The steps slip away under her feet, but she barely notices.  Something in her body is alive and desperate, reaching for the twitching figure with all its might.  And Dawn lets it go, lets it flow, out from her tight chest and throat in a burst of soothing green.  As it flees her body, it leaves a euphoric feeling in its wake; an undertow that ripples through her, leaves her boneless.  Leaves her weak.

But she’s too far gone to notice.  Like a switch has flipped in her mind, she feels her eyes lose focus, her consciousness begin to slip away.  But rather than slip down into blackness, she finds herself carried along in the tide – down her own arms, along her own fingers.  And then, away from her body in a lightening-quick leap that ends at Spike.

In Spike.  This Spike is not anyone one she knows – the jokes, the snarls, the leather and smoke.  All of the trappings have been stripped away.  This is a Spike of sinews and muscle, of calcium and blood.  His body is a whole new world, a universe to explore, and she marvels absently at its ingenuity.  But there is no time to sightsee; the coursing flow that has caught her up rushes on, intent on a task that she never knew she could do.

She scours every cell of him.  A diseased white coating, an oily sheen.  She rips them all off, one by one, hoping she hasn’t gone too deep.  The routine gets easier as she goes along, marshalling his immune system as deputies.  Stripping toxins, consuming his death, cleaning as thoroughly as she can until the cool green energy has dulled so a murky algae gray.  Around her, his body convulses; but it is a good tightening, as his body recognizes all its parts again, regains the feeling of being whole and healthy and one.

It is a shock to be yanked from that body, cool and cleansed, and back into her own.

She has no energy left.  The swamp-colored energy eddies through her, transformed to a sickening poison.  Her body is her own again, but only for a moment; dimly, she feels the shattering pain as her ankle crumples in on itself, bones sliding together and grating so loud, she wonders that no one else can hear it.  But there’s not enough time to think about it, as her knees hit the carpet – her skin rips neat and deep, a cut as precise as a surgeon’s. 

Then the floor is rushing up to meet her, a glittering patch of stone and lacquer, and she finally registers fear.  She can feel herself sinking into unconsciousness, black and empty and welcoming, when something suddenly pulls her close. 

Something safe and solid, gently easing her to the ground.  Her body slackens and she lets it all go, abandoning the pain and confusion as the sound of two heartbeats thrum in her ears.

“Hospital.”

Xander stumbled down the steps, moving all at once.  “We have to get her to the hospital, before anything else happens to her – what the hell DID happen to her?  She just fell!”

Buffy looked to Spike, but he was too wrapped up in Dawn to offer any solutions.  He was making quick, gentle adjustments to the unconscious girl’s form, easing her against his chest in a position more natural to her body.  Dawn lolled against him, completely unconscious.

“Dawn, sweetie, can you open your eyes?” Buffy leaned close over her sister, surreptitiously checking her breath, her pulse.  Spike reluctantly edged back to give her space.

“She’s out – don’t know what did it, but I definitely heard her ankle go before she fell.”  He peeled Dawn’s hair off her sweat-dampened forehead, tucking it behind her ear expertly.

Buffy looked at him.  “And you – you’re fine now.”  The question was flat and hard, leached of all emotion.  Spike swallowed.

“Yeah, fine.  You’re heading to the hospital?”  There were more important things to talk about.

For once, Xander agreed with Spike.  “Yeah, Buff, we gotta get her help,” he affirmed.  There was a time to explore Spike’s miraculous healing, and that time was later.  “I’ll go pull the car up.”  He spun and darted out the door, kicking a path through the debris as he went.

“Knees, ankle – did she hit her head?” 

“No, I got her,” Spike replied.  “But she might have some bruises, I don’t know how much pressure I put on her when I grabbed her.”

“Okay, okay,” Buffy breathed.  Her hands danced over Dawn, first along her face, then her shoulder, her shin.  Long sweeping gestures that checked for any injuries, but ended as worried caresses.  She looked up at Spike.  “Do you think she can move?”

“On her own?  No,” Spike said, shifting gradually.  Wordlessly, Buffy reached out to take some of Dawn’s weight.  Between them, they managed to cradle her sideways against Spike’s chest as he sat upright, her head pinned delicately between his jaw and shoulder, her arms folded up against her chest.  Working together in perfect harmony, all their attention focused on the fragile girl.

Xander reappeared, panting.  “Okay, I’m on the sidewalk – should we put her in the bed, or in the cab?” 

“Bed’ll jolt her,” Spike snapped, more in concern than irritation.  Buffy nodded, turning to face Xander.

“I’ll sit in the cab, put her on my lap – you drive slow, and I’ll be able to hold her still,” she explained.  There was a rustling noise behind her, and she spun back around.

“Let’s go, then.”  Spike was on his feet, Dawn still in his arms.  He was speaking to her, something low and murmured that Buffy couldn’t quite make out, and his expression was… complicated.  Intensity, trust, hope, anger, fear; he nodded shortly to Xander and swept up the stairs, his way clear along the path that the man had made.

Then he did something odd. 

He stopped where the sunlight streamed in through the door, his head tilted to the side quizzically.  Dawn shifted a little in his arms, and he looked down at her, his throat closing up.  He wasn’t sure what she had done, and he didn’t know why she had done it.  But whatever it was, it had left him whole and her in pieces, so he would accept it and be grateful. 

No matter what she had done, he told himself firmly, he would accept it.  Gently, deliberately, he took one step into the broad daylight.

Buffy saw the result immediately.  Every covered part of Spike began to smoke, that strange misty-smoke that filtered through cotton and wool and smelled like dead leaves.  Spike stepped back into the shadows of the store as soon as it happened, turning away from the light as though pained by the sight of it.  As he twisted, she could see the raised blisters on his hands, the red sheen to his face. 

Something in her heart lurched as he turned, his back to the world once more.  His entire being was visibly closing up, hiding away the emotions that had raged in him only moments earlier.  It was a stern reaction, lips pressed together tight, his head shaking minutely as though he was arguing with himself.  She looked out the door again, to where Xander’s truck gleamed bluely.  What had that been about?

“You have to take her,” Spike gritted out.  He turned to Xander, still standing at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Oh – okay.” Xander was taken aback for a moment; since when would Spike relinquish Dawn to HIM?  A part of him gloated.  Finally, something Spike had to hand over.  But the vampire was so serious, so tense… And honestly, Xander didn’t really want to gloat.  Dawn was hurt, they had to help her.  Any way they could.

The transfer was quick, a delicate tipping of Dawn’s weight from Spike’s body to Xander’s.  Buffy hovered anxiously, keenly aware that she had to wait for her turn until they reached the car.  She picked up one of Dawn’s flip-flops from the ground and carefully slipped the other shoe from her right foot, desperately looking for something to do.

“Okay, we’re ready,” Xander said.  Spike stepped back, a strangely formal gesture, his shoulders stiff and eyes glittering.

It wasn’t fair to leave him like this, Buffy thought.  Her sister murmured in Xander’s arms, and Spike made an arrested movement towards her.  It was hardly noticeable, but combined with the way his eyes followed her, how every muscle in his body was forced to stay still?  She couldn’t leave him like this.

“Go back to the house,” she murmured, laying a hand on his arm.  He blinked, dragging his eyes away from Dawn, his intense stare resting on Buffy heavily.  She caught her breath.

“What?”  He heard her, of course – this was a different question, and she heard all it encompassed.  She also knew how important her response would be.

“Please go back to the house; we’ll bring her back there, she’ll want to see you.”  Because Dawn would want to see him, that was true.  But he smiled; she hadn’t revoked his invitation; she wanted him close.

“Right, pet.”  He grew serious again.  “Be very careful with her joints – it might not just be bones, it could be ligaments.”  He was nervous and overcompensating, and he knew it.  He stepped back again, thrusting his hands into his pockets.  “Go.  She’ll hurt when she wakes up.”

Buffy turned to Xander.  “Ready?”

“Set.”  He gently hoisted Dawn in his arms, waiting for Buffy to lead the way.

