He took a step forward, planning to help in some way, but she pulled her arms around herself as if warding off a bitter chill.

"No, no, this is all wrong. He's gone away from us. It can't be abided, something has to be done," she rambled, then her wide eyes fixed on him, causing a chill to run down his spine. It suddenly felt like a huge mistake to bring this woman out here, where no one would find him if she decided to kill him and take the truck. A nervous laugh nearly bubbled out of him, the idea of this fragile-looking lady taking him on almost crazier than she appeared to be.

"Look, I don't know what the problem is, but if you want to go somewhere else, just say the word," Mike offered, glancing back at his truck in meaning and for his own peace of mind.

"Yes, I need to go somewhere else. South, to the land of Slayers and Angels," she smiled, and for a moment, he wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then the moon hit her profile, and he realized he wasn't seeing things at all, to his growing horror. "And you can bring me to him."

Too quick to be believed, she lunged at him, her face distorted in a terrible visage. Fangs descended on his throat, while her hands clamped down on his arms, pinning him in place. He tried to scream but nothing came out, the shock overriding everything else in his brain.

He felt his life draining away as she drank, to the point of encroaching darkness, then she pulled away and cut a thin line along her neck. Her hands brought his near-lifeless body close to her like an infant, cradling him as she urged him to drink from her. Dimly, he did as bidden, barely able to comprehend what she said next.

"Don't worry, my William. I'll make everything right again, just like it was before."




 

If the previous night had told Spike anything, it was that the time for moving forward had arrived. Falling asleep together was so normal, so simple, it made the next step only logical. And besides, there was that one night in the abandoned building, and the other time afterwards, which made it seem almost expected. All these reasons, however, didn't stop his hands from sweating at the thought.

He had a plan, a way of making this better and more meaningful than the previous shag-fest. It was probably sappy and pathetically romantic, and risked the chance of emasculating himself, but it was all for Buffy, really. Well, and himself too, but mainly it was about showing her the depth of his love for her. With luck, he might have a spoken return on that regard, something he wanted badly, almost as badly as...

"...a hot dog?"

He blinked and looked down to Buffy's inscrutable face. "Sorry?"

"I said, do you want a hamburger, or a hot dog?" He glanced over to the waiting employee behind the counter of a greasy shack set up on the edge of the converted pier. This particular pier had been converted into a recreational attraction, although mild in comparison to some. The warm day had brought out tourists and locals to the beach, and Buffy had brought him here to 'work on his tan'. He recalled her talking about stuffing themselves with some fast food, but he must have drifted off into his thoughts, the way he used to back in his human days.

And so it was again, he thought ruefully, not happy to see some of the old traits reappear. He smiled for Buffy's sake, then ordered a hamburger. At least he could be vaguely sure that the meat patty would be all bovine, rather than the disturbing mix of animals inherent in the ersatz sausage.

Spike could already feel the burn starting on the back of his neck, after being out for only a half hour. The perils of pasty white skin now were haunting him. He was sure that by the end of the day, his face and neck would be burnt and peeling--not an attractive sight for a prospective suitor hoping to impress his lady. Then again, her own skin was far from a Californian tan these days, so maybe the effect would be mutual.

Once they'd gotten and paid for their lunch, they found an unoccupied table and sat down to enjoy the ocean view. Being together like this was so unusual, and yet so amazingly pleasant, he would have sat there happily if Buffy hadn't prodded him to eat.

She looked happy, and had told him many times that she was happy with him, but she'd never said she loved him...not even after all this time. He didn't expect a profession so soon, but his memories of Riley caused a cold knot to settle in his stomach, and he was pretty sure it wasn't due to the burger. He knew she was afraid of opening herself to someone, terrified that it would backfire; Angel had given her more than physical scars. Her last boyfriend hadn't been able to pierce through the walls she'd built around herself. He wondered if he could succeed where others had failed.


