"Xander, my boy. You look like shit," he told the reflection, sighing as he took out a can of shaving cream, and his razor. He'd been avoiding everybody pretty steadily over the last two weeks, not wanting to have to deal with their questions. He felt bad for not going to see Spike, especially since he'd had to retire and was probably not taking it well. But, he knew at this point, that they'd probably not do each other any good. They were too caught up in the messes they'd made to worry about being supportive of the other.

With another sigh, he squirted some foam into his hand, and spread it over his face, fighting the memories that had been plaguing him since he left. He was an internal mess, his heart constantly screaming at him, loud and high-GO BACK HOME! Go lose yourself in the soft, comforting arms of your wife, and soothe yourself with the laughter of your daughter. But his mind refused. His trust in himself had been badly shaken, and he didn't know how to get it back.

He turned the faucet on and ran his razor under it before bringing the blade to his face. Images forced their way to the front of his consciousness. Images of the last five years of his life, beginning with the day he had stormed into Cordelia's house and taken her away with him. The day they got married, just the two of them, and the justice and his wife there to bear witness. The look on her face when he showed her their apartment. It wasn't much, but she made him feel like it was Buckingham palace. The day she graduated high school, her round stomach making her burgundy gown tent out. She was beautiful, holding the diploma proudly, one hand resting on her stomach. Jazz was born two days later.

The image of his daughter, resting in her pink blanket, Cordy's arm curled protectively around her while she waved at the camera, her smile making her tired, pale face radiant.

The day Jazz took her first step, said her first word. Their first anniversary, when Buffy and Willow had taken the baby and had treated them to a night out to dinner, and a hotel room. The girls' friendship had been cemented after Spike left and Cordy had to deal with the ridicule of her former friends. Buffy had been a wreck, throwing herself into school, and actually graduating with the ability to go to just about any college she wanted. But the following summer her mother had gotten sick and she had thrown herself into taking care of her and Dawn, forgetting about herself and her dreams, whatever they may have been.

Things between the Harrises had been happy. Not storybook, not fairytale, but happy. They fought, a lot. They made up, a lot. And neither had ever doubted their decision. Then, at Jazz's last birthday, Cordy had invited her parents, wanting to make amends. He hadn't blamed her, and had been on his best behavior. They had breezed in with their presents, which all cost more than the ones that he, Cordy, Buffy, and Willow had bought combined. Jazz hadn't been fazed, being too young to understand the value of things. He didn't let it bother him though. Until it became a habit.

Every week they would come up with some reason to buy her gifts. From expensive china dolls, to a new wardrobe. Xander had only given token protests at first, not wanting to be the bad guy. In fact, the only fight that he and Cordy had gotten into over her parents' spending was when they wanted to buy the house. He had finally given in, when he had made it clear that he would pay back every dime. Cordy had agreed with that, understanding his need, and sharing it, taking a job at the gallery after Joyce got sick to help Giles. But, it only got worse after that.

They used the house as an excuse to drop by uninvited, ridiculing everything that they had bought to furnish the house. Katherine had even brought in a decorator, while he and Cordelia weren't home, to decorate Jazz's room. When they had gotten home, and realized what she had done, they'd had to go to the dump to retrieve some of the more precious items that Katherine had just thrown carelessly away. The bunny Spike had made special for her first birthday, in it's pink fire suit, and a helmet with it's ears pulled through. Her name had been printed on the back. The dream catcher that Mark had given her when she'd been plagued with nightmares, strangely enough brought on by the Little Mermaid. Particularly the scene where Ariel's fins had split into legs and she had started drowning. Once Mark had presented the girl with the pink and white dream catcher, not another bad dream had plagued her. These and other treasures that had been given to her granddaughter had been thrown out like so much garbage. She had been flabbergasted when the Harrises had presented a united front against her, telling her that if she ever did such a thing again, she would no longer be allowed in their home.

The final straw had occurred just two short weeks ago. Jazz, like every little girl, had wanted a pony. Xander and Cordy had patiently explained why she couldn't have one. She had responded that she would just ask grandma. They had forbade her, but being four, she had done it anyway, not expecting her parents to have already told Katherine no. The older Chase woman had gone against their wishes and bought the pony.

Xander had been livid when he found out. He had expected Cordy to back him up. But when all she had done was tell him to calm down, they had already bought it, why not let her keep it, he had wigged. One thing led to another, and suddenly they were in the middle of the nastiest fight they had ever had. He had called her a rich, selfish bitch who didn't want to live on what he could provide. She had called him a scared little boy who didn't know when to just back off.

