Tara’s hand reached out, but she immediately snatched it back.

Again.

Do you want someone else going through her things? Another part of her argued.

Tara forced herself to reach for Willow’s moss green blouse. The one with the delicately embroidered Celtic Knots on the sleeves. It had looked so good on her…

Tara firmed her lips and pulled it off the hanger.

~*~

“Remember to let me do the talking, Slayer.”

“You’ve reminded me three times in the last five minutes.”

“Yeah? Guess I’ve seen how well you take direction.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Lead on, Mr. DeMille.”

Spike grasped the door handle. “‘m jes’ sayin’ - it’s not Willy’s, and we don’t know what to expect. Anyone in there harkens on to you being the Slayer, there could be trouble.”

“You mean I can’t announce it like I usually do when I walk into a room full of demons?” Thinking she may have done just that at some time in the past, Buffy hurried on before Spike could remind her of the specifics. “How many demon bars are there in Sunnydale, anyway?”

This was the third one they’d visited in the last two hours as they tried to get information on the Vpastus’zyn demon that had attacked Dawn. They should have skipped Willy’s altogether, and the second place they’d tried had also been a total loss. Unless you wanted to count the unforgettable experience of seeing those two KaraphXionin demons having sex on one of the pool tables. Buffy still wasn’t sure if there had been two males, two females, one of each, or… Did some demons have more than two sexes? Because that could explain some of the, um…

“Hard to say.” Spike’s words interrupted her train of thought, and it took her a moment to figure out if he was following her musings on the KaraphXionin demons or if… “They can come and go in the blink of an eye.”

Oh yeah. Demon bars. Number of.

“Sadly, I know you mean that literally.”

Spike pulled the door open and held it for her. As she moved past him to step into the bar, he leaned close. “They have five separate sexes, love,” he said softly. “I’ll explain all the - ins and outs - of it later. Maybe demonstrate some of the more interesting bits, too; make sure you’re absorbing the knowledge.”

Buffy gave him a ‘look’, but he only smirked in return. “We both know you tend to get more out of ‘hands on’ teaching methods than you do from lectures,” he said. The smirk intensified. “Even if you do seem to enjoy the - talking.”

Since she couldn’t think of a quippy reply, and wasn’t sure she’d be able to get one out without squeaking like Dawn on caffeine even if she could, Buffy made a show of getting down to business by studying the crowd.

‘Tuck’s Place’ as the sign outside had named the establishment, was probably only about half the size of the main floor of the Bronze, and if trendy, high class demon bars existed, this was not one of them. The bare wooden floors were rough, and unless you counted the fact that the vinyl covering them was torn in somewhat coordinating patterns, the bar stools didn’t match the chairs surrounding the tables, anything else in the bar, or each other. The bar itself, though, was made of beautifully carved oak, and looked like an antique that had been treated well over the years. It was busy, too, surrounded by a large, noisy, diverse, and apparently very thirsty demon crowd.

We’ll get some information here, Buffy thought.

Spike seemed to agree. “Looks promising,” he said.

His eyes were making their own careful sweep of the crowd, and she knew he was speculating on where trouble, if it was going to come, was most likely to start up. A few patrons were studying them in return, but for the most part, they were being ignored.

Spike inclined his head toward the juke box. “Why don’t you check out the music, give me a few minutes?”

Buffy nodded. She knew that, in the past, she would have ignored, and probably resented, Spike’s suggestion, but she was coming to understand that he was much better at this pumping for information thing than she was. Not that he was completely subtle, but since she totally sucked at anything even approaching subtle, he definitely had the edge on her. He understood the demon mindset better than she ever would, too.

Less than fifteen minutes had passed when she first noticed it. She’d flipped through the cards of musical selections on the old fashioned juke box; had concluded that demons seemed to like the same music as the average Bronze crowd, and was wondering if that should worry her or not, when her senses went on alert. There was an undercurrent; a wave of some kind of awareness running through the crowd.

Buffy straightened up, cocking her head as she tried to pick up snippets from the various conversations taking place around her.

Buffy turned slowly toward the bar, careful not to attract any attention. What the heck was going on? Short. Blond. Vamp. Why was everyone muttering about Spike? She didn’t like the quiver that ran along her nerve endings. Up my street cred she could handle, but if there was a problem here, some mob-type explosion of demony violence, the odds were going to be majorly stacked against them.

Damn!

Maybe they should have an early night.

Her eyes sought out Spike.

They found him.

She blinked. Stared. Blinked again.

He was - posing.

For pictures.

With the bartender.

~*~

“Thanks, luv.” Spike accepted the cup of blood from one of the assistant bartenders, a very pretty little Zyrya demon, who’d introduced herself as Coquine. Stacked too, he noted, and proud of it. His eyes lingered appreciatively on her amply displayed charms.

“A-Negative,” Tuck told him. “I remembered.”

Spike wished he could. He’d obviously been here before and had made some kind of impression, one that hadn’t left the bartender swearing to kill him if he ever darkened the doorstep again. But he didn’t have a bloody clue when it had happened or just what that impression was.

“Looking for a Vpastus’zyn demon,” Spike continued their earlier conversation. “Got word someone hired one of the tossers to take me out. Thought I’d get there first.”

“Vpastus’zyn, huh? Pretty rare in these parts.”

“Yeah. ‘m hoping that’ll make this one stand out a bit more.”

“Hard to stay inconspicuous when you’re that big and ugly,” Tuck agreed, and something in his tone had Spike’s eyes narrowing. This bloke knew just where his quarry could be found.

He kept his voice casual. “Wouldn’t know, personally, being neither, but you have a point.”

“Lia,” Tuck called to the other assistant bartender. “Get me those invoices that need signing.”

“Now?” she asked, her tone incredulous. “Kinda busy here.”

“Yeah, now,” he growled. He looked back at Spike as the Marala demon disappeared into the back room. “Help,” he said, obviously expecting Spike to understand his labor problems.

Spike nodded, even though he’d never run a business. Eaten his share of businessmen, he supposed, but it wasn’t quite the same thing, was it? If dealing with employees was anything like dealing with minions, though… His expression became more sympathetic.

“Got a favor to ask,” Tuck went on.

A scarred brow rose.

The bartender nodded toward a wall behind the bar plastered with pictures of himself posing with a wide variety of demons, some rather well known. “You mind?”

Bloody hell… “You want a picture of me?”

“That a problem?”

No information for you… Tuck might just as well have said it out loud.

“No, no problem.”

Lia returned with a clipboard of paperwork and her boss scribbled away on several things while Coquine, who apparently served as the official Tuck’s Place photographer, fetched a camera.

It turned out Tuck was definitely a bloke with his ear to the ground. And he became right chatty while the camera was flashing.

“You’ll stop back and autograph these next week, right?” Tuck asked.

Spike kept the distaste off his face with an effort. He was working hard to convince himself that the humiliation of being on display this way was worth it when he glanced to Coquine’s right and saw his Slayer watching. Arms crossed, head tilted to the side, grim expression. Oh, yeah, she was brassed off good and proper, which, generally speaking, tended to make her a bit unpredictable.

“Be with you in a minute, pet.”

Bloody brilliant, you wanker. Could hardly have taken a worse tack, could you? But if Buffy would just give him another minute or two, he could probably get the names, bios, and, quite possibly, the security codes, if any, of every power dealer in town. Information it might be handy to have.

<< Go with me on this, love. >> It had worked during their debriefing of the bit, hadn’t it?

Buffy glared. She was damned good at it, too.

Tuck eyed her speculatively. “You the Slayer?”

Buffy’s head turned slowly, dangerously, in his direction. Her expression didn’t change, but Tuck didn’t appear in the least intimidated. “You wanna be in the pictures too?”

“I think ‘no’ is not a strong enough word.”

“Just one?” he wheedled.

“That would sooo be OneTwoMany.”

The bartender was looking Buffy up and down, and Spike could practically see the thoughts bouncing about in the fellow’s brain. When his eyes went to the dartboard and back to Buffy, Spike almost groaned. Time to head this disaster off at the pass.

“Half a mo’,” he excused himself. His hand curled around Buffy’s upper arm and he drew her aside, bending to speak to her privately.

“Two minutes, love.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

“I think I’m trying to get information.” He bit out the response and turned away from her in a swirl of black leather. Stupid bint should know he was working the situation.

Bitch.

“Bird doesn’t like to be ignored,” Spike explained to Tuck, man to man.

The bartender’s eyes ran over Buffy’s slim body again as she strode rigidly back toward the jukebox. They lingered on her ass.

“I don’t like to ignore her either,” the vampire went on. “And just so we’re clear, I don’t much like it when other blokes don’t.”

Tuck quickly rearranged his face, and Spike took advantage of the moment.

“We about done here?” he asked.

“Yeah.” He dismissed Coquine wordlessly. “You’ve been good for business,” he said. “I pay my debts.”

Debts? Spike’s eyes swept around the room one more time, but he knew it would be fruitless. The place wasn’t arousing any memories at all. Neither was the barkeep. But if he felt he was in his debt, Spike was smart enough to take advantage of the misconception.