Spike didn’t watch as they went into the glaring sunlight, still scuffing his boots in the papers at his feet.  He couldn’t follow them into that harsh brightness; he wasn’t sure if he was anguished, or relieved.

The butcher didn’t recognize him at first, but it didn’t last long.  A request for two pints and a quick flash of fang not only got him the old discount, but a remarkably affectionate welcome.  Spike smiled to himself – he, or at least his business, had been missed.

He entered the house with little problem; Buffy hadn’t thought to give him the key, and he hadn’t thought to ask.  But those girls never really caught on to the fact that open windows on the ground floor were just as accessible as doors to him, and it was a moment’s work to scramble into the kitchen.  Lacking in grace, maybe, but got the job done.

He’d managed to scrounge an old storage blanket from the Magic Box; he left it on the porch, letting it smolder in solitude.  It would be best to get any hunger-pains out of the way now, while the girls were out, he supposed.  It would also give him the chance to test his theory further. 

He warmed a cup of blood, braced himself and then gulped it down in hurried swallows.  It tasted the same, tinny and thick, slightly textured, nourishing.  No difference at all.  He washed the mug briskly, setting it back exactly where he’d found it.  Hopefully, the blood scent would be gone when the girls got home.

Which could take hours, come to think of it.  It could take hours for her to clear through the hospital, considering their experience in Massachusetts, and in the meanwhile….

He was alone, and invited, in Buffy’s house.  

He tucked the brown-bagged blood in the back of the fridge, snagged a couple of stale pretzels from a bowl in the middle of the kitchen counter, and began to roam. 

The house was much as he remembered, with a few purely Harris touches.  Foolish little racks here and there, well-made but generally unnecessary.  The coffee table was entirely new – he wondered what had brought that change about. 

Most of the photos were old, featuring Buffy, Dawn, Joyce.  Some newer ones had Xander, grinning wide.  Spike studied those shots carefully, trying to judge the boy’s expression.  He looked proud, arrogant, confidant – and, Spike hated to admit, devoted.  Perhaps not devoted in the same way he himself was, but emotions ran deep.  He sighed, propped the frame upright again.  Harris now came as part of the Summers package, it seemed.  He turned away from the living room and wandered back into the kitchen.

The basement was completely new.  Obviously, Harris had spent a lot of time down here; the space had become a training room, well-ventilated and well-lit.  Buffy’s arsenal adorned the walls, old favorites hanging near the stairs within easy reach.  He paced around slowly, careful not to touch anything.  Some of the weapons were completely unrecognizable, random twists of wood and metal that made Spike vaguely uncomfortable.  He made his way up the stairs warily – a lot of things had changed.

And there was upstairs.  Oh, he didn’t want to go there – it was off-limits, he knew, somewhere he shouldn’t wander.  But another, masochistic part of him insisted that he climb the stairs, ignore Buffy’s room, ignore Dawn’s.  He headed straight for the white-tiled room that featured so prominently in his memory.

It was so small.  That was the first thought that struck him; in his memory, it was vast and unforgiving, a huge arena in which he’d lost a horrible battle.  The room was lit by filtered sunlight, a hazy glow that made edges softer, took away the stark sheen.  Stepping inside, his senses flared – smells of Buffy, yes, but also the more astringent smell of Xander.  Cologne, shaving cream, antiperspirant; a thoroughly masculine thread overlaid Buffy’s florals, sullied them.  He absently wondered if Buffy would smell Harris-like, purely from sharing a bathroom. 

No, the room was different now.  Before, it had been her room, a private room, an inner sanctum.  She would never have let him in, he guessed, much as she had locked away other parts of her.  And the drive to convince her, to show her that he belonged…

He stepped out of the room and quickly ran down the stairs.  That drive had gotten him to where he was today.  Sitting on a chair in the Summers’ living room, an interloper, waiting for his damaged girls to come home.  He’d never meant to hurt either of them, they meant more to him than the world - but he’d broken them both, just the same.

The door slammed open much earlier than he expected, startling him out of a much-needed doze.  He sprang to his feet, remembering all at once that he had no weapon, wondering if he could get to the basement in time.

“Oh.  You’re here.”  Xander looked at him dispassionately; Spike instinctively slouched into a nonchalant pose.

“Buffy told me to wait,” he drawled.  Xander shrugged, turned around.

“Buff, Spike’s inside – that okay?”

“Yeah!”  Buffy appeared in the doorway, Dawn in her arms.  Again, Spike noticed the incongruity of Buffy carrying a taller girl.  But then Dawn lifted her head and met his eyes, and nothing else mattered.

“Love, you all right?”  He crossed the room quickly and Dawn reached for him, an unexpected move that nearly set Buffy off-balance.  She swiftly decamped to the couch, setting her sister down in the center with infinite care.  Spike followed, his gaze never leaving Dawn. 

The intensity between them was electric, and it made Buffy a little nervous.  The timbre in his voice changed as he spoke to her, and Dawn responded in kind.  They were speaking lowly, half-muttered phrases incomprehensible to Buffy.  She shifted a little.  They were so close.  This was weird.

“You what?”  Spike said loudly to Dawn, turning to Buffy.  “You didn’t take her to the hospital?  Where were you?”

Buffy stifled her irritation.  “We kind of realized that it might not be a good thing, bringing her to an emergency room full of injured people.”

“Yeah, I could get worse, it would suck.”  Dawn smiled up at him wanly.  Her black eyes were back, and she truly looked as though she’d been drained.  Pale and sickly, hollow.  His heart double-beat again, erratically, and he winced.

“She was fine in Massachusetts,” Spike rumbled.  They’d put ace bandages here and there, but what if there was something deeper wrong, something they couldn’t see…

Xander stepped in.  “Yeah, and suburban Mass has SO much in common with Sunnydale, Spike.”  Spike glowered.  “We’re talking the difference between bagel-cutting incidents and demonic attacks.  So no, we thought we’d make it a home job.”

“It’s okay, really!”  Dawn soothed, and Spike immediately felt guilty.  She was the one hurt, he should be putting her at ease – certainly not the other way around.  He swiftly schooled his features, nodded, shrugging apologetically at Buffy.

Buffy understood; she’d been just as furious when Xander had brought up the problem in the first place.  More furious because it was a good point.  She rolled her eyes a little and shrugged, still miffed, but relenting.

Dawn fidgeted a little; all three heads snapped around to look at her, and she laughed. 

“Guys, I’m fine – tired again, which is totally annoying, and I’ve got a monster headache,” she stopped in mid eye-roll as the movement made her head twinge, “and ow, but honestly?”  She slumped suddenly, and Spike moved closer, sliding his arm around her caving shoulders.  “I just want to go to sleep for a while.”

“Then you will.”  Gracefully, Spike swept her up, a move that somehow managed to catch her up without jarring her body or her headache.  Dawn sighed happily, and Buffy reluctantly waved her consent to Spike’s querying glance. 

“I’ll call Giles,” she said wearily.  “He might know what’s going on here.”  She rose to her feet as Dawn smiled.  She leaned over; one of Dawn’s eyebrows was sticking up awkwardly, an angular peak.  She smoothed it down with her thumb, and Dawn leaned into the touch.  For a moment she was thrown by the contact, the way her sister drifted towards her, letting her eyes close, looking so peaceful. 

“You rest, sweetie, I’ll bring something up later,” she whispered.  Dawn nodded drowsily, her head falling back on Spike’s chest.  Buffy smiled helplessly, an expression that lingered when she looked up to Spike’s face – and saw the same smile.  It was a giddy feeling; Dawn was safe and loved, and here.

“No no, don’t go,” Dawn mumbled from the bed as Spike tried to slip from the room.  He returned to her bedside, kneeling close, but she scooted backwards and gestured for him to climb up on the covers beside her.

“Dawn, love, I don’t think…”

She snorted.  Unfortunately, that made her head hurt; she pressed a hand to her temple and grimaced.  “Not like that, dork, you’re like my brother.  Oh, and ick much?  No, it’s something else.”

