The house on Revello Drive was ablaze with lights. Of course the Scoobies would be looking for Dawn. Or they’d bloody well better be, at any rate, Spike thought darkly, wondering a bit at the fact that none of them had shown up at his crypt in search of her. Would’a been the logical place to start, considerin’ the circumstances, right?

Only Tara was inside. When they came in the front door, she closed her eyes in relief at the sight of them, smiled tremulously, and punched in a series of numbers on the phone she was holding cradled in her hand.

“Dawn and Spike just walked in. The bot is with them,” she reported briefly and hung up.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked tenderly, as she moved toward them, her hands reaching for Dawn’s.

Spike’s opinion of the quiet girl went up a notch at the caring he detected in her voice. Willow’s bird stuck pretty much to herself. She hadn’t ever been very chatty, and Spike didn’t really know much about her. Bleedin’ rotten family, he remembered, but that was about it.

Dawn was, of course, still angry and upset, but she didn’t seem willing to take her feelings out on Tara, at least not too strenuously.

“I’m fine,” she said firmly. “I went to Spike’s. Because I care about him and I wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“I know you care about him, Dawn,” Tara included Spike in the small smile she gave. “There’s nothing wrong with that. But you shouldn’t have run off. You know how dangerous Sunnydale can be, especially after dark, and we were worried about you.”

“I’m safe with Spike.”

“Of course you are, sweetie,” Tara acknowledged without hesitation. “He loves you.”

Spike and Dawn both looked surprised, but Tara didn’t say any more. She had been in terrible shape at the hospital in those awful first hours after Buffy’s death. Despite having her mind restored, she had still been in an extremely fragile state. Of course, she hadn’t been the only one. Traumatized by the night’s events, they had all clung to each other in their grief and need, afraid, perhaps, to separate. The group, except for Xander, who was in another part of the hospital with Anya, had hovered about Dawn, as close as the doctors would allow. And, recognizing their trauma, the doctors had been pretty lenient with the standard rules.

Tara had sat quietly in a small chair next to Willow, clinging to her lover’s hand. And through the hours they’d spent there, she had been mesmerized by the small pool of blood gathering slowly around Spike’s feet as he held Dawn’s hands, comforting and soothing her through the worst of the visit. He hadn’t said a word about himself, hadn’t given any indication that he was injured. Instead, he had been a rock of support for Dawn, while blood dripped, dripped, dripped from somewhere on his body and collected around his boots, seemingly unnoticed by anyone but her. Tara knew she would never forget that. It had been one of those rare moments in life that can alter ones’ perceptions and perspectives forever.

Willow arrived back at the Summers residence first. She’d been assigned to search the route between the Magic Box and Janice’s house, leaving her relatively close to Revello Drive. She looked from Dawn’s glowering face to the inscrutable expression Spike had worn for several weeks now, and sighed, looking frazzled, and a bit fed up.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Dawnie,” she said. “And Spike, I’m sorry. No matter what this whole thing with the bot looked like, Giles and I weren’t trying to -” Willow broke off when Dawn’s eyes widened in outrage, and she sighed, dropping the topic for the time being. She had so much to do. Important things. Why didn’t people understand that? She really didn’t have time to be running around looking for Dawn. Couldn’t the girl just start growing up? She went to attend to the bot, who was standing silently to one side, observing the scene with a pleasantly attentive expression.

Dawn was tightly wrapped up in righteous indignation and refusing to speak, an attitude that she held to tightly as the remainder of the usual suspects - Giles, Xander and Anya - arrived.

The last two, who hadn’t been at the Magic Box during the ‘incident with the bot’, as it would come to be referred to, had been delegated to search the most direct route from the magic shop to Spike’s crypt, and because they had gotten a later start than the others, Spike supposed that explained their failure to show up before he and Dawn had left the crypt.

Xander looked frantic when he came in the door, his eyes racing around the room until they located Dawn and ascertained that she was uninjured. His sign of relief was clearly audible.

“Your place - it’s trashed, man,” Xander told Spike. “Have you seen it?”

“Yeah, we’ve seen it.” It was Dawn who replied. “And we’re both fine,” she went on, answering the unasked question. Then Dawn straightened her shoulders and addressed the group calmly. “I think what you did tonight, testing out the bot on Spike, was one of the meanest things I’ve ever seen. I just can’t believe you would do that to him, after he’s...” Dawn’s voice cracked and Spike and Tara both moved toward her instinctively, but she held them off with a teary eyed look of determination.