~*~

With a sharp motion, Tara folded down the top of the last box.

I will not cry.

She lifted the box and carried it into the hall where she added it to the pile. Xander was going to pick them up sometime tomorrow and deliver them to the Rosenberg’s. Sheila Rosenberg had asked, quite pointedly, that the rest of them not stop by.

I’m too angry. In fact, I’m ******* furious. And I have every right to be.

Tara went back into the bedroom she had shared with Willow since Buffy’s death last spring and started packing up the redhead’s books.

~*~

Celebrity, it turned out, did not sit well with him.

It was one thing to have been heard of - bit of a reputation, a touch of notoriety, could be a good thing, but this…

Coquine’s flirting… Well, he could probably live with that. Tuck’s fawning, though, and that of a few others, the nods aimed in his direction and the whispers behind his back…

It was bloody revolting, and he’d had more than enough.

Buffy’s eyes were locked on him as he crossed the room to her side, and he tried to read them. He couldn’t quite gauge her mood, though.

“Let’s go,” Spike leaned toward her to make himself heard over the blare of the jukebox.

“What?”

“Let’s go kill something,” he yelled back.

Of course the jukebox chose that moment to go silent, and Spike’s voice carried clearly into every corner of the bar.

The reaction was immediate.

To a - being - everyone in the bar moved, like a retreating wave, away from them, clearing a pathway to the door. A wide pathway.

“Come again!” Tuck called out, as Spike pushed the door open. The vampire saw Tuck’s eyes sweep the crowd, making sure he had their attention, and he had a pretty good idea what words were going to be coming out of the bartender’s mouth before they emerged. “Slayer - you’re welcome, too, if you promise to behave yourself!”

The explosion of noise following his words was only slightly muffled by the heavy wood of the door as it closed behind them. The din continued as the blonds stared at each other.

“Not a soddin’ clue, Slayer,” Spike said. “So don’t even ask. “

The hard expression in her eyes changed to something even less desirable. “Oooh, Spikey!” she swooned. “Can I get your autograph? Will you pose for a picture? Pretty please? With a cup of blood on top? And the little woman, too?”

“You’re jealous!” he burst out. The best defense and all that rot…

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Pleeease…” She started down the sidewalk.

Spike fell into step beside her, arranging another smirk on his face. “Didn’t want your autograph, did they?

Buffy had walked half a block before she answered. “At least Mr. Spike Fan wanted my picture…” she grumbled.

“Yeah, to make copies for the dartboard, pet.”

“What?!” Affronted, Buffy swung toward him.

“Bloke figured his patrons would pay a tidy sum for a picture of the Slayer to put over the board before a game. Before the word ‘no’ left your lips, he was probably halfway through working out a whole new scoring system, too.” Spike’s expression gentled. “You’re the Slayer, love. To that lot you’re the Big Bad.”

“Right.” A pause, then, “I am?”

“The biggest,” he assured her. He closed the distance between them and slid his hands onto her hips. “You’re the boogie woman mummy and daddy demons use to scare their tykes into toeing the line.”

“Yeah?” She looked suspiciously pleased now, and Spike grinned. As soon as Buffy caught the smile, though, her expression changed. “I mean, eeeww.”

“Yeah,” he drawled out affectionately. “I knew that’s what you really meant.” He leaned down to brush a light kiss against her mouth. “Let’s go.”

She sighed with ‘sacred duty’ resignation when he released her. “Where’s the next bar?”

Spike lit a cigarette, looking down the dark street. “Few blocks that way,” he indicated the direction opposite to the one she’d taken with his chin. “Seedier clientele.”

Buffy’s face puckered with distaste. “Seedier? There’s seedier?”

“Hellmouth,” he elaborated. “There’s always seedier.” He tilted his head, eyeing her weary expression with sympathy. “Had enough, love? Maybe we should head over to Teague Street instead.”

“Teague? Why? Is there a slightly less icky demon hangout there?”

“Not that I know of. Few hiding places, though.”

“Huh?”

“That bloke - Tuck. Slipped me an address while the bint was clicking away with the camera.”

The Slayer’s weary expression faded and a gleam of anticipation came into her eyes. “Yeah? Is this address going to lead us to something big and hairy with an unpronounceable name that tried to eat my sister?”

“If we’re lucky.”

~*~

She drew back from the box with a kind of revulsion.

Magic is not evil, Tara reminded herself, staring at the books and binders, at the small arsenal of herbs and other items that could only be considered ingredients. Not in and of itself. Its how it’s used or abused, the forces that are called on to perform it, sometimes the intent behind it…

Her eyes squeezed shut.

No, magic was not the problem. The problem was Willow, and her desire to control all of them. Tara honestly believed that Willow had started this slide with good intentions. She had wanted to spare herself and her friends from pain. But somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten the ‘and her friends’ part of that desire. The desire to protect had darkened into the desire to control and manipulate. And what her friends wanted for themselves had begun to matter less and less and less.

There’s no way, Tara thought, that I am having these things delivered to Willow’s house. If Willow was determined to continue down the destructive path she’d chosen, she was going to have to do it without any help from her.

Twenty minutes later, having hidden Willow’s box of supplies in a larger box and under some long unused camping gear - the Summers’ women had camped??? -- Tara finished the spell to shield the box from detection. Willow was strong, and could probably break through the wards if she tried, but some precautions were better than none.

Even as she climbed the stairs, Tara felt a reluctance to leave the box where it was. Perhaps I should go through it, she thought, see if there’s anything there I should know about, something that could help Willow…

But she just couldn’t. Not now. Not yet. Maybe… maybe soon.

But not yet.

Right now she didn’t much feel like helping Willow. She was still far too hurt and angry.

~*~

How can something this big and stupid looking move so fast?”

“Dunno. You could check with Angelus or Soldier Boy, though. Might be willing to share their personal insights into the condition.” He paused, anticipating her response, but Buffy ignored the jibe. “Gotta say, though, if our girl out ran this thing, I’m impressed.”

“Me, too. Oh, god, bleeaaaeck! I totally know why this thing has no nose. It probably cut it off hoping it wouldn’t have to smell itself.”

The scent of curdled milk overlaid something deeper and even more revolting, and the combination was nauseating. He could see his Slayer was trying to avoid gagging.

Buffy landed a solid kick to the Vpastus’zyn demon’s midsection. “This is officially the most disgusting demon we have ever killed.”

“Haven’t killed it yet, pet.” Spike clobbered the big hairy thing with the side of his axe, sending it staggering.

“We will,” Buffy stated. “And we could have just then if you knew how to use that axe. Lesson the First, fang boy. The sharp cutty part gets aimed toward the neck.”

“Wouldn’t wanna kill it too fast,” he protested. “I haven’t had a good fight in days.” As the Vpastus’zyn demon worked to regain its footing, Spike swung the axe again, neatly slicing off one of its fingers. The creature roared. “Besides, I wasn’t sure if you were done trying to question it.”

Buffy yanked a piece of pipe off the wall of the alley where they’d finally come upon their prey, and leapt forward to try to take advantage of the demon’s pain. She missed twice before connecting with its upper back as it tried to dart to the side again. “Since neither one of us can understand a ‘ugh, ugh’ it says, I don’t see any reason to keep it alive. Unless you know someone who speaks ‘grunt’.”

“Not off the top of my head. “ He kicked out at the demon’s head as the Slayer’s blow sent it to its knees. His boot caught it just under the chin, and its head snapped back. “We need one of those Universal Translators.”

“A what?”

“Star Trek? Kirk? Spock?”

Buffy’s jaw dropped. “You watched Star Trek?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged. “Had to. Dru thought Dr. McCoy was the reincarnation of her father. She got all irritable if we ever missed an episode.” As soon as ‘V’ clambered to his feet, Spike delivered two more kicks. The demon careened into the Slayer, smearing something unspeakable onto her jeans from the hole where its finger had gone missing. “‘Course she didn’t understand schedules, so she thought we should be able to tune in to ‘Papa’s New Life’ whenever she felt the urge.” He rolled his neck, and adjusted his grip on the axe. “Cancellation hit her hard.”

Buffy slugged the demon back toward Spike, and brushed at the goop on her thigh. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. She was glad he was having such an interesting time of it, doing so much traveling.”

“He was a doctor, not a tourist,” Buffy deadpanned.

Spike snorted.

The demon set up an otherworldly wailing and spun in a series of circles. It seemed to be winding up for something, and when it was done spinning, it lowered its head and charged at Buffy. She dodged, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid the attack altogether. Some horny protrusion on the demon’s forearm caught her on the shoulder, shredding the sleeve of her jacket. She checked out the damage to her outfit before narrowing her eyes menacingly on the hairy monster.

“That’s it!”

Spike recognized her tone. The Slayer’s clothing was taking a beating, and she had decided it was time to end the dance. He swung his axe, making sure the ‘sharp, cutty part’ was correctly aimed, and neatly severed the demon’s head from its body.

“Eeeww.” They both jumped back as streams of putrid puce pus shot from the headless neck and splattered onto nearly everything in sight, including them. The stench was unbelievable.