Hesitantly, one eye on the door, he lay down on the bed.  “One sound from those stairs, nibblet…”

“Shhh.”  Dawn pressed her ear to his chest, listening hard.

There it was.  Not a regular heartbeat by any means; a deep thumping, like the beat of a drum.  She reached up to her neck and took her own pulse, timing it with his.  In comparison, she thrummed like a hummingbird, about four beats to every one of his.  She lifted her head.

“I thought so.” Her voice was hushed, but her eyes glittered with excitement.

“Don’t get all worked up, it’s slowing down.”  Spike didn’t need to press his ear to Dawn’s chest to hear her heart – it pounded in his ears whenever she was close, a slightly faster beat than Buffy’s, light and sweet where Buffy’s pounded deep and rich.  Unchanging, always.

“But it’s there,” she breathed.  “And that might mean…”

“No.”  He stopped her.  “No, Dawn – I still burn in the sun, I still drink blood.  Nothing changed for me at all.”

She looked at him, her expression thoughtful.  “So… you thought so, too?”

He closed his eyes; she was too bright to look at.  “Yeah, bit.  Maybe,” he said tightly.

That was answer enough.  She burrowed further under the covers until she was flat on her stomach – an ungainly pose, but it was Spike, so it didn’t matter.  She turned her face towards him; he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with an unfathomable expression.  Hesitantly, she reached out a hand and put it on his shoulder.  A show of understanding, sympathy – there was no way to put it into words.

It didn’t take long for Dawn’s breaths to even and steady.  It was only then that he reached to cover her hand in his, let himself envy and pity the pulse at her wrist, and fall into a troubled sleep.

It was always weird calling Giles.  She never could remember what time it was in Bath, and she didn’t want to call him too much, and the ringing was weird – like a cross between a busy signal and a real ring.  She replaced the receiver after the first double-ring, taking another look at the clock.  One in the afternoon… was it plus eight or minus eight?  Did it matter?  She picked up the phone and hit redial.

But something nagged at her.  There was something weird, with daylight savings time – sometimes it was nine hours’ difference.  She hung up again, her hand clutched tight around the cordless.  That would mean either four in the morning or ten at night, and she had a weird feeling it was four.  Should she just wait another couple of hours, in case he wasn’t up?  But Dawn…

The phone rang in her hand, and she jumped a mile.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Buffy.”  The accented voice flowed like a tonic into her ear. 

“Giles!  I can’t believe you called!” she exclaimed happily.  Then, immediately suspicious: “Wait – why did you call?”

“You have an, eh - distinctive ring,” he replied dryly. 

“Oh,” she said.  “OH!  Sorry!”

“Quite all right,” he chuckled.  On his end of the line, something fell heavily to the floor.  “Lovely to hear from you, of course.  I just got in the door – have you been ringing long?”

The reason for calling rushed back to her.  “No, Giles, I just started.  I’m sorry if I woke you up, but it’s important.”

“It must be, if you thought you were waking me – it’s evening, by the way,” he said quickly.  She heard his quick steps across a wooden floor, and wondered again what his flat in England looked like.  “Are you all well?  Or is that why you’re calling?”

“Kind of.”  Buffy leaned back against the wall.  Poor Giles.  She didn’t call him enough to just chatter; something in her thought he’d find it silly, frivolous.  But times like this, she regretted not calling him with lighter news.  The sound of her voice must be permanently linked to his “danger” radar.

Not that that was anything new.

“It’s Dawn, Giles.”

The intake of breath was brief, but she heard it all the same.  “Can you get a flight?  Is someone with her?”

“No, no!  Giles, she’s here.  Spike brought her home.”  Oh, crap.  She winced, waiting for the blast.

But no blast.  “He did.”  So low and cold, it nearly gave her a chill.  Not good.  So not good that images of Spike burning, dusting, scalded into oblivion by some far-off spell began to cycle through her mind, and she found herself rushing to get an explanation out, anything to stop Giles’ vengeful side from awakening.

It tumbled from her, the whole sorry tale.  She kept having to backtrack, confused herself about some of the sequencing, but Giles listened patiently through it all.  She could hear the clink of ice in a glass, the unusual sound of his swallow, and she closed her eyes as she rambled.  It was easier; with her eyes closed, she could imagine him sitting close, his expression serious and stern.  And he’d fix it all.

“She’s healing them, I think – but I she doesn’t mean to do it, and it’s hurting her…”  Her throat closed up

“And how are you sure that Spike’s recovery had anything to do with Dawn,” Giles said.  He was grasping at straws, she knew, but at least he was trying.  “And you said the floor was littered – could she have slipped on the stairs, faltered on her bad ankle?”

“No, she wasn’t on the stairs anymore, and her ankle was almost better.  She did it; I could see it,” she replied.  And then she ground to a halt.

Buffy wasn’t a particularly lyrical person, so it was hard to describe.  But she tried, hoping some of the meaning would filter through.

“Well, the inside of the store was dark, so all the light was coming from outside, through the door.  And you know when light picks up dust in the air, or whatever it is, that stuff that kind of glints?  Like particles or…” she trailed off.  “Oh, I don’t know.”

“No, go on, Buffy.”  He sounded urgent, but also understanding.  Surely he’d tell her if she was just babbling, right?

Right.  “Okay.  Well, it all – moved.  Like, sideways.  Like – whoosh!”  She unconsciously made a sweeping motion with her hand, realizing too late that Giles wasn’t really here, wasn’t really seeing her.  Something in her stomach dropped a little, but she recovered. 

“And it happened just before Dawn fell.  She reached out, and there wasn’t any wind, but all of the sparkly things in the air suddenly whooshed towards Spike.”  It had been so odd; like an invisible arrow shooting through a cloud, dragging mist or vapor behind it.  Urgent and precise; and aimed directly at Spike.

“Indeed.”  He rumbled the word, half-reluctant, half-intrigued.  She caught the tone; Spike still wasn’t in Giles’ good books, but even he knew that Spike would never harm Dawn.  “Could it have been a spell that Spike did while he was alone in the shop?”

Buffy was silent.  The funny smells when she walked in, the burnt offering, the books –  he’d been so ill, she didn’t think he could manage to pull off such complicated magic.  But it was something to think on. 

“Maybe,” she allowed.  She’d have to consider every possibility if she wanted to find a solution.  “But it wasn’t just one way.”

“Oh?”

“A second after everything whooshed towards Spike and me, it went back to her.”

A pause.  “Really.”

“The same way – except, more fractured, a little slower.  It dragged, somehow.”  No arrow this time.  A handful of pebbles, fighting its way against the tide of sparkly particles in the morning sun.  “And then she fell down, and Giles – she broke.”

“Buffy…”  There it was.  The way he said her name, full of sympathy and understanding, making up for every time he’d held back from hugging her, every time he’d kept a professional distance.  It always made her choke up; today was no exception.

“Giles, I don’t know what to do!”  She said, crouching down against the doorjamb.  The solid wood felt good against her spine.  “I can’t fight it, it’s happening all at once, she’s so hurt and she doesn’t want me to worry…”

“But you do worry, of course you do,” he murmured.  She tried to breathe evenly, tried to collect herself, and Giles just waited on the other end of the line.  Listening, as always.

Finally, she was able to speak without sounding strangled.  “Giles, I don’t know what to do.”

The regret in his voice made her want to cry again; she knew what he was going to say, and didn’t want to hear it. 

“Buffy, I wish I could fly over… But there are things here I must attend to, an unusual situation…”  He stopped, all too aware that the best excuse wouldn’t help.  “I’m so sorry, I really do wish I could be there.  For you and Dawn.”

But he couldn’t.  She understood that, on most levels.  Giles had his own life, his own demons to fight.  Cockney rhyming demons with bad teeth, she thought, scowling.  And it had to be something important, she reluctantly admitted.  He took his de facto parent status seriously when one of them was in trouble.

“Okay, I get it – but advice would be great, if you have any to hand out.”