Then, it had happened. He couldn't really say what had triggered it, what she had said to make him even consider doing it. But the next thing he knew, he was in her face, his fist cocked back, his face twisted with rage. To her credit, she had just stood there, arms crossed over her chest, her chin thrown back as if giving him a target. He didn't know what had stopped him, or how he had suddenly come back to clarity, but he had dropped his fist, and had hit his knees in front of her, begging for her forgiveness. He didn't feel her soft hands on his shoulders, or hear her words as she tried to tell him it was alright. All he saw, all he heard, was his father, doing the same to his mother, to him. He had stumbled up to his feet, and out the door, blindly running down the street, away from the image. In five years he had never done such a thing, never even THOUGHT of doing such a thing. And he had almost done it.

Now that he thought about it, she didn't have any fear in her eyes. She just looked at him like she knew he wouldn't do it. He just wished that he shared her confidence.

With a final tap of the razor against the sink, he turned off the water, and grabbed the towel. He missed them both so much, it was a physical ache in his chest. He wouldn't go back. Not as long as he was afraid that he would hurt them.

Scrubbing the towel over his face, he dropped it on the edge of the sink, and turned away from the reflection of the man he didn't like anymore.

~*~*~

Rupert looked down at the prone figure of his son, a tired sigh erupting from his chest. Spike was sprawled in the same chair he had been in the night before when Giles had gotten home, still passed out. On the table next to him, was the empty, cigarette butt filled scotch bottle. Rupert shook his head, sadness and worry weighing heavily on his heart. He didn't know how to help him, and he hadn't been able to get ahold of Xander for any kind of assistance. In fact, last night had been the first time in days that he had seen the blonde out of his room. He would come out after Giles was in bed, grab something non-substantial to eat, then disappear back inside his room, never answering when his father knocked. The phone was full of messages from reporters and fellow drivers, wanting to talk to him. The mailbox was filled with cards and letters from his fans, and well wishers. Nothing could break through the shell that Spike had built around himself, and Giles was at a loss.

The longer he looked down at his son, the more he let his anger take him over. The anger he'd had since the little prat had taken off with nothing but a note to explain his whereabouts. The anger he had that his son wasn't thankful for the life he still had, instead of wallowing in self pity because he couldn't drive a car around a track. Giles didn't even pretend to know very much about NASCAR, or stock car racing in general, but he did know that plenty of other drivers had left their driving careers behind to have lucrative careers doing other things involved in the racing field. Announcers, owners, and consultants were all, more often than not, former drivers. He could do one of those things, and still have a foot in the world he had come to love. But he refused to see it.

An idea started to form in his mind, a childish, non-Giles idea. He could almost hear Rosemary cheering him to do it, because it would be something that she might do when faced with a depressed, mule-headed child. He turned away from the prone form of his son, and walked into the kitchen, searching the cabinets. When he found what he was looking for, he turned and completed his task. A few seconds later, he was standing over Spike once more, looking down at him. After contemplating him for a second, he lifted the pitcher of ice and water he had in his hand and dumped it on the unsuspecting man, soaking him and the antique leather chair.

"Bloody hell!" Spike sputtered, falling off the chair with a thud. He shook his head like a wet dog, spraying his father and the furniture in a fine mist of cold water. A piece of ice had slid down his jeans, and he was desperately trying to get it out before it reached his bits. Giles watched the display, not even trying to hide his smile. When the offending piece of ice had been retrieved, Spike glared up at his father, his chest heaving in deep breaths. "What. The fuck. Was that for?" he demanded, rising to his feet, his electric blue eyes clashing with those of his father.

"That, was a wake up call," the older man said, placing the pitcher on the coffee table, then turning back to face off with his child.

"What?" Spike snapped, stripping off his sodden, black t-shirt. He looked up again at Giles' sharp intake of breath. Rupert stared at Spike in shock. He had known that the boy had lost weight, he just hadn't realized how much until this second. His body, which he had once taken so much pride in, was skeletal. His stomach, which was once ridged with muscle, was now slightly sunken, a testament to his lack of eating. Giles could clearly count each rib through the layer of pale skin. His arms bordered on sticks, and his jeans rode low on his hips, showing the too sharp outline of his hip bones. Spike looked guiltily away from his father, clenching his jaw, and making his cheeks hollow out even more.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" Rupert gasped, his voice stunned as his eyes took in the destruction his son had wrested on his own body. "Kill yourself?" Their eyes met then, and Spike's scarred eyebrow shot up.