 

The day slipped into afternoon as Willow, Tara, Wesley and Fred studied various grimoires and reference texts, hoping to turn their spell into a vampire panacea. The night before had been just as fruitless, giving them only a hint at how such a spell could be constructed, let alone reproduced on a large scale. Anya wasn't too happy at their plan and said so loudly, and often. When Xander arrived at the shop, straight from work, they were grateful for the distraction he provided.

Finally, Tara sighed and closed the book in front of her. "This isn't going to work."

"Don't think that way--of course it will," Willow smiled in encouragement. "We'll find a way."

"I think we need to give up on doing it on the larger scale, and focus on creating the spell," Fred suggested quietly, drawing their surprise. "We have a structure in mind, and an idea how to implement it."

"We'll need blood in order to test it, though," Willow said. "Besides, creating a spell means nothing if we can't change more than one vampire at a time. We'd be better off just having the blood on hand."

"And that would become expensive," Wesley added, seeing her point. "Still, it would better to have a functioning spell than nothing at all. Would the incantation be hard to create?"

Tara shook her head. "No, not once we know what we're doing, exactly. We just have to be careful on the phrasing."

"If we don't make it clear, something bad could happen," Willow continued with a knowing look. "You make one word mistake, and you could be turning the vampire into a Mohra demon, instead of a human being."

"Or making them a zombie," Tara said with a shudder. "For all we know, maybe the 'blood of eternity' can't be used in a proxy form. Maybe it has to make contact with blood in order to work."

"Then maybe what we need is a big aerosol can," Fred grinned. At everyone's blank stare, she clarified, "You know, to spray it at them like mace? Create a mist that covers a large area? Except that I just realized you'd need to have them all bleeding, so forget I said anything."

"Well, it was a plausible idea, Fred," Wesley offered a little too earnestly, smiling at her in a way that didn't warrant it. He didn't notice the two witches' sly glance at each other, or the small grin they momentarily shared.


 

"So, are you going to stand there primping your hair all night, or what?"

Angel turned to see Cordelia leaning in the doorway, miffed but in a playful way. He smiled self-consciously and shrugged. "Well, it's not like I can look in a mirror or anything."

"You look fine," she replied, and the honest sentiment caught him off-guard.

"Really?"

"Yeah, really." She walked past him to check on Connor, but talked over her shoulder. "The shirt is way too Wine Bar-Undead-Goth, but I guess it's meant to be that way. Gotta look like the evil undead, right?"

"Right," Angel agreed distantly, and reminded himself to put the shirt in the giveaway pile after they came back. Now that she pointed it out, the shiny blood-red silk did scream "vampire" from across the room.

Lorne poked his green, horned head into the room and grinned at Angel. "Now there's a shirt to die for! Or die in, I suppose."

Angel silently vowed to burn it instead. "So, this Quathra demon...Fraresaka? You think he'll show?"

"For eight ounces of blood, at fifty bucks an ounce, he'd be crazy not to. Besides, tonight is merely the pre-lim--he wants to meet you, build a rapport with the customer."

"And maybe find out a little info on why we want it. He's suspicious, which isn't good. It means he's smart."

"To get blood from a Mohra without getting killed, he'd have to be," Lorne replied darkly.

Cordelia walked over and straightened Angel's collar, then smoothed out the fabric in a way that did nothing to calm him down--quite the contrary. Lorne gave him a raised brow and a smirk from over Cordy's shoulder, and Angel threw him an annoyed look.

She caught his glare, but misread the reason behind it. "Oh, come on, Angel, don't be a sulky baby. You can stand a little collar straightening, can't you?"

He could handle a lot more from her than that, but he kept the thought to himself. Instead he replied, "You'll make a great mom someday, you know that, right? You catch everything. It's like you've got eyes in the back of your head."

"No, I just had the one. Thankfully, it was very, very temporary."

When she pulled away, Angel found himself missing the loss of her presence. He pointedly ignored Lorne as he grabbed his coat off of the chair. "Time to meet our supplier, wouldn't you say?"