“Bloody hell. I may have to cut off my nose! Gaa… I thought it smelled bad when it was alive.”

Buffy looked up from surveying the pus covered leather of her pants. Her eyes widened in exaggerated dismay, and he could see the laughter in their depths. “You mean… “Dramatic pause. “‘Its - dead, Jim’?”

~*~

The roar of the motorbike caught Giles’ attention, and he moved to the window to glance out. It was barely evening, but the time of year brought darkness early, and only the illumination cast by the porch light and the nearby streetlamp allowed him to see anything of the scene outside.

He’d left them sparring at the Magic Box, and they’d promised to arrive at Revello Drive within the hour to meet up with Anya, and later, Xander. When he’d gone out to his car, though, he’d caught a glimpse of Spike’s motorbike parked in the alley, and he’d suspected that they were only waiting for him to leave before going for a ride. Giles had given up wondering how Spike sometimes managed to get the bike about during the day, chalking it up to one of the many mysteries of the Hellmouth. He’d long ago come to the conclusion that a great many things happened in Sunnydale and to its inhabitants that would never be adequately explained to his curious mind.

“I love it,” Buffy had told him when he’d first noticed that she and Spike had taken to riding it quite frequently and had mentioned it to her. Her eyes had lit up in a way he hadn’t seen since her mother’s death. Perhaps longer.

Giles found himself smiling. The wind had certainly been in her hair tonight. It was wildly disarrayed, and she stabbed a hand at it as she slid off the back of the bike, laughing a little. Had he seen her laugh since she’d returned? Giles wondered. Lighting a cigarette, Spike climbed off after her and leaned easily back against the bike, expression amused, as he listened to whatever it was she was saying. Giles watched as the vampire raised a hand and made his own attempt at smoothing her hair. Buffy made no protest, accepting his touch.

When she turned toward the house, Spike snaked an arm around her, and Giles could clearly see his hand, spread familiarly over her abdomen as he tugged her backward toward him.

His breath stopped.

There was nothing groping or obscene about that hand. But the widely spread fingers, the casual, intimate familiarity, told him far more than a much more explicit display of passion would have. For some reason, Giles had always found that particular touch - that of a man’s hand splayed over a woman’s abdomen, over her womb, perhaps? - one of the most personal, the most truly intimate ways a man could touch a woman.

Buffy’s response to the touch, the way she leaned back into him, even if it was only for a moment, told him everything else.

Dear Lord. Oh, dear Lord…

Cleaning his glasses didn’t ease the racing of his mind in the least, but he did it anyway.

~*~

He didn’t want to act rashly. He needed to give this some thought, to look at it from all angles. So much had happened in the last year, so much had changed. He needed to explore this development in light of those changes, and calmly decide what, if anything, was to be done about it.

Then he could both react and act appropriately.

Well done, Giles, old man, he told himself. You might, to someone with little intelligence, pass for rational.

The door opened, and the two blonds came in.

“… told him to sod off.”

Buffy snickered.

“You’re late!” Dawn called out, appearing at the top of the stairs.

Buffy glanced into the dining room before grinning triumphantly at her sister.

“Are not!” she said. “We are here. Ahn is still calculating. Therefore, we are on time. Possibly early.”

The teenager folded her arms. “I thought you said you had to work out.”

“We did! We were.”

“That is sooo motorcycle hair. And,” she went on, “Before you try to tell me you just rode over here from the Magic Box, let me clarify: That is sooo out-of-town-going-way-over-the-speed-limit motorcycle hair.”

Buffy’s hands flew to her head. “Is it that bad?”

The Slayer dashed up the stairs to repair the damage, and Dawn, mission accomplished, sauntered on down.

“Hey, pidge,” Spike greeted her.

“You’re smelling less eeeww.”

“Bloody well better be.”

“Did you hear, Giles? Buffy and Spike got that gross demon that I conked over the head with that lamp. You know, that Vasput… Pavust…”

“Vpastus’zyn, pet.”

“Yeah, that one.”

“When was this?” Giles asked.

“Last night.”

“I was in bed when they came in but the smell woke me up. That was a first. I mean, strange noises, demons in the house, yeah, been there, done that, but stinko alarm clock? New.”

“You’re certain it was the same demon?”

“Well, it wasn’t wearing a sign that said ‘I attacked your girl’, but, yeah, we’re sure.”

Dawn bit her lip, and Spike tugged on her hair. “It was the same one, luv. Didn’t I tell you this isn’t their normal range? Not likely to be more than one of them hanging about town.”

Dawn seemed reassured.

“Anyway,” she continued her tale. “They were just covered with this purplish-red crap, which I sooo don’t want to know what it was. Buffy made her usual knock-down-anyone-who’s-in-her-way dash for the shower while Tara and I tried to help Spike get all the goop off his coat.” Dawn widened her eyes. “I think I heard her swear.”

“Tara?” Giles asked in surprise.

Dawn nodded. “Maybe more than once,” she added with awe.

“You sis told me swearing isn’t allowed in this house,” Spike inserted. “Doe Eyes better watch her mouth. She could get in trouble.”

“Oh, god, yeah. With mom, swearing was instant grounding material. If you were dumb enough to get caught. Which,” she gloated, “Buffy was.”

“How could you distinguish a swear word through all the gagging the good witch was doing?”

“Well, it didn’t help when you told her Buffy was probably hungry and asked her if she could ‘whip something up’. I thought she was gonna hurl on the spot.”

“Speaking of hungry…” Spike moved off to the kitchen.

“God, he can be so gross sometimes,” Dawn said. “A total guy.”

Buffy came back down the stairs, looking somewhat less disheveled, and went straight to the answering machine, where she listened to a couple of messages.

“Dawn? Didn’t I have some blood in here?” Spike called out a minute later. Sounds associated with rummaging in the refrigerator could be heard.

“Top shelf, back left.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Not here though.”

“Are you sure? It was there this morning.” Dawn rose and went into the kitchen to help him look. But apparently she too was unsuccessful. “Tara cleaned the refrigerator this morning,” Dawn said. “Before school. I think she was up half the night and was looking for things to do. And, ah, she’s been a little, you know, distracted. Maybe she threw it away by mistake, or maybe she tossed it if she thought it was spoiled. Does it? Spoil, I mean.”

“Well, yeah. Hard to tell with pig’s blood, though. Tastes spoiled even when it’s fresh.”

“Eeeww.” Dawn could be heard making gagging noises and stumbling in an exaggerated fashion around the kitchen.

“Very funny, pidge. Now c’mere. Give us a taste of mystical key blood.”

“As. If.”

“Just a taste. C’mon, I’m feeling peckish.”

“Ha! Like I care. You’re not getting anywhere near my neck, fang boy.”

“Thought you liked me.” Spike’s pout could be heard.

“Tell you what. I find you dying, suck away. Until then - suffer.”

“An ill-weather friend, then.”

“I could make you some mac and cheese,” Dawn offered.

“I’m hungry, not bloody insane.” A pause. “You got any of those frozen hot wings?”

More refrigerator sounds. “Viola!”

“That’s ‘voila’.”

“I know, Blondie. I was being funny.”

“Well, knock it off and pop them in the microwave.”

“Do I look like a maid?”

“No. But you look like the smart-arsed kid that needed help getting started on that DaVinci paper last night when I stopped by to pick up your sis.”

“Do you expect payment every time you help me?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“Right. Hop to it, bit, or I’ll be on the verge of starvation, and then your neck will be fair game.”

More noises, leading to a shriek of laughter from Dawn, and then, loudly, “Okay, okay. I give. Uncle, uunnncle!”

Buffy, who had the phone tucked against her shoulder as she made notes on a pad of paper, glanced up at the sound, smiled, and shook her head with a sort of distracted and amused affection.

Stomping sounds came from the kitchen, followed by the beeping of the microwave being programmed.

Five minutes later, Spike came into the room with a plate of wings. Dawn accompanied him, and sat casually on the arm of his chair. Every few minutes, she would snatch up one of the tiny pieces of chicken and eat it.

Standing silently alongside the fireplace, Giles observed them all, taking everything in. His brain had been whirling with his new knowledge of the deepening relationship between Buffy and Spike, each cell seeming to tug him in a different direction.

He knew Spike loved her, knew the vampire loved Dawn as well. No matter how convinced he had been of the inability of soulless vampires to feel love, his experiences with Spike had changed that. Perhaps it was just Spike. Perhaps the blond was an anomaly; perhaps there was something unique about him that made him capable of love, a capacity that did not run to the rest of his kind; Giles didn’t know. But Spike did love, of that he was certain.

He’d been terrified for his wonderful girl and for his Slayer when she’d first come back. The memory problems, the nightmares, the silent solemnity of her, had driven his fears for Buffy. Her seeming inability to take change of anything had fueled his fears for his Slayer. She had constantly deferred to himself or to Spike, a state of affairs that Giles felt simply couldn’t continue without dire consequences.