“I told you, Dawn,” Willow interrupted. “It had no idea Spike was upstairs. I just sent -”

“Don’t lie to me!” Dawn said shrilly, and at her tone, Willow dropped her protest. “I’m so sick of people lying to me!” She tried to force herself to breathe normally. “I don’t want to talk about this any more tonight. It’s late, I’m pissed at half of you, and I just - I just can’t. And just so you all know, Spike is staying here tonight. Like Xander said, his place is trashed and I told him he should stay here.” Dawn’s eyes pleaded with Spike not to reveal her lie. They hadn’t discussed anything of the sort. “I told him he can stay on the sofa, or in the basement, or in Buffy’s room. Wherever he wants.” She looked around the room, her steely expression touching on each of the occupants in turn. “For as long as he wants. Because he’s my best friend, and it’s my bloody house. Period.”

Dawn’s stately exit was ruined slightly when she stumbled near the top of the stairs, and they all heard the quiet sob escape her.

Tara moved to follow her. “I’ll make sure she’s alright,” she told the others, and Willow smiled her approval, letting her hand slide down Tara’s arm.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

As soon as Tara left the room, all eyes turned to Spike.

Spike shifted restlessly. His earlier tension had been building up in him again almost since they’d come in the door. The bot had been smiling and staring at him without respite since they’d left his crypt. Every time he caught a glimpse of her, he wanted to scream out his pain. The rage and agony he’d vented so violently at his crypt was starting to press down on him, hard, and he knew he’d better get out of the house - get away from all of them before he exploded.

He couldn’t explode in front of them. Couldn’t. They’d never let him near Dawn again.

Giles was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. “Dawn’s right. It is late, and we’re all tired. I suggest we leave any further discussion until tomorrow. Tonight’s events have been - most unfortunate - I must say.” Giles ran his hand through his hair, unsure how to proceed. “If you’re planning on working out tomorrow at the Magic Box, Spike, perhaps you could give me a few moments. I’d like to speak to you.”

Spike stared at the Watcher intently, trying to contain himself. When he spoke, he kept his eyes trained on Giles, even though his words were addressed more specifically to Willow. His left hand was clenching rhythmically.

Clench.

Flex.

Clench.

Flex.

“If you’re gonna be usin’ the bot for patrolling, I want its’ programming changed.” His eyes slid away from Giles, from all of them, focusing on some undetermined spot on the wall behind Giles. “I don’t want it to - know me.”

His jaw was moving now too, clenching and unclenching in time with his fist, as he continued to struggle for control. Xander, however, seemed oblivious to his tension.

“Whoa, who’s changing his tune?” Xander asked gleefully. His tone shifted, becoming snidely sarcastic, an inflection he had long ago perfected. “You sure wanted it to know you before - really, really well.”

“Grrraah,” Spike roared. There was really no other word for it. He roared. And his fist came smashing down onto a small bureau against the wall that was the usual resting place for car keys and the day’s mail. It shattered, splintering into irreparable pieces on the floor.

Shock froze all of them in place and kept them silent. They all stared.

Spike’s breath was heaving in and out of his open mouth, and his fists were tightly clenched at his sides. He was desperately trying to keep himself from exploding further. But none of them were watching his hands. Their eyes were riveted to his. They were burningly blue, and just for the briefest of moments, before Spike wiped his face free of expression, they all saw the same thing.

A creature in utter torment.

He turned away from them then, suddenly. Instead of leaving the house, as most of them expected, though, he went up the stairs. In the complete silence that was blanketing the room, they all heard Dawn’s voice greeting him. He’d gone to check on her.

“Xander, do please attempt to learn some tact,” Giles said finally, his voice weary.

Xander was about to say something, when he was stopped by Anya’s hand on his arm.

“He talked,” she informed them all, and Xander registered the information with surprise.

Spike’s request to change the bot’s programming was the first time any of them, with the exception of Giles, had heard him speak since he’d left the hospital the day after Buffy’s death.

~*~

“People are always lying to me,” Dawn told Tara quietly. A lot, but not all, of her anger had drained away, and she just was feeling kind of hurt by the whole incident, and not only for Spike. He was her friend. They should respect that. She had a right to pick her own friends, didn’t she?