"You told me to find a less flashy way if doin' it, didn't you?" The older man's eyes widened in the second before he moved, shocking his son with his speed. He found himself yanked against his dad, Giles' hands banded tight around his once muscular biceps. He was surprised by two things. One, his father's fingers hurt, biting into his flesh fiercely. Two, he couldn't get away from him. He struggled weakly, his near seven month diet of booze and little food making it impossible for him to extricate himself from the iron grip. Rupert's eyes were blue fire as he drew Spike closer, anger making his own body rigid.

"You stupid, selfish little git," he started. Spike continued his token struggle, baring his teeth and practically growling at his father. "You think your life is over because you can't drive a car around in circles anymore?" He gave Spike a small shake as if hoping to rattle some sense into him. "Of all the ridiculous things. You still have plenty of things you could do, but you're too busy wallowing in self pity to see it."

"What the hell do you know about it? What have you lost?" Spike snarled, realizing his mistake the second the sentence fell from his mouth. He stumbled back when Rupert pushed him away, and landed hard in the soaked leather chair once more.

"I lost the love of my life. Your mother, since it seems you need to be reminded." Guilt slammed into Spike at the sound of raw emotion coating his father's words. Tears rushed to his eyes as her image drifted through his mind. He blinked them back, his hands fisting in his lap. He refused to look up at his father when he continued. "I almost lost you. So don't you dare sit there and think that you're the only person to lose something. You've been so wrapped up in your own personal pity party that you've no idea what's going on in your friends' lives, do you?" Ever so slightly, Spike shook his head, risking a glance up at Giles.

"Haven't heard from Xander since I got back," he said, his tone accusatory.

"Oh, well, you'll just have to excuse him," Giles spat, his tone letting them both know just where his son's sarcasm came from. "His marriage is in the process of falling apart. Forgive him for not rushing right over here and picking up the pieces of your life." Spike's eyes snapped back up to Rupert's.

"What? Why?" he demanded.

"I honestly don't know. According to Cordelia, he's been gone for two weeks, and none of the others have heard from him, other than for him to let them know where he was staying." Spike's mind was spinning with this information, trying to figure out why. He had just seen them in February, and all had seemed well. *Wait,* he thought, *has it really been that long?* His eyes closed when he realized that, yes, it had been that long. Anything could have happened between now and then. He was ashamed of his selfishness, but he still wasn't quite ready to let it go.

"Sorry to hear that. But it doesn't change anything." Giles sighed, wondering just where all this stubbornness had come from.

"You know, William. For the first time since she left us, I'm glad your mother's gone. At least she doesn't have to witness the selfish little prat you've turned into." The younger man nearly lunged at his father for that, but wisely refrained. The condition he was in now, Rupert would be able to knock him back on his ass with no effort at all. He resorted to stony silence, letting the other man know, that as far as he was concerned, this conversation was over. Giles, however, wasn't quite done.

"Now, I suggest that you get off your arse, and take a good, long look at what's important. You still have your friends, your health, for the most part. And me. I love you, Will, and it kills me to see you this way." A muscle in Spike's jaw ticked at that, but he said nothing. "Get up, clean yourself up, and go outside. Maybe look for a place of your own. You have more than enough money." Giles took off his glasses, and rubbed them, studying the tense line of his son's face. "Will, your life is not over, despite what you think. You've grieved long enough. Now, it's time to pick yourself back up, and figure out what you're going to do now. You'll never get Buffy back acting like this." He chuckled when their eyes clashed again.

"She's engaged, Dad," Spike bit out, each word leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Rupert nodded, not denying the truth of the statement.

"Yes. Yes she is. She has been for six months now. And has yet to set a date." Giles let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "Now, I'm going to work. I expect this mess to be cleaned up when I get home." He turned and started towards the door, keys in hand. "Oh, and Will." He looked back to his son, eyes boring into the younger man's. "Don't think you're too old for me to put over my knee the next time you steal my twelve year old scotch." Spike only scowled at that. Once the door closed, he snatched up the bottle in question and flung it, letting out a satisfied grunt when it shattered.