With the return of her memories that night of the mass amnesia, Giles felt she’d also regained some sense of her responsibilities as the Slayer. The instincts that he’d felt were still missing had seemed to kick in with the first big challenge she’d faced after that - the attack on Dawn. It hadn’t really occurred to him until the next day, but Buffy had very much taken on a leadership role that evening, making decisions rather than looking to himself or to Spike for guidance as she’d been doing since her resurrection.

Since then, the rate of her recovery had seemed to escalate. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of her that were so much like her old self… the one that had never really reappeared after Acathla, that he would catch his breath. There were still problems, still long silences and a drawing into herself that worried him, but those glimpses made him smile, and gave him a sense of hope.

Was Spike instrumental in any of that? Giles felt that he must be.

Since her return, Buffy had spent a great deal of time with the vampire, far more, he thought, than any of the others were aware. The discomfort and detachment she seemed to feel around her old friends didn’t extend to Spike. He’d listened to them while they worked out, had many times noted the ease with which they talked; about demon threats, about Dawn, about random nothings. They bickered, asked each others opinions, bickered more, and worked hard. He’d never noticed any sexual byplay or innuendo between them. He had, however, heard Spike sharing some pieces of his past with her, occasional comments that revealed bits of himself, something Giles' own time with the vampire had led him to believe didn’t often happen.

Giles turned toward the fireplace, looking with brooding eyes into the empty grate, his mind replaying the interactions between Buffy and Spike, between Spike and Dawn. There was no doubt those two got along famously; the genuine caring between the vampire and the teenage girl was obvious. And oddly, it no longer seemed - odd - to him.

His brain might be tugging him in many different directions, but one thought overrode everything else.

I can’t, he thought. I can’t intrude on this - on them.

It might not be a well thought out, rational decision, but the peace that Giles felt inside when he reached it went a long way toward reassuring him that it could well be the right one.

He knew he’d think about the situation more, knew he’d remain guarded, knew too that he’d debate the pros and cons of a romance between these two volatile warriors often, but for now…

He lifted his head and turned back toward the others.

Buffy hung the phone up and reached for the small pile of mail sitting next to it. Her eyes flickered to her sister and the vampire.

“Are those actually edible?” she asked, looking at the mass of orange meat with something approaching fear.

Spike’s mouth curved wickedly as he extended his thumb to her. “Taste?” he purred out.

Buffy’s eyes attached themselves to Spike’s thumb, and Giles tried to interpret the expression on her face. But when some sense seemed to alert her to the fact that he was watching, and she blushed and jerked her eyes away from the extended digit, Giles decided he really didn’t want to know what she’d been thinking.

“Um, no thanks,” she muttered. She ducked her head, and started sorting through the mail.

“Pity,” Spike shrugged, and leaned back in his chair, his lips pursing. “You might find it - delicious.” His drawl was low and intimate, and Giles found himself having to suppress a roll of his eyes at the blatant sexual innuendo threaded through it. So much, he thought, for no obvious sexual byplay. Had this been going on for some time? Had he just been oblivious to it?

Buffy’s eyes returned to Spike just long enough to deliver a Death Glare, and the vampire gave a brief bark of laughter.

“There’s food in this world that is not fruit or yogurt, Slayer. “ Spike told her, his tone more serious.

“A fact of which I am well aware.” Buffy’s eyes gleamed lustfully, but this time her expression had nothing to do with Spike or, thankfully, with his thumb. “There is also chocolate,” she continued. “And it comes in lots of calorie fest forms, complete with a wide variety of nut choices.”

“Hands off,” Spike reprimanded Dawn, swatting at her fingers with a tiny drumstick as she reached for the last piece of chicken.

But the teen distracted him with a smile and swooped it up anyway, darting into the kitchen with her prize.

“Tomorrow night, Slayer?” Spike glared after Dawn. “We are taking the bit out for a meal that involves meat. And you will eat, too. You burn up thousands of calories a day, and you need more than chocolate bars.”

“Yogurt is very healthy! So is fruit.”

“It’s a question of balance.” His eyes ran over her. “You’re skin and bones.”

“You can never be too thin,” Buffy said lightly.

“Yeah, love, you can be.”

Buffy’s head came up and she frowned, seeming to come to the realization that he wasn’t just giving her grief in order to amuse himself.

“I’m not too thin,” she protested. His snort had her eyes swinging to Giles. “Tell him.”

“Ten pounds,” Giles said firmly, glad that Spike had brought up a subject that had been weighing heavily on his mind since before her death. Buffy was far too slender, and he was deeply concerned about it. When he compared her thin little body to that of the girl who had moved to Sunnydale six years ago, his concern only deepened. “I’d feel less concerned if you’d agree to gain ten pounds.”

“Ten pounds!” She made it sound like fifty. Then, “Less concerned? There’s concern? You’re concerned?”

Spike rose and walked to her, lifting her arm. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist, and as she watched, slid them up her arm, showing her how far up he could go without breaking their circle.

“I…” Buffy frowned. Her eyes lifted to Spike’s, flickered to catch the almost identical expression in Giles’, and returned to Spike’s. He tilted his head to one side, his expression steady and serious. “Can we get Prime Rib?” she asked at last.

“Oh, at Brandi’s?” Giles revealed his enthusiasm for the decision, the food choice, and his desire to go along. “If you invite me to join you, I could be persuaded to make it my treat.”

Buffy smiled with approval, her eyes darting over her shoulder toward the dining room. “The picking up of the bill is definitely of the good.” She raised a brow toward Spike, seeking his agreement.

“Dawn?” he called out. “You like Brandi’s?”

“Oooh, yes,” she practically skidded back into the room, her tone as rapturous as her words. “They have the best desserts in the entire world. Cheesecake, and pies, and oh, god, Buffy, do you remember that thing with the cream cheese and the blueberries? Mom about died for that.”

“They have meat and vegetables?” Spike asked with disgust, reseating himself. Miss Kitty Fantastico jumped into his lap, and he began stroking her absently, sending the cat into contented purring.

“Oh, yeah, that crap, too.”

Spike bumped his head against the back of the chair. “Brandi’s it is.”

The whirring sounds of the calculator had been constant, and when they stopped, it took a few moments for them to take in the meaning of their sudden cessation. Every eye in the room turned toward the dining room as Anya emerged, a pile of papers in one hands, and an extremely long tape from the calculator in the other.

“Finished?” Giles asked.

“Yes,” Anya said. She seated herself on the sofa and made note of one or two final figures. Then she looked up, straightened her shoulders, and assumed a professional expression. “Well, the bad news is, you’re not rich, and aren’t likely to be any time soon.” It was obvious Anya was genuinely sorrowful about this unfortunate state. “And the financial situation? It’s not terrific,” she said bluntly. “But it’s not as bad as it might have been, either. Your mother had the incredible foresight to take out life insurance on the mortgage, and if you can keep up with the property taxes, the house is secure.”

“Woo-hoo!” Dawn whooped. She was perched on the arm of Spike’s chair again.

“Perhaps Dawn should go to her room,” Giles suggested to Buffy.

“Hello? Sitting right here!”

Giles shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, quite. I apologize,” he said to Dawn. Any effect the apology might have had was negated, though, when he turned back to his Slayer. “Do you want her here for this?”

“Yes,” Buffy assured him, over her sister’s muttering. “Dawn has informed me several times over the last year that she’s old enough to deal with some of this ‘grown up stuff’.” Buffy smiled at Dawn’s beam of happiness. “And if money is going to be tight, I want her to hear it from outside sources, so that I don’t come off like the Wicked Witch of the West if we can’t buy something.”

“I think Willow’s already taken on that role,” Spike murmured to Dawn, who snickered. Their byplay earned them both another Death Glare from Buffy, which they took in stride.

“That’s quite clever,” Anya smiled. “Tying Willow into a film that’s made its mark on popular culture. I believe they have t-shirts that read ‘Don’t Make Me Get My Flying Monkeys’. Maybe we could get one for Willow for Christmas. I’ll mention it to Xander.”

She made a note in her well used day planner as everyone in the room stared at her; their faces stamped with almost identical expressions of disbelief. No one was quite brave enough to comment, however.

“The income you get from Dawn’s Social Security check each month will easily cover phone, power and water.”

“That should be her money, for college.” Buffy objected.

“It’s perfectly legal to use it for her support,” Anya said. “And you may need it. Perhaps you could come to some agreement where the money is split, and some is put away each month for college. Remember, there’s federal grant money for education as well, and I’m sure Dawn will qualify for some of that. Tara could probably tell you a little more about the application process and what you can expect. I know her family isn’t helping out with her college funds at all.”

Anya went on for another five or ten minutes without pause. Assets, debits, funds needed, funds available. Giles listened carefully, his worries over the financial situation of these young women easing as Anya went on. No, not rich, and there would be precious few luxuries, but Joyce had planned well. Perhaps, Giles thought, the realities of living on the Hellmouth, not to mention the special -- circumstances - of her own family, had convinced her that it would be wise to do so.

He felt rather as if a cloud of some doom hovering over the Summers household had blown off, and he noticed that his breathing seemed easier.

