Chapter 8

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Friends Come Visiting

Halfway there. Only four hours to go. Buffy wiped the counter in front of her again, though it still glistened from the last time. There was only a moderate dinner rush weekdays and then just stragglers until closing time, which meant the hours dragged by. She was now de facto assistant manager with more seniority than anyone else currently employed, having stayed on when the college students had quit at the end of the summer. Of course, since nothing had been made official, all that really meant was more responsibility and more time spent in closing the store, without a commensurate increase in pay. She sighed, and wiped the counter again. Three hours, fifty-eight minutes.

"Hey Buffy," said a familiar, melancholy voice.

"Xander, hi!" she said, looking up into her friend's face. He'd become quite the regular over the summer, dropping in every night after work in preference to returning home to an empty apartment and cooking for one. His waistband was certainly showing the effect of the DoubleMeat diet. Uh-oh, that's even less happy face than usual. "The usual again? Or can I finally convince you to try something from the other side of the menu board?" she asked, trying to lighten his expression.

"There's a 'for lease' sign in the window of the Magic Box," he said without preamble. "She's selling the store."

It's going to take more than a free DoubleMeat Medley to handle this one. "Darlene, I'm taking my evening break early," she said to her co-worker at the counter. "Call me if there's anything you can't handle. Come on," she said, grabbing a couple of burgers off the warming rack before turning back to Xander again. "Let's go talk."

**********

"I can't believe she would do this without even telling me," he said before they had even sat down in the break room. Buffy handed him one of the burgers and he opened it absently. "It means she doesn't intend to come back. How could she do this to me?"

"She hasn't tried to contact you at all?" Buffy asked.

"Not once the entire summer. I haven't seen her since the day we stopped Willow. Hell, I don't even know if she's in this dimension any more. For all I know, she's gone back to Arashmahar and is working for D'Hoffryn again." Xander swallowed a too-large bite of his burger. "There's a reno crew in the store now. I talked to the foreman, but he said it was all arranged through her lawyers and the insurance company."

"What about asking some of the guests from her side of the wedding?" she suggested, unwrapping her own burger. "If you have addresses for any of them, maybe you could get in touch and see what they know."

"I don't know where any of that stuff is any more. And anyway, what's the use?" he declared fatalistically. "She's made it pretty clear she doesn't want to hear from me."

"Xander, you can't just give up on her this way," Buffy protested. "Not if you really love her."

"Hey, she's the one who took off," he retorted defensively.

You started it, was what she wanted to say, but knew it wouldn't help. Another possibility suddenly suggested itself to her. "What about Clem? He was there, maybe he could help."

"You mean floppy guy?" Xander asked, flapping both hands at the side of his head in imitation of two of Clem's more outstanding characteristics. "I suppose..."

"He's been living in Spike's crypt over the summer. You should be able to find him without too much trouble."

"I don't know. Any friend of Spike's is hardly going to be a friend of mine. Leaving town was the smartest thing that bastard's ever done."

Oh. Oh dear. I knew there was something wrong with that idea. "Xander," she said tentatively. "Spike's come back."

His face closed up into near-mindless fury. "That's it; I'm really going to kill him this time." Xander surged to his feet, as though he were about to head over to stake Spike immediately. Buffy stopped him with an unbreakable grip on his arm.

"Xander, I'd... really rather you didn't," she managed to say. "He's... mostly harmless now."

"What is it with you?" He tried to shake her hand from his arm, but she wouldn't release him. "How can you still defend him after everything he's done to you? To us? Anya had sex with him right on that damn table in the store. We all saw them. How could I ever touch her again without thinking about that?" He was shouting now, not caring who heard. Chicken caps pecked intermittently at the window glass, but no one dared to enter the room.

"That was about trying to kill the pain, Xander. Trust me, I know all about that feeling." She felt a sudden electric thrill down her spine, and took a deep breath before releasing her hold on him. Ever have a moment of perfect clarity? I think I'm finally beginning to understand why to forgive is 'divine'. There's no other way to finally achieve some peace. "She can feel the human desire for vengeance. As long as you make your apology to her conditional on hers to you, you'll never get her back."

"So now you're the expert on relationships? That hardly seems likely, what with you screwing the evil undead and all." As soon as the words had left his mouth, he realized what he had said. "God, Buffy, I'm sorry. It's just... this whole thing with Anya is making me crazy." He ran his hands through his hair and began pacing the room, the rest of his dinner cooling and forgotten.

"I know," she said, trying not to let the hurt show in her voice. I forgive you, too. I know exactly how much it hurts. "That's the same reason I went to see him. To apologize for the way we - the way I treated him last year. To stop the crazies."

Xander stared at her open-mouthed for some time before he could reply. "You apologized to him? To that - that rapist? What the hell were you thinking, Buffy?"

So much for being sorry. I'm not going to let you make me defensive; I know I did the right thing. "Yes Xander, I apologized. Because whatever he did to me doesn't change the way I behaved."

"Why should you care how you treated him?" he protested. "He's just a monster. An evil, soulless thing. He's killed hundreds, maybe thousands of people. Just because he's got a chip in him now doesn't change that."

"Xander," she said softly. "How many people died last year, dancing themselves to death, because of a demon you called? How many people, Xander?" He looked away, shamed. She went on, not willing to spare anyone now that she'd started speaking the truth. "Or how many people died, including Ms. Calendar, when I couldn't bring myself to stop Angelus soon enough, because I kept hoping to find Angel in him? We're supposed to be the good guys. We've got the souls that are supposed to help us do the right thing. Spike doesn't, and he's still helped us. He didn't deserve what I did to him."

"You're just fooling yourself into thinking that he's a good man, so you don't have to think about the two of you," he challenged. "To salve your conscience."

"No, I'm not," she countered. "I know very well that he's neither. He's not good, and he's not a man. But that doesn't make what I did acceptable. To believe that would be almost as bad as saying Willow did nothing wrong when she killed Warren, just because he was evil." She sighed. "Spike is what he is - a vampire without a soul. I shouldn't be surprised that he's not very skilled at doing the right thing; I should be surprised that he even can manage to consider it."

"So you think I should just forgive them both for what they did? Just like that?" His voice was incredulous. "That's it? No consequences? Nothing?"

"Xander, if you don't go ahead and finally forgive, you're going to let someone you can't stand live rent-free in your head forever. I finally got tired of carrying the pain around. So yes," she said evenly, "I guess I've forgiven him, and I've apologized to him. I did both because they were something I needed for myself, not for him."

