“This sucks.  Sucks sucks SUCKS,” Buffy grumbled, pouting at her fingernails as she sat back on her heels.  Her hands were caked with grime and dirt, and the one perfect nail she’d been cherishing for weeks was now hanging by a thread.  She whimpered.  “I have no luck.  Luck has abandoned me, and I am now completely jinxed.  Stupid vampires.”

She ripped the nail off, wincing, but gamely drove her hands back into the churned soil in front of her.  It was a rookie mistake, she knew, but her mind had been on other things.  So when the newly-turned vamp had started digging his way out of his coffin, she’d mistimed her reaction; of course, staking too soon resulted in a bizarre phenomenon.  Only known to the lucky few, she bitterly noted to herself.  The vamp dusted, the stake fell into the ground, and then all of the displaced earth?  Right on top.  And that was why she was currently stuck on her hands and knees in the cemetery, trying to extract one tiny piece of wood from the grave’s ruins.  She sighed again as she started to get beyond elbow-level, straightening up to strip off her overcoat. 

The night was much cooler than most, making her skin rise up in gooseflesh as it came in contact with the slight breeze rustling through the graveyard.  This was one of the more minor Sunnydale graveyards, by comparison, but also one of Buffy’s personal favorites.  She’d had some of her best patrols with Angel through here, memories that were oddly sweetened by the fact that she hadn’t seen him in years.  It was nice to go back to that place in her mind, when she had felt so safe.  Protected loved by Angel at any cost.  Her mother waiting at home with an old movie.  Her friends at the library, excited by the newest monster or out at the Bronze.  Giles.  Giles anytime.  She felt her throat closing up and took a deep breath, blinking, pushing the emotions away.

The difficult memories came a lot, lately.  She’d been in such shock after the entire Glory-fallout, and then suddenly having to cope with – well, everything, it seemed – the whole weight of life was only now impressing itself on her.  She hadn’t noticed at first, it was so gradual.  Slowly feeling more tired, more worn-down.  Everything reminded her of something unfinished – or finished too soon. 

For instance – Joyce.  Windlawn Cemetery had become quite a hangout for a while, once the vamps figured out that Buffy hated mixing business with family.  She hadn’t meant to create such a blatant loophole; it had just happened.  Something seemed so wrong about staking and slaying right next to her mother’s tombstone.  Like throwing it in her face, somehow – “Look, Mom, I’m not a normal girl at all!  I’ve gotten even weirder!  Sorry about the slime!” 

But those kind of emotional allowances were the ones that got you killed.  It had been a mistake, and she had fixed it in one violent raid, Xander in tow.  Of course, she’d also spent the entire following day at her mother’s grave, talking quietly, hoping that her mother couldn’t tell the difference between her words and her emotions.  She’d put on a brave face, but inside?  Inside she was dying.  And she didn’t know what to do about it.

She shook her head, returning to easier thoughts.  No, this could be a good graveyard.  Small and contained, and bathed in moonlight it looked mystical.  Something out of Shakespeare, or as close to Shakespeare as Buffy had ever come.  It was one of the old ones, with family plots dating back into the 1700s.  She didn’t get the chance to come here much, but she made the most of these nights. 

It was lovely, really.  She’d come here about once a month, on a beautiful night, dressed in something that made her feel pretty.  And then she’d kill something.  All in all, a nice night out.

But tonight was obviously not one of those nights.  “Needle in a haystack,” she muttered, lying flat on the grass, her entire arm plunged into the ground.  Stupid stake.  Anywhere else, she’d just leave the damn thing.  It was procedure and everything!  Stake falls in an unreachable place (or somewhere that would ruin her outfit), she just let it go.  Kids whittle sticks all the time, right?  But there’s an entirely different twist to finding a disturbed grave, shattered coffin and a splinter of carved wood.  Even the Sunnydale police might figure that one out.

Suddenly, her fingers brushed against something solid.  “Finally!” she breathed, dislodging the stake with a sharp tug.  Her arm came out of the ground streaked with mud, all the way up to her shoulder; she looked down at her t-shirt warily.  Yup, big ol’ clumps of dirt, allll over.  Crap.  She shook off as much soil as she could before pulling the coat back on.  She could still feel tiny bits of sand grating against her skin.

“Well, isn’t this just perfect,” she said to herself.  Covered in dirt, out on one of the coldest spring nights she could remember, when she could be home watching TV with Dawn.  Curled up, teasing each other, Xander not being worried, maybe they’d crank-call Dawn’s boyfriend or something…

“All of which would be REALLY NICE right now!”  Silence.  As usual, no one else was around to answer her.  She kicked one last clod of earth back on top of the grave before walking towards the cemetery gates, a slow, loose-jointed walk that was more of a mosey than anything else.  It gave her time to think before she got to Clem’s. 

And she’d need the time.  She buried her face in her hands, groaning.  She must be insane, that’s the only explanation.  She was so aware that her mother would’ve hated what Buffy had become after her death.  The way she’d treated him, humiliated him, outright used him.  And then, when it had all come apart, when Spike had finally snapped… Her stomach clenched, guiltily.  Willow would call it Stockholm Syndrome or something, she was sure.  Then again, Buffy thought uncharitably, Willow mind-wiped her girlfriend and was forgiven - so wasn’t that a double-standard?

It didn’t matter, she realized.  No one else matters.  She wanted to see Spike – talk to him, remember him.  Remind herself of him.  It was confusing – her memories of Spike had gotten all mixed up with everyone else’s opinions and biases.  She needed to figure him out again, because she thought she’d had him down…

“Babbling.”  She shook her head.  “When did it all get so mixed up?”  Her voice sounded weak in her ears, and she straightened.  No good to broadcast her weaknesses to the ENTIRE world, she guessed.  She picked up her pace, marching out of the cemetery gates and starting off in the direction of Clem’s crypt.  The longer she put it off, the more messy it would get in her head.  So she put it all aside, straightened her shoulders and began the cross-town trek to see Clem, murmuring as she went.

“Clem, is Spi...”  No.  “If you see…”  No.  “Hey, bud!  Guess who’s back in…” Oh, god…

Xander stayed on the couch for a good half-hour after Buffy left, barely watching the television flicker, his mind moving in frantic circles.  Each scenario he imagined was more gruesome, each one more devastating.  And in every one, all he could do was stand back and watch.  Helpless.  Absolutely powerless until it was time to pick up the pieces – if there were any pieces left at all.  A far cry from the daydreams he used to have; the ones where he was the hero, able to swoop in, save the day.  No.  Now all he could do was wait, and watch.  And feel helpless. 

Of course, there were also other things to deal with… he walked to the doorjamb and spoke quietly.

“Dawn, you can come down now.”

A nearby sigh confirmed his suspicions, and he walked to the foot of the stairs to watch Dawn uncurl herself from her post at the top of the stairs.  She began to haul Fugly down with her, thought better of it and tossed the quilt into the hall behind her.  She was walking without difficulty, he saw, just favoring her ankle a bit.  He waited until she got to the bottom before gesturing her into the living room, where she immediately curled into a ball at the far end of the couch.  His heart twisted a little when he saw how much younger she seemed, just in these few motions.  He sat on the other end of the couch, his body turned towards her, waiting for her to speak first.

“How did you know I was still there?” She shifted a little to ask, peering at him through a curtain of hair.

He smiled.  “Ah, easy.  I didn’t hear you fall up the last few steps.  You know, your usual pattern?  Step, step, step, THUNK!”  He mimed as he spoke, and Dawn allowed a small smile through the hair that fell across her face.  Xander grinned back.

“Well, ankle, hello.”  But there was something else on her mind, thought Xander.  Sure enough, she began to fidget with the piping on the couch cushion, a very familiar Dawn-trait.  It meant that she was trying to phrase something correctly in her head, and Xander knew enough to wait her out.

“That whole thing was about Spike, right?”

Xander flipped through a magazine on the coffee table.  “Yeah, part of it.”

“Oh.” 

Xander glanced over at her.  “I’m sorry that you had to hear that, though.”

Dawn tossed the pillow back on the couch.  “I’m not six, Xander, and you’re not actually my parents.  I can take the arguing, but I’m telling you – lay off the Spike thing.”

Xander winced.  “Dawn, I know you like him, but..”

She cut him off. 

“Xander, I should be pretty pissed off at you right now,” Dawn said, her expression frank.  “You were a total jerk this morning, and SO rude to Spike, and I pretty much thought you sucked until Buffy came home.”

Xander slumped further into the couch.  “What changed your mind?” he asked dully.

Dawn shrugged.  “Buffy said that I should lay off.  Trust me, I was in full rant when I first saw her, and she had to talk me down from quite the high horse.  But she did, and so I’m not mad.”  She leaned forward, angling so that he had to look at her.  “Xander, she said that the Spike thing was between you and her.”

Xander’s heart lifted.  Oh, thank god, at least she admitted that there was an issue to be faced!  But Dawn wasn’t through.

“Then again, Spike and Buffy have a thing of their own going on.”  She raised her eyebrows at him.  “And THAT has nothing to do with US.”

Xander looked away.  He tossed the magazine onto the table, and it thumped – a little louder than he’d meant, actually.  He thought of explaining that to Dawn, but really wasn’t in the mood.  If she wanted to think he was in a huff, fine.  This day had been too long already.

“So you and Buffy had a good time this afternoon?” he changed subjects wearily, earning a suspicious look from Dawn.  “Get to talk, trash the house, all those good things?”

“Well, we talked about you and Spike.”  She glared to remind him that she wasn’t through with that particular discussion.  Then her forehead creased.  “And I was kind of worried about her being mad at me,” she admitted.  “I mean, the Spike thing, the plane thing, the hospital thing – any one of the above would usually earn a lecture, but I think I overloaded her so much that she’d just grateful I’m not dead.  Or something.”

“Or something,” Xander agreed.  He paused.  “So how was she with all that... stuff?”

“You mean the fact that I brought Spike home?”  Xander nodded slightly, staring at the table.  “She’s – confused, I think.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Dawn rolled her eyes.  “No, it’s more than that.”  She struggled to explain.  “She didn’t get to really think about what happened with Spike - it happened, and then he was gone.  For two YEARS.  No contact, no nothing.”  She pulled her knees up to her chest, her hip popping audibly.  Xander looked at her and winced.

“My psych teacher would call it ‘lack of closure’, but I think it goes farther than that… Buffy’s not exactly normal, Xander.”

He groaned.  “So everyone keeps on saying, but why give up the dream?  I’m all for a pursuit of picket-fenced happiness, and Spike?  Not part of the sunny equation.”

Dawn scowled at him.  “Like she’s had the choice, you idiot!  Have you even MET the other boyfriends she’s had?”

“Hey!  I liked Riley!  Angel, not so much, but at least he didn’t try to force himself on her…”

She interrupted him brusquely.  “Oh, what, we’re going with SUCCESS RATE, now?  ‘Cause he left on his own, Xander, unlike others I could mention who had to get clocked with a desk and locked in a cage.  In fact, he comes in a distant second in the persistence stakes.”

Xander spun to face her.  “What?  Who told you about that?”

Dawn snorted.  “Buffy, duh.  And if I could remind you of some finer past-relationship traits,” she added, ticking the points off on her fingers, “We’ve got a psychotic murderer who tortured, raped and killed, not to MENTION told her she was a bad lay at the age of 17; some asshole who pursued her, used her, then dropped her; Riley the wonderboy, who cheated on her, with VAMPIRES no less; and then we’ve got Spike.”  She paused, stumped.