~*~

By the time Xander arrived, Buffy's eyes had long since glazed over with the incomprehensibleness of it all. She was sure the information Anya continued, and continued and continued, to impart was important, but all she’d really wanted to know was the bottom line; Do Dawn and I have a home? With food in it? And maybe a phone? Once she was assured of those things, the rest ran together, and dribbled into the ‘Too Much Information of a Type I Can’t Retain Anyway’ part of her brain. She knew that sometime tonight, probably while she was asleep, it would dribble right back out of there, and into oblivion.

Xander’s arrival, therefore, provided a welcome distraction, and had the bonus effect of bringing the financial discussion to an end.

Unfortunately, he didn’t look like he was in a very good mood.

How is she?” Buffy asked.

“I don’t know,” Xander’s face was dark with anger. “I wasn’t allowed in the house. Mr. Rosenberg was kind enough to watch me unload Will’s things and place them in a neat pile in their garage, though. I felt like he was using x-ray vision on every box, wondering which one held the bomb.”

“You didn’t see her at all?”

“No. I saw the curtains fluttering at her window like some scene in a horror movie that’s supposed to be spooky, but that was as close as I got to finding out if she was even in the house.”

“Damn.” Buffy had been hoping - what? That things would be better, what else? She could feel the tension that had blown any on the back of the motorcycle beginning to coil inside her again.

Dawn ran past them toward the door, her backpack slung over her shoulder.

“Hey, you there! Running girl!”

“What?”

“Where are you going?”

“Library? Pam? Studying?”

“Oh, yeah.” Buffy remembered the permission asking over breakfast. “Pam? I thought you were going with that Suzy Skirl girl?”

Dawn’s exhaled noisily in disgust. “If you mean Sue Salouri, Pronunciation Queen, she’s coming, too.”

Spike rose from his chair, frowning. He was still holding the cat, though, which cut into the intimidation factor. “You’re not walking?”

Another exaggerated sigh. “No. Pam’s mom, Mrs. Roberts - you remember, you met her at the art show - is giving us a ride. There - and back.” She tacked on the last before he could ask.

“This the paper on DaVinci? You got the outline we did?”

“Yeah.” The blare of a horn cut off further questions. “Gotta go. Be back after the library closes! Bye!”

The door slammed loudly in her wake. Buffy winced.

“Are you leaving, too?” Xander asked. Buffy looked around to see that Anya had picked up her coat and purse. He glanced at the Slayer. “I thought there was a Willow meeting.”

“I’m tired of Willow meetings,” Anya pouted, ignoring Buffy’s nod of confirmation. “And I have shopping to do.”

“More shopping?”

“For the reception decorations.”

“Oh.” That gave Xander pause, and Buffy smiled inwardly. By now, they’d all discovered that it was unwise to get between Anya and anything wedding related. She was approaching the upcoming nuptials with a single minded determination and an eye for detail that frankly terrified everyone around her.

Xander squared his shoulders. “Nothing pink,” he said bravely as Anya pulled on her coat.

His fiancée went still, her arm partially thrust through a sleeve, and eyed him closely.

“We agreed,” he plowed on. “Light, medium, dark, hot or pastel.” He glanced at Buffy. “Did I miss anything?”

“Salmon.”

“Or salmon.”

Anya relented. “Nothing pink,” she agreed, kissing him lightly. “Good night, everyone!”

“Thank you, Anya,” Buffy remembered to say. “For your help with the bills and um, all that other stuff.”

Anya smiled happily. “Thank you for asking! It was fun!”

Buffy eyed the neat stacks of paper, some of them half a foot tall, which covered every available inch of the dining room table and shuddered. What. Ever.

Anya opened the door, but before going out, she glanced across the room toward Spike. Her voice was warm, pleasant. “Goodnight, Spike!”

The blond frowned, obviously confused at being singled out for a personal goodnight, but he nodded politely.

Seeing Xander’s eyes fly between his wife-to-be and the vampire, Buffy repressed the urge to whack him on the back of his head. They did not need any further dissention in the group. They had enough to deal with already.

“Wanna help me clean all that stuff of the table?” she asked him. “I think Ahn’s done with everything, but just in case, I thought you might know how she’d want it all stacked.”

“Alphabetically by type - mortgage, utilities, insurance, food, clothing, miscellaneous. Then cross-referenced by billing date.”

“Huh?”

Xander shrugged. “I’ll do it.

It only took them a few minutes. When they were finished, Buffy replaced the centerpiece her mother had made.

“Is Tara coming down?” Xander asked.

“No, she’s out,” Buffy said. “I think she’s still finding it really hard to talk about any of this. And cleaning out Will’s things sort of took its toll, too.” Buffy smoothed her hand over the table, her fingernail finding a groove in the grain of the wood and tracing it. “Did… did you know Will dropped out of school?”

“What?!”

“I guess that’s a ‘no’,” Buffy said.

“The semester is almost over! She just dropped all her classes? Now?”

“Yeah. Tara told me this morning after breakfast. I guess one of their professors asked her about it yesterday.”

“Shit.”

“That was sort of my reaction, too.”

~*~

“Caia mentioned that we might expect to see Willow withdraw from the group, which is common enough when one has been dealing with unnatural powers. Willow’s behavior the last few days seems to bear that out. She may also enter a rather lackluster stage, displaying little interest in anything.”

“How long will it last?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Not good, but I think I’ll prefer Lackluster Willow to Sparks of Electricity Willow.”

“I’m holding out for Normal Willow. If she feels the urge to bake cookies, and look really, really sorry, that would be a plus.”

Giles’ friend, Caia, whom he’d called for help when Willow had first returned to Buffy’s crackling with power, had promised to look into the subject of power dealers and the effects of various kinds of demonic power on humans. Power dealers seemed to exist in some type of demon underworld, and rarely came into any contact with humans, in whom they had little interest. In her research, however, she had come across another Englishwoman, a Lady Anne Murchison, who had some limited knowledge of the subject. Unfortunately, neither could contribute much, and none of what they had learned was good.

“Species seems to count for little. The only prerequisites for the job are greed, ruthlessness, and the desire and ability to manipulate on a large scale.”

“Bloke who’s willing to experiment with lots of different kinds of power and doesn’t much care how many of his clients die while he’s at it is gonna rise to the top of his profession bloody fast, too.”

“Caia phrased that a bit differently, but I believe that was the impression she got as well.”

“How do they get these ‘jobs’?” Buffy asked. “Are they chosen somehow, then trained? Who chooses them?” The words sent a familiar tingle of curiosity through Buffy. ‘Are they chosen somehow? Who chooses them?’ She’d often wondered the same things about herself. In her opinion the background and history of the Slayer line lacked big time in specifics.

Spike shrugged when the others turned to him. “Dunno.”

“Maybe they use headhunters.” Xander looked around at the unsmiling faces. “Sorry. Willow worry has severely affected the funny.”

“I don’t know that how they get their ‘jobs’ matters at this point. We have more serious things to think about. Caia’s acquaintance only had knowledge of two humans who’d had dealings with these creatures. The first died on her second visit from an influx of power from a D’Ebcoh En demon. She said the other probably wished for death often before it finally claimed him.”

“Do I wanna know why?”

It turned out none of them did. The explanation included words like manipulation and blackmail, and the imbibing of the client with power known to be deadly to humans, then withholding the antidote unless certain services were performed. Once the dealer no longer had any use for the man, he’d simply stopped providing doses of the antidote, which needed to be taken on a regular basis in order to sustain the man’s life. Power dealers didn’t just love to deal in power, they loved to wield it. And with as much cruelty as possible.

“But if stuff like this is known about them, why would anyone…? I don’t get it.”

“It’s rather like Spike and Anya said that first night. There are always going to be those who think they can beat the odds, that they can outwit the dealer, get what they want, and walk away free and clear. Knowingly doing something reckless or dangerous is a fairly common human practice. Apparently demons indulge in it as well.”

“So if Will keeps going to this guy…”

“There will, undoubtedly, be dire consequences.”

Xander looked at Buffy. “I hate when that happens.”

“’Favorite Vacation Spot of ‘Dire’’. It’s the motto of the Sunnydale Department of Tourism.”

“Did this person - this Lady Anne - Anne? Miss Murchison?”

“Hey, You There, Titled Person?” Buffy suggested.

“Whatever. Did she have any ideas what a human might have that one of these guys would be interested in?” Xander went on. “Did this one who popped up on the street one night in front of Willow - all understanding -- just want someone to jerk around? Or - does Will have some kind of power that these guys would want?”

Spike shifted in his chair, and Buffy glanced toward him. Her gaze lingered to study him more carefully. He’d been almost completely silent since the meeting had begun, and he hadn’t once tried to catch her eye, which was highly unusual.

“I don’t know,” Giles said. “Certainly, Willow has power. She’s proven that more than once. Whether it’s the type of power that would interest others… “ Giles removed his glasses and tapped them on the table. “We could speculate forever. We need to get some concrete information, and I’m afraid that means we’ll have to find the dealer Willow met with. Question him. Did anyone hear Willow use a name? Something we can go on?”