"Sorry Buff," he said, heading for the door. "I just don't buy it. Spike owes me, owes us all, and I'm going to make him pay. Somehow." Xander yanked open the door and walked out, scattering the curious witnesses.

Oh, that went well. Buffy looked down at her cold, congealed burger, marked with only a single bite. Her appetite had vanished. She rewrapped the foil around it and tossed it into the garbage before returning to the front of the restaurant. "Doesn't anyone work around here?" she snapped, seeing the inquisitive looks. They scurried back to their appointed tasks.

**********

Spike entered the crypt and found Clem watching television with a large bowl of chips at his side. He dropped Dawn's care package, his laundry and all the equipment he had hauled out of the Summers basement in an untidy heap in the middle of the floor, and then grabbed a handful of chips. "I'm an idiot, Clem. It's official." He threw himself into a folding chair that squealed in protest at this treatment.

"Well, you might not qualify for Mensa, Spike, but I think 'idiot' is probably a bit harsh," Clem replied, always ready to look on the bright side. "Why would you say that?" He got up and turned off the TV. "Does this have anything to do with where you've been this afternoon? I was getting worried."

Spike smiled helplessly at friend's mother-hen nature. "Sorry, Dad, I'll be sure to leave a note next time. I was visiting Dawn."

"She's a lovely girl, isn't she?" Clem said, distracted from his original question. "We had some wonderful visits over the summer. She really likes to play Parcheesi."

Spike was forced to cough to cover a laugh. Dawn couldn't stand Parcheesi, but was too soft-hearted to let Clem know it. "We had quite the visit ourselves, and she's given me some stuff - and some ideas. Here, give me a hand with this, would you?" He finished his chips and got back to his feet, dusting his palms on his jeans.

Between the two of them, they sorted Spike's new possessions into order in only a few minutes. "I'm going to need to scrounge up another dresser from the dump," he said, looking at the transformation of his living space. "I don't want to have to explain to Dawn why I had to keep my clean laundry on the floor." And have to face the wrath of Dawn? Don't think so.

The wolves seemed a little farther from the door today than at any time since his unexpected transformation. His small refrigerator now held bread, cheese, apples and a pint of milk. Balanced precariously on top of it were a variety of other foods and near-food items: peanut butter, crackers, chips, a couple cans each of baked beans and beanie-weenies... going to need a can opener... instant hot chocolate mix (the kind with the little marshmallows, he observed, and his heart ached), powdered drink mix, fruit cups, tinned pudding, soup mix... and a kettle, and a cup, and a plate, and some spoons... He wasn't sure that the half package of red Twizzlers qualified as even near-food, but he wasn't about to complain.

"Hey, are those oysters?" Clem asked, seeing a small, rectangular can stacked with the others. "Man, I love smoked oysters, don't you?"

"Help yourself," Spike replied, tossing him the can. "Sorry I can't offer you a fork." Oysters didn't strike him as the sort of thing either Buffy or Dawn would have voluntarily purchased; he concluded that Joyce had bought them for herself, and that they'd probably been sitting on a shelf for well on two years or more. Not the thing to test a relatively new digestive system with.

Clem pulled open the tab on the can eagerly and wasted no time pulling out the fragrant morsels with his fingers as he walked back to his chair. As the odour wafted out, Spike suddenly found himself grateful that he had no more than a human sense of smell anymore. He grabbed up the water container he had borrowed along with the sleeping bag, and headed for the door. "Just going to step out to the nearest water tap and fill up," he said, hefting the container for emphasis. "Be right back." He hoped that the smell of oysters would have dissipated by the time he returned. His last sight as he shut the door behind him was of Clem eagerly slurping the dregs of juice from the can, and he shuddered.

He returned to find that not only had Clem finished the oysters; he'd polished off the bowl of chips as well. Sighing, Spike set the full water container beside the fridge and raided his own stash for more snacks. Girl's got a twisted sense of humour, he thought, tearing open a small bag of garlic flavoured potato chips and joining Clem in front of the television. "Anything good on?"

"Actually, Spike, I wanted to talk to you about what you said when you first came in. I'm worried to hear you so down on yourself," Clem said, looking concerned as he flicked the remote to shut off the TV.

Got to learn to keep my mouth shut. "It's nothing."

"No, really, I think you need to open up about it. Yesterday on Oprah, Dr. Phil was just talking about how psychologically damaging it can be to hold in negative feelings, and-"

"I'm an idiot, Clem," he said, putting down the chips and resigning himself to his fate, "because of what I said to Buffy yesterday. I was so busy trying to get some of my own back that I wasn't really listening to what she said." He ran one hand wearily over his face as he remembered his words to her. "She came to apologize, and all I could do was rabbit on about how badly she'd treated me and how I deserved much better."

"Well, she was pretty hard on you..." Clem began.

"I don't think that's the point. She decided that she needed to apologize, to put the past to rights, and I was too preoccupied to notice." He sighed. "This soul business is harder than I thought."

"Are you going to go see her? To tell her that?"

"No. She doesn't need that; she apologized in order to let it go. The least I can do for her is to honour that and forgive her."

"So now what?" Clem wanted to know.

"So now, I try to work out a way to atone. To her, the others - to the world, I suppose. I've been pissing about feeling sorry for myself for too long. And the first step, my friend, is money - honest money, so I don't have to pinch stuff any more, or beg food from Dawn, because they surely can't afford it."

Clem was instantly enthusiastic. "I know where we can find any number of high-stakes games," he suggested. "And I've got this new system--"

"Won't work," Spike interrupted, shaking his head. "Any one of my former associates happens to catch a glimpse of my shiny new reflection and I'm instantly persona even less grata than I've been recently. And it won't take vamps and other demons more than a few seconds to sniff out the changes in me. I don't need to be fending off attacks from half the demon population of Sunnyhell while I try to work things out. I've only kept out of trouble so far by staying out of sight - and by killing everything that got close enough to find out. Once I've got the dosh, though, everything changes."

He got up and crossed back to the stone tombs. "Fortunately, unlike most of my plans, I have actually given that some thought." It took every almost every ounce of his strength, but he slid the lid of one tomb aside. Reaching in, he pulled out a large, fabric-covered box, which he set on the stone.