“Who tried to rape her,” Xander supplied.

Dawn winced, plowing ahead nonetheless.  “But see, Buffy wouldn’t say that.  She won’t deny it, because all of you are gung-ho about this Spike Is Evil kick, but to me?  She doesn’t say rape.  There’s something else going on there, I don’t know what, but she thinks that it’s not all his fault.”

“Oh, and that’s real healthy.”

“I don’t CARE what you think, Xander!”  Dawn exploded, jumping off the couch to tower over him.  “And neither should she!  Because while you’re being all PC and feminista and whatever the hell you think you’re doing, she’s got something else going on inside of her.  Something you’re not listening to, something you’re making her bury and it’s eating at her.  She’s not well – have you noticed that?”

The sudden change in tone startled him.  “Yeah, she’s been a little down lately…”

“More than down.”  She paced.  “Do you think the forced-perkiness didn’t come through on the phone?  I know her better than that.”  Her breath was catching in her throat, and her eyes glinted as she spun to look at him again.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her, Xander.  I should know, and I should be able to fix it, because I’m her sister and that’s how it works.  But … I DON’T.”  The last word came out in a sob.  Dawn folded her arms around herself, angrily fighting for control.

“Dawnie…”  Xander stood to go to her, and she stepped back quickly.

“No, don’t hug me yet.”  He let his arms fall to his sides.

“I can talk to her.  I can listen to her.  I can threaten Spike, and I have,” she insisted, “And I can do the same thing to you.”  The tears dried up before they could fall, and the sheer determination blazed on her face. 

“She wants to see Spike, and that might help her.  So she gets to see Spike.”  She spoke evenly, having gotten back in control.  “She doesn’t want you involved in it – so you won’t be.  And I swear, Xander, I will bodily throw myself in between her and anything that’s hurting her.  Because… something’s hurting her.  And I don’t know what it is, so I’ll just protect her from anything I can.”

Xander watched as the tension left her, the stiff lines and angles softening, the relief on her face as she finally said what she needed to.  He half-smiled at her sadly.

“I guess we feel pretty much the same on that count – I’ve just been doing it wrong, hunh?”  Dawn looked at him, confused.  Mentally, she reviewed her words… and yeah, she could see how he was in the same boat.  He was trying to protect Buffy too.  She bit her lip hesitantly.

Xander saw the indecision and reached one arm out to her.  “I know I go overboard sometimes, and she opens up to you more than me… so, want to try it together?”  He shrugged self-consciously.  “You rein me in, I’ll back you up if she starts pulling big-sister rank?”

Dawn nodded, sniffing, and smiled.  She crossed the few steps between them and curled into his chest; he couldn’t help but notice that she was quickly gaining on him in height.  He pressed his cheek against her hair and chuckled into her ear.

“Y’know, you’re the only woman in my life who can actually put her head on my shoulder?”  Dawn laughed against him weakly.  She sniffed again, harder.

“Yeah, we’re surrounded by midgets,” she replied.  One of her hands came up to rub at her cheek.  “I’ve cried too much this week – my eyes are all stingy.”

“Gotta put a stop to that, then.”

“Yeah.”

They stood there for a few more moments before Dawn pulled away.  She swayed a little on her feet, and Xander grabbed her before she could topple.  They both laughed awkwardly.

“Dude – I’m just not cut out for these emotional things,” groaned Dawn, limping back to the couch.

“Ah, shame,” Xander intoned sadly.  “I was planning on watching the Indian channel for a bit, get some high Bollywood drama in, but if you’re too fragile…”

Dawn grinned.  “Oh, whatever!  It’s exactly what the doctor ordered.”  She reconsidered.  “Well, that and mac and cheese.”

“I’m cooking you dinner now?  Outrageous hussy!”

“Opportunistic hussy,” Dawn corrected.  She curled up on the couch again as Xander grabbed the remote and flicked through the channels.  He had work in the morning – early, she remembered, but he was planning to stay up and watch Indian movies with her for the next few hours?  She suspected they both had the same idea in mind, and she ventured to say it out loud.

“So... we’re staying up until she gets home, right?”

“You betcha, missy.” Xander answered over his shoulder, not even pausing before he made his way to the kitchen.

Dawn settled back into the cushions happily.  The crying jag had sucked, and she really hoped that it wouldn’t become a recurring theme, but at least she and Xander had straightened some things out.  And now, instead of Buffy fighting Xander, or hiding stuff from him, she could relax.  Which could be nothing but good, in Dawn’s opinion.  Buffy could go out and save the world.  Dawn would just stay here, behind the scenes, and quietly save Buffy. 

After all, she mused.  A sister’s got to be good for something.

“Layla!  Layla…?”  Buffy called, peering around the door of the crypt.  She tiptoed in hesitantly.  “Or Clem?  I’ll take a Clem, if he’s around…”

“Buffy!”  She jumped in shock as Clem suddenly materialized behind her.  His face fell into a guilty expression as she gasped, trying to regain her breath.

“God, Clem!  Not to criticize, it’s your place and everything, but the sneaking up on people?  Not good!”

Clem shut the door behind her, holding three squirming kittens in his arms.  “Sorry!  These little guys just keep trying to make a break for it, and I always find them pawing around the door, so I’m always behind it…”  He grinned.  “You should’ve seen Layla’s reaction one day!  Cheetos EVERYWHERE!”

“Bet the cats loved that,” Buffy smiled.  She wasn’t a frequent visitor, but came often enough that the cats recognized her scent.  She quickly recognized some of her personal favorites winding around her feet and cautiously made her way over to a bench, stepping delicately so as not to crush any tails.  “Is Layla around?  I was at the market, I got her some maraschino cherries…”

“Oh, no, she’s in Tuscon this week,” Clem said apologetically.  “That’s so nice, though – I’m sure she’d’ve appreciated the thought.”  He gave up his kitten struggle and set them down on the floor, where they instantly vanished into a feline sea.  He sighed.

“No biggie, Clem, it’s not like they go off – ooh, and I got you Pringles, too.”  She reached into the plastic bag and drew out the chips and cherries, handing them to the excited demon.

“How did you know?  I JUST ran out of these… ooh, Texas Barbeque, a fine vintage.”  He gleefully pottered over to the cabinet in the corner.  Buffy reached down to pick up her favorite cat, a jet-black manx, and thrilled in the deep thrumming purr he let out at her touch. 

“Hi, Rune!  Yeah, I missed you, too.”  She allowed him to settle in her lap as Clem waded towards her again, delighted that the cat had remembered her.  Clem eyed her shopping bag warily as the cats began to swarm, intrigued.

“Ah, Buffy?  Is there anything important in there?” 

Buffy glanced down at the bag.  It was being batted by one of the sassier tabbies.  “Nah, don’t worry, it’s only waffle mix.  Not something they’d want.”  She scrunched her face up at Rune, scratching his forehead.  “And even if you did, the cardboard packaging would defeat you, isn’t that right?”  She sighed in sympathy, cradling the cat.  “Oh, but for opposable thumbs, you could take over the world.  Evilly, I’m sure.  And I don’t think I’d have the heart to slay ya.”  Rune looked at her appraisingly.

“I’m not so sure about the cardboard thing, Buffy – they’re pretty crafty.”  Clem watched another cat prodding at the plastic shopping bag for a moment before taking it and hanging it up on a hook.  “You should see some of the plans they come up with.”

Buffy snorted, setting Rune on the ground.  “Oh, go ahead and call them ‘plots’ – it sounds more evil-mastermindy.”  She looked around the crypt brightly.  “So – how have you two been doing?”

Clem beamed.  “Great, great!  Layla just got a promotion at the travel agency, we fixed up the basement, so it’s going real well.”  He paused, looking vaguely uncomfortable, before stumbling on.  “And you guys?  Doing good?”

Buffy hesitated a little, worried about the pause.  Clem wasn’t the best liar – her mind made a completely unwarranted leap, and she wondered if he had another woman around.  But she quickly shrugged the thought off.  Stupid – Layla was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and Clem knew it.  She smiled. 

“Yeah, everything’s cool.  Xander’s doing work for some pretty important people, and I just got a week off from the bank – Dawn’s home for a bit, too, which is really nice.”  She smiled involuntarily, and Clem grinned back at her.

“Aww – she’s such a sweet girl, tell her to come around any time.  Haven’t seen enough of her lately.”  He caught himself.  “You, either, though – I mean, haven’t seen enough of either of you, but you probably haven’t seen enough of each other, so…”  He stopped, confused.  Buffy laughed.

“We missed you too, Clem.  You should come over one night.”  And having gotten the pleasantries out of the way, Buffy realized that she’d better get to the point before they settled into an awkward silence.

“Okay.  Clem.”  She took a breath.  “Someone else came into town today, with my sister, and I was kind of hoping that you…”

“Oi, Clem!  Is that Layla?”

The voice that echoed up from the basement was unmistakable, and Buffy shot to her feet, causing the cats around her to yowl in alarm.  Just as startled by the feline chorus, she collapsed back onto the seat, looking at Clem in shock.  He waved his hands helplessly, guilt all over his face.

“I’m sorry!  I thought he’d be down there longer, I didn’t know this would be a thing…” he whispered.  He perked up hopefully.  “You could take off!  He’ll never know - I’ll tell him he heard the television, the Spanish channel’s got lots of talky women…”

“No, that’s dumb!”  hissed Buffy.  Clem looked hurt.  “I mean, it’s not dumb, it’s a really good idea that I would follow in a second – but if I do it, he’ll know and then I’ll feel really dumb and it is just WAY too late now, so I’m going to have to … Hey!”

Spike gaped at her from the top of the ladder.  He must have just come from the shower, she guessed – his hair was wet, and though he was wearing his jeans and boots, his chest was still bare.  He seemed to realize this the same moment she did, and made a strangely chaste motion by holding the sweater in his hand against himself. 

“Oh, god, sorry – and Hi.”  He was completely flustered, caught between putting on his sweater and climbing the rest of the ladder.  Quickly realizing that a certain order was required, he slipped up the rest of the ladder and in one fluid movement yanked the sweater over his head.  He retreated to the far side of the ladder, briskly running his hands through his hair to shed the extra water.  “Right.  Hi.”  He paused awkwardly, his weight on one foot, nodding to himself.

Clem stepped into the breach timidly.  “If you guys want to talk, I can go somewhere else for a while…”

“No, that’s not a problem!” Buffy said instantly, almost running over Spike’s exclamation of “Not getting run out of your own home, you’re not!”  They looked at each other and ducked their heads.

Clem’s eyes darted between them.  He winced exaggeratedly.  “Okay.  Well, I’m not really the conflict-resolution kind of guy, that’s much more Layla’s thing, so I’m going to feed the cats and then…” he fished, “…do something else.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Spike shrugged.  “Thanks for the shower, Clem.  I’ll talk to you later.”  He began to make his way to the door.

“Okay, well – come back when you need to,” Clem offered, shooting the pair one more hunted look before disappearing into the basement, cats yowling down after him.  Buffy realized that Spike was about to run off, and just as suddenly realized that she actually did want to talk to him.  Quickly, she spit something out.

“I guess he really is going for food – they seem to know it,” she said as Spike passed her.  He turned and she gestured to the trapdoor, which was now completely surrounded by very noisy cats.  “I’ll go deaf if I stay in here.”