“Rack,” Spike provided.

“Do you think you can locate him?”

“Not gonna get much out of him,” the vampire muttered.

“Why?” Buffy asked. “Are these guys really good at keeping their mouths shut? Because…” Her voice slipped into a really bad German accent. “… ve half vays…”

“Not necessarily.” Something in Spike’s tone had Giles looking at him sharply.

“What -? Oh.” Giles rolled his eyes, and gave a huff of annoyance.

“What?” Buffy was confused by their exchanged looks.

“Spike killed him,” Giles announced with a sort of offhand exasperation.

Buffy frowned at Spike. “You did?”

“Our aromatic friend from last night? He met up with our girl at Rack’s place, didn’t he? So I decided to pay the bloke a visit, see if he had any idea if this demon went after Dawn deliberately, or just thought she looked like the tastiest morsel in the waiting room.”

“And?” She knew her fear could be heard in her voice. It hadn’t occurred to her that Dawn might have been anything but a chanced upon victim, and they sooo did not need any demon, Hellgod, monk, knight, or anything else, for that matter, focusing on her sister again.

“He claimed it was a random attack. Didn’t have a thing to do with him.”

“Did -“ She tried again. “Did you believe him?”

“Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Did you get anything else out of him before you, er…”

“Tore his heart out,” Spike filled in with some pride.

Buffy made a ‘eeeww’ face.

“He liked to hear to himself talk, but what he had to say didn’t amount to much. Implied Red had stirred up some powerful forces, and that he’d been asked to keep an eye on her, maybe help her make the move over to the dark side.”

“Asked by whom? Stirred up interest where?” Giles asked.

“He didn’t say.”

“And we can’t ask him now, can we?” Xander jibed.

“Wanker had a big mouth. Liked to throw threats around.”

Buffy looked at him, at his tight expression, and at the fist that was lying clenched on his thigh.

“He threatened Dawn, didn’t he?” she asked, and Spike’s eyes swung to hers, their expression fierce.

“No one threatens my girls.”

The sudden explosion of hostility in the room caused Buffy's body to jerk in shock.

“Buffy and Dawn are not ‘your girls’.” Xander grated out. “They are never gonna be ‘your girls’.”

The words seemed to hang in the air.

“Xander…”

“You are a dead man walking and they are -“

“Please…”

“Tell him, Buff. “

“No,” she whispered.

“What? Why?”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She felt distinctly ill.

Spike had been glaring at Xander, but he suddenly yanked his head to the side, touching stormy blue eyes to Buffy’s frozen face. His face went cold and he stood up.

“Think I’ll go have a smoke,” he said.

“Sit down,” Giles ordered, his eyes focused on the table. When Spike didn’t comply immediately, Giles raised his head, fixing him with grey eyes every bit as icy as the vampire’s voice had been. “Sit. Down.”

Spike looked like he wanted to attack something - or someone - but he obeyed the Watcher.

“This ends,” Giles said. “Now. We have work to do; work that is far more important than any hostility between the two of you and whatever is causing it.

“Spike, Xander has been a part of this group since the beginning. His loyalty to Buffy and to Dawn is beyond question, and equally, his contributions to Buffy's work are beyond measure. You need to respect that.

“Xander, Spike’s help with Buffy’s training and patrolling has been incalculable since her return. She was quite badly out of practice, to a degree that could have been extremely dangerous to her. Further, I’ve come to learn that his demon knowledge is much greater than I could have hoped, and could prove extremely valuable to us. You need to respect that.”

“I cannot ask that the two of you become fast friends, but I will insist that the juvenile sniping and name-calling the two of you have spent years perfecting not start up again. Foolishly, I had thought circumstances might have helped you to move past it, but I can see that I was mistaken. If you must refrain from speaking to or looking at one another in order to maintain some semblance of civility, please do so.

“Now,” he finished, slipping his glasses back on. “Let’s get back to business.”

~*~

Atmosphere strained = Understatement, Buffy thought a few minutes later.

Spike and Xander looked equally sullen, but it seemed that Giles' intervention had gone a long way toward easing the coiling nausea in her own stomach that had flared up along with Xander's temper.

She hated this, this - hostility -- between Spike and Xander, this dissention. She hadn’t seen much evidence of it since her return, but she was afraid that had more to do with a lack of opportunity than with any easing of the longstanding dislike between the two. She’d been annoyed by arguments between her friends in the past, but this overwhelming desire to hurl was new.

“Well, if you were surrounded by peace for hundreds of years…” Dawn had offered as a possible explanation when they’d talked about the feelings of revulsion Buffy had experienced when feeling anger. Strangely, and thankfully, this sort of tension didn’t seem to flare up when she was dealing with demons. It was only here, among her friends and family…

Maybe Giles' lecture would do some good, she thought, before snorting inwardly. Yeah, that was likely. We’re talking oil and water here, Buffy. But damn it, like Giles had said, they didn’t have to be friends. Exactly. But couldn’t they get back to that ‘I don’t like you, but let’s have a beer and shoot a game of pool, anyway’ relationship stage?

Giles went on calmly, as if nothing had happened. He often amazed her.

“Rack is dead, and we won’t be able to learn anything from him about his partners.” He glanced at the vampire. “You do believe these partners exist, am I right?”

“Probably.”

“Right. Spike perhaps, acted rashly, and that’s unfortunate. However, it’s done. On the other hand, Willow’s reaction upon waking the other day led me to believe that she wouldn’t hesitate to seek the fellow out again at the first opportunity, so his death might be best for her and us in the long run.”

“So this is a good thing?” With obvious reluctance, Xander seemed to consider that. “I guess… maybe it is, isn’t it? I mean, Ahn and - Spike -- said a human couldn’t find a dealer on her own; that a dealer would have to find her - invite her back or something. Right?”

“Rack found her, Xander. The other dealers will, too.”

“I must agree with Spike. We know that someone else is ‘interested’ in Willow. Since this mysterious someone used a power dealer to approach Willow before, they could use that same avenue again. “

“It’s more than that, Watcher. Red’s had a taste of power. Seems to like it, too. She might not be able to find a dealer without someone helping out, but if she drops a few words in the right ears, the dealers will find her. Especially -”

“Yes?”

“If she mentions she’s close to the Slayer.”

“Shit.” Xander sat up straighter. “Blackmail, manipulations, performing services… Oh yeah, I can feel the good times a-comin’.”

Long looks were exchanged around the table. As everyone contemplated the possible ramifications of the situation, the hostility still lingering in the air lessened.

“We’re going to have to take steps to protect Will, even if she doesn’t want it, and even if it’s from herself.”

“We could chain her up,” Spike suggested. “What?” he went on, off their looks. “It’s a highly effective method of keeping trouble prone people out of trouble.”

“No.”

“Don’t see why you’re so opposed to it, pet. Watcher could send Red back to sleep and we could -“

“N. O. Look it up.” She paused. “We’re going to have to take all these dealers out.” Her eyes widened a little, and she turned back to Spike. “That’s why you wanted to try to locate a few of these places tonight, isn’t it? You knew we’d have to go after them.”

“Considered it likely, yeah.”

“The two of you aren’t planning to go after these power dealers alone, are you?” Giles asked. “I was under the impression some of them employ considerable security.”

“No. We’re just doing one of those renaissance thingies.”

“Reconnaissance,” Giles corrected automatically.

“Yeah, one of those.”

“Even though the locations shift, not all of them jump about every hour, or even every few days. We’ll try to get two or three locations, maybe get some information on what kind of security we might run into. Then tomorrow night - if we have to - we can all go in.”

“If these places are hopping around town all the time, how will we ever know if we’ve gotten them all?” Xander asked.

“Oh, we can find out,” Buffy assured him. “Spike has sources.”

“Don’t go there, Slayer.”

Giles’ eyes betrayed his curiosity, and Buffy ignored the vampire’s warning.

“We stopped in at a demon bar last night. And, Oh. My. God. Blondie has, like, a fan club there.”

Spike glared at her before sliding his eyes to Giles. “Don’t ask.”

Giles didn’t.

Buffy stood up. “Are we done?” she looked to Giles. “If I’m going out again tonight, I think I’ll get something to eat first.” She twisted a little as if testing the emptiness of her stomach. “I’m feeling all hungry.”

Giles smiled. “Good. Make a sandwich. A big one,” he added as she walked into the kitchen. “And have a glass of milk, too.”

“Eeeww. A big ‘no’ to the milk. Gonna be a few days before I can get past the bad associations.”

“I’ll come along,” Xander offered. “Maybe I can help.”

Buffy's light tone drifted out to them. “Oh, not tonight. Spike and I can handle it.”

Giles groaned inwardly, Xander frowned, and Spike smirked.

~*~

“I know you don’t care for Spike, but he really has been of a lot of help in getting Buffy retrained.”

Buffy's attack of hunger had spread to the rest of the humans, and, after the Slayer and Spike left on their ‘renaissance mission’, Giles and Xander had picked up the dishes scattered around the living room. They were still doing the washing up in the kitchen. Giles didn’t know if bringing this subject up was a good idea, but then, he had been known to behave in a less than cautious manner at least once or twice in his past.