A rustling noise echoed down the line – not book-rustling, maybe paper?  “I’ve been looking about, Buffy, and I might be able to get in touch with someone who can help.  Will you be all right for a few days, or should I try and find a, a healer, or someone who might make her comfortable..?”

Buffy’s voice hardened.  “No witches.”

“No, Buffy.  No witches.”  He sighed a little, but she ignored it.  This was one topic on which she wouldn’t budge.

“I’ll ring around tonight; hopefully, one of my colleagues will have connections.”  His voice warmed again, losing its business-like edge.  “And Buffy – don’t wear yourself down.  I may not… appreciate Spike, but I believe he’ll help you if he can.”

“Okay.”  She smiled a little, scrunching further down on the floor.  She’d never want to admit it, but it felt nice, having someone tell her what to do again.

“I’ll call you as soon as I get any word.  And you shall do the same?”

“I shall,” Buffy replied teasingly.  Then, softly: “Miss you, Giles.”

“And I you, Buffy.  I’ll ring you.”

“Goodnight.”  She felt lighter somehow, energized again.  She rose from the floor in one swift movement.  Hot chocolate.  Dawn liked hot chocolate, especially in bed.  She set the phone down on the counter, humming as she went. 

Giles would help her fix it.  Giles could fix anything.

The way was familiar.  Down one highway until the huge Jack-in-the-Box drive-in, then a sharp right onto the interstate; Xander drove on autopilot, barely noticing the stunning scenery as it rushed by him.

The truck growled below him, as if it recognized the route as well.  It should; they had certainly taken the trip often enough.  Once a week had gradually slipped into once every two, something he’d felt guilty about.  But then they’d both realized that the short, successive visits weren’t as good as the distanced long ones, days spent together after weeks apart.  And so he changed his pattern.  About once a month, he’d wake up early, leave an ambiguous note on the counter and drive away from the rising sun.

He couldn’t outrun it, of course.  But it seemed appropriate somehow; racing away from the coming day, as though he was trying to steal back some of the time he’d lost to night. 

The first time he had the thought, it hit him like a sledgehammer.  He’d wrenched the truck to the side of the road, ignoring the blaring horns and glaring headlights, to tumble out of the cab retching.  Trembling in anger, pain and grief, wondering why he’d ever let himself entertain the thought that this entire ritual was just a desperate attempt to travel back in time.

Because no one could travel back in time.  Demons, sorcerers, witches; they could do all sorts of terrifying things, but none could turn back time.  He’d give anything to find a way.  Because then, that awful morning never would have happened.  And all that followed?  It would be wiped away.

He would erase the feeling of Willow shaking in his arms, too grief-stricken to be sick, too anguished to speak, clinging on to him as though his arms were all that kept him grounded.  He would rub out the image of her disappearing with Giles in a flash of light, her form so much smaller and withdrawn than he’d ever known.  He would remove the days he’d spent packing her things in huge cardboard boxes, keenly aware of Buffy’s deliberate absence, of the way she refused to even glance at the forwarding address.  And he could expunge any knowledge of a place called “Great Oakwoods” from his mind, and all the damning associations with it.

Buffy might know by now.  She never drove the truck, but one glance at the odometer would tell of more than trips to the building site or Blockbuster’s.  He wasn’t too sure of how much Slayer-senses amplified her hearing, if at all.  He tried to call Willow from the office; the only number she had was his cell.  He intentionally kept all emailing to his office computer, and they both tried to write more than speak.  But every once in a while, he’d get a loaded glare from Buffy after a cell call, and it made him flinch.

He crested a hill, and his heart began to beat erratically.  He always imagined he could see the development from here, though he knew it was still a few miles off.  Small vineyards dotted the landscape in a way that made Xander think of Italy.  He’d never been to Italy; this might be the closest he would get. 

And Willow lived here now, all the time.  Surrounded by rolling fields of green, orderly rows twined round with vines.  She could wander around in the grass and breathe in the scented air, wander for miles without a soul in sight, she could lay on her back at night and see the stars of every constellation glowing down on her as though she were Eve in Eden.

It was a very pretty prison.

He tried to focus on the scenery as he approached the front gates.  They swung open seamlessly, huge iron sculptures that looked more like art than functional.  As Xander passed, Karl waved cheerily from the watchman’s kiosk.  Xander smiled a little as he waved back.  He was one of the regulars.

His regular parking space was occupied, which was slightly unusual.  Many of the Great Oakwoods residents were rarely visited by family and friends; the facility was pretty remote, and the drive was long.  Other residents had come here for that exact reason – no visitors.  Xander eased himself out of the cab gradually, shaking out his limbs.  You had to be pretty dedicated to keep coming on back.

“Xander!”  He turned to see a woman leaving her apartment.  The two-level complex had something of the motel about it, though Xander had never seen any motel as well-kept. 

“Hey, Nance!”  He watched as Nancy locked her door and made her way down the stairs.  Her clothes hung loosely on her body, bulky sweats with a jacket on top, white sneakers on her feet.  It was her usual outfit; Xander saw her often on his visits.  He looked forward to seeing her, actually.  In contrast to many of the others, she was always eager to talk, and her wide, kind face always wore a grin.  She jogged over to him.

“Haven’t seen you around for a while, stranger.  How’s the big bad world?”  She held her arms wide for a hug, and he complied.  Carefully, though – beneath the voluminous cotton, Nancy’s body was frail and fragile. 

“Oh, bad and big, nothing interesting happening at all,” he said, grinning back.  She made a sarcastic noise and rolled her eyes.  “How are you?”

“Same old same old, m’dear.”  She leaned against the door of the truck and he followed suit.  “Paying for my earthly sins, as usual.”

He looked at her, concerned.  “So no change?”

“None whatsoever.  The osteoporosis is totally irreversible, my insides are as worthless as those of an ’83 Oldsmobile, and expected to last about as long.  Probably lasted longer than I should, considering I wasn’t fueling up the vehicle.” She shrugged noncommittally, and Xander cringed.  He couldn’t tell whether he should applaud her realistic attitude or urge her to stay optimistic.  She had been disappointed too many times.

“But nothing recently?”

She smiled at him.  “No, I’ve been pretty good since last time I saw you.  Knock on wood.”  She shoved away from the truck.  “But you’re not here to entertain me, are you?”

“Could be,” he replied gamely, but it was just another old routine.  Nancy waved him up the stairs.

“Off you go.  Oh – and she got a haircut,” she said in a stage whisper.  Xander turned in time to see her smirk before she disappeared around the corner of the building again.

He climbed the stairs quickly; this part was like pulling off a band-aid.  The quicker he did it, the less time he had to think, and that meant it hurt less.  He reached into his pocket for the key she’d given him.  “For emergencies”, technically, but he’d grown accustomed to using it.  For the first few months, he’d had to use it all the time.

But he hoped he wouldn’t need it now.  He let it dangle from the fingers of one hand as the raised the other to knock on the door.  Three shallow knocks, so as not to carry to other rooms.

“Come in!”  Xander took a deep breath and tried the doorknob: unlocked.  He pushed, and walked into a cheery living room.

“Xander!”  She rose from her desk, startled.  Her hair was pinned on top of her head with a pencil; it hadn’t been long enough to do that last time he saw her.  She hadn’t dyed it again either.  At the time, Xander had wondered if it was some bizarre masochism – letting the red grow out, a stark contrast where it met the natural auburn.  He had never asked.

“Hey, Will.”  And then his arms were full of affection-starved girl.  She buried her head in his neck, the bridge of her nose pressed hard against the place where his throat met his shoulder.  He rocked slowly, side to side, hands pressing tight against her back; he narrowly avoided getting blinded by the pencil in her hair.

“Nice haircut.”

“Thank you!”  She hesitated.  “…for the compliment that you never would have noticed.  Nancy?”

He grinned sheepishly.  “Yeah.”

“She SO doesn’t know you as well as I do.”  Willow smiled quickly, a furtive tug on her lips that vanished quickly.  She gestured to the couch and he took his usual seat, tossing a couple of the more elaborate pillows out of the way.  Willow darted back to the desk and quickly typed something on her laptop before shutting it down.