“I know it can seem like that, sweetie,” Tara sympathized. “So much was happening this last year, and I guess people wanted to protect you.”

“I’m not a kid!”

“But you’re not completely grown up yet, either, are you?”

Dawn looked at her, a little resentful that Tara could always sound so reasonable. The teenager ducked her head, and began picking at her bedspread. “Not completely, I guess,” she conceded.

“And I don’t think Willow was lying to you tonight. I think it really was an accident.”

Dawn’s lips tightened. “It was mean. Really mean.”

“B-but not if it wasn’t deliberate. Then it was just sort of sad. That it happened that way, and that Spike was hurt.” Tara touched the back of the younger girl’s hand. Dawn’s bedroom was softly lit by the small lamp on the bedside table, and Tara was sitting on the edge of the mattress near her side. “It’s important to try not to hurt other people, b-but sometimes it just happens. Kind of like a car accident. It’s not always someone’s fault.”

“Yeah, and sometimes it’s pretty on purpose.” Dawn said with some bitterness.

“Yes,” Tara had to agree. “Willow told me that it was just an accident tonight, though,” Tara told her again. “And I believe her, b-because I trust her. Look at me, Dawn,” she urged, and Dawn looked up. “It’s so important to be able to trust the people you love and who love you. You and Willow have been friends for a long time, and you’ve always gotten along pretty well, right?”

“Yeah,” Dawn had to admit. Willow had treated her less like a kid that most of the others.

“Hasn’t she earned the right to be believed, then?”

Dawn’s face looked a little mutinous.

“Kind of like Spike is earning my trust,” Tara added quietly. “When he had the bot built, I didn’t trust him at all. In fact when we thought the bot was Buffy and that she and Spike were, er…” Tara trailed off in embarrassment. She hadn’t meant to bring that up.

“When you thought Buffy was boinking Spike,” Dawn filled in the blank for her.

“Um, yeah,” Tara admitted. “Then. I didn’t trust him, then, or like him at all. But since then, after he let Glory beat him up to protect you… After Buffy died, and this summer… Sometimes it’s a gradual thing, learning to trust someone. That’s one of the reasons it’s important not to break someone’s trust. Because it’s hard to earn, and can be even harder to re-earn if it’s lost.”

Tara squeezed Dawn’s hand and released it.

“And one of the best things about trust is being able to believe someone when they tell you something, even if the evidence seemed to be stacked against them. So I hope you’ll see that you can trust Willow.”

“I’ll think about it,” Dawn conceded. She supposed it could have happened the way Willow said.

Tara rose, and snapped off the bedside lamp. “You need to get some sleep.”

“Tara?”

Halfway to the door, Tara turned back.

“Yeah?”

“Good mom-type talk,” she smiled.

Tara looked pleased and she even preened a little.

“Thanks!” Her soft, comforting tone had changed into amusement.

Dawn hesitated. “Does it ever make you sad?” she asked.

Tara was confused. “What?”

“That you’ll never be a mom?” She asked bluntly. Then she seemed to retreat a little, thinking it might be an inappropriate question. “Um, ‘cause you know, gay and everything...”

“I can still have a baby, Dawn,” Tara said. The subject didn’t make her uncomfortable in the least. She thought about it a lot. She wanted children very much. Not yet, but not too far down the road, either.

“Huh?” Dawn was completely confused. “How?”

Tara laughed. “There are ways, sweetie.”

“Spike!”

Tara blinked. “Huh?” Where had that come from? Spike?

“Came to check up on you,” the vampire said from the doorway.

Oh! Tara could feel herself flushing wildly, and she was glad the room was dark. She moved quickly toward him, hoping to find a way to get around him with having to touch him at all. He stepped further into the room, opening up a path for her.

“Night, Tara!” Dawn said. “And thanks.”

“Um, n-night Dawnie,” Tara muttered, and fled.