“She trained without him for years. She doesn’t need him. We don’t need him.”

“Perhaps he needs us,” Giles suggested.

“And we should care about that - why?”

The Watcher sighed, and the sound seemed to anger Xander.

“He’s a killer. He’s tried to kill us, has plotted against us. He stalked Buffy, and still seems to have some fixation on her. I just don’t get why you suddenly seem willing to overlook all that.”

“It’s not that sudden. I’ve spent a lot of time with him since - the summer. Patrolling, researching, playing chess…”

“I could play chess too.”

Giles was somewhat taken aback. “I didn’t know you played.”

“Well, I don’t. But I could. If Spike learned, I’m sure I could stumble through, too.”

Giles frowned. “I - alright. The point is, I believe Spike has become someone we can -“

“Trust?” Xander broke in.

“Trust takes time,” Giles acknowledged. “But to a degree, yes.”

Xander washed the last plate and handed it to the Watcher.

“I just don’t get why things have to change.”

Giles turned to look at the younger man. Oh dear… This was an entirely different kettle of fish.

“Xander, things always change. Change is, perhaps, one of the few constants in life.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“You’ll find it inevitable. It’s apart of growing up, of living. You have a job now that occupies a lot of your time. Tara and, one hopes, Willow, when she comes to her senses, will graduate soon. Their careers might take them to another part of the country. You and Anya are about to be married, and your life with her will become more and more the focus of your life. That’s as it should be.”

“Getting married doesn’t mean I’ll abandon my friends.”

“I don’t think ‘abandon’ is the right word. Friendships can remain strong even across time and distance. High school friends rarely spend most of their lives experiencing the same degree of togetherness they did in school. It’s just not realistic. And Anya has every right to expect to be put first in your life.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen friends fall apart. But its not gonna happen to us. We’ve been through too much together.”

“Falling apart and growing apart are not the same thing. There are people I feel very close to even though I haven’t seen some of them for several years. I still consider them very good friends.”

“Not gonna happen to us,” Xander repeated.

Xander could be incredibly stubborn, and in some cases that stubbornness irritated Giles. But the Watcher also knew that that very stubbornness was one of the things that made Xander so loyal to those around him, which was one of his most endearing traits. That stubbornness was also a contributing factor in Xander’s determination to work beside the others. Many young men in his situation, when faced with the supernatural and growing powers of those around him, would feel increasingly frustrated with their own lack of same.

But, for the most part, Xander seemed to have avoided that pitfall, and appeared to be quite satisfied with his life. He enjoyed his work and his friends, he was engaged, and planning his wedding. For a boy that had come from the rather unfortunate home-life Xander had come from, he seemed remarkably well adjusted.

It was likely that that home-life also had some bearing on his disquiet about change within the group. The Scoobies had been not only his friends; they had been his haven from a youth scared by alcoholism and abuse. Even without superpowers, within the Scoobies Xander had worth. Perhaps he was wary of losing his place in the group, of being replaced, as it were. By anyone. That that person might be Spike would just make the situation that much more unpalatable for him.

He and Xander had long been the two most important men that could be said to be a part of the Summers household. Xander had filled the brother role, to both Buffy and, after a rather lengthy prepubescent crush on the little girl’s part had abated, to Dawn as well. But, unless he was blind, Xander was probably becoming more aware of the deepening relationship between Spike and ‘his girls’. It was also quite likely that he had noticed that neither of those ‘girls’ seemed to be objecting to the vampire’s growing role in their lives.

Worry about losing his place could well be the most important aspect of Xander's hostility toward Spike. That wasn’t to say that Xander's concerns about Spike and his trustworthiness were baseless.

After all, everything he’d said about the vampire was true. Spike had tried to kill them, had, in fact, killed thousands, he had behaved in a less than sane fashion with Buffy, he had worked against them…

His own feelings concerning Spike had changed gradually, over the course of many months. Xander had not been a part of the conversations between Watcher and vampire; he hadn’t been privy to some of the insights Giles had been granted that had helped him to see Spike differently.

And, for the most part, Spike was either silent or snarky around the other man. Certainly, Spike had never made any attempt to befriend Xander. Nor had he shown any desire to acknowledge him as more than an annoying appendage of some sort to Buffy and Dawn, someone he was forced to tolerate if he was going to be a part of the girls’ lives, and so did, but barely, and with the greatest reluctance.

There were a lot of changes going on in Xander's life right now. Buffy was quite obviously not quite the same as she had been before her death, Willow’s behavior was certainly a cause for concern, and he was taking on the adult role of married man… It would be normal for him to want to hold on to the safe things in his life, to not want to lose anything, or, as he may look at it, anything more…

Buffy's unthinking words and her lightly dismissing tone had perhaps been the worst response she could have made tonight to Xander's offer of help. Spike's smirk had just rubbed salt into the wound of feeling unneeded.

He didn’t think there was much he could do to change Xander's attitudes toward Spike's, er, demonhood. Giles was still working through a few of his own issues in that area. Most effective for him had been learning to see Spike as an individual, trying to ‘judge’ him, if that was the right word, on his own current actions, rather than looking at him simply as a ‘vampire’ and not attempting to see beyond that. To do that, he’d had to get past years of council indoctrination and scholarly studies. If he’d managed to succeed, even in part, perhaps there was hope that Xander could learn to do the same.

However, there were always things he could do to help Xander feel that his place in the group was secure, that he was appreciated, needed and cared for.

“Xander?”

The young man turned in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“If you really want to learn how to play chess, I’d be happy to teach you.”

“Willow tried once, years ago,” Xander admitted.

“You’re older now,” Giles said. “More patient, I should think. And I’m quite a good teacher. I taught a good number of the fellows in my house at school.”

“You’ll be patient?” Xander asked.

“I shall.”

The younger man smiled. “I’d like that.”

~*~

”Hey.” Dawn’s voice was hushed.

“Can’t sleep?” Spike asked casually as she climbed out her window, pulling her comforter out after her.

“I guess not.”

She didn’t sound too pleased about it.

“Yeah, I heard you floppin’ about like a fish out of water.” She’d been tossing for nearly two hours now. She usually fell asleep easily, and now that she wasn’t having as many nightmares, she didn’t often wake.

“Lovely word picture there, fang boy. Thanks.”

“One of those fish with long fins,” Spike placated.

“An angel fish?”

“Why would you wanna be named for that wanker?”

Dawn snorted with laughter. She wrapped her comforter around her and settled in next to him.

“It’s flippin’ freezing out here. How do you stand it every night?”

Spike eyed her. California girl. Thin blood.

Wrong thought. It led him to thoughts of his Slayer’s blood, not thin at all, but thick, rich, and powerful. And so long absent from his mouth. His forced his thoughts back to Dawn.

“Guess it doesn’t bother me, bit.”

“You and Buffy kill stuff?” she asked, making conversation.

“Yeah.” An opportunity had presented itself, and they’d taken out the first of the power dealers, a M’Lgm-Misa demon that had laughed at them right up to the minute Buffy had run a rapier through its guts. “You want a blow by blow? Or in this case -”

Her arm flew up and she placed a hand over his mouth. “Stop right there,” she ordered, and he grinned behind her hand, nipping at her fingers playfully. Dawn laughed and snatched her hand back.

“I wish we could see stars from here like we can in the cemetery. They’re never as bright here.”

Spike glanced at his Slayer’s window. “You wanna head over there?” The two of them hadn’t taken off for an all night adventure since Buffy had come back.

Dawn’s eyes followed his, and she gnawed on her lower lip for a moment, clearly tempted. Finally, reluctantly, she shook her head. “Not tonight. I have that annoying interruption of life called ‘school’ tomorrow, and I should at least try to stay awake during my classes. How about for our Friday date?”

“Thought it was too cold to spend your nights lookin’ at the stars.”

“Well, yeah, but I’ll bring a sleeping bag. Stay cozy. You want me to bring one for you, too?”

His look informed her of the stupidity of her question.

“Geesh.” Dawn tossed her hair. “I was just asking. Rein in the sarcastic. “ Her demeanor changed and she peeked a couple of looks at his face as she pulled at a loose thread on her comforter. “We could, um, buzz around on the motorcycle for awhile before getting down to some serious stargazing…’

“Your sis would skin me alive,” he said.

“Pffft. Like she hasn’t threatened you a million times before,” she dismissed. “It never stops you. I’ll borrow a helmet from someone.” She shifted. “Oh, god, I’ll end up with total helmet hair.” Her eyes, wicked now, went to his blond locks. “We’ll be, like, twins!”

“You gonna start on the hair again?”

“Nah. You’ll see the light before long. I have faith in you.”

The comfortable almost silence between them was punctuated with single words or short phrases muttered out under her breath, and spaced out for effectiveness.

“Short.”

“Spikey.”

“No gel.”

“Soft, uncrunchable.”

“The babes’ll like it.”

“Twenty-first century.”

She laughed when he cuffed her gently on the back of the head, reminding her that she’d said she wasn’t gonna start on the hair, and stopped razzing him.