“I was just writing you an email!  I’m sorry I didn’t reply to the last one – I got all caught up in the argument with some physics student about wave-particle theory.”  She scowled.  “I think he knows he’s wrong, and he’s just trying to piss me off now.”

“Damn physicists.”

“You have no idea.  Drink?”  She didn’t wait for an answer, darting into the tiny kitchenette joined onto the main room.  Along with the shoebox bedroom, it made up Willow’s world.  He could see her over the divider, her head dipping as she searched her fridge for the beer she usually saved for him.

“But I wasn’t debating physics all the time, I promise.  I found a bunch of stuff about bones.  There’s a huge site about osteogenesis imperfecta.”  Xander looked at her helplessly.  “Brittle bone disease, basically.  It’s got something to do with protein structure abnormalities in kids’ bones – but you’d know from birth, it’s not something that you can get later in life.”  She came back into the room, a beer in one hand and her soda in the other.  She held it out to him, but he shook his head.

“No, Will – I can’t stay too long.”  He watched her face fall, but she masked it quickly. 

“Oh.  Okay, then… how are you?”  She didn’t want to know.  He’d asked her to look up brittle bones and she had.  He did that sometimes; sent her an email asking for something weird or obscure, but always science-based.  Astronomy, chemistry, physics, medical studies – for a year and a half, she’d combed the web for him.  Never asking why, never needing a reason.  Just getting it done.

“Not so good, Will.”  Xander stopped, unsure of how far he should go.  Willow stood in front of him, rooted to the spot.  Waiting.

“It’s Dawn – I wanted to know about the bone-thing because Dawn came back hurt.”  He watched her gasp, guilt and horror flashing across her face.  He leaned forward to take her hand; she snatched it away before he got there, unconsciously.

“Oh my god – why?  Did someone hurt her?  Oh god – Buffy.”  The beer slipped from her fingers, thudding on the carpet.  She paid no attention, too wrapped up in the possibilities flashing through her mind.

“No!  Will, Will, stop!”  He jumped up, grabbed her by the shoulders.  He would shake her out of this if he had to.  But the anguished expression lifted, and Willow came back.

“I’m all right, okay, okay.”  But she clutched his hand with trembling fingers; all her attention was focused on him now.  She bit her lip.  “Can I do anything?  I mean, I only looked at a couple of sites, they’re all in your email…”  Her face clouded.

“But Dawn was never fragile before.  The kids with the disease can break up to 100 times – oh.”  Her mind was working fast now, jumping from place to place.  “But she wasn’t a child.  Xan, I don’t know if that makes a difference, but I can look more!”

She was so desperate to help, she needed to help.  Xander watched her as she twisted away, practically running the few paces to her laptop.  He’d never told her the full reasons for anything she’d researched; he couldn’t.  But she had to know that she was helping them, just as Buffy had to know where all this mysterious information came from.  But they pretended for such different reasons.

“Willow, we don’t think it’s the disease anymore; that’s what the doctors told us yesterday, but something’s changed.”

She turned to him again.  “What?  Is it physical?”

He shook his head.  “It’s something else.”

“Oh.”  And she didn’t ask.  She turned her head away for a moment, eyes squeezed shut.  One, two, three – counting to a thousand, if need be.  Focusing on numbers.  But she didn’t need to go far; at twenty-seven, she turned back.

Xander was perched on the arm of the couch, anxious.  She tried to flash him a reassuring smile, but those didn’t come as easily as they used to.

“But she’s okay right now?”

Xander nodded again, relived.  “Yeah, she’s in bed.  Buffy’s with her.”

“Good.” 

Xander shifted uncomfortably.  There was something still to do, and he thought he knew what the reaction would be.  He cleared his throat.  “Will, I need to ask you something…”

“Yeah, anything!”  But then something tweaked in her head, and she wondered aloud: “How did she get home?”

“Spike brought her.”

Willow’s eyes flashed black, and it happened.

Xander watched as his best friend crumpled to the ground, her elbow striking the desktop loudly.  He knew what had happened; he’d seen it too often to mistake it.  She never meant to; he knew that too.  But no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, no matter how carefully he watched his words – there would be that one phrase or word or movement that sent her mind down a forbidden path. 

The path strewn with spells and magic, filled with dangerous herbs and ancient runes.  And she would rush along that path in her mind, thrilling at the draw, compelled by the power it held.  Sweep along in an ecstasy of energy, a thrill that set every nerve on fire.

Only to slam against the burned-out patch, a scorched wasteland she couldn’t pass, which nothing could heal.  The ravaged place in her brain that had died when her own terrible power backlashed, when she’d reined in the flow of tainted magic, drawn it back into herself.  It struck her forcefully, a blow to her psyche, a painful piercing into her mind.  Robbing her of reason and body and sense, sending her to the floor again.

Xander rose from the couch heavily, his question unasked.  He’d hoped to avoid it, hoped to keep her whole.  But here she lay, once again, splayed out on the carpet of her tiny apartment of the assisted-living facility.  The prison of her mind catching her once more, bodily shutting her down every time her thoughts strayed.

“You know,” he said as he gathered the girl up and carried her to her bed.  “This never stops being scary.  Scary because I’m afraid you’ve hurt yourself this time,” he whispered as he laid her down, smoothing her brow.  His voice was sad, tired.  “And scary because I don’t want to know what the hell you were thinking of to set you off.”

Buffy paused at the door of her room, mug of cocoa held still.

Dawn was buried under a pile of covers in her usual sleeping position – dead center of the bed.  It was all too familiar to Buffy, who remembered countless family vacations when she’d been shoved out of the hotel double by a fully asleep Dawn.  But Spike probably didn’t know about it; thin though he was, he was hard-pressed to find room for himself next to the fidgety teenager.  She smiled.

He, of course, had heard her coming.  He was propped against the headboard; his eyes had been on Dawn when Buffy arrived, but now he was looking straight at her.  He’d move if she wanted… but she didn’t want him to.  She walked to the dresser and put down the steaming mug.  No use in waking Dawn up if she was asleep.

“Giles?”  He spoke low, a not-quite-whisper that seemed to reverberate in his chest forever.  She walked to the other side of the bed, leaving Dawn between them.

“Researching.”  She shrugged – what else?  He chuckled faintly and closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall.

So he felt, rather than saw, Buffy climb into the bed.  She salvaged a bit of sheet from Dawn’s mummified state and gently eased herself onto the remaining chunk of mattress.  Dawn murmured a little in her sleep and twisted, edging towards her sister’s body.

Spike’s hand was still on the pillow above Dawn’s head; the fingers that brushed the back sent sparking electricity through him, and he opened his eyes again. 

Buffy met his gaze evenly.  Her head on the pillow, her sister curled close, she allowed the tips of her fingers to linger on his wrist.

Then she closed her eyes, Dawn shifted one last time, and Spike felt the shower of fiery sparks fall to earth, kindling an entirely different sort of blaze.  Warm and gentle, tingling as it spread through his limbs, unknotting his tense muscles and tired mind.  And before he knew what was happening, he drifted into the only peaceful sleep he’d ever known.

Midnight thrummed in his veins.  He’s lost it for a while during his Sunnydale years; the days had been too dark, or maybe the nights had been brighter... Either way, it had all blended together into a dusky time when midnight lost its meaning.  The dead of night had nothing on the thrill, the tremor that coursed through him when Buffy was near.

So it was a little confusing, when the energy caused him to shock awake, to have his eyes fly open and see the sleeping forms of Buffy and Dawn coiled tight next to him.

He lay still for a moment, just watching them breathe.  Dawn, ever the awkward sleeper, had managed to maneuver herself into a diagonal position, her toes nudging Spike’s shins and her head resting just beneath Buffy’s chin.  He smiled slowly.  Buffy’s hand had curved slightly, palm cupped protectively above Dawn’s head, but now holding Spike’s fingers tight-laced between her own.  He held his breath, savoring the sight.