Shortly after Dru had first turned him, when he still persisted in human behaviours out of force of habit, he had returned home to his family's estate. He'd wandered the silent halls while his family lay sleeping, and nicked whatever valuables - mainly jewellery - that took his fancy, thinking to pawn them later. Angelus had thrashed him thoroughly for this indiscretion, for taking the chance of calling attention to themselves. Ultimately he had realized how pointless money was to his new existence, but he couldn't bring himself to dispose of the items. He had given many of the pieces to Druscilla and then buried the rest, securely wrapped in oilcloth, under loose stones in the fence that marked the boundary of his family's land. Whether it was luck or fate, there they had remained undisturbed until he had returned home this summer at last, and he'd smuggled them and himself back to Sunnydale.

More than one hundred and twenty years later, they could help finance a new beginning if he could find the right buyer. An idea struck him. But first... Spike opened the water-stained case and caressed the few remaining treasures inside. Behind him, Clem sucked air in appreciation. Most of what was left simply rattled loose in the case, but there were a few smaller jewellery boxes as well. These he opened one at a time, until the contents of one in particular caught his eye. He tucked the small box into one pocket with a smile, and then went looking for a piece of paper and a pen.

Minutes later, he surveyed the resulting note with a critical eye. 'A gift... my word... not stolen...' Well, not recently, anyway. And most of this stuff would have come down to me in the natural order of things. Probably. He straightened and folded the paper into thirds, then in half again, to fit his pocket as well. Shading the truth already, Will? Can't get her to accept it otherwise, can I? Am I going to debate myself this way for the rest of my life? Wonder if Peaches talks to himself this much. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "Gonna be out late, Dad," he said to Clem with a grin as he left. "Don't wait up."

**********

The crypt door flew open with a crash, sending dust billowing and Clem jumping from his chair, looking to see the cause of the commotion. He relaxed into a smile when he identified his visitor. "Xander! Long time no see! Listen, I was really sorry about the way the whole wedding thing--"

Xander had no interest in Clem's small talk. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Where is that blood-sucking son-of-a-bitch? And don't tell me he's gone, because I've seen Buffy and I know he's back."

Clem's face grew stern as he moved to the door. "There's no need for that kind of language. Spike's gone out for the evening and I don't know when he'll be back. You'll have to come back another time." He moved forward, blocking Xander as he tried to come further into the crypt.

"I said, I want to know--" Xander grabbed at Clem's arm in an attempt to push him aside. Under the fabric of his shirt, Clem's loose skin slipped easily over his flesh and Xander couldn't keep his grip. Clem had no such difficulty. He curled one hand into the front of Xander's shirt and lifted him with contemptuous ease until his feet left the floor. Three steps carried them back over the threshold, where Clem set Xander gently back on his feet. Xander tensed, expecting a blow, but Clem just shook his head sadly.

"I'm sorry I had to do that, but Spike is my friend, and I won't tolerate this kind of behaviour in his home. You're welcome to come back as soon as your manners improve. Good night." With that, he shut the door in Xander's astonished face.

------------------

Please note the rating change to R for non-explicit sexual situations.
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Chapter 9
Epiphany

Spike hunched his shoulders and drew the collar of his cloth jacket up around his ears to ward of the chill of the mid October night. Having not been bothered by weather for over a century, even a California autumn seemed extreme. Really, it was nothing when compared to his memories of bone-chilling rainy English winters, where there had been no central heating and only inefficient fireplaces or wood stoves to warm the rooms. It was a time of year to envy the servants who worked in the kitchen near the radiant hobs.

Telling himself he'd felt worse didn't make him any warmer, only induced an unpleasant nostalgia. He certainly didn't miss the perpetual English damp. In the winter the pervasive moisture had often left draperies and bedclothes covered with a fine furring of mould and made warming pans filled with burning coals a necessity rather than a luxury before heading to bed. Giles was mad to go back there. I suppose this makes me officially Californian, to complain about weather as mild as this.

Walking briskly back to Buffy's house warmed him sufficiently to put an end to his complaints for a while. The porch light was on but no others burned; the main floor was dark and secured. As he watched, the light upstairs in Dawn's window was also extinguished.

He made his way onto the porch, looking for the best location to leave his gift and the accompanying note. After much internal debate, he decided to simply leave it propped against the front door. It was a trade off between the having it seen by some passing thief or having Buffy miss it, and he decided he'd rather risk the former than the latter. The note he tucked into the gap between the door and the frame so that it couldn't blow away. Stepping back off the porch, he surveyed the results with some satisfaction.

Despite his earlier complaints about the temperature, Spike wasn't in the mood to head back to the crypt immediately, knowing he'd feel smothered by Clem's concern for him. Away from worrying friends he could let his cheery demeanour slip. Solitude never meant silence any more, not with a thousand voices in his memory crying out. Every scream, every plea for mercy he had ever denied echoed endlessly in his head.

When he'd come back to himself there in the cave, the very first coherent thought in his head was Oh god, please let me die. He'd crawled back out onto the still-warm sand of the desert and lay there, waiting for sunrise to come and put an end to the agony that was so much more than one heart should hold. Words of repentance from the Book of Common Prayer that he thought forgotten along with his childhood tumbled from his lips in desperation as he awaited his judgement.

And then the sun had risen and he had not been destroyed and he knew he had experienced more than one transfiguration. For a while he had considered staying out in the desert and letting a lion devour him, but he realized that he didn't even know whether he was in a part of Africa where lions were found. William's education had been strong on British history and literature, long dead Greeks and Romans and their history and literature, and dead languages - and completely lacking in any information about a world considered inferior by most of his fellow citizens. Spike, of course, just never gave a damn. Deciding that death wasn't on the agenda for the day, a certain native stubbornness and pride had surfaced that had kept him going and had brought him home again. Home to Sunnydale. Dying's easy. Living is hard. I guess I'm supposed to live.

Half an hour of walking in this frame of mind had led him to decidedly the wrong side of Sunnydale's tracks and well out of his usual territory. He hoped to keep out of the way of anyone or anything that had known him before. It's not hiding, it's strategic planning. I need to get in some thinking time before I head back, and it's hard to do that whilst fending off attackers. Bit of a good brood, really, though I'll never match Angel for style. Thank god. If he didn't mock, he'd surely go mad. So he submitted with nettled grace to Clem's presence in his life as a shield against despair. He allowed Dawn's adolescent exuberance for living wash over him in the hope that some of it would remain with him. And he tried - without much success as yet - to discover what the purpose of his new existence was supposed to be.

Shadowed streets inefficiently lit by streetlights led him at last to a strip of sex shops, peep shows and clubs that represented Sunnydale's more squalid underbelly. Drawn unwillingly by the light and noise of the district, he turned down a narrow street lit mainly with the buzzing, flickering neon of shop signs. The harsh light sharply shadowed his lean face and returned him to something approaching his undead pallor under the cold glow.