"And that had better be cleaned up when I get home, as well," Giles said, poking his head back in the door. Spike growled as his father disappeared once again. He sat like that, for five full minutes, feeling the cold water seeping into the already wet denim of his jeans. He entertained a few black, nasty thoughts about his father, before unfolding himself from the chair and walking towards the supply closet. Muttering the whole way, he returned with the broom, a dustpan, and some towels. He glared at the picture of his father on the mantle for good measure, before bending down and cleaning up the mess on the floor.

Chapter 21

"Hi, Buffy," Willow said as the door swung open to reveal the tired, worn face of her friend. Buffy offered her a tight smile, and let her in.

"Hi, Will." She closed the door and walked back towards the kitchen, Willow following.

"What's the matter?" The redhead asked, sliding onto one of the stools and accepting the mug that Buffy handed her.

"What isn't the matter?" was the answer she got.

"Honey, what happened? It must be something big. You're not at work." Buffy let out a harsh laugh, and sat across from her friend, idly stirring the spoon in her coffee.

"Needed a day off." She stared down at the dark brew in her cup, hoping the answers she sought would surface.

"Buffy," Willow prompted again, titling her head to the side. The lost look on the blonde's face was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

"Sorry. Just, so much has happened in the last twenty four hours."

"Spike?" The redhead asked hopefully. Buffy eyes shot to hers, the slightly panicked look letting Willow know she had hit home. The redhead bit back her smile and jumped into best friend mode. She'd been dying to have this conversation for months. "What happened?" This time it was asked with a firmness that let Buffy know that she would accept no more hedging. With a deep sigh, Buffy told her, quickly and quietly. Willow's face was a montage of emotion as she listened. From shock and horror at Dawn's actions, to chuckling at the thought of Spike's face when presented with a overly hormonal teenager, to a dreamy smile at the description of the kiss, and finally, anger at the both of them for the fight. Buffy looked up when she was done, and noticed the furrowed brow of her friend.

"What?"

"Ugh, you two have got to be. . .ugh!" Willow took a deep breath to calm down, and decided to start from the beginning. "What happened with Dawn?" A golden brow arched up at the abrupt change, but she let it be for now.

"Nothing, yet." Buffy got up to refresh her coffee and Willow's before continuing. "I'm going to talk to her after school. And she's NOT going to like what I have to say. I figured it would be better to wait, make her go to school today, and have it out with her later," she explained, and Willow nodded in agreement. "I sent Riley home last night. After we got back from Spike's. I just couldn't. . ." Buffy struggled for words.

"You couldn't play pretend after the kiss Spike laid on you?" Willow offered, her tone sharp. The blonde looked up, anger firmly etched on her face.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? I'm not playing pretend with Riley." Willow snorted at that, pissing Buffy off even more. "I'm not," she insisted.

"When's the wedding?" The other woman asked innocently, crossing her arms over her chest and raising a russet eyebrow.

"When's yours?" Buffy shot back, looking pointedly at the diamond winking on her friend's slender finger.

"The day after I graduate college," Willow told her, giving her a 'so there' expression. "And if Mark told me he wanted to get married tomorrow, I'd say let's go," she finished, leaning forward to pin her friend with her green eyes. "Now, when's yours?"

"I don't know," Buffy admitted miserably, averting her eyes.

"Buffy, say that Spike hadn't chosen racing as his profession and things continued on as they were.  Where do you think you'd be, right now?" Buffy sighed, and twirled the spoon in her coffee once more. A slim shoulder raised in a half shrug.

"Probably married with 2.5 kids and a house with a white picket fence." Her eyes raised to Willow's again, the look of lost dreams swimming in her eyes.

"No doubts?" The blonde slowly shook her head, not wanting to follow where Willow was heading.

"Doesn't matter, though. He did choose racing. And I let him go. We're not the same people anymore." Willow managed to keep her huff of frustration from exploding out of her mouth. Barely.

"No kidding? Do you think that Mark and I are the same as we were five years ago?"

"No. But, that's different. You two never had any doubts."

"You think?" Buffy's eyes widened at that little bit of information. Willow rolled her eyes and continued. "Have you even looked at Mark? He's gorgeous, and with the hit record, he's rich. He has tons of plastic Barbies hovering around him on the road, all the time. Plenty of them are prettier, and more exciting than me." Buffy went to object, but the redhead just held up her hand. "And there are days that I am petrified that he's just not going to come home. So, don't think that you're the only one with fear. I live with it, everyday."