But there were things to do, and the charge in his body wouldn’t let him forget.  Quietly, he slipped off the bed, trying not to move his hand from Buffy’s; it was a contact too sweet to waste.  Dawn made a small noise as her feet were momentarily exposed to the chill air; Spike covered them again, and she settled.

“Going somewhere?”

Oh, her eyes were open now; deeply green, over-bright from sleep, but steady.  And, as usual, demanding.

“Out for a bit,” he murmured.  His instinct was to keep her hand, to press her fingers lightly between his own – but he drew back, self-conscious, and she didn’t seem to notice the absence of his touch.

“To take the night air, or something more...” She raised an eyebrow sarcastically.  “Athletic?”  But only her voice was slow – the rest of her was moving swiftly, sliding out from under the covers, careful not to disturb Dawn.

“I can take care of this, Buffy – it’s not any of your concern.”  He tried to make his voice hard, final.  Then he remembered how well Buffy took to that tone.

“Oh, that’s going to work,” she snorted.  Her eyes glittered briefly.  “I know what you have to do, but last time she got hurt. And there’s no way that she’s more your concern than mine, Spike.”

A voice drifted out from the bedclothes.  “’She’ is awake – just so you guys don’t think I’m being sneaky.”  Buffy made a face and gestured towards the bed, though he didn’t quite know what her pointed look was meant to imply.

“Right, Dawn, thanks.”  Oh, well, this was a right cock-up.  He scowled, scrubbing his hands through his hair, trying to think of something to say.  It had been such a simple task in his head, and now...

“Now, are we going to take care of it, or are we going to chat?  ‘Cause I kinda want Dawn to go back to sleep, and if we start chatting, she’s just going to join in, and then no one can shut her up...”

“HEY!”

Too late for subterfuge, it seemed.  Spike dropped his hands and shrugged.  “And you suggest?”

She flashed him a brief smile.  “We get Dawn onto the futon in the training room,” she mused, ignoring the muffled protest from the bed, “I gear up, and then we head into town.  Sound good to you?”

The night was young, the moon was bright, and she was coming with him.  “Good as any.”

“Then let’s go.”

Books littered the floor of his flat, lying open in a complicated system that would make sense to no one but him.  It was a usual state for his flat.  Some things had changed, though.  Out of sheer necessity, he’d purchased a hands-free set for his mobile at the local Carphone Warehouse, and though it was currently chafing his ear he had to admit that it had its uses.  Now, for instance, as he made his hundredth phone call of the night and was still able to fix a cup of tea.

He cast an eye over the book stacks blearily, slightly disdainfully, before looking back to the view from his flat kitchen.  Neat stone houses jutted up against the brightening sky, their neat little walled gardens set out behind; he found himself focusing on a lacy top on a washline as it snapped in the early morning breeze.  A light rain was misting, promising to turn into a downpour any moment now, and then the shirt would be sodden again. 

He missed tumble dryers.

“And you’re certain they’ve enough experience?”  Giles repeated, rubbing at his eyes.

“Rupert, they’re trained.  I know you’ve managed to get your hands on the roster somehow, which is something to be discussed later,” the man replied, a hint of warning in his tone, “But as you’re already aware of the team, you might as well use them.  Young, yes, but trained.  Besides, they’re the only ones available on such short notice without alerting the Council.”

“Theodore, you do realize how important this is, don’t you?  You do realize that her sister is the only family Buffy has in her life right now...”  Giles could feel the tension of the past six hours rasping in his voice.  He sighed.

“And you realize, Rupert, that this is your best chance?” 

He did, honestly, somewhere.  He couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud, but he knew.  Every book he looked through, every phone call he made – all roads led to this certain point, and he didn’t have the time to fuss.

“I realize you’re worried,” Theodore continued, “But I must remind you – I’m not entirely certain that the Council aren’t already aware of developments.”

“Theo - ”

“No, you MUST listen, as you don’t seem to understand!  Though she may be a Slayer, she hasn’t been ‘their’ Slayer for a bloody long time!  And thus, she has behaved erratically, usually on behalf of the Key she calls her sister...”

Giles stopped him cold.  “Who IS her sister, Deane.  That is not in question.”

But Theo wasn’t silenced.  “For you?  No.  And obviously not for her either.  But Rupert, she was willing to trade the world for her sister’s life.  It’s not a thing the Council would be precisely comfortable with on a regular basis, and you must take their attitude into consideration.”  The man’s voice turned urgent, thick. 

“Rupert, they haven’t sent a wetworks team to Sunnydale precisely because they can’t afford to alienate the Slayer.  But if the fates align just so and the Key happens to disappear because of it?  I can’t see Travers getting too worked up about it.  For the sake of perspective, Rupert, keep that in mind.”

Giles drained his mug grimly. “All right.  Send them in.”

“Smelly.” 

Dawn scuffed her heel against the floor of the training room petulantly, then immediately regretted the action as her ankle crackled.  She cast a jaundiced eye around her; technically, she realized that Buffy wanted her down here because it was the safest room in the house, and she couldn’t really object to the reasoning.  Reinforced windows and door, enough weapons to keep anyone safe for a good long time, the entire place warded, bewitched, whatever...

That really didn’t take away from the fact that the two main uses for this room were sweating and doing laundry. 

“Smells like feet, Buffy,” she muttered irritably.  “Not PineSol, not air freshener, it smells.  Like.  FEET.”  The sound of her voice echoed through the space, which oddly set her more at ease. 

At least Buffy and Spike had had the good sense to bring all of the blankets down with them when she sent them for the portable phone and the gummi bears.  She swathed herself in her comforter, burying her face in the fabric, and then breaking into a huge grin as she recognized the vampire’s distinctive smell.  Spike had stayed, and then Buffy had come in, and everything might just end up not-horribly.  She edged further onto the futon, smiling foolishly.

She wasn’t particularly surprised when the phone rang in her hand.  She even had an answer ready:  “Sal’s Pizza, we locked the door and promise not to open it until you get home so stop worrying so much!”

Of course, the response she got was a little more unexpected.

“Giles!”

The streetlamp outside the window winked on, suddenly casting silhouettes against the blinds, softened and hazy pictures.  Head propped against his hand, Xander watched the familiar shapes dance in the breeze, the boughs crossing and uncrossing fitfully.  His mind idly associated them with images, as though looking for meaning in clouds on a sunny day: crossbow; the dogswood tree by Meadowlark Cemetery; the crease in Giles’ forehead; a tentacle-vine.  He smirked a little where he lay.  “Just can’t leave the job behind,” he muttered ruefully.

His voice sounded loud in the room, and he winced a little.  Next to him on the bed, Willow shifted closer to him, her eyes still shut tight in sleep.  He pulled the quilt up further, carefully covering her tightly-clenched fists, trying to ease the blanket between the sharp point of her chin and her shoulders.  His throat tightened; even in sleep, her entire being recoiled from the world.  Then again, most of her world had rejected her; this was no simple paranoia.

He’d woken abruptly, though not unexpectedly; this far out in the country, the silence could be deafening, and he often jerked awake with his heart pounding.  Something about utter silence unnerved him, and every night he spent in Willow’s apartment promised this sort of interrupted sleep.  Sometimes he welcomed consciousness, when memory forced dreams from him.

The dreams in this room were never good.  Especially not for her.

She whimpered, a slight, small sound that barely escaped her throat, her face taking on a plaintive cast. God, if it could be this bad in her sleep.... Xander scooted further under the covers, and she responded immediately by curving against him, her forehead burrowed against his shoulder as though she could crawl inside, and he wished again that he could be her shelter forever.

He welcomed the small heat of her and hesitantly arranged his arms: one reaching up towards the headboard, the other hovering above his chest.  She responded instantly, fitting herself to him like a jigsaw, her eyes still clamped tightly closed.  He drew his arm down, a firm pressure that crossed her back and ended at her waist, a gentle play of palm and fingers brought lightly against the natural curve of her hip.  And then, finally, she relaxed, melted; her breaths evened and the tension left her limbs, a ragdoll against his cautious pose. 