~*~

No one had taken the time yet to clean out Buffy’s room. Perhaps they just didn’t have the heart. Snapshots of her with Willow, or Xander, or of the three friends together, adorned her bulletin board. A few older pictures included the wolf boy and the bitchy bint who was working in L.A. with Angelus now. There was another picture of Buffy in a cheerleading uniform with the rest of the squad, their names squiggled onto the photo with a gold pen; Brynn, Miranda, Chelle, Steph, Ariane, Kimberly. She looked so young… The uniforms weren’t from Sunnydale High, he noted. Must be from before she moved here. There were posters, one of which was of some ridiculous boy band, another of Brad Pitt, decorating the walls. Brad Pitt? And her clothes still hung in the closet. He swallowed. Her scent was heavy in the air.

Spike wasn’t sure why he’d come in here. He’d been frankly horrified when Dawn had suggested he stay in Buffy’s room. If he had to stay in this house at all, the basement was much more appealing. That’s where he’d headed after taking advantage of the miracle of modern plumbing by standing under the pounding spray of the showerhead for a good, long time. He really hadn’t wanted to stay here at all. He was still tense and out of sorts, and since his Slayer’s death he’d been unable to relax in this house. Besides, it was night, and he usually got in a few hours of hunting before taking up sentry duty on the roof outside Dawn’s bedroom window. He chaffed somewhat at not taking full advantage of the power still surging through his veins from the last bag of his Slayer’s blood. But Dawn gotten kind of teary eyed and all needy-like when he’d stopped up to see her, and he’d let her persuade him to stay. It had been almost like it was a matter of pride for her or somethin’; that he actually stay after she’d announced to the Scoobies that she’d told him he could.

Spike had never had much trouble understanding pride.

He’d settled in quite nicely in the basement, hauling out some long unused camping gear. He arranged it to his satisfaction as he tried without success to picture any of the Summers women in any sort of camping scenario. They’d probably have been willin’ to spend the night in their car in the mall parking lot if it meant getting the drop on the other shoppers during a shoe sale, he thought, but other than that...

He frowned. Nope. Couldn’t even visualize Joyce crawling out of a tent in the morning, much less the girls.

‘Course, once he was laid out, sleep was its usual elusive self. And he blamed the setting and his Slayer’s full strength blood for making him even more restless than was usual for him these days. After thirty minutes, he was up again, keyed up, needing to move.

He’d felt drawn here, to Buffy’s room, pulled by some force. Actually, he’d felt as though Buffy was calling to him, but that just sounded crazy so he tried to ignore the certainty of the feeling and pretend it wasn’t true. All the waking visions he seemed to be having of his Slayer were giving him enough doubts about his sanity. At least he couldn’t hear her voice in the waking visions - well, not anything he could make out, anyway, and he didn’t need to start. He ignored the fact that he was always desperate to understand what she was saying to him, and never could. He was learning to ignore a lot of things. Gettin’ pretty good at it, too, he thought.

Whatever the reason, he was here, in her room. He’d been to the house almost every evening for the last couple of months. Walkin’ Dawn home, spendin’ time with her. But he’d never come near Buffy’s room. Never wanted to.

Until tonight.

Maybe he was just a glutton for punishment.

Spike wandered around the room slowly. He picked up an item here or there, touched it, looked it over, and then carefully replaced it in its original position. Didn’t want to disturb anything too much. Might upset someone.

He touched the chain of one of Buffy’s fairly large collection of crosses and crucifixes, his brow furrowing slightly as a memory tugged at him. His hand unconsciously moved to the spot on his chest, directly over his unbeating heart, that now carried a cross shaped scar. He had no idea when or how he’d gotten it, but there was something...

After a moment, Spike shrugged, and his thoughts moved on. His mind refused to put the pieces of those lost weeks together, and the memory slipped away, remaining elusive, as it always would.

He stepped toward the bed, and glanced at the hardcover copy of ‘The Mists of Avalon’ sitting on the nightstand, before picking up the framed photo propped up next to it.

~*~

She’d worked on the bot for quite awhile, and was anxious now to get to bed. Altering so much of the robot’s basic Spike-centric programming was going to be a challenge, but Willow knew she was more than capable of getting the job done. They were going to need the bot for patrolling purposes, and she would strongly prefer that the bot take orders from her rather than making googily eyes at a vampire. Besides, working on the bot would give her a break from being a total archives grrl with all the research she’d been doing lately.