No high school kids or college students would ever find their way to this lurid lane. This was a refuge for grim-faced blue-collar workers and labourers; long-time Sunnydale residents who knew full well something not quite right dwelled along side them but chose to drown that knowledge in the oblivion of loud music, cheap alcohol and even cheaper lives. Regular human debauchery had been taken and twisted by the proximity of the Hellmouth into something altogether darker and nastier. The occasional shriek of a siren added to the cacophony of voices as revellers - liberally doused with alcoholic antifreeze - braved the chill night air on patios and along the street as they stumbled from one questionable establishment to another. Who needs to see hell, with pandemonium putting on a show here nightly?

Laughter only a little short of a scream echoed down the street, drowning out the voices in Spike's head for a moment. Startled from his introspection, he found his lids prickling with incipient tears, and he dashed at his eyes angrily with the heels of his hands to thwart them. An alleyway offered gloomy sanctuary and he plunged into it gratefully to escape the crowds and regain some composure. I am not going to become some damn wailing Willie.

"Hey baby," came a woman's voice from further down the alley. "You lookin' for some company? You look like you could use some cheering up." Spike strained in the dim light of the alley mouth to make out the owner of the voice. A pale rounded form glided forward out of the shadows. Vampire was his first thought, and he reached with one hand into his jacket for the stakes concealed in the inner pocket there. He extended his other arm to block her approach.

He relaxed only marginally when his extended hand met warm, bare human flesh; there were still any number of threats she could represent. Painted lips curved invitingly as she placed a hand over his own on her arm. "What do you say? You and me could have a real nice time." Her clinging red scoop-neck top, short side-slit leather skirt and spike-heeled boots testified wordlessly to the kind of fun she intended.

"Sorry, not interested," Spike replied, releasing his hold on the stake in order to gently disentangle himself from her grasp.

"What's the matter, hon? You don't like girls?"

Sure I do. One in particular. Can't have her, though, he thought, even as his body protested that it had indeed been much too long. A long time ago in his old life, before Sunnydale - 'B.S.' There's a telling truth - he would have taken her up on her implied offer, then drained her and used the resulting vitality to make love to Dru - probably while standing over the empty corpse. Self-loathing overrode the dregs of lust and he shuddered.

It had been a bad mistake to let his wandering mind and feet lead him here, as though his conscience had judged it a fit place to match his thoughts. It was a dangerous place, where hearts, minds and lives were regularly lost and no one much gave a damn either way. A perfect hunting ground, in other words. And he had marched right into the thick of it. Spike forced himself to gather up his scattered wits and applied a harsh mental slap to his whiny conscience. Now the plan had to be how to get out of this neighbourhood unseen. There were too many creatures holding too many grudges against him to allow himself to remain exposed here. Having decided to live, he was damned if he'd let anyone else end his life before he was ready.

Still intent on plying her tired trade, the hooker worked her way up against him, reaching one hand to his crotch. "How about just a quick hand job, sweet? Only ten bucks," she wheedled, almost disinterestedly.

"I said leave off!" Spike replied roughly, twisting to shove her back against the alley wall. Before she could recover her footing he was away, out of the alley mouth and plunging back into the maelstrom of humanity streaming by.

"You cheap prick!" she yelled in outrage at his retreating back. "You probably can't even get it up!"

Don't have even ten dollars, he retorted silently as he moved off down the street.

A chill paranoia began to come over him; every doorway now held predatory eyes; every window concealed the enemies of a man who had made himself unpopular with humans and demons alike, and who was now uncertain of his ability to even defend himself. I have to get out of here, fear whispered at the back of his brain. I may already have been spotted. His traitorous human heart thundered in his chest and his breath came hissing between tightly clenched teeth. Somewhere deep in his mind, Spike hammered at a locked door, screaming. What the hell is happening to me?

Five minutes later his breathing and heart rate had slowed somewhat, but he remained plastered tightly against the wall of the nearest building. It took all of his strength of will to peel himself away and stumble back in the direction he'd come. As he lurched back past the alley where she'd accosted him, he could see that the hooker hadn't wasted any time regretting his departure. She was entwined with a bear of a man who had his beefy hands twisted in her dark hair and his face pushed closely into her throat.

Spike paused, uncertain, until a nearly subsonic growl lifted the hairs at the nape of his neck. Raw nerve endings screamed 'run', so he did - into the alley. He crashed into the vampire and ripped him away from her, forcing him back against the bricks. Spike held one arm like an iron bar across his throat and looked up - way up - to confront a pair of piss-yellow eyes and a foul-breathed, razor-toothed grin.

"Well isn't this interesting," the vampire snarled, not at all impaired by the arm at his throat. "She your girlfriend or something? I wasn't going to be very long," he leered. Behind them, she clutched at her throat to staunch the flow of blood from her wounds.

Two large hands clawed into Spike's upper arms and pushed him back - then froze. "Spike?" the vamp asked incredulously, his ugly face twisted even more in fear and confusion. "Man, I didn't mean... I didn't know she was yours..."

Spike used the momentary lapse to break free of the hold and reach for a stake, but vampire senses took in the unmistakable scent of human sweat and fear and heard the racing heart and rush of blood in the warm body of prey. "Hey, what the hell?" The grin returned, even more baleful than before. Before Spike could bring the stake to bear, the vamp was on him again, carrying him roughly down to the pavement and knocking the wind out of him. "I don't know what's going on, but this is gonna be sweet!" Fangs drew near to his throat as Spike struggled to go to the limit of his reduced strength and break away. Black spots multiplied and swarmed before his eyes. "Payback is such a bitch," the vamp hissed in his ear.

Spike brought his knee up hard into his opponent's groin. Can't win a fair fight? Don't fight fair. The strength of his blow forced a scream from the vamp's throat and loosened his hold, and Spike took advantage to throw the hefty body off of him and scramble back to his feet. The vamp had clamoured to his knees when he suddenly shrieked like a demented teakettle. The woman stood behind him, her fingers wrapped tightly around the jackknife now buried deeply in the vampire's back.

"Looks as though payback isn't the bitch you should be worried about," Spike managed between gasps for breath. Knowing the knife was only a momentary distraction at best, he reached for a stake. Sooner than he had expected, the vamp leapt back to his feet and forward in a rush, catching him in a bear hug that pinned Spike's arms to his sides. Fangs were once again scraping his skin before he finally managed to free his arm and plunge the stake home.