He knew the pattern of her seizures now.  He traced a finger along the fine lines that had so recently, so prematurely formed at the corners of her eyes, his gaze lingered on her chapped and bitten lips.  She’d be waking up soon, and then she’d shut all of it away again; Willow didn’t believe she deserved sympathy or pity, and wouldn’t respond to it if offered.  He pulled her closer, felt the beat of her heart against her chest, let the feeling linger.

Here, in this otherworldly twilight, she craved his touch and love and acceptance.  And here, he was finally free to give it to her.

“She’ll be all right in there.”

Spike said it firmly, as though convincing himself of the fact, but his eyes strayed tellingly towards the plain door leading down to the basement.

Buffy continued rummaging through the closet, her voice echoing back to him in the kitchen.  “Yeah, it’s pretty much the safest place on the planet – you should have seen all the defensive crap Xander built in structurally.”  Spike’s lips thinned quickly at the man’s name, but he bit back any jibe.  “Besides, we installed cable.”

“Need a hand?”

“No.”  She emerged again, an odd leather holster dangling from her hand.  She’d already changed into clothes she could hunt in: the fabrics stretched easily over her slender frame, sensible choices, chocolate brown, black, cream at her throat.  Very sensible, if you discounted the boots, of course; sturdy but stylish and sporting a wicked heel, they disappeared under the hem of her pants and didn’t look like they ended until her knee.  She’d always had a weakness for footwear.

It wouldn’t do to keep staring at her legs, though. 

“Haven’t seen that before,” he said, gesturing towards the holster.

Buffy produced a matching leather sheath and slid it expertly into the leather loops, twisting the thongs in intricate patterns that bound the sheath and holster together.  She spoke as she worked, still crouched low.  “No, you wouldn’t have – it’s Marcus’s.”

The name sounded familiar, but it took a moment to register.  “Oh, Anya’s bloke.”

Buffy nodded, already busy belting the sheath to her thigh.  “He sails, and he had one of these lying around.”  She straightened again and glanced up, smiling distractedly.  “It looked fun, so I tried it out.  Nifty, hunh?”

Spike watched her as she flipped a wicked-looking blade around her nimble fingers, the metal flashing in the moonlight.  She kept her eyes on the spinning knife, obviously delighted with her new toy, whipping it into the sheath with perfect precision.  Then her gaze flicked up to him belatedly, her smile faded, and everything was awkward again.

“Nifty,” he agreed, and she flushed a little, her mouth working as she tried to decide whether or not he was making fun.  But he didn’t follow up, just ducked his head and checked on the set of stakes she’d handed to him.  She relaxed, and the odd tingle their brief standoff had sparked died away again.

She straightened her jacket and picked up the crossbow leaning against the doorjamb.  In one easy motion she slung it over her shoulder where it settled neatly into a worn groove in her jacket.  “If you’re ready, we should get moving.”   

He didn’t protest; but as he walked by the basement door, he brushed his palm against the reinforced wood.  Not too obvious, not too showy – just a slight pressure of skin on surface, almost like he needed the contact for balance as he walked out of the Summers home.  But Spike was never that clumsy, and would never lose his footing while walking across the kitchen floor.  He didn’t need that kind of balance.

Behind him, Buffy saw the gesture and wondered at it.  But it made her heart a little lighter, and as she passed, she allowed her own fingers to trail across the place his hand had rested.

“But what if he doesn’t come?”

Kane lounged against the alley wall, one leg pulled up beneath him.  He was going for James Dean, Rick guessed, but missing by a mile.  Kane simply couldn’t contain his excitement: his eyes glittered, his head snapped towards every noise, practically bubbling with glee.  Rick was scared out of his mind; Kane was just plain off his head.

“He’ll come, he’ll come...”  Kane pushed away from the wall and surveyed the scene he’d set so carefully.  It hadn’t taken long to set up; Kane’s mind worked in unfamiliar ways, something he believed was an asset.  He’d spent long days fantasizing about standoffs like this: a subtle trap, carefully sprung, that would see his opponent writhing in the dirt in moments.  But not dusting in the dirt, he chuckled to himself.  No – Spike really was a master, and there would be days, weeks, perhaps even months to learn from him.

And to torture him, of course.  But that was just the icing on the cake.

“Check on the guys,” he muttered, and watched as Rick jumped at the chance to get away.

He wasn’t an idiot.  Kane knew that his crew didn’t like him.  But more importantly?  They feared him, and with good reason.  And a certain traitorous little bastard would soon reinforce that important lesson.

Watching Rick’s swift retreat he mused on the different ways he could make an example of the boy – a variation on Chinese water torture was a definite possibility.  He remembered hearing a lot about that one as a kid.  Using consecrated water, obviously, and with any luck he’d manage to burn a way through to the kid’s brain before he lost consciousness.  Medical books were always talking about how prodding at various parts of the brain provoked odd reactions in the patient.  He’d been dying to try that one out; removing sections of a conscious patient’s brain would prove just as interesting.  And a vampire at that!  He smiled, musing.  Do vampire brains grow back?  Well, it would have to be a thorough study.

He’d never seen a real brain before.  And obviously, if the water didn’t do the trick, there were always drills.

But first, he’d deal with Spike.  He chafed his hands against each other, adrenaline running high.  It was getting kind of chilly out.  That leather jacket would do quite nicely.

Dawn sat back and stared at the wall.  Buffy might try to kill her, and there might be some spackling involved, but she’d managed to write down all of the information Giles was giving her.  It wasn’t exactly her fault that she was locked in a room with no paper, and it certainly wasn’t her fault that the only writing utensil she’d been able to find was one of Buffy’s eyeliner pencils.  She set the ruined pencil down on the floor with a pang of guilt.  But “Cleopatra Kohl” wasn’t ‘in’ right now anyhow.  Right? Whatever.  She squinted at the notes scrawled on the white paint.

“So, the two people who might come... I let them in?”  Dawn reiterated.  She’d taken the notes, sure, but they weren’t exactly making a whole lot of sense right now.  She shut her eyes and leaned back against the futon, taking a page from Buffy’s book.  Listen to Giles, and he’ll make it all okay.

“Yes, Dawn.  Of course, if you’re uncomfortable with that, or if you’d prefer to...”  His voice trailed off a little.  There weren’t any other options for him to offer.

“No, I’m good.  But run me through this one more time.” She stared into the distance, arranging her thoughts.  “Okay.  So, tell me if I screwed any of this up, but: two people will be here sometime early in the morning.” 

“Correct.”

“And they might have weird stuff with them, but as long as they say they’re Swiss...” 

“Swede,” Giles interrupted her hastily.  “It’s a root vegetable, not completely unlike a turnip.”

Dawn let a brief silence linger as she processed that.  “Right, that one – as long as they speak of the random vegetable, then carte blanche?”

“In a word, yes.  But Dawn, if you’re at all unable to do this, I can certainly tell them to come a little later.  Perhaps it would be better if we waited until Buffy got home.... And where is she, if I may ask?”

“Out.  With Spike.  I think they’re killing something.”  Dawn delicately bit the head off of a green gummi bear and replaced it with a red one.  Much better.

“Excellent.  Excellent...” Giles’ voice trailed off slightly, and Dawn paused.

“Giles?”  Her voice sounded very young, even in her own ears.  She swallowed.  “Isn’t everything going to be okay?”

“I hope so, Dawn.  Oh, I do hope so.”

“I would have done this alone, you know.”

They’d been walking side by side in total silence as they approached the main street, but he had to say it.  Her reaction at the house hadn’t been unexpected, but he felt uncomfortable not mentioning it.  He didn’t want to take her company for granted.

Buffy shrugged.  “I know – but this Kane guy messed you up pretty badly last time you saw him.”  She hesitated, realizing how critical that might sound. 

“Not that I think you can’t deal with it – I’m sure you’re good with that kind of stuff, you’ve probably been practicing...”

He sighed.  “Buffy...”

“But we might need you soon.  Dawn’s got this thing, and what if the Kane guy is actually after her? And besides, strength in numbers.”  She shifted awkwardly.