Spike nodded hesitantly before holding the crypt door open for her.  Okay, Buffy thought.  We’re really going to have the talk now.  Her stomach flipped.  She distracted herself by making sure that none of the kittens, back on door duty, escaped with them.  By the time they’d managed to close the door with all parties on the correct sides, both she and Spike were giggling uncontrollably.

“Jesus – the gray one’s trying to come under the door!” chuckled Spike as a tiny paw poked between the door and the ground.  “Persistent little bugger.”

“Did you see the white one?  Total princess – all ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m not trying to escape’ and then with the CLAWS when I caught her!  Look!”  Buffy held out her hand; the thin parallel lines were just visible in the moonlight, and Spike bent down to get a closer look at them, vamping to improve his eyesight. 

All at once, Buffy’s Slayer sense went insane, and she gasped – a strangled, rattled sound that caused Spike to freeze.  But once he saw the muscles and tendons of her arm react he ducked away instantly, keeping his face averted.  Something was very wrong, and for him to have been in that position and not-dusty, it wasn’t aimed at him.  It was something wrong with Buffy.  He stopped a few yards away to shake off his gameface, only looking up once his features had returned to their human cast.

Buffy was plastered against the entrance to the crypt, her eyes squeezed shut, fingers grating against the stone behind her.  Her breath was coming in shuddered gasps, racking her tiny body in convulsions that didn’t seem natural to Spike’s eye.  It took a few moments for her body to relax, the rigor to leave her joints, and when she finally opened her eyes again it was to the sight of a visibly concerned Spike.  Concerned, but keeping his distance.

“Did I do that?” he ventured, in a tone so tremulous that she almost wanted to laugh.  This had been the worst one yet, by far, and she wasn’t sure if it had something to do with her emotional connections to Spike or what, but she felt as though she’d run a marathon.  Without slayer strength.  She shook her head.

“No.  Well, yes, but not really.  I think it’s a one-time thing,” she said, wincing as the tips of her fingers began to burn, worn red against the door.

“God, Buffy – I could go back in,” he suggested, then thought again when he saw three little paws under the door.  “Or I could go to the park, or…”  He stopped desperately.  “I’ll go wherever you tell me to go.  I have a van, I could go there, it wouldn’t be a problem, it’s sunproofed.”  He trailed off.  The merits of the van weren’t so important, really, and all he wanted to do was leave her be.

“No,” she breathed.  Her eyes were too bright, and she seemed embarrassed by her weakness.  “No, you can go wherever you want.  I’m fine with that.  But I have to go now.”  She pushed herself away from the crypt and began to walk off into the night.   But her stride was tight and sore, her shoulders stiffly fixed in an odd manner.

Hell, thought Spike.  She’ll get killed in a second, moving like that.  He jogged towards her, stopping about ten feet away.  “Buffy?”

She turned to look at him – no reaction like last time, at least, but he didn’t think she had the energy to do that again.  As it was, she barely looked able to stand.  “Yeah?” 

“If you want, I could walk that way.”  He made a vague motion in the direction of Revello, and Buffy nodded, smiling faintly.

“That would be fine, too,” she assented, perfectly aware that he was keeping an eye on her, though neither would admit it. 

He settled into an abbreviated lope parallel to her, trying to shorten his stride circumspectly.  She noticed, of course, but he was pretending that everything was normal.  He was looking around animatedly, like a tourist on vacation, and she bit back a smile.  She remembered this Spike.  She knew it was only a facet of the whole, and she’d have to relearn some of the other aspects, too… but this was good, for now. 

TBC

The laugh was soft and thin, almost too weak to cross the distance between them.  But it was there, the first sound passed between them since Buffy had allowed him to walk her home.  Well, to accompany her home – moments after agreeing to his company, she had promptly ignored him.  Hadn’t spoken, hadn’t looked his way… and Spike wasn’t about to push his luck.

He shot a concerned glance over at the slayer, but she was gazing off into the distance – whatever had made her giggle so faintly must have been in her head.  Nothing to do with him.  Nothing he could share.  Right, then.  He tried to focus on something else.

At least her mobility had improved since her seizure; she was now walking normally, though he was painfully aware of every flinch and twinge that flared up.  Her reactions and instincts were still off, he realized.  They were beyond off – she’d always been - well, aware that he was around.  But she hadn’t bothered to look at him since they left the crypt.  

For a brief moment, Spike entertained the thought that it could be a sign.  She might still trust him, believe that he would watch her back.  But he couldn’t hold that delusion for long – truly, she wouldn’t have noticed a truck barreling down on her in this state.

So he shadowed her, never getting closer than ten feet, trying to give her space while keeping an eye out for trouble.  After all, she was doing nothing of the sort.

They’d walked in silence for ten minutes, and Spike was just beginning to get used to the sounds of Sunnydale at 3 AM.  The residential streets were dark and quiet, a hushed time that drifted between the depths of night and the coming dawn.  The stillness was eerie, and Spike tried to remember if it had felt so mystical before.  Had it been special at all?  Or just a time when it was easier to find prey, when every footfall seemed to echo twice as loud as any other time of day?   

Now, walking through the streets of Sunnydale, it seemed important that he remember these things.  Buffy’s steps pierced the silence in staccato bursts, the heels of her boots rapping sharply against the tarmac.  Would people in their houses hear the rhythm of slayer steps and dream?  Had the sound lulled them into a sounder sleep, year after year, an entire town subconsciously realizing that the night was safer with the light echoes of Buffy’s heels…

“You’re not real.”

For a moment, Spike was completely disoriented.  Buffy hadn’t turned to speak; in fact, she was turned so that he couldn’t see her face in full.  But the dazed look on her face, he odd lilt to her words… Concerned, he angled to get a better look at her expression.

“This just doesn’t feel real.”  She was smiling a little.  That worried Spike even more.

“It is real, though…” he interjected slowly, increasing his pace so he drew abreast of Buffy’s slow walk.  He halved the distance between them, putting her almost within arm’s reach.  The last thing the Slayer needed was to lose her moorings again.  Especially now, when odd things were happening.

“No, not that.” Buffy chuckled lowly to herself, the strange smile lingering.  She stopped in the middle of the street, a wondering look on her face.  She turned to him, and he froze.

“I’m just saying – I’m weak, it’s the middle of the night, Dawn’s back in Sunnydale and hurt to boot, and YOU’RE here after vanishing for two years…”  She laughed again, and Spike suddenly knew what set him on edge.  The tone of her laughter was half-helpless.  And the other half was bordering on hysteria.

“Buffy, love,” he murmured, cautiously edging closer to her.  He flinched when she recoiled from him, her arms flying up in a wild gesture and a tight giggle escaping her throat.

“No!  I’m all right!  I’m all right,” she insisted, her wrists resting over her head in an oddly coquettish gesture.  But her eyes were bright and her voice too gay; she herself seemed to know it, and she visibly reined in her behavior.  She scowled briefly.

“I’m fine.”  A long breath, a moment to collect herself.  She wasn’t as good as she thought – the laughter bubbled up unwanted, a smile that tugged and tore.  She would not panic, no.  But she wasn’t going to be able to hold it all in. 

Backing away from Spike onto a lawn, she clumsily tripped over a low wall and sat down with a thump.  The jolt made her bite her tongue hard, the sharp shock distracted her enough to dampen her hysteria.  She breathed, deep and cleansing breaths that drew Spike to her like a moth to flame, though he didn’t dare touch.  He stopped at a safe distance and waited.  Waited for his world to pull herself back together.

“It’s like a nightmare,” she finally said.  She looked up at him as she spoke, calm and clear, the laughter no longer edged with madness.  He relaxed a little.

“Life?”

“No, life was going pretty well,” she sighed, grinning.  Her arms wrapped around her torso loosely, her hair tumbled across one shoulder, and Spike found himself smiling back for no reason at all.  She snorted.

“I had Dawn away from the Hellmouth, at a place where she could make friends who wouldn’t suddenly go all Narnia on her.  I can pay for the house, Xander’s been backing me on patrols, work’s…” she paused, pursing her lips.  “Oookay, once I can slay Neil, work’ll be great.  But everything was going pretty damn smoothly, as far as Sunnydale life goes.  I’d finally figured out how it works.  And now?  Incredible!”

She threw her hands up air, laughing in an exasperated manner, and thrust both hands through her hair, hard.  For a moment, the skin on her face stretched, and Spike was reminded of a skull.  It unnerved him. 

Still absorbed in her monologue, Buffy didn’t notice him flinch.

She leaned back on her hands, head tilted back to gape at the stars.  Her words echoed oddly as she said them, her unusual posture causing entire sentences to disappear in seas of vowels.  She giggled from time to time, her eyes trained on the skies, her throat long and white in the moonlight, framed by brown hair.  Spike stayed absolutely still and listened.

“It’s like every dream I ever had, every nightmare I’ve gotten in the past two years – all of them are here in one day!  Dawn’s got something wrong with her and we don’t know why – the exact reason I got her the hell out of this place!”  She suddenly caught her own pun and sniggered weakly.  “Hah – hell out of here.  Damn.”  Then it was back to the sky, her heels kicking idly at the gravel by her feet. 

“And a plane crash… That’s so mundane, considering.  She got hurt, you were there, you came back with her,” she mused.  “It’s totally surreal.  Everything I’ve spent the past two years planning, hiding, saving for – poof.  Gone in one day.”

Spike opened his mouth to say something, anything, but she wasn’t ready to stop.

“And tonight?  Oh, tonight was just classic.  Not only do you show up when I’m not expecting to see you, but then I have a freak-out while you’re standing there!”  She barked another laugh, this one more bitter.  Her head snapped down, her eyes fixing him in place.  “Do you have any idea how much time we’ve spent keeping this thing from the underworld Sunnydale population?  How much time it took to cover up every. Damn. Episode?  And why?  Because of you!”

Spike’s mouth snapped shut as his entire body tensed.  She heard the click of teeth and laughed again.

“I know!  Shocking, isn’t it?  We kind of thought you might come back with Dru in tow or something…”  Suddenly, she jerked completely upright, an eager look on her face.  “Is she here?  Is that the plan?  Because we’re wide open to you right now, you know.  No Willow, Dawn’s not going to be able to outrun you, Xander’s gotten better with some of the weapons – but he’s kind of a traditional guy at heart, usually goes for stakes and the water…” She leaned towards him conspiratorially, eyes glinting sharply.  “And me?  Well, you could take me out in a second, I’m weak as a kitten right now, couldn’t slay to save my life…” she paused briefly, considering.  “So you haven’t done it yet – is it ‘cause you’re going to turn me?  I just want in on the plan before …”

It was too much.  “Bloody hell, Slayer!”  He cut her off, disgusted, furious.  She watched as he paced, wanting to shake sense into her but keeping his distance.  He kept wincing, she noticed.  It seemed to be an unconscious gesture, as though his mind had touched upon something sore and caused him to pull away.  They stared at each other, Buffy emotionless, Spike awaiting the next blow.

“We thought you’d come back sooner.”  She was quiet, the steely glint gone.  Just calm.  She shrugged.  “We thought you’d be back to kill me, actually, but we thought you’d be back.  And you weren’t.  After that night in my house, you just – left.”  She stared at him, unreadable.  “You left, Spike.” 

He’d left, after almost breaking her, and hadn’t cared to pick up any of the pieces.  The realization that leaving had hurt her almost as much as throwing her to the floor, against the tub… the thick, dull sound of her slamming against the ceramic rattled in his brain, and he flinched.  Buffy caught his eye for just a moment, and then he watched her gaze drop, stray strands of hair tumbling down to cover her face in a way that reminded him of Dawn. 