He choked on a breath of foul ashes and stumbled back heavily against the alley wall, trying to deal with the after-effects of his body's extreme fear reaction. I've got to establish my new limits before I get myself into a situation like this again.

Another effect of a near-death experience on a human male's physiognomy became more readily apparent as his female cohort draped herself against him. Dru had always found the reaction quite amusing in her male victims, he recalled, sometimes prolonging their deaths to see how long it would last. Determined to give him a last chance at immortality, his erection pressed painfully at the buttons of his fly.

Looking up to gauge his response, she ran one hand down his stomach to the top button of his jeans. He bent his head to kiss her, but she drew back sharply. "Sorry sweet, no kissing. Rules of the trade. Still want this?" After a moment he nodded resignedly, and she began to slowly open his buttons. At her first touch he started, cracking the back of his head against the wall. Dazed, he couldn't tell how long it was before he spent himself helplessly at her hands, shuddering.

He came back to himself slowly, shamed at how easily his hunger for touch - any touch - had made him give in, and began to refasten his jeans. Maybe this is all I deserve. "Don't have any money," he admitted.

"That wasn't for money; that was for thanks," she replied casually, wiping both hands with a Wet Nap she had pulled from her purse. "Let's just say I'm very glad you decided to come back when you did. But don't expect a freebie next time." She gingerly swiped at the wound in her neck as well and dropped the bloodied wipe to the pavement. "Alley," she said, holding out one hand.

"Yes, it is," he answered, confused, as he automatically returned her gesture.

She laughed breathlessly. "Funny man. Allie's my name. "

"Ah." Comprehension dawned. "Spike," he said in return.

"Seems appropriate," she said, bending to retrieve her knife. She paused for a moment, then shrugged and wiped it on the inner hem of her short skirt before folding it and returning it to her bag. "What the hell was that, anyway?"

"Vampire," he answered shortly. "You're not from Sunnydale, are you?"

"Moved here from Seattle a couple of weeks ago - mostly for the better weather," she said wryly.

"This isn't a safe part of town, for obvious reasons," he said, stirring the dust and ash in the alleyway with the scuffed toe of one boot. "Not that there really are any."

"This was the only place I could find where I didn't have to work for someone else. Now I know why."

Spike picked up the stake he had dropped and reversed it in his hand to offer it to her, blunt end first. Allie hesitated, then added it to the varied stash in her purse.

"You're taking this pretty calmly," Spike observed, surprised. Most people had yammering fits when first confronted with the concept of vampires.

"What, you think I'm going to deny what I just saw?" she asked.

"A lot of people do. That's the way it tends to work in Sunnydale."

"Well just because I turn tricks for a living doesn't make me stupid." She pulled a pack of cigarettes from somewhere else deep in her voluminous bag and extracted one. For all her bravado, her hands shook as she brought it to her lips. Spike brought his Zippo up and she cupped her hands around his and drew smoke gratefully into her lungs.

He followed suit, and they stood at the edge of the pool of light cast by the streetlamps, smoking silently in tandem for several minutes.

"So Spike," she sighed on a stream of smoke. "You some kind of big-time vampire hunter? Like in the movies?"

He shook his head, but didn't speak. Used to take out wankers like that one half a dozen at a time, just for sport. Now I have trouble defending myself against one. What the hell use can I be to her now?

"So what do you do?" she persisted.

I don't know. I kill vampires and demons, but now I have the same problem the Slayer does - it doesn't keep body and soul together. "I'm... between jobs right now," he said, to put her off.

"I was just coming from an audition for a spot as a stripper, myself," she said. "You know, get to work indoors, staff to keep the worst of the riff-raff off, meet some other girls... maybe even get something for health and dental," she envisaged optimistically, unconsciously worrying one candy-pink nail between her teeth. "It's rough being self-employed."

"Don't suppose I ever thought about it." Never had to.

"Of course, you could end up working for a jerk like the manager I saw tonight. Expected regular horizontal perks just for giving me a chance. Forget that," she snorted indignantly, dropping her cigarette butt to the sidewalk and crushing it with the toe of her boot.

"Well, I think I'm going to call it a night. I've had all the excitement I can take in one day." She hitched her purse up higher on her shoulder. "Thanks again for the help. I'll know what to watch out for next time." She looked up at him, pondering her next words. "I'm sorry I called you a cheap prick. It was a shitty night even before I met you."

"Well, I am cheap," he admitted. "Not a penny to my name at the moment."

"But not a prick, after all. When you finally get yourself a job, Spike, come look me up," she offered. "If I'm not dancing yet, you'll find me out here somewhere."

"Sure," he replied noncommittally. "I'll buy you a drink some time."

"Nah, I don't hang out in bars," she said with a cheery laugh. "Do that, and the fellows think you're there to get picked up and you're actually interested in them. Then they expect it for free, or because they bought you a couple of drinks. Out here, we all know it's just a business transaction, and nobody gets confused."

He watched her as she walked away, moving with an exaggerated hip-rolling stride as if she were certain he would be looking. Pink nails flashed as she gave him a quick wave over one shoulder before disappearing into the crowds. Does everyone know what they're doing with their lives but me? he asked himself with a shake of his head. For now, though, home sounds like enough of a plan.

Two blocks later, Spike was again forcibly reminded of what it meant to be human, especially a human after a large meal, a long walk and some vigorous physical activity. His stomach cramped sharply and he stopped, looking at the businesses around him. An alley wouldn't do for this, oh no. If you made me a man again to teach me humility, he railed at the unseen powers tormenting him, consider the lesson learned. To his right, a crowded bar beckoned. Desperados read the sign in flickering neon, and desperation being his current state it seemed the logical choice. At least the large crowd in the bar would offer some anonymity.

He passed through the doorway, past the doorman's cursory inspection, and entered. It took a few minutes for his vision to adjust to the dimness inside, but when it did, it revealed a cavernous space with heavy exposed wooden beams and dark panelled walls. Almost all the available wall space was covered with photos and memorabilia related to horses and other elements of a western lifestyle: saddles, bridles, chaps, cowboy hats and much more. The floor space was even more crowded, if possible, with people: drinking, eating, dancing cheek-by-jowl on the sunken dance floor, talking - shouting, really - or just leaning at the bar waiting for another drink.

Smoke curdled in the air, which throbbed with the low beat of a song about love and loss and pain - and pickup trucks. Spike winced. He intercepted a young woman wearing a cowboy hat and carrying a drink-laden tray. "'Scuse me, love, which way to the gents?" He couldn't make out a word of her response, but following her pointing finger, he pushed through the crowd and eventually found his way.