 

Dawn was acting weird, Buffy observed, which by itself wasn't a great indicator of trouble. As the months after her resurrection went by, puberty had taken root and made her sister's life into one huge melodrama. If she didn't meet up with her friends, she would die. If Kevin Taylor smiled at her, she would be dying on the spot. And if she saw Lisa wearing the same dress for the spring fling, she was going to die.

Buffy hadn't realized that being almost twenty-one could feel so ancient, when she looked back on her own teenage years and couldn't remember things like boys and clothing being so important. Maybe it was because by Dawn's age, she was fighting for her life every night, hoping to beat the odds and become the first Slayer to ever retire.

However, Dawn's current weirdness was odd, even for her. She stayed quiet the whole way in the car, a slight dopey smile on her face that only budged when her most-hated-song-in-the-world came on the radio. As Buffy dropped her off at Xander's apartment, Dawn didn't argue or pout at the restrictions imposed on her. Buffy wasn't even sure why Dawn wanted to stay over at Xander's, rather than a friend's house. When asked, Dawn said something about tradition and wanting to try out his new Xbox, despite the fact that she abhorred video games of all kinds.

It wasn't until she arrived home that Buffy started to understand the plot. Scheme might have been a better word, as she could smell something delicious, and the sound of someone rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. The dining room table had two place settings, with goblets and all the fancy trappings that had tended to mystify her as a child. The only light came from two lit candles, illuminating food that certainly hadn't been cooked in her house, and certainly not by the person she suspected was behind all this.

She took in the scene with a growing amazement. All the pieces fell into place--Spike's odd insistence about heading home after lunch, and his need to go out and 'check on a few things'. She found herself staring at the plates, the marvelous food, and the curious lack of anyone present to greet her.

"Hey, I'm home," she called out, and couldn't help a slight smile at the sound of cursing coming from the other room. Spike bolted out the doorway in haste, a paper-wrapped bouquet in hand and his white oxford shirt not quite buttoned up all the way, the sleeves partly rolled up. The dark grey slacks had a matching jacket somewhere, she knew, but apparently she'd come home a little faster than expected.

"Oh, um, you're back," he smiled nervously, then handed her the flowers. "These are for you."

Blue asters were mixed with white lilies and peach-pink roses, the sort of thing a flower arranger would probably cringe to see, but she didn't care. Somehow he knew her favorites, and that meant more to her than the perfunctory dozen red roses with baby's breath.

"These are beautiful, thank you," she said as she hugged him, already feeling overwhelmed. "And the spread is amazing. What do you do for an encore?"

"You'll just have to wait and see, love," he replied, giving her the look that always stole the strength out of her knees. "Right now, it's time to sit down and eat."

"Okay...wait, not okay. I need to change," she glanced down at her t-shirt and jeans, a couple days away from being Laundry Day-wear. She handed him the flowers and bolted upstairs before he could stop her.

Upstairs, she tried to tear through her closet calmly but quickly. What do you wear to a dinner date at your own house? Then it hit her--Willow wasn't here, and Dawn was staying over...oh boy. This was it. The moment that Spike had wanted to be perfect, deliberate. And she'd come home early, dressed as if planning to clean out the garage. She didn't think there was a big enough rock for her to crawl underneath.

With renewed determination, she dug through her closet until she found the object of her search; a backless, black halter dress with a side slit that was enough to jumpstart the imagination. It had called out to her from the sale rack in L.A., as one of the last vestiges of the prior season's fashion. Her hair was twirled into a quick bun, although she knew it was only going to come down later. A little make-up finished off the look, and she slid into a pair of strappy heels before heading back downstairs.

He'd taken the time to put on the jacket and tie, and Buffy felt a small pang of regret. The more laid-back style fit his personality; the Spike she knew would never wear a suit and tie. However, she had to admit he looked great all dressed to the nines, making it seem effortless on his part. She was lucky that Slayer reflexes helped with balancing on high heels, or else she would have been tumbling down the stairs when she caught sight of the expression on his face. The mix of awe and adoration shining in his eyes was enough to make her forget to breathe, and she clutched the banister for support.