Like Dawn.  Spike closed his eyes as the realization rushed in on him.  The woman he thought he’d known, the fierce and cruel lover, the warrior, the girl who was loyal to all she loved – there was nothing he could say to fix it.  He had damaged her on a level that had nothing to do with Slayers or Hellmouths, a betrayal far more hurtful than an apocalyptic scheme.

He couldn’t ask for forgiveness.  It wasn’t up to him, no matter what poetry and reasoning he managed to produce, no matter what metaphysical miracles he lay before her.  He could only lay himself bare and hope for the best.

She was perched on the garden wall, head down, fingers gently tracing the patterns of stone beside her.  One leg curled up to her chest, elegant, the moon bathing everything in a silver glow.  Deadly in her beauty.  Outside of himself, she was the only judge he could accept.  Tonight, he would bear any verdict she had to give, without posturing or pretense.  The punishment would be accepted, whatever it might be. 

Voice rumbling low with regret and shame, he spoke, hoping to convey his roiling emotions in the simple words. 

“I’m so sorry, Buffy.”    

Buffy’s head lifted slowly, almost drowsily.  Every line of her body was heavy with fatigue, but not relaxed.  Just worn.  Spike’s heart sank.  He had broken too much, hadn’t said the right thing – she was still burdened.

Her face didn’t contain the anger he was almost hoping for, none of the punishing fury, the utter disgust, the life.  He’d been prepared for that maelstrom; to weather it or to die in it, whatever she decreed.  But what her face held for him destroyed him more than any tirade ever could.

She smiled. 

A slow, regretful smile that had originated in grief and pain.  A wry twist to it that told him of the times she’d imagined this meeting – and how bittersweet the reality was proving to be.  Hours of wondering, of replaying that moment, of trying to see where it had all gone wrong.  Of burying the tortured feelings so deeply that no one could unearth them.  Not even him. Not even her.  And now, sitting on a wall in the dead of morning with the scent of dew beginning to tinge the air, she presented him with the finished package.  Pain and loss, confusion and fear, buried so deep that not even she could touch it anymore.

She smiled and shrugged, saddened eyes never leaving his face, and simply breathed:  “Oh.”

Because it was too late, Spike realized.  All of those precious moments that she had wavered, all of those times she had wanted to scream and rail, to make him break under the weight of his sin, to make him hurt in places he’d thought were long dead – they had passed while he was gone.  One betrayal had hurt her, but the second had lost her forever.  He had left her, and she had mended herself in his absence.  He’d given her no choice.

For once, there was nothing to say.

The laugh was soft and thin, almost too weak to cross the distance between them.  But it was there, the first sound passed between them since Buffy had allowed him to walk her home.  Well, to accompany her home – moments after agreeing to his company, she had promptly ignored him.  Hadn’t spoken, hadn’t looked his way… and Spike wasn’t about to push his luck.

He shot a concerned glance over at the slayer, but she was gazing off into the distance – whatever had made her giggle so faintly must have been in her head.  Nothing to do with him.  Nothing he could share.  Right, then.  He tried to focus on something else.

At least her mobility had improved since her seizure; she was now walking normally, though he was painfully aware of every flinch and twinge that flared up.  Her reactions and instincts were still off, he realized.  They were beyond off – she’d always been - well, aware that he was around.  But she hadn’t bothered to look at him since they left the crypt.  

For a brief moment, Spike entertained the thought that it could be a sign.  She might still trust him, believe that he would watch her back.  But he couldn’t hold that delusion for long – truly, she wouldn’t have noticed a truck barreling down on her in this state.

So he shadowed her, never getting closer than ten feet, trying to give her space while keeping an eye out for trouble.  After all, she was doing nothing of the sort.

They’d walked in silence for ten minutes, and Spike was just beginning to get used to the sounds of Sunnydale at 3 AM.  The residential streets were dark and quiet, a hushed time that drifted between the depths of night and the coming dawn.  The stillness was eerie, and Spike tried to remember if it had felt so mystical before.  Had it been special at all?  Or just a time when it was easier to find prey, when every footfall seemed to echo twice as loud as any other time of day?   

Now, walking through the streets of Sunnydale, it seemed important that he remember these things.  Buffy’s steps pierced the silence in staccato bursts, the heels of her boots rapping sharply against the tarmac.  Would people in their houses hear the rhythm of slayer steps and dream?  Had the sound lulled them into a sounder sleep, year after year, an entire town subconsciously realizing that the night was safer with the light echoes of Buffy’s heels…

“You’re not real.”

For a moment, Spike was completely disoriented.  Buffy hadn’t turned to speak; in fact, she was turned so that he couldn’t see her face in full.  But the dazed look on her face, he odd lilt to her words… Concerned, he angled to get a better look at her expression.

“This just doesn’t feel real.”  She was smiling a little.  That worried Spike even more.

“It is real, though…” he interjected slowly, increasing his pace so he drew abreast of Buffy’s slow walk.  He halved the distance between them, putting her almost within arm’s reach.  The last thing the Slayer needed was to lose her moorings again.  Especially now, when odd things were happening.

“No, not that.” Buffy chuckled lowly to herself, the strange smile lingering.  She stopped in the middle of the street, a wondering look on her face.  She turned to him, and he froze.

“I’m just saying – I’m weak, it’s the middle of the night, Dawn’s back in Sunnydale and hurt to boot, and YOU’RE here after vanishing for two years…”  She laughed again, and Spike suddenly knew what set him on edge.  The tone of her laughter was half-helpless.  And the other half was bordering on hysteria.

“Buffy, love,” he murmured, cautiously edging closer to her.  He flinched when she recoiled from him, her arms flying up in a wild gesture and a tight giggle escaping her throat.

“No!  I’m all right!  I’m all right,” she insisted, her wrists resting over her head in an oddly coquettish gesture.  But her eyes were bright and her voice too gay; she herself seemed to know it, and she visibly reined in her behavior.  She scowled briefly.

“I’m fine.”  A long breath, a moment to collect herself.  She wasn’t as good as she thought – the laughter bubbled up unwanted, a smile that tugged and tore.  She would not panic, no.  But she wasn’t going to be able to hold it all in. 

Backing away from Spike onto a lawn, she clumsily tripped over a low wall and sat down with a thump.  The jolt made her bite her tongue hard, the sharp shock distracted her enough to dampen her hysteria.  She breathed, deep and cleansing breaths that drew Spike to her like a moth to flame, though he didn’t dare touch.  He stopped at a safe distance and waited.  Waited for his world to pull herself back together.

“It’s like a nightmare,” she finally said.  She looked up at him as she spoke, calm and clear, the laughter no longer edged with madness.  He relaxed a little.

“Life?”

“No, life was going pretty well,” she sighed, grinning.  Her arms wrapped around her torso loosely, her hair tumbled across one shoulder, and Spike found himself smiling back for no reason at all.  She snorted.

“I had Dawn away from the Hellmouth, at a place where she could make friends who wouldn’t suddenly go all Narnia on her.  I can pay for the house, Xander’s been backing me on patrols, work’s…” she paused, pursing her lips.  “Oookay, once I can slay Neil, work’ll be great.  But everything was going pretty damn smoothly, as far as Sunnydale life goes.  I’d finally figured out how it works.  And now?  Incredible!”

She threw her hands up air, laughing in an exasperated manner, and thrust both hands through her hair, hard.  For a moment, the skin on her face stretched, and Spike was reminded of a skull.  It unnerved him. 

Still absorbed in her monologue, Buffy didn’t notice him flinch.

She leaned back on her hands, head tilted back to gape at the stars.  Her words echoed oddly as she said them, her unusual posture causing entire sentences to disappear in seas of vowels.  She giggled from time to time, her eyes trained on the skies, her throat long and white in the moonlight, framed by brown hair.  Spike stayed absolutely still and listened.

“It’s like every dream I ever had, every nightmare I’ve gotten in the past two years – all of them are here in one day!  Dawn’s got something wrong with her and we don’t know why – the exact reason I got her the hell out of this place!”  She suddenly caught her own pun and sniggered weakly.  “Hah – hell out of here.  Damn.”  Then it was back to the sky, her heels kicking idly at the gravel by her feet. 

“And a plane crash… That’s so mundane, considering.  She got hurt, you were there, you came back with her,” she mused.  “It’s totally surreal.  Everything I’ve spent the past two years planning, hiding, saving for – poof.  Gone in one day.”

Spike opened his mouth to say something, anything, but she wasn’t ready to stop.

“And tonight?  Oh, tonight was just classic.  Not only do you show up when I’m not expecting to see you, but then I have a freak-out while you’re standing there!”  She barked another laugh, this one more bitter.  Her head snapped down, her eyes fixing him in place.  “Do you have any idea how much time we’ve spent keeping this thing from the underworld Sunnydale population?  How much time it took to cover up every. Damn. Episode?  And why?  Because of you!”

Spike’s mouth snapped shut as his entire body tensed.  She heard the click of teeth and laughed again.

“I know!  Shocking, isn’t it?  We kind of thought you might come back with Dru in tow or something…”  Suddenly, she jerked completely upright, an eager look on her face.  “Is she here?  Is that the plan?  Because we’re wide open to you right now, you know.  No Willow, Dawn’s not going to be able to outrun you, Xander’s gotten better with some of the weapons – but he’s kind of a traditional guy at heart, usually goes for stakes and the water…” She leaned towards him conspiratorially, eyes glinting sharply.  “And me?  Well, you could take me out in a second, I’m weak as a kitten right now, couldn’t slay to save my life…” she paused briefly, considering.  “So you haven’t done it yet – is it ‘cause you’re going to turn me?  I just want in on the plan before …”

It was too much.  “Bloody hell, Slayer!”  He cut her off, disgusted, furious.  She watched as he paced, wanting to shake sense into her but keeping his distance.  He kept wincing, she noticed.  It seemed to be an unconscious gesture, as though his mind had touched upon something sore and caused him to pull away.  They stared at each other, Buffy emotionless, Spike awaiting the next blow.

“We thought you’d come back sooner.”  She was quiet, the steely glint gone.  Just calm.  She shrugged.  “We thought you’d be back to kill me, actually, but we thought you’d be back.  And you weren’t.  After that night in my house, you just – left.”  She stared at him, unreadable.  “You left, Spike.” 

He’d left, after almost breaking her, and hadn’t cared to pick up any of the pieces.  The realization that leaving had hurt her almost as much as throwing her to the floor, against the tub… the thick, dull sound of her slamming against the ceramic rattled in his brain, and he flinched.  Buffy caught his eye for just a moment, and then he watched her gaze drop, stray strands of hair tumbling down to cover her face in a way that reminded him of Dawn. 

Like Dawn.  Spike closed his eyes as the realization rushed in on him.  The woman he thought he’d known, the fierce and cruel lover, the warrior, the girl who was loyal to all she loved – there was nothing he could say to fix it.  He had damaged her on a level that had nothing to do with Slayers or Hellmouths, a betrayal far more hurtful than an apocalyptic scheme.

He couldn’t ask for forgiveness.  It wasn’t up to him, no matter what poetry and reasoning he managed to produce, no matter what metaphysical miracles he lay before her.  He could only lay himself bare and hope for the best.