She smiled to herself. She’d found the last pieces just this afternoon. It was gonna happen. She was wildly excited and almost sick with nerves at the same time. It was so scary, so incredible... She still had to talk the others into it, but she was sure she could persuade them. Tara would probably be the most difficult to bring around to her way of thinking. Tara so often insisted that the natural order of things shouldn’t be unnecessarily disturbed. But Willow was sure that eventually, even her lover would cooperate. It would take some time to work out all the details, but before too much longer...

It was very late, and the house had been silent for hours. When she heard a sound - a small thud, like something being knocked over - from Buffy’s old room, Willow was startled, and her thoughts flew first to Dawn. The young girl had been so upset, so angry… Willow forced down her annoyance. Even if she did think Dawn needed to do some serious growing up, and that she was spending way too much time with Spike, and with Tara too, for that matter, she still loved the girl. She wanted Dawn to be able to come to her, Willow, with her pain and problems, as she should be doing. Perhaps she should poke her head in and make sure she was okay. Willow moved quietly to the not quite closed door to the room and pushed it open.

The familiarity of the bedroom assailed her, and Willow felt the pain of memory clutch at her. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to slam the door, forcing the memories away. The rare, but oh-so-normal, nights of giggling together, talking about boys, back when she’d still been interested in boys, about school, about life...

Perhaps because her own emotions were hitting her with such force, she almost missed Spike. The vampire sat on the floor to one side of Buffy’s bed, one of his arms resting on a drawn up knee. His other hand rested on the back of his down bent head. A framed photo of Buffy and her mother lay nearby - probably the “thud” Willow had heard.

Willow said nothing, taking in Spike’s posture and the solitary picture he presented. He lifted his head, and his eyes, dry and unblinking, met hers. For just a moment she felt her own heart wrench painfully as she acknowledged the ravaged agony in the blond’s blue eyes, the hopeless despair pouring from them. Then she retreated mentally, forcing her instinctive sympathy away. He was a vampire, she reminded herself. It’s not like he could really feel the pain the rest of them were feeling. He probably didn’t even understand true mourning. She straightened her shoulders, physically shoring up the mental gymnastics it had taken her to arrive at that conclusion.

Vampire.

Not. Like. A. Living. Person.

Hadn’t Angel and Giles both strongly suggested that years ago? That without a soul…

Spike looked back down at the floor between his feet.

“Get out.” The words were spoken so quietly that Willow detected them more by the movement of his lips as his head was lowering than by any sound she heard.

She hesitated for a moment, trying to think of something, of anything, she could say, but her sympathy for the blond was so wrapped up in her conflicting emotions about his place in their group, and her fears about the - threat - he might present to her plans, that nothing came to mind. Instead, she flipped off the light, pulled the door closed, and made her way down the hall to her own room, her own bed. And into the comforting warmth of Tara’s embrace.

~*~

Spike placed the photo of Buffy and Joyce back where he’d found it.

Willow had turned off the light and the room was darker now, lit only by moonlight. For a long time, he stood beside the bed, staring at the pale bedding. His hand was trembling when he reached out to pick up a pillow, shaking as he brought it to his face.

Oh god.

Her scent, even stronger on the fabric than it was in the air of the room, sent a bolt of agony through him.

What the hell was he doing? he wondered. Why was he doing this to himself? But even as he asked himself the questions, he was kneeling on the bed, stretching out face down on the comforter. He jerked back up, pulled the comforter away and lay down again on the soft sheets, almost feeling her presence surround him.

Just for a minute, he assured himself. Just for a minute.

~*~

She came to him, as she so often did.

He could feel her, could almost taste her in the air. He didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. He just lay there, stretched out face down on her bed and let her flow over him. He’d known she would come. He’d known that was what had drawn him to her room.

<< Called me, didn’t you? ‘Course I came. >>

Her hands touched his bare arms, sliding up their length and under the sleeves of his t-shirt, whispers of warmth against his cooler flesh.

<< Know I won’t be able to see you. Never can in these waking dreams, love. Just feel you. Can only see you when I’m sleepin’. >>

He felt more of her weight settle on him. It seemed odd, different, but then her mouth was moving against the back of his neck, sliding around to the side, and his mind abandoned thought and concentrated on the burningly wonderful sensations instead.

<< Don’t stop, love. Just - touch me. >>

<< More than blood. >>

Her hands slid under his shirt, pushing the well-worn fabric up and over his head even as they left trails of fire along the smooth, wide expanse of his back. She was straddling his hips, her body leaning in close to him as her hands continued over his shoulders and moved along the length of his arms. Her breasts pressed against him, soft and warm and bare.