"You like?" she asked, a little nervous despite the approval in his eyes.

He nodded, momentarily speechless. Then he cleared his throat and added, "Uh, yeah. You look...stunning. Breathtaking."

"Thank you," she answered in a small voice, secretly pleased. With the heels on, she could meet his eyes on a more equal level, and it felt so personal and intimate that she eventually had to tear her eyes away. Spike gestured her to go ahead of him, and she allowed him to pull a chair out for her, the gentlemanly act so out-of-sorts with how she pictured him that she couldn't help staring as he sat down himself, unaware of her perusal.

What happened next was unusual only in its commonality. They ate, they talked, they enjoyed the simple moment of being with each other and learning more about the other person. Buffy watched how Spike's manners were oddly impeccable, the idea so strange it felt like a rebellious thought in her head. She suddenly found herself not knowing this man across the table from her, but also knowing him better than anyone else.

Buffy had worked up the nerve to ask more about his past by the time they'd finished dinner. He fiddled with the stereo as she lounged on the couch, waiting for him to join her. The music changed from the soothing background melodies while they ate, to something more classically inclined to induce necking. She hid a grin behind her hand, not wanting him to see how transparent he was. Thank goodness there hadn't been any rose petals on her bed, or else she would have laughed.

He had a glass of wine waiting for him on the coffee table as he walked back, although she'd abstained. The alcohol was obviously meant to soothe his nerves, as he took a sip before settling next to her. Despite the fact that her and booze were not meant to mix, she didn't want anything that could cause her control to slip tonight. Seeing him now, she was reminded again of how human he was, and therefore how easy it could be to hurt him unintentionally.

"Spike--I know you've told me about being turned, and a little about who you used to be...but I want to know more. About you, about how you lived, who your friends were, about the stupid childhood things you did. I want to know you, all of you."

He visibly swallowed, his hands unsure what to do with the wine glass in his hands. "You know about me."

"No, I don't. Not completely. I realized that tonight as we were talking. You...you're different. I knew you, or at least I thought I did. Now, I don't know."

"I'd rather talk about you," he replied. "Have you given any thought on a career path, goals and whatnot?"

"Spike..." For the first time, saying the name felt odd, almost wrong. "William. Please, I want to know."

"Don't say that name." His voice lowered darkly, without inflection.

"Why?"

"Because he was no one of any note." He took a swig of his wine.

"He was...is you. That makes him something, as far as I'm concerned."

His smile was bitter as he sat down his glass. "Buffy, I guarantee you don't want to hear this."

"And you'd be wrong about that," she challenged back. They stared at each other, as if waiting for the other person to give in first. Finally, Spike sighed and slouched back into the couch.

"All right, you win. Tonight will be completely shot to hell, but I guess that can't be helped. You wanna know who William was? He was a pathetic wanker who had a spine made of jelly and a propensity for falling in love with the wrong women. He was too rich to be poor and too poor to be rich, so he was tolerated in both, but never accepted into either realm. He wore glasses and he wrote bad poetry. He lived with his mother and siblings, and had no one who would claim to be his friend. He was, as you Americans would say, a loser. Satisfied?"

His tone was filled with self-hate and loathing, but his posture told of deep sorrow inflicted by painful memories. Ones that she'd had dredged up by her request. However, her feelings of guilt were outweighed by a growing sense of annoyance. "Is this what you've been hiding?"

"Yeah. Pitiful, isn't it? I'm sure you'll be fleeing in horror or laughing any moment now."

"Am I laughing? Or fleeing? You know, sometimes I wonder how much brain can possibly be left, with a skull as thick as yours." She watched as he turned to stare at her, a sliver of hope breaking through the gloomy disposition. "Do you think I like the way you behaved as a vampire? Newsflash, I didn't. If you weren't annoying the heck out of me one minute, you were likely irritating someone else.