She was perched on the garden wall, head down, fingers gently tracing the patterns of stone beside her.  One leg curled up to her chest, elegant, the moon bathing everything in a silver glow.  Deadly in her beauty.  Outside of himself, she was the only judge he could accept.  Tonight, he would bear any verdict she had to give, without posturing or pretense.  The punishment would be accepted, whatever it might be. 

Voice rumbling low with regret and shame, he spoke, hoping to convey his roiling emotions in the simple words. 

“I’m so sorry, Buffy.”    

Buffy’s head lifted slowly, almost drowsily.  Every line of her body was heavy with fatigue, but not relaxed.  Just worn.  Spike’s heart sank.  He had broken too much, hadn’t said the right thing – she was still burdened.

Her face didn’t contain the anger he was almost hoping for, none of the punishing fury, the utter disgust, the life.  He’d been prepared for that maelstrom; to weather it or to die in it, whatever she decreed.  But what her face held for him destroyed him more than any tirade ever could.

She smiled. 

A slow, regretful smile that had originated in grief and pain.  A wry twist to it that told him of the times she’d imagined this meeting – and how bittersweet the reality was proving to be.  Hours of wondering, of replaying that moment, of trying to see where it had all gone wrong.  Of burying the tortured feelings so deeply that no one could unearth them.  Not even him. Not even her.  And now, sitting on a wall in the dead of morning with the scent of dew beginning to tinge the air, she presented him with the finished package.  Pain and loss, confusion and fear, buried so deep that not even she could touch it anymore.

She smiled and shrugged, saddened eyes never leaving his face, and simply breathed:  “Oh.”

Because it was too late, Spike realized.  All of those precious moments that she had wavered, all of those times she had wanted to scream and rail, to make him break under the weight of his sin, to make him hurt in places he’d thought were long dead – they had passed while he was gone.  One betrayal had hurt her, but the second had lost her forever.  He had left her, and she had mended herself in his absence.  He’d given her no choice.

For once, there was nothing to say.

The new high school wasn’t cool at all, Spike decided.

Some effort had been put into it architecturally, he supposed.  A mix of Ivy League and open-plan campus had resulted in a nifty gothic feel that he could really appreciate, but after breaking into the basement and wandering the halls for an hour or so, he had to say it sucked.

The interior was much more cramped than he remembered, probably bowing to population pressures.  Each classroom was identical, with stark white walls and annoying writing-desks.  Cookie-cutter classrooms that would bore the students to tears.  The few windows usually looked out into other classrooms, and very few of those windows opened more than a few inches.  Looks like a damn institution, he thought to himself as he prowled.  Not to mention it was unbelievably complicated; he got lost three times before making it to his final destination.

The library. 

His memories of it weren’t vivid by any means; most of them were taken at a run, or when distracted by something else.  A few blurry impressions of old wood and dark corners, the brief thought that this was what a library should be like, the slightly dazed admission that this was the perfect stomping ground for a Watcher.  Of course, overlying the memory of that night was the deep humiliation of being bested by the Slayer’s axe-wielding mother.  But he remembered noting the smell of old books, the wooly scent of dust burning on the old-fashioned lamps.  It had smelled old, mysterious, wise.  Good.

It was pitch-black when he entered.   After a couple of moments groping the walls, he located a switch and was suddenly blasted with light.  Harsh fluorescence that practically blinded him, and worse, illuminated what they’d done to the place.

A circulation desk, smack in the center of the room.  Bookshelves lining the walls in an orderly fashion, split up by couches and cheap tables.  The harsh yellow light bounced off everything, making the light blue carpet glow like neon, causing the light beech of the room’s woodwork to seem orange.  Probably someone’s idea of “modern”, Spike thought.  More like his idea of “hospital waiting room”.  Or possibly a megastore in a bookseller’s chain, where you could sip a latte as you read.  He was tempted to look around for the cappuccino maker; don’t rule anything out in California.

The dimensions had changed, too.  No more interesting architectural quirks, where you could hide and think… or launch an attack, he reminded himself.  Everything was on one level, easily monitored by whoever manned the central desk.  High ceilings, but in a way that just made the place feel empty and soulless.  Giles would roll over in his grave, he thought disgustedly.  Well, he would if he were dead, but that’s nitpicking. 

The morons had gone and rebuilt in the same site, right on top of the Hellmouth, he knew.  But looking around at the almost sterile nature of the library, he doubted anything would have the strength to face this new hell on earth.  Something caught his eye, and he wandered over to find a huge display rack, full of teen magazines.  He groaned, spun and left, letting the lights blaze on.  Hopefully one of the lights would explode and burn the whole thing down.

He was glad that Dawn wasn’t at that school anymore, he decided as he walked back to Clem’s.  Suck the imagination right out of her, probably.  No wonder she’d been so eager to shoplift – after Sunnydale High, prison would seem just like school, and you wouldn’t have to do homework.  He chuckled a little at the thought.

He was so concerned with redesigning the high school that he didn’t even notice the figures shadowing him as he walked through town.  He had already turned into the alley, obliviously pondering the merits of a two-level library, when he felt someone step in behind him.

Wouldn’t be anyone but Buffy, he thought briefly.  But that made no sense – he turned quickly, planning to slide back against the wall, pull Dawn’s switchblade from his pocket…

Until he caught sight of his attacker.

Bleach-blonde and grinning, hair slicked back close to his head.  A long black duster over t-shirt and jeans and boots.  Black on black on black on black on a rangy frame, and all of it looking at him expectantly.

But the eyes were brown, the voice unmistakably southern as his doppelganger spoke.

“Welcome home, Spike.”

And then something slammed into him from behind, many somethings, wielding heavy objects that slammed into his skull painfully, battered him down through a confusing sea of thought.  Then he couldn’t think much of anything anymore.

The smell is what woke him. 

He’d been left on the concrete next to a corpse, face-to-face.  Or what used to be a face; truthfully, if it hadn’t been for the dangling earrings, Spike would have been hard-pressed to guess at the sex of the long-dead human.  From what he could see, she hadn’t died an easy death.

He tried to shift away from the mess of decomposed flesh, and that’s when he discovered the rope.  High-quality, extra-thick twine binding him from shoulders to hip, pinning his arms to his sides, his own elbows jamming uncomfortably into his ribs. 

“You’re awake.”

Spike reacted to the voice by immediately rolling and swiveling into a sitting position, ignoring the cracking sounds his body made as it contorted.  It was worth it to be able to regard his captor calmly, regain some control in this thoroughly screwed situation.  He eased himself against the wall, letting his body relax in a nonchalant pose.

The vampire across from him twitched at the movements, his hand tightening inexpertly on a stake.  He was little more than a boy, thought Spike.  Blonde and muscular, in a streamlined way that reminded Spike of a swimmer or cross-country runner.  But certainly not the leader in this situation, and also not too sure of Spike.  Spike bared his teeth.

“I’m awake, and now I’m pissed off, too,” he purred, all feral insinuation.  “Now, do you want to stake yourself, or shall I come over there and do it for you?”

The boy stiffened in panic.  “No!” 

Spike began to laugh, and the boy recovered, scowling.  He stalked to the basement staircase and hollered up.  “Spike’s awake!”

The response was almost immediate.  “We’ll be down in a sec- lemme get the boss.”

The swimmer/runner returned to his seat, watching Spike warily. 

“Boss?”  Spike put as much distaste as he could into the word.  He was surprised when the boy blanched.

“Spike, seriously – watch out.”  The kid was shaking his head, eyes wide.  He was frightened, Spike realized.  And not of him.

“Yeah, sure.”  Feet began to pound on the floor above them, and Spike gathered what dignity he could for the coming encounter. 

In better light, the resemblance wasn’t as striking.  Where Spike’s hair bleached to a platinum-white, his opponent’s was wiry, stubbornly clinging to a pigment that tinted his hair with copper tones.  He was heavier, too, some of his bulk hidden under the flowing coat.  And the face.

None of Spike’s aquiline features, no sculpted quality.  This boy was handsome in a thoroughly pedestrian way.  A deeply cleft chin, Spike noticed, and a sprinkling of freckles.  And a sleepy look on his face that didn’t seem to go away.  Heavy-lidded eyes, a hovering smile, drowsy gaze, slow movements… No, not like Spike at all.

But bound at the boy’s feet, Spike wasn’t in the mood for introspection.  This was the time to be blunt.

“Right,” he said casually.  “You look alarming.”

“Yeah, you have bad taste, but what’s a vamp to do?”  The boy didn’t seem concerned at all by the insult.  Well, at least he admitted to mimicking Spike’s clothing.  That would save some time.

“And I’ve got to say, the peroxide does nothing for you boys with the high complexion,” Spike added.  He ran his eyes over the rest of the motley crew, about seven in all, each boy looking fresh out of high school.  One or two of the boys laughed nervously, huffing noises designed to be inoffensive.  They all kept glancing at the leader, their expressions wary.  Out of this group of minions, what made the doppelganger so fearsome, wondered Spike.  He would do well to find out.

“Yeah,” shrugged the boy.  He came closer to Spike, crouching gracefully before him.  “But you want to know what the nifty thing is?”

“It brings out your eyes?” Spike asked mockingly.

The boy just smiled.  “Your little whore won’t come near me dressed like this,” he said softly.

Spike snarled, but the boy ignored him and went on.

“She’ll take one look at me and walk away, Spike.  Just walks away.  Don’t know what you did to her, but it’s turned her all pathetic.  She’s been falling down on the job, pal.”  The words were silky, purred.  The boy was enjoying himself.  “It’s a sweet deal, Spike – no Slayer to worry about, and all it took was a little makeover.”

Buffy had let him go?  Seen him from a distance and walked away?  Spike shoved the thought away, promising to sort it out later.  Right now, the boy was leaning in too close, drinking in his every expression.  Parasite.

“You’re mighty pleased with yourself,” Spike spat.  “All for being a bleeding, mimicking prat.”

The boy smiled again.  “I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘opportunistic prat’.  You’d’ve done the same in my place; don’t even bother denying it.”

Spike didn’t reply.  Something about this sleepy kid made him feel a little sick, a little nervous.  He shifted, masking his discomfort.  No use in letting the kid know he got to him.

“Uh, Kane – why is he moving?  Are those tight?”  One of the other vamps craned nervously, trying to see what Spike was doing.

Spike heard and laughed.  “CAIN?  Oh, please tell me you had that name BEFORE you were turned – it’s just too sad, otherwise.”

The boy sneered at him, for once showing emotion beyond his sleepy façade.  “Yeah, like I’d name myself after some washed-up wrestler?  Only pasty boys watch that crap.”  He pursed his lips.  “Should’ve known you’d be a fan.”  His pals laughed at the joke.

Oh, of all the bleeding idiots… “I meant Cain as in the Bible, you poof,” Spike groaned.  “Wrestler… Try the root of all evil, the fratricide?  Illiterate generation.”  This was just embarrassing now, like getting trapped by a vicious gang of preschoolers.

Though they weren’t quite sure of the insult, the kids stopped laughing.  Some of them shifted nervously, but Kane held his ground, smiling sarcastically.  “Yeah, Spike.  ‘Cause the Bible helped you out so much, back in your day.  Let’s all follow your example.” 

“Was someone else who damned me, friend,” Spike growled.  Then he added a wolfish grin.  “I’ve just done a good job working my way down through the circles of Hell.”  He was pleased with himself for just a moment, until he realized none of the boys caught the reference.  He rolled his eyes.  “And that would be Dante.  Now let me the fuck up.”