“Oh,” he said quietly.  “I’m glad you came.”

“Good.”

 They walked on, the buildings beginning to get closer together as they neared the center of Sunnydale.  It had been built up a little in the past two years – some of the facades had been updated, a level or two added on some of more imposing buildings.  Spike thought that he knew the town by night, but tonight?  New shadows cast their lengths across the tarmac, reached into familiar corners and darkened them eerily. 

It made him edgy.

“Buffy, I don’t really think we’ll find him here.”

“Why not?”

He fidgeted.  “Maybe... maybe I mean we shouldn’t find him here.”

“And now you’re making no sense.”  She had stopped in the middle of the road and now watched him, her weight shifted easily onto one foot.  “I’m not the one who started heading in this direction, you did – I’m just along for the ride.”

She was right.  He’d unintentionally headed straight for the alley where he’d first encountered that bleached bastard.  “Right,” he muttered, reluctance still pulling at him. It wasn’t that he thought Buffy couldn’t handle it, but – well, Kane wasn’t the kind of guy he wanted to even LOOK at Buffy or Dawn.  Bringing Buffy to him?  That thought just made him ill.

But she was determined, and better yet, she was right.  Better to get rid of him now, rather than wait for him to find them.  “Right...”

Buffy sighed.  “Why don’t we just wander?  We can hit the sewers later, maybe if you think of something else we’ll head there too.  That okay?”

The impatience was audible in her voice, though she was trying to dampen it; she waited only until Spike nodded his assent, and then began an irritable charge down the nearest alley. 

And Spike followed.  Partially because he didn’t have a choice; partially because the only choice that mattered was to be with her.

The town had been a wash, as had the house with the rotted corpse.  On Buffy’s suggestion they had also prowled through the school and the larger graveyards, a frenzied pace that ate up the great distances quickly.  Clambering through the warehouses by the docks, though, had proven more time-consuming, and three hours of intensive searching had begun to wear. 

Until they reached the alley in back of the fisheries, where they both froze in perfect unison.

It wasn’t one particular thing that made them stop; a combination of overwhelming silence, the sensation that something was near, perhaps an unusual scent.  But as they both stopped short, they knew two things for certain: the alleyway was dangerous, and the dock they paused on was only marginally less so.

Spike whispered low, barely enunciating.  “We should stay here for a bit.”

“Yes,” she replied, eyes darting.  “Yes we should.”  Neither moved a muscle.

They didn’t have long to wait.  Apparently, Kane had a penchant for dramatic entrances.  He stepped out of a shadow, lingering beneath a streetlight at the alley’s other end.  Buffy squinted briefly, then suddenly realized who the young vampire was mimicking. 

“You’ve got a fan,” she muttered, and Spike barked a short laugh.

“Oh – lucky, lucky me.”

 A chain rattled somewhere in the gloom.  “You weren’t supposed to go anywhere, Master-man.”  Kane’s voice managed to echo against the warehouse siding ominously in a way he probably thought effective. 

Buffy smiled brilliantly at the gambit.  So there would be banter?  Well, banter was her forte.

“Yeah, he doesn’t really follow orders.  Pain in the ass, I know.  So, want to make something of it?” she perked.

Kane ignored her, speaking to Spike again.  “Too bad you brought the bitch.  Kind of screws up the whole plan, but hey – I can be flexible.”  He finally focused on Buffy.  “Or I could go hang out with her dead mom for a while.  Maybe I could do a little digging, a little breaking and entering.  Don’t humans mummify after a couple of years?  Do you think there’ll still be maggots in there?”

Spike felt her stiffen at the mention of Joyce, and stepped forward.  “Weary of the games, boy.  Why not come on out here, try giving something that’s not your mouth a workout.”

He laughed.  “Oh, but it’s so much nicer in here.  The aroma, for one.”  Kane took an exaggerated breath of fishy brine, letting it out in a gust.  “I’m sure the maggot mummy’s girl would like it.  I chose it special and all.”  His gaze lingered on Buffy, slimy, proprietary, and Spike began to bristle.

But Buffy had recovered fast; now she had anger fueling her tongue.  “And you know what?  The only reason I’m not waltzing on in and ripping your stupid little ambush to shreds is because I happen to like this outfit and this alley?  Dirty.”  She paused, looking around.  “I mean, dirty even for an alley.  Why don’t you evil types ever want to fight in, oh, I don’t know... a doctor’s office?  Maybe a shower room?  You know, somewhere that’s seen cleaning supplies in the last century...”

Kane sighed.  “You’re getting a little boring, Slayer.”

She snorted.  “Yeah, I think so, too.  But we’re at a bit of a stalemate, ‘cause I’m not going to come in there and get you, and you’re too busy hiding behind, oh...” She cocked her head to the side, listening intently.  “Six unbelievably noisy henchmen who are really, really bad at hiding.”  She smirked a little and waved towards one of the windows on the upper stories.  She could feel Spike shifting behind her, assessing the situation and settling into position, but she rambled on, waiting for the right moment.  “Hi there!”  A huddled shadow on the fire escape shifted self-consciously, and Buffy chuckled.

“God – some of them are so new, they’re still breathing.  You don’t need to do that anymore, you know,” she directed towards the uncertain henchman.  “Try it!  Just let it go, it’s real easy....”

Spike suddenly tensed behind her, and she knew that time was up.  “Then again,” she finished, “It’s going to be a kinda moot point in a couple of seconds, so on second thought?  Breathe away.”

His hearing had picked up the sound before she had, obviously.  A metallic click that registered just a moment after Spike made a lightening-fast throw into a dark corner, a sound that made her heart leap into her throat.  Metal on metal, a sound she could never forget.

She couldn’t take her eyes off Kane, though.  His smile was fevered, taunting, over-eager, and she wouldn’t give him an opening to make her weak.  So she stood, taut to the point of shaking, as Spike hauled the shrieking minion out of the darkness to lay at her feet.

“Got it.”  Spike lifted a revolver to her eye level, held flat out on his palm; she noticed that the hammer was cocked.

Wordlessly, Buffy took the gun, her eyes never leaving Kane.  She didn’t know how to unload a gun, but she didn’t have to.  With deliberate precision, she pinched her fingers against the end of the barrel.  The length crimped, buckled under the force of her grip, the perfect cylinder flattening to ruin.  She let it clatter to the ground, just a useless hunk of gunpowder and metal, and turned back to their quivering captive.

He was a pitiful sight.  The vamp was young and stupid, too focused on the pain of the stake in his gut to process the tableau before him.  He keened, the wail of someone who’s never had a serious injury, of someone who hasn’t learned stoicism.  He reached towards his leader plaintively, and Buffy saw a glimmer of something cross Kane’s face.  His expression slackened, his eyes grew bright, and he came as close to flushing as she’d ever seen a vampire.  It struck her as a curious response.

And Buffy nearly retched as she realized what he was feeling. 

He was waiting for the kill.  There was an air of something disturbing about him, an aura of anticipation that verged on sexual.  Her hands instantly felt oily, slick from touching something that was ‘his’, tainted.  It was the same way she felt when reading about pedophiles or rapists... Spike touched her side briefly and she almost shied away, but controlled her reaction.  She didn’t want to be that way anymore.

This would have to be quick; any thought of drawing it out, using the vamp to get Kane... it was completely repellant now.  She caught Spike’s eye and he nodded, holding the henchman fast.  The babbled shrieks increased in intensity as the vamp seemed to register his predicament, and Buffy ducked down to meet his eye.

“We don’t do guns here,” she breathed into his ear, and quickly, precisely, yanked the stake from his stomach and guided it to his heart.

The dust had barely settled before Kane sauntered forward again, forcing nonchalance.  “How... After-School Special,” he drawled, an ugly sound that marred his effort to act casual.  He twitched irritably; Buffy got the distinct impression that he didn’t resent the dusting as much as he did the speed of it.

“I do what I can,” she replied.  Her hand slid down to the knife on her thigh, “But now I’m going to do better.”

And in an instant, all hell broke loose.