<< You feel so good, so good. Make me ache for you. >>

He rolled beneath her until he lay on his back. She was still straddling his hips, and he groaned as his aroused body rubbed against her. His hands sought out hers, and he entwined their fingers as his hips started moving against her, circling, thrusting lightly. He kept his eyes closed. If he opened them, she wouldn’t be there, and he didn’t think he could face that tonight. Not after the bot, and… He just couldn’t, not tonight…This experience was already radically different from most of the waking dreams he’d had. It was in those that he always had so much trouble understanding what she wanted. Buffy’s sexual overtures, the ability to hear her voice so clearly in his head - those things were always reserved for the rare times he slept, for real dreams. He could easily understand the voice in his head tonight. It was Buffy’s voice, but slightly different. It was huskier, and had a strange, not quite human quality to it, a whispering darkness. Spike was sure he was awake, and he wasn’t going to open his eyes now and dispel - whatever this was, this unexpected gift.

<< Could hold you all night, that’s what you want. Touch you, love you, make you mine. Jes’ like I do when I’m sleepin’. >>

<< Can’t always tell anymore. Feels like I’m awake. >>

She lowered her bare torso to his, moving her breasts against him in invitation, her mouth feathering teasing little kisses along his jaw.

<< Yeah. So real. So good. >>

Spike released her hands, and reached for her, his arms closing around her as he pulled her more tightly against him. God, so good. Her skin was warm, velvety, and, for the moment, he wanted nothing more than this, to luxuriate in the feel of her in his arms, flesh against flesh.

<< You’re so warm, love, so soft. I could hold you like this forever. >>

He buried his face in her hair. God, he could feel individual strands against his mouth, taste them against his tongue. Her scent was filling him and he noticed vaguely that she smelled different. Wilder.

Cool and sensual, woodsy and wanton.

<< Closer. Come closer to me. Buffy. >>

Her hands moved to the fastening of his jeans, and he groaned, lifting his hips to help her slip them off.

<< Ahhh. Oh. Touch me. Just touch me. >>

She took his cock in her hands, and he thought he’d explode at the first touch of her fingers. God, oh, god, this was perfect, exquisite. She caressed his length in both hands as if his aroused flesh was some precious gift. Breathless sounds were coming from her mouth, while at the same time her words whispered softly in his mind.

He couldn’t believe how wonderful it felt, the indescribable pleasure. Her hands were moving over him, soft, light, a little pressure, then more, then soft again. Not stroking, not applying the pressure he would apply himself in order to bring himself off, just - ahhh. Cupping his sac, rolling his balls between her fingers, and somehow the use of two hands working in harmony was pulling at him in a way that seemed new, deeper, better. Long, long minutes of her hands, her touch. Magic hands. She bent toward him, starting to brush her breasts against him, to rub the tip of his shaft against her nipples. He could feel them hardening, and his eyes flew open as he cried out.

Oh god, he could see her.

Her skin and hair, usually so golden, had been silvered by the moonlight that poured in through the open windows, and even in the shadowed light of the room, he could see her eyes, see their expression of pleasure. Oh god, she was here. She was here.

He came hard, his seed pouring onto her breasts in rapid spurts. She looked up at him again from under her lashes, and smiled, seduction in the curve of her lips.

Spike was panting needlessly, his eyes riveted to her. He was afraid to blink, afraid that if he did, she’d be gone.

“Ahhh, love, you’re here.”

“You’re so beautiful.” His eyes ran over her face, over her hair and shoulders, then swept down her body, taking in the evidence of his orgasm running down her breasts. “Oh, god, look at you. All covered in me.”

A drop of semen had rolled down the slope of her breast and had formed a pearl droplet at the very tip of her nipple. In his entire existence, Spike knew he’d never seen anything so erotic. His body reacted to the sight predictably. His splayed hands slid up her back and he pulled her down to him slowly.

“Let me taste you,” his voice rasped in the cool night air. “Taste us.”