"But Mark's profession can't kill him," the blonde insisted.

"Oh, really. Haven't enough performers died in plane wrecks to make that untrue? Not to mention, in case you forgot, he was in New York on September 11. Did you forget what a wreck I was?" Buffy looked guiltily down at her coffee, remembering indeed the mess that Willow was. With the communications down, and the pictures constantly flaring across the screen, Willow had nearly lost her mind, until he had managed to get through and told her that the meeting he'd had in the Towers had been canceled. "Now, it might not be the same as Spike, who courts death every time he straps into a car, but it's enough to keep me awake at night. And don't ever think that you let Spike go. Because you didn't." Their eyes clashed again, and they were both ready to go at each other. Willow was quicker.

"You have watched every race, every Sunday, since the first one he ran. You have three scrapbooks upstairs filled with every article and print ad he's ever done. You have hours of videotape of his interviews and television appearances. You even have a week's worth of Hollywood Squares taped, from when it was NASCAR week. So, don't pretend to me that you were all noble and let him go. He's been here.  With you.  Everyday since he left. And you're only fooling yourself if you think otherwise. How does Riley feel, knowing there's a third person in his bed at night?" Buffy's eyes shot sparks at the words that Willow was throwing at her. "You've been acting like a NASCAR wife. The only difference being that you two aren't actually together."

"How dare you?" the blond hissed, glaring daggers at her best friend.

"How dare I?" Willow repeated. "Well, I dare because I love you, and Spike. And I hate to see the two of you wasting so much time when you could be together. Dammit Buffy. You still love him. Admit it, let Riley go, and go get your man." Buffy was incredulous. Willow had never spoken to her this way. She usually listened, and was supportive to whatever Buffy decided. Apparently, the redhead felt strongly about this, and had been saving it up for quite awhile.

"I thought you liked Riley?" she said, her voice sounding tiny. The other woman sighed, and stepped down off her soap box. She reached across the table and gripped her friend's hand, smiling when her squeeze was returned.

"Honey, it has nothing to do with whether or not I like Riley. He's a good guy. But he deserves someone who's going to love HIM, and only him." Buffy knew she was right, but fear still clutched painfully at her heart.

"What if he decides to race again?" she asked quietly. Tears sprang to the hazel eyes studying her, and Willow felt her heart break a little at the apprehension lacing Buffy's words.

"There is a chance of that. Slim, but it's there. You just have to decide what you want to do. Do you want to be the one sitting in her living room, watching the race while still pretending that you let him go, or do you want to be the one standing by his side, either in victory lane or in the hospital, but never the less with him? How bad is he?" Buffy blinked at the sudden change of topic.

"Bad," was all she said, the sight of him when he got off the plane popping into her head. Willow silently studied the blonde for a minute.

"Do you think he would be as bad as he is, if he'd woken up to find you by his side in the hospital?" Buffy's eyes squeezed tightly shut at that. How many times had she asked herself that question over the last several months? She silently shook her head no, lowering her head until her forehead was resting on their joined hands, sobs wracking her shoulders. Willow stood and rounded the table wrapping her arm around the girl, whispering softly as she cried.

After a few minutes, Buffy calmed, and raised her head to smile shakily at the redhead.

"I guess I have some thinking to do," she said, rubbing her free hand over her temple.

"You don't have to decide right now. Isn't Riley going to that conference on Friday?" Buffy nodded. "Well, take those few days to think, then decide. I don't mean to sound like I'm coming down on you. But, I just want you to be happy."

"And you don't think that Riley can make me happy?"

"No," Willow answered honestly. "I think everyone else lost that ability the day Spike moved to town." She gave Buffy a smile, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Remember Buffy, don't settle." She repeated the words that she told Buffy all those years ago, when Buffy was stubbornly clinging to Angel. The blonde nodded and hugged her friend, sighing at the comfort she felt. They pulled apart when the phone rang.

"Hello." Buffy tuned and leaned against the wall, running a hand through her hair. "Hello, Mr. Snyder." Willow and Buffy both stuck out their tongues in disgust, then cracked grins. It was hard to believe that the little Nazi was still the principal at Sunnydale High. Buffy listened to the obnoxious voice on the line, her grin slowly fading as she listened to him. "I'll be right there." She slammed the phone down with enough force to rattle the pictures on the wall, stopping to count to ten before turning back to Willow.