He emerged relieved in more ways than one, and began to force his way through the throng back to the front door, though not so vigorously that he risked setting off the chip in his head. The close press of so many bodies made him edgy, his new vulnerabilities at the forefront of his awareness.

"I said, let me go!" The woman's voice was audible even above the din. Dozens of heads swivelled to take in the source of the disturbance. The young man had her wrist in what had to be a painful grip.

"C'mon Suze, you're making a scene. Let's go."

"I told you; I wanted to spend some time with my friends. You and I will go out again on Friday."

"But I want to be with you tonight. Doesn't that mean anything to you?" the man wheedled, pulling her closer. "I love you. Come home with me now."

"If you love me, then you can trust me and give me some time on my own," she protested. The other two women at the table were looking around anxiously seeking support. The faces around them turned away with studied indifference as though this were something they saw every night.

One of the woman's friends caught Spike's eyes in silent entreaty as he went past, but he shook his head. Not my problem; I don't need to get involved here.

The man had both the woman's wrists now and had backed her up against the table. "I know you feel the same way about me Susan - why won't you admit it?"

"Please, Ryan, you're hurting me!"

Conscience roared. Walk away and you might as well be doing to Buffy all over again, it insisted. Spike clenched his fists until he felt the sting of bloody crescents in his palms. He could show aggression and the chip would sear his brain, or he could let the lunk batter him senseless. Either way, it would be a chance to trade mental pain for physical to expiate his offence. Spike moved forward and laid his hand on the man's arm. "When a lady says no, mate, she means no. Sooner you learn that, the better."

Ryan looked down at him incredulously. "This is none of your business. Why don't you just get lost?"

"I'm making it my business," said Spike, in the tone he would use in explaining matters to a simpleton. "I take exception to your tone, and I don't believe I care much for your face, either." You remind me of soldierboy; even your name sounds the same. Just one punch; it'll be worth it. He slid his hand to encircle Ryan's wrist, tightening his grip just enough to warn but not enough to hurt.

Enraged, Ryan released his hold on his girlfriend and spun, swinging his free arm around in front of him with a fist aimed at Spike's face - which suddenly wasn't there. Spike caught Ryan's fist and pulled, using the momentum of his spin to turn him right around and pull his arm up sharply behind him. Only get the one chance. His other hand came down hard on the back of the man's neck and slammed him brutally into the table, scattering glassware and spilling the drinks there. Spike gritted his teeth, waiting, and felt... nothing. He almost lost his grip in surprise.

A flash of memory surfaced: Scarabs tickling their way up his body, their legs a thousand pricking pains as they clamoured over his skin and then inside him, crawling into his mouth and nose, invading his whole body, crawling even behind his eyes and into his brain... He shivered involuntarily, but the memory of revulsion soon gave way to a fierce glee. Either the chip had been destroyed in the pain of his trials, or it had never been designed to work on living human tissues. Howdidn't matter. He was free.

His conscience, however, applied as tight a leash as the chip might have. Starting a bar brawl, however enjoyable, would hardly be an example to Buffy of how he had changed. She'll never find out, part of him insisted. But I'd know, replied another he immediately dubbed Wanker Willie. Spike wrestled William for control and won, for the moment.

Ryan struggled as his hold loosened momentarily, and Spike tugged his arm a little more tightly up behind his back, holding him firmly to the table. "I suggest you behave, or I'll pull your arm from your socket. Got that?" Ryan whimpered assent, blood from his damaged nose already staining the table. It would take a lot more force than this, but if you think I can...

Spike took him by the collar and pulled him upright while maintaining his hold on Ryan's arm. He steered him into the arms of two bouncers who had appeared out of nowhere. Oh sure, now you show up. Where the hell were you when the fun was just starting? They escorted Ryan to the door and none too gently pushed him out into the night.

Spike fully expected to be next, but the hammering of fists against his back took him by surprise. He spun, astonished, to find Susan battering at him and crying. "You could have hurt him, you bastard!" she shouted, before pushing past him to go and comfort her would-be attacker.

I don't understand women. I will never understand women. His internal monologue was cut short by the approach of a heavyset man with all the mannerisms of officialdom. Spike braced himself for a straight-armed march to the door, resolving for the moment to not cause trouble and attract any more attention to himself. So it was yet another shock in a night filled with them when the man offered his hand instead.

"You handled that pretty neatly," he observed. "Looking for work? I can always use another fellow to take care of things. My name's Jake, and Desperados is my place."

The retort 'you couldn't possibly pay me enough' died unspoken on his lips. Fact was, almost anything would be enough, living rent-free in a crypt as he did - and he wasn't likely to get any better offers with a resume that listed 'former occupation: vampire'. I need the money. Buffy needs money. I could help. "Cash. Paid daily," Spike offered. The part of him that still longed to think of itself as big bad howled in protest at the prospect of working here; he stifled it impatiently.

The man fixed him with a knowing stare. "Green card troubles, huh?"

"You might say that," Spike replied evenly. It was true as far as it went. He certainly hadn't been concerned about the niceties of immigration when he had come to this country.

The proposal didn't seem to bother Jake. "Wednesday through Saturday, then, six 'til two. Fifty bucks a night, cash."

He knew that as an illegal employee he wouldn't have much room to push, but he wasn't about to roll over without a fight, either. "I expect Friday and Saturday are a mite rough here. One hundred each for those two nights." It would still be a bargain for the bar, not having to worry about paperwork or the niceties of social security payments and the like.

"Seventy-five," was the counter-offer.

"Throw in dinner every night and it's a deal."

"No drinks."

As he hadn't really expected the dinner offer to fly, the limitation was hardly a hardship. "Only soda. Deal?"

"Deal, then. See me tomorrow at five and I'll get you set up." The two men shook hands, and Jake disappeared back into the crowds.

Spike was almost certain he'd been taken; that had been much too easy. He probably could have worked Jake up to nearly twice that amount without much protest. Still, he was determined not to complain. He had a position that would bring in more than enough money to cover his meagre expenses and let him give some to Buffy, the prospect of regular meals, and even the chance of a little sanctioned mayhem. As he built up his strength again, he could begin some regular patrols of the neighbourhood after work. Warmth spread through him, and for just a moment the clamour of voices in his memory seemed to grow a little less piercing.

He was brought suddenly back down to earth by the shrill whine of a steel guitar as the DJ fired up another song. Angel thinks he suffers? He's got no frigging idea. Spike laughed, and stepped out into the night.