“No can do, but thanks for asking,” Kane drawled.  He stood up smoothly, the smile back in place.  He tilted his head, regarding Spike through those sleepy eyes.  Suddenly, Spike realized that Kane was copying the angle of his own head.

He resisted the urge to fidget.  “What,” he said flatly, sarcastically.  Kane jolted a little, as though startled out of a reverie, but slid right back into his languid pose.

“Nothing,” he sighed.  “Just wish I could keep you around a little longer, study a bit more.”  His forehead creased.  “If you managed to become a master vampire, it won’t be that hard for me to.”

“Bite me,” Spike snapped.  Idiot child, playing in things he could never understand.

Kane smiled.  “If I thought it would help, I would.”  It was said almost ruefully.  But the younger vamp merely shrugged and headed towards the stairs.  “I’ll be back – just need to make a couple of adjustments,” he called over his shoulder.

The rest of the clan filed out, leaving the swimmer behind again.  Spike watched the boy edge around him carefully, crouching by the stairs with the stake clutched tight.  Spike sighed in disgust and closed his eyes.

Trapped by a gang of fledglings.  Master vampire, indeed.

“So did you really kill two Slayers?”

The question came out of nowhere.  He was impressed the boy had guts to speak, actually.  Spike opened his eyes and picked the fledgling out of the darkness.

“Yeah,” he answered tiredly.  “One in China, one in New York.  Why?”

The boy edged a little closer.  “Why didn’t you kill this one?”

Spike groaned out loud.  This was the last thing he needed.  “Right, if I’m going to tell you, you’re going to have to come over here.  No way I’m shouting across the blasted basement.”  The boy hesitated.  Spike sighed and wriggled his fingers.  “Look, no hands – I’m totally tied.  Stop being a ninny.”

“Sorry.”  The kid gingerly stepped over the decomposing woman, probably the former homeowner, Spike realized.  The distaste was evident on the boy’s face as he crossed, unable to tear his eyes away from the maggots that writhed on the body.  A squeamish one, eh?  Useful to know.

“Name?”

“Hunh?  Oh, Rick.”  He settled down a couple feet away from Spike, leaning against one of the foundation posts.  Spike nodded companionably.  Might be able to turn this one to his advantage.

“Right, then, Rick.  I didn’t kill her because she’s too good.”  Too good at fighting, and that’s the way Rick would take it.  But also too good in so many other ways…  “Tried to kill her a couple of times, it didn’t take.  Death doesn’t take to that girl as a rule, actually.”

“Yeah, we kinda noticed that,” Rick admitted.  “We don’t have to worry about her because of Kane, but we’re not going after her, either.” 

“Wise,” Spike intoned.  He fidgeted, testing his bonds.  “So, what are you lot going to do with me?  Use me as bait?”

He asked hopefully more than anything; it didn’t surprise him when Rick shook his head regretfully.

“No, I think he’s gonna dust you somehow.”

Spike pressed his lips together firmly.  Time for a little force.  “Well then, Rick – you’ll be getting a taste of the Slayer sooner than you think.”

Rick stared.  “What?  Why?”

“If your pillock of a leader manages to kill me – and that’s a big ‘if’, boy – then the Slayer will come down on you like a ton of bricks.  Probably sweep you all in one night,” he breezed.  “The girl and her family like me, what can I say?  And you know how she gets when someone hurts her friends…”

Rick scoffed.  “Yeah, like you’re her friend.”

Spike just looked at him.  “You must be new or heartbreakingly stupid.  The girl owes me.”  Not completely true, but in this situation?  Some liberties could be taken with the truth.

And now for the final touch…

“Untie me and I’ll get us out of here.  It’s the only way.”

“Are you fucking nuts?”  Rick recoiled with a horrified expression.

“It’s the only way you’re going to survive this, idiot; I’m a master. I’ll get us out, and then you can go.  But you’ve got to do it now.”

But he’d underestimated the thrall with which Kane held his crew.  Rick pulled away, waving his hands helplessly.

“Look, man, I’m sorry – if I let you go, he’ll kill me.”

“And if you don’t let me go, I’LL kill you.  Later, maybe, but I’ll still kill you.  Slowly.”

Rick looked at him appraisingly for a moment, and Spike wondered if he’d managed to get through.  But no luck – the boy was shaking his head. 

“Dude, I know you’re old and experienced and everything, but he’s insane.”  Rick glanced over to the stairs and shivered.  Whatever Kane was about to do, it had the boy terrified.  There wasn’t going to be much time, either.

He tried Rick again.  “So you’re just going to let him stake me?  The Slayer’ll be after you in hours.  Not a good plan.  Untie me.”

“You don’t get it.”  Rick’s voice was flat, and he turned to stare at Spike.  “He’s crazy, but in a really scary way.  He’ll mark someone, and they won’t even know it.  Days, weeks, MONTHS later, he’ll kill them in some bizarre way.”  He shuddered.  “I think it’s what he does in his spare time – just thinks of fancy ways to kill people.  And vamps.  Anything, really.”

“You’re saying he’s a psychopath?”  Big word, not completely sure of the psychological terminology, but it seemed to fit the bill.

“I guess,” Rick shrugged.  “I’m saying he likes to kill things.  He also likes to dissect things.  Sometimes, he does it in reverse order.”

“Right.  Sounds pleasant.”  Shit.

“Yeah, he’s not someone you want to cross.”  Rick shrugged apologetically.  “I guess you just got in the way?”

“Guess so,” Spike agreed.  “Now let me go.”

Rick stood up, agitated.  “I told you!  I CAN’T.”  But something was beginning to get through to the boy, and he shuffled where he stood.  Suddenly, decisively, he leaned closer.

“Look, if I can do something for you, I will.  But I can’t do anything if I’ll get dusted.  Okay?”

“Right,” Spike said, disgusted.  Rick’s face fell as he turned away, signaling the end of the conversation.  The boy retreated back to the foot of the stairs, dejectedly playing with the stake, and Spike ignored him.  

Two years to get this far, he thought, and to get staked by some upstart.  Insane upstart, fine, but still a stupid way to go.  At the hands of someone who’d haunted Buffy, who’d kept him fresh in her mind… No, he wasn’t done here.

He’d expected them to come in the same way they’d filed out, so the sudden flood of bodies rushing down the stairs startled him.  There wasn’t much he could do as so many hands grabbed him, yanked him to the center of the basement, thrust him out to Kane like some sacrificial offering.

Which he was, in a way.

“Piss off,” he managed to spit before fingers twisted in his hair, pulled his head back so far his neck hurt.  Kane chuckled and said something he couldn’t quite make out.  The pressure on his scalp eased, and he found himself facing the smiling youngster.

“I’ll remember that, too,” Kane said easily.  He gestured to Spike’s jacket.  “And this, I’ll just be taking.  Don’t know when you decided to go all L.L. Bean, but at least I won’t have to dye my hair anymore.”  He smirked.

“Don’t bother, you’ll be dead by then.” 

“Fighting to the end – appropriate,” Kane drawled.  He reached into a pocket and, unexpectedly, pulled out a syringe.

Spike laughed.  “Planning to sedate me, then in with the stake?  Very nice, quite macho.  Prat.”

Kane smiled again, sleepily.  Spike was beginning to catch onto this; a drowsy-looking Kane was not a good thing. 

Especially when he slipped the needle into the back of Spike’s exposed hand.

At first, the pain from the needle was nothing.  Like a splinter, or getting sliced with glass.  Certainly nothing in comparison to the gradual burning sensation that paralyzed him as Kane pushed the syringe’s plunger.

“Fucking hell!” breathed Spike.  It was a small admission, considering his whole arm felt like it was in flames.  Whatever had been in that tiny vial was now bubbling through his blood, boiling, ripping him apart.  It was like a sunburn from the inside out, and only getting worse at every moment. 

Spike didn’t feel Kane withdraw the needle, tossing it into a corner.

“Feels bad, doesn’t it?” The younger vampire’s face twisted into an expression of sympathy as he waved for Spike to be set down.  Spike immediately lay out flat, desperate to stop twitching, hoping that he could stay still.  Delay the poison, whatever it was.

Kane didn’t seem concerned with Spike’s stoic silence.  He crouched down next to his victim as Spike went into a series of spasms. 

“It’s something I’ve been working on – bunch of stuff that kills vampires, but in certain ratios.  You know: holy water, garlic essence, that sort of thing.”  He chuckled.  “If I could get splinters in the syringe, I’d do that too!” 

Spike shut his eyes, barely focusing on the boy’s words.  His veins were eating him.  Every one of them screaming, dying, probably crumbling into ash.  He’d never been more aware of each part of his body in his life.  To have them all burning at once was almost unbearable.

“I’ve only tried this twice before,” Kane’s voice continued, low and whispered. His expression was dreamy, a smile lingering on his lips.  “The first one wasn’t anywhere near as old as you, though, so I don’t know how you’ll take to it.  I made it stronger for you, just in case.  Right around now, those tiny little particles are creeping through your body, dusting you from the inside out.”  His fingers wriggled, as though miming the poison’s journey.  “And the last girl?  It ate her.  Ate her until she was just a shell, and I found her days later, just where I’d left her, practically a husk.  I even brought her home, to see if she’d grow back… but she never did.  She wasn’t there at all – it was just a shell, like a snake that’s shed its skin.  Hollowed out completely.”

Kane sighed.  “So that’s what I see in your future, master-man.  And it could take you a while – she was way further gone than you are by this point.  But she screamed a lot.”  His brow creased, and for a moment he looked like a frustrated child.  “Why don’t you scream?”

Spike clenched his teeth tight, refused to look Kane in the face.  He certainly wouldn’t let the boy know that his throat had spasmed so tightly that he literally couldn’t make a sound, that his jaw had locked. That he was helpless to defend himself, even with words.

“Sorry it has to be this way, Spike.  I really am,” Kane continued.  He stood, squinting down at his victim.  “But there can’t be two of us – there can only be me.” 

He seemed to realize that Spike was beyond words at that point, turning to his cadre.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.  He’s going to take a while – I upped the dose, but I’m thinking he’ll take the rest of the day.”  Kane half-smiled, leaned back down to Spike.

“We’ll be back tonight, though, when this you’re good and hollow.  After all,” he murmured, brushing Spike’s lapel almost lovingly.  “I need your clothes.”  He sighed and straightened, then made his way to the stairs. 

“We should throw him in the corner – you know, in case someone looks in the window,” Spike heard one of the minions grumble.

“Yeah, whatever.”

He felt himself lifted roughly, then unceremoniously dumped in a cluttered pile of folders and boxes, the dead woman’s files.  He heard them leave, heavy boots clumping up the wooden stairs, the door shutting loudly and with certain finality. 

Dying like this was bitter, Spike realized.  Abandoned in a basement with a rotting corpse, wasting away, allowing a group of dumb fledglings to get the upper hand and end one hundred years of greatness.  Briefly, he wondered about his soul; he’d only just acquired it.  Would it rise because of its newness, or sink under the weight of a century of sins?  Would it even find its way out of this godforsaken basement?

He pried his eyes open, though the light stung and every vessel and nerve felt afire.  Might as well get a last look, before his eyeballs crumbled into dust. 

Depressing view.  Spare odds and ends of furniture, bare lightbulbs dangling from the rafters, the dead paperwork of a dead woman pressing in against him from all angles…

…and at his feet, tucked so close to his boot that even he almost didn’t see it:  Dawn’s little black switchblade.