"Uh oh. What did Dawn do now?" The look of absolute fury that crossed Buffy's face had the redhead backing up a step.

"I'll tell you later. Right now, I have to go kill her." With that, Buffy stalked out of the kitchen, leaving her best friend staring after her, a sense of dread over Dawn's safety settling over her.

~*~*~

"Who the bloody hell is it?" Spike yelled, testily. He had cleaned up the mess, and had gone on to shower, actually making himself some eggs once he was cleaned up. Now, he was dressed in a pair of blue jeans, and a grey t-shirt, his semi blonde hair curling damply around his ears. Maybe, his father had a point, he had decided begrudgingly.  That didn't mean that he was ready to admit it to anybody, yet.

"Spike? It's Cordy," came the voice of the wife of his best friend.

"An' Jazz," followed by the voice of his goddaughter. A wide, genuine smile split his face as he swung open the door, the little girl in Cordy's arms launching at him the second he came into view.

"Unca Pike!" she squealed, her laughter filling the apartment as he spun her around. Cordy watched the display with a sad smile. Her critical eye picked out the gauntness of his face, and the skinniness of his body as he twirled her daughter.

"Hello, Lil bit. And how's my favorite girl?" he asked, setting her on her sneakered feet, and kneeling down to be at eye level.

"I'm fine," she said, her tone almost prim. He chuckled as he took in the curly haired girl, dressed head to toe in pink, her favorite color. A pink bow attempted to tame the shoulder length, dark curls on her head, a pink t-shirt with 'Hello Kitty' on the front swallowed her tiny torso, and a pair of pink jeans bagged around the top of her pink sneakers. She looked like she had been hosed down with Pepto Bismal.

Wide, bright brown eyes studied him from underneath the fringe of her bangs. Her tanned skin had a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her little, bow shaped mouth was grinning at him.

"Well, that's good to know," he returned, just as formally, sending her into another peal of giggles when he poked a finger into her belly button. "Cordelia, I didn't know you gave birth to the Pillsbury Dough Girl!" he exclaimed. Cordy just smiled, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"I'n not the Pilsbury Do girl, Unca Pike. I'n Jasmine," she said, giggling at her silly uncle.

"How right you are, sweet Jasmine. I stand corrected. Will you forgive me?" he jested. His accent had slipped into the smoother, upper crust tones of his father and he bowed low over her hand and brushed his lips across the back of it. She smelled of bubble gum bubble bath and fabric softener.

"Can Mommy say hello, now?" Cordy asked her daughter. Jazz nodded, sending her curls into a tizzy. Spike chuckled again and stood, moving easily into Cordelia's embrace. "You look like shit," she said, pulling back to study him. He shifted uneasily under her scrutiny, never liking the soul searching her eyes seemed to do.

"Thanks ever so. You certainly know how to make a man feel. . .manly," he said, pulling out of her arms.

"You're welcome. When's the last time you ate anything?" He scowled at her, making Jazz giggle again.

"'Bout five minutes ago."

"What?" she demanded, arching a brow when he all but growled.

"Eggs."

"That's all?" she tsked in disgust and walked into the kitchen, Spike right behind her.

"Hey now, what are you doing?" He tried to peer over her shoulder as she poked her head in the refrigerator, only to find her hand waved under his nose to get him to back off.

"I'm going to feed you. You used to be hot, now you're lukewarm at best." He snorted, but stepped back.

"How are you?" he asked quietly, knowing her well enough to know just why she was playing mother hen with him. Cordy stood, a platter of sliced ham in her hand, and stared down at it for a long minute.

"Jazz, why don't you go watch cartoons in grandpa Giles' room?"

"Kay, Mommy." The little girl scrambled out of the kitchen and down the hall, not needing to be told where to go. They often spent time over here, since both of her parents were on the outs with their own parents. The girl needed a grandparent, so Giles, and Joyce until she died, had filled the role. She waited until the child was gone before turning back to her task of getting Spike some food, and told him about the fight.

"He just took off? And you haven't heard from him?" Spike sat down at the tiny kitchen table, stunned by the events that had occurred, while she pulled out a pan to cook the ham in, and put it on the flame.

"I saw him, a couple of nights ago. He came to get some clothes." She cooked while she worked, methodically turning the meat in the pan. "He's so freaked out that he even THOUGHT of raising a hand to me." She shook her head, sighing heavily.