-------------------
Yes, before you ask, I'm aware of the whole 'hooker with a heart of gold' or 'Pretty Woman' stereotype, and I'm doing my best not to go that way. But Allie just walked in and took over the first half of this chapter; I was as surprised as you probably were. She's obviously got something to say, if only I can find out what it is.

Part 10:

Making Contact

Funny how work at the DoubleMeat Palace could wear her down in ways that slaying never had. Buffy pressed both hands to the small of her back and leaned back into them until she heard vertebrae pop, one after another. Straightening, she surveyed the still graveyard again. Might as well call it a night. For whatever reason, there didn't seem to be any supernatural activity tonight, unless you counted the squirrel-sized demon she had dispatched by kicking it into a headstone - hardly her finest moment. You'd think it was Halloween already. Or... maybe they can all smell me coming. Eau de DoubleMeat. She hefted her backpack into a more comfortable position on her shoulder and turned for home.

As a matter of good Slayerly habit she surveyed her surroundings constantly on her journey home, watching for trouble, so naturally she noticed the scrap of paper wedged into her own front door the instant she turned up the walkway. She approached carefully; there was no way for her to distinguish between a local teen's prank and a bit of malicious magic.

She stopped just short of the porch steps and hunkered down, squinting to examine the paper more carefully in the weak light of the bulb beside the door. Buffy was written on the front of it in a careful, rounded, old-fashioned script so unlike her own careless scrawl. I know that handwriting. Sighing, she stepped up to the front door and tugged the paper free, noticing for the first time a small box on the doorsill. Buffy unfolded the note and began reading.

Buffy, I'm sorry for being such an idiot when you came to see me the other day. I had no right to say the things I did, and I regret yet again if I caused you any pain. You deserve much better. I do accept your apology; it was graciously given - and it's more than I'm worthy of when one considers the things I've done to you and yours. I have no words deep enough to express my sorrows on that score.

Buffy turned her attention from the note to the small grey velvet box. On opening it she discovered a delicate pair of earrings with hooks made from gold wire, and small emerald-cut amethysts surrounded by many tiny, clear stones that spit back coloured fire in the light of the streetlamps. They can't be... She returned to the note.

Yours, William

Buffy sighed and closed the box again. No, not mine. I don't want a William. I don't need a William in my life right now. I'm big with the 'strong independent working woman' life. Okay, so the strength is mostly physical, and the work is menial - I think I'm finally getting the hang of things.

She let herself in the front door, locking it behind her and extinguishing the porch light. Dropping her backpack by the door and hanging her coat on the peg there, she moved assuredly through the dark house and into the kitchen. Only then did she turn on a light.

To her pleasant surprise, she found that Dawn had actually done a decent job of cleaning up the kitchen this time. She had always found her sister to be more interested in the weird creation aspect of cooking, and much less so in the inevitable clean up required when her creations went awry.

Buffy opened the fridge and found the plastic-wrapped plate that Dawn had left for her. Lifting the edge of the plastic wrap, she took a tentative sniff. There didn't seem to be any ingredients more exotic than curry powder this time, so she set the plate into the microwave to reheat. While she was waiting, she took the day's dishes from the rack beside the sink and replaced them in the cupboards where they belonged. I wonder if we'll ever have enough money to get that dishwasher fixed. When the microwave beeped, she retrieved her plate, poured herself a glass of milk and settled in at the kitchen island.

**********

Buffy sat bolt upright in bed, awake, with only hazy memories of her dream. Tara's final words echoed in her mind. "Love... give... forgive. Risk the pain. It is your nature"

She tilted her alarm clock to catch the light from the streetlights outside. Three thirty. Sighing, she collapsed back and tried to settle her mind to sleep again. That's what I get for eating dinner just before going to bed.

**********

"I-" Why had he done it? It was dodgy and stupid and... it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

The gloom was impenetrable to his sight; he might as well have kept his eyes closed. Clem's soft, burbling snores were the only sound Spike could detect in the darkened crypt. Well that was helpful. He turned onto his side and drew the sleeping bag more closely about his shoulders. It's no wonder Dru always sounded mad when she talked about her dreams. He was asleep again in minutes, the dream visions fading from his consciousness.

**********

The demon had a drill mounted at the end of one long arm, and it was burring into her brain...

Her sleep-fogged mind finally identified the irritating sound as the telephone. She snatched up the receiver from the cradle before it could torment her further and mumbled into it. "H'llo?"

"Buffy... Did I wake you?" The voice on the line was warm, cultured - and instantly recognizable.

"No Giles, I'm always up at the mind-numbing hour of" - Buffy looked at the clock- "seven a.m.," she concluded, groggily running one hand over her face. Anything was preferable to more nightmares, even early morning calls from ex-Watchers overseas.

He was instantly apologetic. "Oh. I'm sorry, I thought I had calculated the time difference more carefully than that. Shall I call back later?"

"Never mind," Buffy replied, sitting up and pushing her blankets aside. "I'll have to get Dawn up in half an hour for school anyway. What's up?"

"I wanted to let you know that Willow and I will be returning to Sunnydale a week from this coming Friday."

"Giles, that's great!" She paused. For such good news, he certainly hadn't sounded thrilled. "It is great, isn't it?"

"Yes... yes of course."

Buffy could almost hear him taking off his glasses and looking pained in that uniquely British way. She jumped at the first explanation that came to mind. "Has something bad happened to Willow?"

"No, no," he reassured her. "Physically she's fine. The dark magic has been completely removed from her system. Emotionally... this has been a very trying time for her. Perhaps I was hasty to presuppose that the coven in Devon would be able to help her deal with all of her problems."

She refused to be reassured. "What do you mean?"

"She's finding it difficult to deal with her grief over Tara and her remorse for her actions last spring," he explained. "I believe it would in her best interests now to return to a familiar setting and friends as soon as possible."

"You know you'd both be welcome to stay with us, but we only have the one extra room and that's where..." Just remembering brought tears to her eyes. She'd been fighting for her own life that day until Willow had healed her and so had been spared the sight of Tara's lifeless body lying all day alone in the master bedroom, but Dawn had described everything in such terrible detail she felt as though she had been there.

"A temporary rental on an apartment near to the university campus might be the best solution all around," he said. "I realize that classes have already begun, but she might find some relief in the familiar environment." Giles paused for a moment in thought. "I know that you have a great deal on your plate right now, Buffy, but do you think it would be possible for you to look into something for us?"

"Unless someone's planning an apocalypse they haven't told me about, I should be able to manage," she said, determined to make Willow's return home a cheerful event.