Spike had grown accustomed to Buffy’s occasional and, for the most part, silent companionship on the roof at night, but he knew Dawn was allergic to lack of sleep and he figured her presence suggested she had Something Important to Talk About. It wasn’t long before she got around to it.

“So, um… All that money talk… Did it sound okay to you?”

“Sounds like you’ll do fine,” he assured her. He may have done well with languages and history in school, but numbers had always bored him, and he’d tuned out a lot of what Anya had said. The Watcher, though, had looked pleased and relieved, so he figured that meant things would be okay.

“Oh. Good.” She paused. “Really?”

He touched her hair. “Yeah, bit. No fancy trips, and I doubt you’ll be lookin’ for real estate in Beverly Hills, but yeah.”

“Some of that adult crap really sucks,” she said seriously. “I’ve um, started looking at colleges.”

“Bit soon, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. That financial aid stuff Anya mentioned - does that work at any school?”

“You’d probably be better off asking Tara or Buffy that, but I think so.”

“Good. The private art schools are gonna cost a fortune - with housing, like $30,000 a year. Probably more. And I have a feeling that’s only if you don’t wanna eat.”

“That much?” Spike was genuinely shocked. He never paid attention to things like that.

“Yeah. So I’m checking out which UC campuses have the best art departments.”

“Still set on art them?”

“Oh, yeah. Not much chance of that changing. It’s like my dream, ya know. How about you?”

He looked a question.

“You ever think about writing?”

He cocked his head to the side. The question remained.

“Didn’t you say that’s what you wanted to do?”

He turned, looking out over the lawn. “That was more than a hundred years ago.”

“So? Writing hasn’t gone out of style has it? And you haven’t got anything better to do, do you?”

“Lots of evil to get up to, pet.”

She snorted in derision. “Right. Evil’s just oozing out of you.”

“From every pore,” he affirmed.

Dawn rolled her eyes and shook her head slightly. It was a moment before she spoke again.

“You could write evil books.”

Spike turned to look at her pointedly. “You wanna run that by me again?”

“Vampire books. All blood and stuff. Big sellers right now.”

“I can’t stand that Anne Rice crap.”

“Forget her then. How about Laurell K. Hamilton, or Tanya Huff, or, um, there are some more. I just can’t think of their names. Lots of stuff with ‘Blood’ or ‘Dark’ or ‘Night’ in the title.”

“They any good?” Spike asked curiously. Not that he’d admit it to anyone, but he tended to read biographies and non-fiction historical texts. Few paperbacks sitting about, maybe even a hardcover or two, with lovely bloody covers would probably lend his crypt some atmosphere. Coffee table books, he thought they were called.

“You think anyone in this house would let me read something like that? Vampires and sex and stuff?”

“So - got ‘em tucked away under your mattress, then?”

She smirked. “Under the extra pillow on the top shelf of my closet.”

Spike grinned back. “That’s my girl.”

“I’ll loan you one,” she promised, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I think it’ll be kinda nice to leave something behind when I die,” Dawn said quietly after another comfortable silence.

“What?” Spike demanded. He didn’t like the shot of horror that went through him. “You’re fifteen. Shouldn’t be talkin’ that way.”

“Yeah, and I live in Sunnydale, where, every year, the graduating class compares their mortality rate to previous classes. I think everyone here thinks about dying young. It’s just one of those things they don’t talk about.

“After Buffy died - you know what I wanted?”

“You confiscated a lot of her clothes.” It had been painful, at times, to see her in Buffy’s things.

Dawn frowned in annoyance, and he could see this was something serious she wanted to talk about.

“Sorry, pet.”

“I wanted her diary. And no, not for stupid boyfriend details and junk like that. I wanted it because it was something she wrote. Something she sort of - created. It was the same with mom’s stuff. I wanted to keep the pots she threw when she was in high school, and the sketches she did of me and Buffy when we were kids. You know, before the divorce, mom used to draw quite a bit. She didn’t have time afterward, ‘cause she had to be working all the time.”

Spike touched her hair again. It had become his trademark soothing gesture with her. “I didn’t know that. Your mum never said.”

“Yeah. She used to dream about being an artist, but she figured the closest she would ever get was managing the gallery…”

“She loved that place. You know that. Aside from worryin’ about you and your sis, your mum was pretty happy with her lot in life.”

“Yeah, I - I know.” Dawn cleared her throat. “But knowing what I wanted to keep from mom and Buffy made me think about it. You know, about leaving something personal behind. I’m still mad at myself for burning my own diaries when I found out about being the key.”

Tonight she sounded disgusted with herself for the rash act of destruction, but she’d mentioned the diaries more than once over the summer, and he knew how upset she was about destroying them. Talking about them had sometimes led to tears. She’d had mementoes tucked into the pages of those diaries; ticket stubs, programs from ice shows, the menu from the restaurant her dad had taken the family to on her seventh birthday... Dozens of things. Not to mention the diaries themselves, filled with funny things her mom had said, details of the latest round of trouble Buffy had gotten into, her worries about her parents marriage, and… All gone, she’d sobbed one night. Just like her family.

“Memories are all that really matter.”

“Do you have a lot of memories of your family?”

He didn’t answer for a long time. “Some,” he finally admitted.

“You wanna tell me about them?”

Another drawn out silence. “It was just Mother and me when Dru turned me.”

Dawn slipped her hand into his.

“My father - I didn’t know him, really. I was young when he died. He was crossing the street in London to buy some flowers for my mum. She was…” He paused. “A horse bolted, a wagon went out of control.” He’d been six years old, walking down the street with his father, holding his hand. They’d seen the flower cart, smiling together about how his mum loved flowers, and his father had told him to wait while he popped across the street to buy a small bouquet to cheer her. She was in the last weeks of pregnancy, and feeling very worn out. Five minutes later his father had been dead, the purchased daisies strewn about the cobblestones near his body. Even after more than a century and a half, the image remained as clear to him as Buffy’s face.

Spike pulled his hand out of her hold, and lit a cigarette. He looked out over the lawn silently.

“I - I’m sorry. I can see you don’t want to talk about this,” Dawn offered quietly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“’s okay, bit. I don’t think about them much.” His voice was clipped. But after taking a long hit off his fag, he went on. “I had two younger sisters, twins. They were born just a few days after my father died. They died, within a few weeks of each other, not long after their twelfth birthday.”

Even without his father, the house had been full of laughter while the twins were there. After they died, from some wretched fever that could probably be cured with a pill that cost less than a dollar today, the laughter had stopped. In the house, and in his soul. He hadn’t really realized it until years after he’d been turned, but their deaths had changed him deeply, had made him withdraw from the world, from those left around him, and from himself. He’d tried desperately to close out the ugliness of the real world, and he’d sought refuge in studying, in literature, and, he winced inwardly, in poetry.

A minute or two passed before he spoke again. “They had beautiful blue eyes. Like yours.”

Dawn wrapped a hand around his arm, and this time he didn’t try to pull away. “Yeah? I bet, really, they were like yours,” she smiled at him, and the mood lightened.

“Sometimes you think of me as your sister, don’t you?” she asked. “It’s okay, you know, if you do. I kinda like it.”

“Sometimes,” he said thoughtfully. Actually, he viewed her more as a daughter. He didn’t have one bloody idea why either, or even when exactly he had begun to feel that way. But over the course of the summer, his feelings for his girl had gone through a series of metamorphoses, and ‘daughter’ seemed to be the final form. He’d always figured she’d be happier with the ‘friend’ or ‘sister’ designation, since ‘daughter’ could put all kinds of parental barriers on their odd relationship, so he’d never told her.

“Buffy said she could kinda feel mom when she was in heaven. But that they really weren’t together…” Dawn’s shoulders lifted and fell. “I thought they’d be together.”

“My theory on your sis is that she was in some kind of holding pattern.”

“Huh?”

“It’s eternity. Hundreds of years isn’t long at all. Sooner or later, she and Joyce would’ve hooked up, pidge. ‘m sure of it.”

“Do you think, you know, you’ll be able to feel your sisters? Be with them?”

Something twisted inside him. He looked away. “Not in the cards for me, pet. You should know that.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she murmured. When she spoke again a moment later, her voice was only a breath of sound. “Maybe you’ll be able to feel me, and then neither one of us will be so alone.” He wasn’t even sure if she was aware she’d spoken the words so that he could hear them.

“What?” he asked quietly. “Bit, wha’d’you mean?”

But Dawn just shook her head and didn’t respond. He couldn’t let that go.

“You know you’ll be in heaven with your mum and your sis. I’m thinkin’ it’s all arranged already.” He made sure his voice sounded offhandedly certain. Now he was the one trying to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, maybe,” Dawn agreed. She shrugged, dismissing the subject and changed the topic to her friend Aimee’s new dog, which Dawn was convinced was possessed. Did Spike know any way she could test out that theory?

When she climbed back in her window a few minutes later, though, and crawled into bed, he noticed that her breathing didn’t even out for a long time. He spent most of what remained of the night smoking and staring at her window.

~*~

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