His open mouth moved across her breasts, taking his own spendings onto his tongue, then moving up to her mouth, sharing the creamily textured fluids with her. Again and again, he repeated the gesture, lap, then kiss, lap, then kiss, until nothing remained but her. Her flesh, her flavor. Then his mouth closed over her nipple, and he sucked hard, cheeks hollowing as he drew her into his mouth.

Her deep moan seemed to echo in the room.

Spike took his time, concentrating all his attention on her right breast. He savored the taste of her skin, the lush combination of textures to be found on the soft mound of flesh. He drew back occasionally, letting the coolness of the air work its magic on her, pebbling her nipple to hardness, before he again tugged it into his mouth. He used his tongue, flicking it against her aroused flesh, then allowing it to sweep against the lower curve of her breast, so often neglected by a lover. He was holding the one breast in both hands, shaping it, caressing, his open mouth moving over each slope and curve, tongue tasting, sucking lightly, licking. He handled her breast as if it were something delicate, fragile, breakable. And all the while, he murmured to her, telling her how she tasted, how soft she was, how he loved the feel of her in his mouth.

Buffy’s movements became more insistent, and she began writhing against him, wanting more.

“Patience, love,” he breathed against her flesh. “You need to learn not to rush things. I stop now, your other breast is going to feel very deprived.”

Her quiet gasps of pleasure were intoxicating to him. He was unsure if he was hearing them in his mind, as he heard her words, or if they were in reality floating softly into the corners of the room. Either way, the sounds she was making, the way her body was moving against him in desire, were drowning him in his own pleasure, and abruptly, his own patience was gone, and he wanted to be inside her, sheathed in the warmth of her body.

“Buffy...”

She responded to the hoarse entreaty in his voice, shifting her body, positioning herself over him, and god, oh, god, sliding down on him, drawing him deeply inside her.

They both stilled, moaning together, stunned by the shock of pleasure.

<< So hot. >>

<< Tight. So bloody tight. >>

Buffy arched her back, thrusting her breasts upward and Spike’s hands went to her hips, clutching at them tightly. Their slim, firm curve under his hands sent a bolt of pure lust through him.

He damn well loved her hips. Had for years.

<< Oh, god, yessss. Move on me, love. >> His eyes filled with erotic promise. << Dance for me. Just for me. >>

She did, moving on him gracefully, her body dancing to the rhythm he began and she picked up on. Her hands went back, bracing against his legs and she arched back, her head and torso undulating sensuously, moving in a manner meant to arouse and seduce, to entice him, to drive him crazy.

And when he was almost gone, thrusting into her with increasing speed, his hands digging with painful intensity into her hips, she leaned forward, bending over him, splaying her hands against the hardness of his chest. Her hair created a curtain around their faces, and she locked her eyes onto his.

His hips surged off the bed and he thrust as deeply into her as he could, guttural moans escaping him as he came in a violent rush of pleasure. His arms clutched at her, pulling her down to him, and he buried his face against her neck as his body continued to convulse, out of his control.

Dream? Vision? She was his, his…

Her hands were moving over him in soothing motions, bringing him down, bringing him back. He held her tightly against his body, and his mouth continued to move against her throat, kissing, sucking, and biting down lightly with blunt teeth. Long minutes passed before he spoke.

“You’re a generous woman, love. You could make me come like that all night.”

<< Want you, Buffy. Anyway I can have you. Every way. >>

His voice was dark, under laid with wicked promise. “Yeah? Well, I’m here for you.”

And Spike proceeded to prove it. Throughout the long, still hours of the night he loved her, pleasured her body in ways she’d never yet even imagined when she was alive. Their bodies moved together, not always in perfect unison, but in exploration, in discovery, and in wonder. His hands moved over her, touching, stroking, teaching her the strength and power of her own body, things she’d never experienced in life. Tender, then rough, making her arch and moan against him in stunned pleasure.

They came together, separated, moving in effortless bliss from one position to another, learning each other, mapping out all the pleasure zones, finding and eliminating any road blocks.

He unleashed all the tenderness inside him, the parts of him he usually felt so compelled to keep hidden, disguised and unrecognized. After all, this wasn’t real, and it was safe for him to pour all that tenderness onto her in dreams, visions, whatever this was, wasn’t it? Safe for him to tell her of his love, of his passion and devotion. All the things she had rejected in life, and that he knew, even as he said them, that she would reject still if this was real, if she was really here. He didn’t dwell on that last bit too long. The night was too amazing, and he wasn’t going to ruin it by letting reality intrude.