"But the night before I died, you were so...different. More focused, I guess. And when I came back, you were so gentle with me. I came to you because I felt comfortable with you, though I didn't realize the feeling wasn't mutual."

"It was the sweetest torture, love," he said, his voice unstable. Her words were moving him deeply, but she wasn't done yet.

"I didn't mean for it to hurt, I really didn't. I was so sure I knew what I felt that I didn't think about why I wanted you, or how I felt when you were around. I was feeling something, but it wasn't for the vampire. It was for the man he used to be."

Spike nodded knowingly, and she deflated a bit when she realized that he already knew. How was he able to divine her own thoughts and feelings before she did? With a deep breath, she plowed on, partly hoping he'd figured this one out, as well.

"Remember when I told you that I wanted to find out if I could fall in love with you?" He nodded again, looking at her curiously. "I think I have. No, I am. In love with you, I mean."

His eyes widened, the emotions naked and exposed on his face. Elation, joy, surprise, and a hint of fear that he might be dreaming it all. "Honestly?"

"Truly, honestly, absolutely in love with you," she replied, feeling her own joy bubble up inside. It was a fragile thing, wary of the blaze inside her, but she didn't try to force it down into the dark. Things were still new and raw for her, but she wanted to feel love again. It was time to risk the pain, because he was worth it.

He kissed her soundly then, and she leaned in, welcoming him. The kiss soon dissolved into shorter ones, not too unlike the session they'd had while under the stairs at the Bronze. His hands roamed along her back, enjoying the feel of her skin and taking exploratory paths beyond the edge of the fabric. It was all progressing nicely until she remembered they were still on the couch.

In the meantime, Spike had figured this out, as well. He pulled back and flicked a glance up the stairs. She nodded, unable to speak, and tugged him up the stairs. The slam of the door echoed down the hallway, and if anyone had been around to hear it, they might have also heard the squeak of springs and floorboards groaning their protest.


 

Spike could tell it wasn't morning--he wasn't a vampire any longer, but sometimes it seemed his body would forget it and wake him up, anyway. Groggily, he reached over for Buffy and found a warm but empty spot instead. With a frown, he glanced around and noticed the bedroom door ajar and a light in the hallway. In seconds, he recognized the sound of running water.

Unfortunately, this reminded his body of another important bodily function, and he groused his way out of bed, following the light to its source.

The door only partly closed, and he could see her drying her hands on a towel, her hair in disarray and clothed only in his dress shirt. It was much too big for her, and it made her look even more fragile than she really was. He found that while seeing her in his shirt was sexy, the little black dress from tonight had nearly driven him to the brink. He couldn't remember if it was intact, but he hoped it was.

She smiled as he came in, the moment only awkward because of the extremely late hour. "Did I wake you?"

"Not at all. You mind if I, uh..." he gestured vaguely.

Buffy quickly understood and scurried to get out of his way. "I'll leave you to it, since I don't think we've reached the 'comfortable in the bathroom' stage."

"You mean to tell me there's actual stages to this sort of thing?"

She laughed at his almost-serious question. "Just wait till you meet my father," she added as she kissed him lightly, before going back to bed. She left before she could see the quiet panic show on his face.

As he cleaned up afterward, he took a look in the mirror to gauge the condition of the old bite mark. To his surprise, he noticed that he was starting to show pale red marks along the back of his neck and his torso...marks left by fingers and hands pressing in too tightly. He'd felt it at the time, but his mind had been focused elsewhere. A couple were sore enough that they might turn into bruises, and he feared what Buffy would do if she knew.

She was waiting for him as he came back to bed, the shirt discarded on the floor with the rest of the clothes. Spike slid in under the covers, making sure his back was out of view. Her arms pulled him close, her strength obvious but gentle, and he waited for her to fall asleep before he let his fatigue reclaim him into a dreamless slumber.



 

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