"What about you? Aren't you 'freaked'?" He took a sip of the coffee she set in front of him, savoring the fresh brewed taste.

"Not really." She glanced over at Spike, her tone a cross between hesitant and unsure. "I always knew that it might happen, but I never believed he would follow through. And he didn't. Thereby proving me right, and him wrong. But do you think he sees it that way? Nooo, not Xander Harris, progeny of an abuser. To him, the fact that he had raised his hand at all was enough to prove to him how much like Tony he is." She wiped her hands on her jean clad legs, then started to pull the ham from the pan. She couldn't believe how nervous she was in front of Spike. He was their closest friend, knowing more about what went on in Xander's head than even her.

"What do you want me to do?" Spike asked her bluntly, knowing in his heart that she wanted him to talk to Xander. The only problem was, he was far from healed himself. What was he supposed to do for his friend? Cordy walked over to the table and sat the plate of steaming ham and sliced melon in front of him, before sitting in the other chair with her own cup of coffee.

"Talk to him. You've always had a way of making him see what an ass he's being. Work your mojo again, and send him home." Spike concentrated on cutting the meat, contemplating his answer before looking up at her. She looked so tired, so desperate. He sighed, looking back down at his plate, and stabbing a couple of bites.

"Luv, I don't know what I can do. I'm not in too good a shape myself," he told her honestly, hating the crestfallen look that passed over her face. He looked away, keeping her in his peripheral, so he didn't have to see her, feeling a coward.

"Spike, please," she pleaded, her voice so quiet, he almost didn't hear her. He looked up again, and found himself trapped in her gaze. "I don't know how to reach him. I know that a lot of our problems over the last year are as much my fault, if not more so. My parents, and the house. Money. I keep trying to tell him that I don't care about the money. I didn't have to be with him. My parents offered me a lot of money, after we first got married, to leave him. I didn't. I love him, so much. And it hurts, Spike. It hurts. You have no idea how much." They continued to stare at each other, as tears slid silently down her cheeks, her eyes imploring him to help her.

"Yeah," he whispered, his voice thick, as he spoke. The food still sat on his fork, any appetite he'd had gone, replaced with the desire for a drink. "Yeah, I do." He shoved the fork in his mouth, forcing the food down his throat, and into his stomach. Cordy lowered her eyes, feeling guilty for stirring up his pain, when he had so obviously just started to pull himself together.

"I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. . . We'll just go now." She started to rise, but was stilled by his fingers in her wrist.

"Cordy. Sit. It's alright." His blue eyes burned into hers, urging her to sit back down. She slid into the chair, hoping she was reading his eyes right.

"I'll talk to him." Relief flooded her features, and a radiant smile spread over her mouth.

"Thank you. Thank you, so much." Her fingers squeezed his, and he could feel her shaking.

"I can't promise anything," he warned, taking another bite. His throat felt less raw, and the food looked more appetizing, now that she was beaming at him. She released his hand and sat back with her mug, smile never wavering.

"I know. But maybe you can take a tire iron to his head and knock some sense into him," she offered, her eyes sparkling. She felt so much better now. Spike had a way of telling everyone else what was wrong and how to fix it. Even if he couldn't fix himself. She tilted her head to the side and studied him again, making him squirm.

"Wha?" He wondered if he had something stuck to his face.

"Now, what can we do to knock some sense into you?" Cordy asked, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table and sip her coffee. He shrugged, shoving more food in his mouth. She was pleased to see that he was almost through the three, huge pieces she had made. He really did look sick.

"Dunno. Figure out a way to get my peepers working proper again, without the risk of going blind, and get me back into a race car," he answered, finishing off the food. She snorted in a rather indelicate manner, and rolled her eyes.

"Is that all you want out of life, Spike?" He scowled, and sipped his coffee. "Sounds kind of lonely."

"Can't have what I want. She's still running scared." He sounded so bitter, it nearly broke her already dented heart.

"So?”  Cordy shrugged a slim shoulder.  “You’ll just have to run faster to catch her." Spike's eyes shot to hers then, and found himself succumbing to the blinding smile she was giving him. He rolled his eyes, his answering grin spreading.

"Really? Well, Mrs. Harris, do you have any ideas on just how to do that?" He quirked his scarred eyebrow in challenge.

"Oh, do I," she started, settling herself in to tell him just what she thought would capture one Buffy Summers.