“Oh, god – the pancake mix.”

Buffy stared at the kitchen counter in dismay.  She’d woken up early, crept down the stairs with utmost care, set up all her waffle-making tools.  She’d even remembered to open both front and back doors, creating a cross-breeze that would take care of any pesky charring incidents. 

“AND took the batteries out of the smoke alarm…” she moaned, dropping her head onto the counter.  But none of that changed the fact that the box of pancake mix was, at that very moment, hanging high up on the wall of the crypt.  Unless, she thought bitterly, Rune or one of the wilier cats had knocked it down; in that case, the pancake mix was probably an inch deep all over the crypt floor, the cats, Clem...  She groaned again.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”  Xander announced, strolling in through the wide open door. Buffy jerked upright at the sound of his voice, pouting.

“Nooooo.  This morning is sooo not good,” she wailed in reply, waving her hands at her counter of preparations.  The waffle iron blinked insolently in response, and Buffy yanked the plug from the socket.  That’d teach it.

Xander froze and sniffed; it was a conditioned response to evidence of Buffy cooking.  But no scorched smell tainted the air, and Buffy herself was looking remarkably neat and tidy.  No splashes of milk or smears of flour…  “The electricity isn’t working?” he hazarded.

“No, I forgot the stupid mix at Clem’s, and now the stupid cats are probably covered in our breakfast.”  She scowled, and Xander almost laughed at the sight.  Hair in pigtails, wearing an oversized shirt and a pair of men’s pajama pants, practically stamping her foot in irritation – sometimes he forgot what a tiny girl she was.  Only at times like this, when she was acting like a toddler, did her size really strike him.  Grinning in spite of himself, he set his tools down just inside the door. 

“Buffy, I’m pretty sure we can scrape together something to eat,” he chuckled, rounding the counter.  There wasn’t much to clean up; she’d pulled a lot of stuff out of drawer, but none of it was actually dirty.  “There’s definitely enough food around for all three of us - it’ll just have to be a little less homemade, more storebought.”  She trailed after him as he collected the various bowls and measuring spoons, sighing gustily as he tucked them back into the cupboards.  At the tenth pointed exhalation, he turned and pushed her towards a stool. 

“Sit, I’ll throw something together.”  There was a package of English muffins around here somewhere, he thought.  Somewhere in the back of one of the bottom drawers, maybe…?

“Eugh.”

Buffy leaned over the bar, her head poking over the lip of the countertop.  “What?”

“You don’t want to know.”  Xander deftly lobbed the truly moldy muffins into the trashcan, wrinkling his nose.  He moved on to the next drawer.  “It may not be fancy, it may not be attractive, but there has to be something in here that’ll tide us over till lunch…”

“But…”  At her tone, Xander stopped rummaging and looked over curiously.  “But it’s Dawn’s first day home,” she finished miserably.  Xander paused, watching Buffy fidget on the other side of the counter.  She slouched, twisting a paper towel in her hands.  “Mom would always make pancakes when we had vacations from school, it was a thing.”

“Ah,” Xander replied.  There wasn’t really much he could do when she got like this; his own mother wasn’t the paragon of virtue Joyce had been, and he really didn’t know what to say.  But he could try.

“Is this why I heard Sarah MacLachlan coming from your room when I got up this morning?”

“What?  It’s the music of deep thoughts,” Buffy said defensively.

“Yeah – or the music of spiraling depression,” he responded, a little exasperated.  He got up from the floor, knees popping loudly.  Dawn’s warning was still fresh in his mind, and he wondered for a moment if he should just shut up and let it go.  But he’d caught something the night before, a hint of where she’d been, an indication of whom she’d met on patrol.  And something in him wanted to see if she could be trusted to tell him. 

Or, more importantly – if he could be trusted to hear.

After a moment, he decided to forge ahead.  “Were you deep-thinking about your mom, or about something else?”

Buffy hesitated.  Something about the way he was standing told her that he knew, knew that she’d met with Spike.  And she, for one, was feeling a little rebellious this morning.

“I was thinking about Spike,” she said defiantly.  She waited for the blast, but Xander just nodded.  Buffy looked at him warily, but continued. 

“He was at Clem’s.  We walked for a while, talked about stuff, and then I came home.”  She straightened in her chair.  “We talked about a lot of things, and then he walked me home.  So I was with him for a while last night.”

“I know.”  Buffy tried to pull condemnation out of that word, some other typical Xander-reaction, but there was nothing.  He stated it flatly, almost tonelessly.  If her back had been to him, it would’ve sounded casual.  But standing face-to-face, with his dark eyes pinning her down, his expression intense and neutral… She quailed a little.

Xander didn’t break his gaze.  “You don’t smoke,” he said simply.  “And last night, when you woke us up, you kind of smelled smoky.”  Again he fell silent.  Looking at her so evenly, so steady, like he had turned to stone.  But he breathed normally, and his muscles remained lax; not stone after all.

Buffy didn’t like it.  It wasn’t like Xander to bottle things up, to just keep his mouth shut.  Sure, she’d wished for it often enough, but now that he was doing it?  She wanted to push him until he’d yell, make him angry, make him say something stupid and cruel.  It was so much easier to ignore what he thought when he stated it so crudely.

He looked away abruptly, and Buffy felt herself sway in reaction.  Silently, methodically, he began to rifle through the kitchen again; Buffy turned back to the paper towel in her hands.  Or what remained of it – shreds of paper littered the countertop, and Buffy couldn’t remember doing it at all.

The uncertain silence had softened when Dawn meandered into the kitchen, lurching slightly, but otherwise looking remarkably awake for 8 AM on a Tuesday.  Dawn was not a morning person; she tended to work on instinct and stream-of-consciousness before 9 AM.  Without pausing, she walked over to Buffy and wrapped her arms around her, completely oblivious to the vague tension hanging between her sister and Xander.  With Buffy sitting on the high stool, she was the perfect height for Dawn to burrow into her shoulder.  Buffy barely had time to adjust to the embrace before Dawn began to ramble.

“I just got the best-smelling deodorant.  It smells like the deodorant I got when I was 11, and you know how you got the ‘Teen Spirit’ kind, and it smelled funny, but you thought that was how all deodorant was supposed to smell, and then you got normal-smelling deodorant when you figured it out, and now I just got another deodorant and it totally takes me back.”  She squinted down at the stick in her hand.  “I think it was bad then, because I wanted to smell older.  But now I’m old, so I get all nostalgic over deodorant.”

And that was all it took.  Buffy began to laugh, delighted, ringing laughter that echoed around the kitchen, chasing off the shadows of grief and doubt that had gathered.  Xander’s deeper timbre followed, a chuckling rumble.  A good sound that broke the ice between them.

“God – you are so weird.”  Buffy beamed down at Dawn, who helpfully uncapped the deodorant and offered Buffy a sniff.  “Before I put my nose anywhere near that, has it already been in your armpit?”

Dawn rolled her eyes.  “Once.  Twice, at most.”

Buffy made a face, but tentatively inhaled.  “Oh, yeah – I remember that.”

Dawn hopped around the counter.  “Want to sniff?  It’s funny-smelling,” announced Dawn, holding out the stick to Xander.

He looked at her askance.  “Like, ‘Eww! Try this, it’s so gross’ funny, or funny ha-ha?”

She smacked him lightly.  “Like ‘Oooh, this is all nostalgic’ funny.”

“Oh.”  He leaned forward.  “Ah!  Eau de Sarah Morgan!”

“Who?”

“Sarah Morgan – my girlfriend in sixth grade.”  He waggled his eyebrows.  “We used to sneak off to the bookshelves together.  She’d read Plato, I’d draw in the margins.  And then I went to junior high.”  He placed one hand on his heart and sighed melodramatically.

Dawn grinned.  “And what happened to her?”

“She went directly to Harvard.”  He capped the stick and handed it back.  “Funny ‘oh, weird’, I think.”

“Eh.  So,” Dawn chirped, looking around the kitchen eagerly.  “Breakfast?”  She couldn’t miss the guilty look that flew between Buffy and Xander.  “Or not?”

“Ah, we’re having technical difficulties with that,” admitted Xander.

Buffy clarified.  “As in, technically, we have no food.”

“Oh.”  Dawn thought for a moment.  “What about the frozen stuff in the fridge, the Eggos?  Or maybe cereal?”

Buffy shook her head.  “Had to chuck the Eggos when they froze to the ice cube trays, and we haven’t had cereal since…” She paused.  “Since the last time you made Rice Krispie Treats, actually.”  God, they were a healthy family.

Desperate, Dawn appealed to Xander.  “Do you have anything hidden away?  Anything?”

“Not unless you want one of the evil green hairy muffins of death.”  He looked at the trashcan dubiously.

“Hairy?  Gew.  No.  And actually, never tell me something like that again, I have an overactive imagination.” 

Well, Buffy thought, there was one choice that hadn’t been mentioned.  “If you want, I guess we could go to the Pancake House…”  Not exactly haute cuisine, but hey.  At least it was sticking with the pancake tradition.  “It’s not that bad at breakfast.”

Dawn smiled brilliantly.  “No, Buffy!  It’s great, I love the Pancake House!”  Buffy shot her sister a look, but it was too early in the morning for Dawn to be using guile.  In fact, Dawn bounced a little on her chair, beaming at Buffy. 

“Can I have the chocolate chip ones?” she asked excitedly.  “Oooh, no, Buffy – can we do the split-thing, when you get blueberry and I get chocolate, and then we split them?  OOH!”  Her voice ratcheted up another octave as she spun to Xander.  “And you’re here!”

“I am,” he agreed, amused.

“So, can you get a different kind too, and we’ll just share all of them?”  Suddenly, she lowered her voice, her tone turning intense and serious.  “There’s this crepe thing, and you can get apple inside, and it’s french…”

“And they don’t burn the food?” Buffy added dryly.  “Because that immediately gives them one up on me.”

“Hey – the crispy brown bit is good for you.  I always eat it.”  Xander said, smiling widely.  She returned the look suspiciously.

Dawn just laughed.  “Yeah, but you pretend to eat anything we burn.  Like that turkey last Christmas?  The one that still had giblets in it when it was cooked?”  She turned to Buffy.  “Yeah, he totally didn’t eat it, he took it with him to a site and left it in the middle of the woods for wild animals.” 

“Oh, really?”  Buffy’s pursed her lips thoughtfully as Dawn smirked. It HAD been suspicious, the way the entire thing had disappeared in one day – but Xander had insisted, and Buffy really didn’t want the thing around anymore, so she wasn’t complaining.  Then again, it wasn’t exactly against her nature to needle Xander a little about it.

Xander just looked at Dawn pointedly.  “I’m glad you remember Christmas, missy, ‘cause that’s the last a certain young lady will see of Santa Xander if you continue this disturbing trend of confession and incrimination.” 

Dawn stuck her tongue out at him, grinning, and Buffy snorted.  “So, it’s the Pancake House?”

“Yep!  Lemme just go get dressed,” chirped Dawn.  She jumped up from her chair, but belatedly remembered her weak ankle and awkwardly collapsed back against the counter.  “Augh.”

Buffy was next to her in a second.  “Does it still hurt?” 

“No, no, I just forgot about it until I stood up,” Dawn blushed.  “That was more of a spaz-out than an actual reaction, sorry.”

“Drama queen.”

“Oh, gee, I wonder where I get it from?”