"That brings me to my second reason for calling. Is there something more that's happened there that I should know about?"

Buffy racked her brain. "No, everything's been pretty normal lately - quieter than usual, even. Why?"

"Well, it's just that the Council has informed me that Spike was seen abroad - here in London, actually. I was concerned that something big might be brewing."

She laughed, relieved that she would be able to deal with his concerns for a change. "Giles, you'll really have to get back on the Council's good side - that news must be at least a month old. Spike's back in town."

"Ah. I see." Irritation clearly communicated itself over the intervening miles. "I shall have to have a word or two with them. Has Spike been up to his old tricks, then?"

Let's see: following me around for days on patrol, starting arguments with me, sneaking around to the house leaving unsubtle presents... "Yeah, but nothing really out of the ordinary. Between the working, the slaying and the substitute mom stuff, I'm pretty busy; I haven't seen him that often."

"So you've not... carried on with your relationship?" Giles asked hesitantly.

"No Giles," Buffy sighed. "I have not gone back to sleeping with Spike, thanks for asking." And he never tried even once to convince me to.

"I'm sure that's for the best, then," he said reassuringly. "I had best ring off. See you soon."

"Giles wait," she said, just as he was about to hang up. "Maybe there is something. The last time I did see Spike, he looked... sick, maybe. Is that possible?"

"Sick? In what way? I don't know of any medical condition that could possibly affect a vampire, short of not feeding regularly. Perhaps there's some supernatural affliction..." His voice trailed off as though he were already deeply into some ponderous tome.

"Oh, and he made some cryptic remark, too." She struggled to remember; the words hadn't made sense. "Something about a gay guy with a skin condition?"

"What? Are you sure?"

"Well something like that." Think, think, think! "Scratchy, or... oh wait! It was 'itchy homo'. Ring any bells?"

" 'Itchy homo'," Giles repeated carefully, confused. "Buffy... do you mean ecce homo?"

"Isn't that what I said?" she asked, not hearing any difference in the two phrases.

"Not quite, no. Ecce homo is a Latin phrase that means 'behold the man'. I wonder what he meant by that?"

"Beats me. I was already looking at him when he said it. Maybe he's just switched tactics and is trying to impress me with the size of his brain rather than his..." Buffy felt sure that Giles could see her blush clear down the line. "Back up and forget that last sentence, okay?"

"Already gratefully forgotten," he assured her. "I'll look into the possibility of vampire sicknesses, and let you know what I've found when we arrive."

They made their farewells, finally, and Buffy got ready to meet another day head on.

**********

Buffy was well into her second cup of instant coffee by the time her sister came into the kitchen.

"Was that the phone I heard this morning?" Dawn asked sleepily as she reached into the cupboard for a box of cereal.

"Giles," Buffy confirmed. "He and Willow will be coming back next week on Friday."

"Cool. Wonder if he'll be bringing me anything?" Before Buffy could get herself worked up over the total inappropriateness of this question, Dawn relented. "Relax, Buff - I'm only joking. Still, I wouldn't say no to some postcards." She loaded a bowl with sugar-frosted chocolate goodness and added just enough milk to float the cereal precariously near the lip of the bowl when she picked it up and headed for the living room. Grabbing the remote, she settled with her feet under her at one corner of the couch and began power-surfing the channels.

After a moment's delay, Buffy headed after her. "Hey! What did I say about eating in the living room? You think I have nothing better to do than vacuum cereal crumbs out of the couch?" she said in her best imitation of an overworked parental-authority-substitute voice.

Clearly she had some work to do on her impression; Dawn ignored her in favour of studying the strobing light coming from the TV screen. If there's ever a job that involves making decisions on the basis of subliminal images and three-second sound bites, Dawn's a shoo-in.

"...medical/dental receptionist, computer repair, teacher assistant...

"Wait! Turn back to that last channel!" Buffy protested.

Dawn rolled her eyes and complied, setting down the remote in favour of her spoon.

"Yeah. Gangs with fangs," mocked Dawn. "I can't believe anyone could be so clueless."

"Shh!" Buffy scolded, listening intently as the 'Good Morning Sunnydale' news anchor continued.

"Sunnydale residents seventeen and older and in good health are being asked to donate blood to help ease the current crisis. It is estimated that local hospitals now have less than a two-day supply of blood and blood products. All but emergency surgeries have been cancelled, and, where possible, patients are being sent home. In related news, an artificial blood substitute, long thought to be the subject of science fiction, may finally..."

"Okay, you can turn it off now," Buffy said, lost in thought.

"It's not exactly apocalypse number seven come calling, is it?" Dawn observed, resuming her endless survey of channels - though now mercifully muted.

"Nooo... Still, it's probably something we should look into," her sister replied. "I wish Willow were back already; she'd have pulled up all the records of similar incidents across the state and have a theory ready to go in about five minutes."

"I can use the computers at school-" Dawn offered, before Buffy cut her off.

"No! I mean... I don't want you doing anything Slayer-related at school; we don't need to see round two of that trouble." She weighed the pros and cons of getting Dawn involved carefully; her sister had responded well to new responsibilities over the summer, but she didn't want her getting mixed up into more than she could handle. But without Willow, and with Xander currently obsessing over Anya and Spike... "But if you were to stop at the public library, say, on your way home..."

"You bet. Instant anonymous computer research. Leave it to me." She dropped her spoon with a clatter into her empty bowl and stood. "Do we go donate blood?"

"Hmm? No... probably not a good idea. I don't think there's anything that medical tests would pick up, but you and I aren't exactly of the ordinary, you know." Thinking of the special properties associated with Slayer blood perhaps inevitably brought her thoughts around to a certain vampire who had always extolled certain of its virtues. Not that I ever let him test those theories on me. "I should probably go and grill Spike about the theft, too."

Dawn frowned. "I don't think that Spike had anything to do with it."

"Name me another vampire who has to have pre-bagged blood, and maybe I'll believe it."

"Angel," the younger girl retorted immediately.

Buffy sighed. "Dawn, I know that you consider Spike to be your friend, and I know he's done a lot for us, but he can't just change what he is. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't follow up on this."

"But he-" already has changed, and I promised him I wouldn't tell you. Damn. Oh well. You'll find out soon enough. I just wish I could get to see your face when you do. "Guess so," she admitted.

"Thanks for the overwhelming support," Buffy teased gently. "Shouldn't you be getting dressed about now?"

Vampires, blood thefts and the prospect of being chief Scooby researcher vanished under the much more compelling issues of the latest in school fashion. "Hey, did you wash my blue skirt yet?"