Buffy gasped.  “Strumpet!  That’s it, you go straight to your room.”  She pretended to grab Dawn’s arm and yank her towards the stairs, but Xander could see the way the grip actually supported Dawn, held her up.  For her part, Dawn put up a token resistance, waving her cast menacingly.

“You’re not the boss of me!”

“Am too!”

“Am not… uh, are not!”

“’Am not’?!?  Illiterate goon!”

It was better having Dawn home, thought Xander.  Better for Buffy and, he had to admit – better for him.

“And I thought I was a picky dresser,” Buffy muttered to Xander as she grabbed a sweater from the end of the banister and shouted up the stairs.  “Dawn!  Come on, you’re not dressing for the prom, you’re dressing for breakfast at a truck stop.”

The reply echoed down the stairs.  “Truckers?  Oooh, baby!  Now I’m gonna wear the EXTRA hoochie top!”

“So I’ll be bringing the ‘Jailbait’ sign again?” Xander shouted back.  He and Buffy waited for a reply, but apparently hunger had overridden humor.  They both drifted to the door as Dawn thumped down the stairs after them.

“Okay, so straight to the land of starch and sugar, right?”  Xander pulled the door shut after Dawn.

Buffy nodded.  “Yeah, but we’ve got to stop at Anya’s first, grab a new ace bandage from the training room for Her Highness’ ankle.”

“What?  We’ve got tons of those under the bathroom sink!  And pancakes, ladies – priorities.”

“Hey, I’m on your side.  But she’s got these bizarre phobias, two of which are feet and bandages.” 

“Wait wait wait,” Dawn protested, hobbling down the front steps.  “Fine, I’ll give you the foot phobia’s dumb, but I have it, so there.  But I’m NOT scared of bandages.  The ace bandage is purely foot-phobic.”  She sat heavily on the last step and pointed at Buffy.

“If I had a bandage phobia, I would’ve had to move out as soon as you started with the slaying.  No, I have a BAND-AID phobia.”

Buffy smirked.  “Because that makes so much more sense?”

“Well, yeah, when your older sister seems to trail them behind her everywhere she goes!  Fuzzy, used, limp band-aids that stuck to my clothes when I went to school.”  Dawn screwed up her face.  “Gross, bloody band-aids that she’d leave on the kitchen counter?  The WET band-aids I’d find clogging the shower drain?”

“Eugh.”  Buffy made a face.  “Sorry.”

“Exactly, and you can just stop giggling right now, Mr. Please-Don’t-Kill-Me-Scary-Clown.”

“Ah, but a clown DID try to kill me, the phobia’s justified,” Xander pointed out sagely.  “So there’s method to MY madness.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said, “but the clown tried to kill you after you were already afr…”

“Technicality,” he claimed, waving her off.  “Now if we don’t get to eat within the next twenty minutes, my stomach’s going to climb right up my esophagus and eat YOU, so let’s get going.”  He opened the door of his truck for Dawn.  “The Magic Box incursion will be a brief operation – in, out, and the little one with the gimpy leg doesn’t get out of the car because she spends too long sniffing the candles.”

Buffy laughed as Dawn squawked in protest, but agreed.  “I’m in, I’m out, then we eat.  A minute, tops.” 

“Shit.”

Buffy was out of the door before the truck stopped moving.  She sprinted across the street, ignoring morning traffic in her panic.  Cars swerved, their horns sounding from inches away, but all Buffy could see was the front of the store.

Every display in the Magic Box had been ransacked.

Books lay littered on the shop floor, candles tipped over and crushed, the glass fronts of the display cases hung in jagged shards.  Buffy wrestled with the keys in the lock, barely able to tear her eyes away from the view through the window.  Oh why, WHY had Anya and Marcus decided to go on vacation this week?  And WHY had she agreed to watch the store?  Buffy’s stomach dropped as she thought of what could have been stolen, could have been destroyed… Columns of figures in Anya’s neat script began to scroll through her head, money she could never afford to repay. 

Suddenly, a huge crash sounded from inside.  Buffy gave up the struggle with the lock; in one swift movement, she pulled back and gave the door a powerful kick that nearly took it off its hinges.  Light poured into the store, and she rushed inside, blinking furiously to adjust to the dark.

The interior was a mess.  The vandal had been there a long time, from the looks of it.  Rare books lay open on the floor, and there had been at least one offering made.  The air hung heavy with incense and a thick, metallic, cloying scent that Buffy didn’t want to identify.  Lights had been turned on at intervals, though she couldn’t sense a pattern.  The shop, reopened only a year before, looked almost as bad as it had when… Buffy’s mind skipped away from the thought.  But she, her sister, her friends had all spent so much time and effort bringing the shop back to life, to see it like this?  It was a wreck, pure and simple, and it made Buffy want to cry.

Until she heard the crashing sound again.

Well-honed reflexes guided her to the back corner of the shop and she sprinted, her feet lightly picking across the rubble on the floor.  It wasn’t just a crashing sound, she realized – it was an active, ongoing sound, the rhythm of desperation and carelessness and it was getting louder as she approached.  It was only two more steps until she could see around the corner, then one, then –

She gasped.

Spike was halfway up the bookcase, his back to her, and he was ripping books down from the shelves in furious motions.  He’d cleaned out the first few levels, then climbed the bookcase like a ladder, balancing like a rockclimber as he violently swept the shelves clear.  Searching for something, making angry noises, not caring at all what damaged he caused.

Not caring at all.

She was on him in a moment, fingers dug deep into the folds of his jacket, dragging him off his perch with an outraged scream.  Power flowed down her arms, through her legs, coursed around her chest in bands that squeezed her heart so firmly, she thought she felt it burst.  The sensations were too much, she couldn’t notice that Spike didn’t fight her grip, that his back collapsed against her, that he could barely stand.  Spike was no longer a consideration.

She threw him out of the alcove, a terrible flight that landed him in the center of the store, and followed, stalking to his supine form.  She reveled in the sparks that clouded her vision, the way her muscles lengthened and flowed; she knelt beside him, marveling at her body’s precision.  The way her hand so easily pinned his struggling form to the ground by the shoulder, grinding it into the granite floor.  She could push a little harder, she realized, and grind that shoulder to powder.

But there was no need.  Because her other hand knew exactly where a stake was hidden, and it flew to the spot, drawing out the long splinter of wood with instinctive finesse.  Pin the creature down, then pierce its heart, a simple stanza of thrilling verse.  She watched her own hands in fascination; they were so adept, so clean, so concise.

And then the image was marred.  A single hand coming up to grasp her wrist, a pale white hand.  At first she took no notice, intent on plunging the splinter through its target, but something was wrong.  The third hand was working in concurrence with her two, pulling the weapon closer, guiding it to the core.  But that was wrong, she knew – only two hands could do this act, only she could harness this power truly.  She pulled her strike.  The third hand had no right to be there, and she fixed it with a baleful stare.

White.  White, but horribly mangled.  Blue-gray-white lines ran through it, as though the hand was fueled by chalk instead of blood.  A lattice of ravaged skin, moldy white and purple, stretched tight across knucklebones so stark, they could only belong to one who was starving.  Was he starving?  Unwillingly, her mind followed the logical line – from hand to arm, arm to neck, neck to face. 

And something snapped.

“Oh my god, Spike.”  Buffy breathed.  She realized that she had a stake in her hand; she tossed it aside and leaned forward, desperately searching the vampire’s face.

If it could even be called a face anymore.

His skin was so tight.  She reached out to follow the line of his cheekbone, but stopped at the last moment – it looked like the skin might split at a touch.  By contrast, his eyes had almost swollen shut and were weeping milky tears.  He was blinking, though.  Frantically.  She avoided his eyes for a moment longer, skimming her gaze over his swollen lips, the slight froth at the corners of his mouth, the two deep punctures where his fangs, at some point, seemed to have gone straight through his lower lip.  She had never seen him injured like this.  She felt helpless.

“Kane…”  The name came out in a hushed gust of air, and Buffy missed it.  She quickly bent over his lips again, tried to encourage him by brushing a finger against his brow.  Her hand came away covered in his hair.

“T’s Kane.”  She was close enough to hear this time, and also close enough to smell.  The word was borne on a wind that stank of decomposition and garlic, almost causing her to retch.  She swallowed firmly – every motion of his tongue was an effort, she could tell, and anything beyond guttural noises would be beyond him. 

His stiff and crabbed hand suddenly pushed her away, and she obeyed, sitting back on her heels anxiously.  All at once, a strangled sound wrenched from him and he writhed, the froth at his mouth foaming even more furiously, the white tears coursing down his face in hissing trails that left scorched red tracks behind them.  It lasted only seconds, and then he was still again.

Buffy pulled herself closer and met his eyes.  They were still blue, though the whites had darkened to a dingy gray, flecked in places with yellow.  But he was still in there, and fighting enough to focus on her.  To draw her in.

“Kane, can Kane help you?” she guessed desperately.  Unconsciously, she caught his twisted hand in hers, making repetitive soothing gestures against his wrist.  He snarled in response to her question, and she tried again.

“Kane did this?”  Yes, that was it, and he told her so by staring her in the eye, holding his body absolutely still for one whole second – a massive effort; as soon as he relaxed his will, the tremors started anew, shaking his body relentlessly.

He didn’t expect to be saved, she realized.  He wanted her to avenge him, to act on his last words, to –

“Oh, God… Anya’s gonna flip.  Buffy, what the hell – oh, holy shit!”

Xander froze in the doorway, a silhouette backed by the rising sun.  One hand carried a wrench, obviously pulled from the bed of his truck only moments before.  But the scene he faced didn’t make any sense; Anya’s shop looted, Buffy on the floor and close to tears, and Spike – twitching and gurgling, apparently unable to control his body at all. 

It wasn’t something that could be taken in easily.

He was so confused that he didn’t think to stop Dawn as she stepped out from behind him, her own stake held at the ready.  He heard the girl breathe Spike’s name, saw her lurch down the few stairs to the shop floor.  He knew that something was going to happen, and that he really should try to stop it.

But that kind of intuition never gives enough notice.  So all he could do was stand and gape as Dawn cried the vampire’s name again, her arms extended to him with fingers splayed wide. 

And then the watched as her ankle collapsed and she slammed to her knees.  The skin stretched across her kneecaps split like tissue paper, even though they landed on soft carpet and scattered papers.  He felt himself lunge forward as Dawn’s head rolled back, her arms dropped to her sides, and her now-kneeling figure began to tip over.  But he was at least five feet away, and she was falling fast.

Buffy saw her sister fall, but didn’t make sense of it until the skin on Dawn’s knees split.  Then all of Spike’s words about fragility, of mystery illnesses – all of it flooded back.  Buffy watched as Dawn’s eyes left Spike’s form and rolled back in her skull, her mouth falling open as she lost consciousness.  And she began to fall forward, headlong towards a spot where the stone floor peeked through the carpets and papers, and Buffy realized that her sister’s skull would shatter like an egg.  She lunged as well, briefly wondering how to get around Spike.

But there was no need.  As Dawn pitched forward on the balance of her knees, something slid between her and the jumble of sharp-cornered books and boxes, something’s firm hands caught and cushioned her head before it came to rest on a thumping chest.  And by the time Buffy and Xander had reached the spot where Dawn had fallen, Spike was cradling her to him, murmuring her name through undamaged lips, and brushing back her hair with nimble fingers.  Whole again, and weeping.