He wasn’t a complete wanker, after all.

For a time, he even let out the hidden William and let the stupid git use all the poetry in his soul. But then he hauled him back in and let the total sensualist that was Spike take over and drive them both wild with pleasure again and again and again.

Like he said, he wasn’t a complete wanker.

It was the best night of his entire existence.

He knew. He knew that even though this was unreal, that this was how making love to Buffy would have been. This was how her body would have felt. This was how she would have responded, how she would have smelled and tasted. Had she ever loved him, this was what they would have shared.

Ruthlessly, he thrust that thought away from him. He let go of the painful realities, and lost himself in the night, in this glorious passion, in her. For whatever reason, she was here, far stronger than any previous vision he’d had of her. He fully intended to act out every fantasy he’d ever had of her until she disappeared once again.

And he did.

~*~

It was late, nearing dawn, and he knew she’d be leaving him soon. God, he wanted her to stay. If he’d lost his mind and was existing in some fantasy world, he wanted to stay there, lost in her forever.

He knew it wouldn’t be.

<< Know I’d do anything for you, love. But most of the time, I’m jes’ hangin’ by a thread. Don’t know how long... >>

<< So hard here without you. Jes’ - day after day. Mind’s playin’ tricks on me, too. Can’t always tell what’s real and what’s not. What good am I to you like this? >>

Spike squeezed his eyes shut, pain washing over him.

<< You know you’ve got it, love. ‘Til the end of the world. Gave it once, not gonna take it back. I just - I don’t know why you’d want it. If it weren’t for me, if I hadn’t buggered everything up, you’d still be here. You’d-a never had to jump. What makes you think I can do any better now? >>

< You can’t think... Spike, you almost died for Dawn, for me. You would have died for us. You put your life on the line, and you think you failed us? Failed me? You’re wrong. So completely wrong. >

<< I’m so sorry, love. >>

Her hands were gliding over him again, soothing him, and her thoughts tried to ease his doubts, his guilt.

< You’re strong here. > Her hand stroked along his cock. < All that passion.>

< You’re strong here. > Her hand stroked over the beautifully muscled length of his arms. < All that power. >

< You’re strong here. > She laid her hand over his unbeating heart. < All that love. >

< And you’re strong here. > Her hand moved to his head, brushed through his hair. < Your mind is strong, vital. You’re strong, Spike. My blood flows in you, will always flow in you now. Always. It makes you stronger. And you need to stay strong. I need you. >

<< Give you anything, love. Do anything. >>

Her mouth moved over his closed eyes, touching the lids in a soft caress. She was leaving, sliding away from him, and as always, he ached for her to stay. To stay. With him.

<< Please, love, stay. Stay. >>

<< Love you, Buffy, so much. Know you don’t feel… >>

< Always so sure you know everything. > Her thoughts interrupted his own, coming to him on a note of amusement. The dark, husky sound of her thoughts seemed to be becoming a part of the breeze that stirred the curtains at the window. She was leaving him, fading away, and her last thoughts, drawn out slowly, were so quiet in his mind he had to strain to hear them.

~*~

Someone was in the room. Even asleep he could feel the presence, hear the steadily beating heart.

“Buffy?”

Movement ceased for a moment, then resumed.

“Come back to bed, love.” His voice was thick and lazy. Thoroughly sated. And still husky with seductive promise. “Let me hold you awhile longer.” A pause; then, “Buffy?”

“It’s me, Spike,” Dawn’s voice was quiet, a note of sadness in it. Did he dream about Buffy a lot? Of being in bed with her? Of course he did, she thought to herself. He probably dreamed about having sex and, er, stuff, with her all the time. Dawn blinked at the sudden prick of tears. “Go back to sleep,” she told him. “I just came in to check the windows. I wanted to make sure they were covered.”

She took a step closer to the half-asleep vampire.

“Hmmm,” the sound rumbled deep in his throat, almost a purr. “Thanks, bit.”

“Go back to sleep, fang boy,” she said. The hint of a purr in his voice pushed her sadness away a little, and the slight smile curving her lips could be detected in her voice. “I think you need it.”

“Yeah, ‘k,” he agreed without hesitation, voice slurred. “G’ night, pet.”

Dawn shook her head as she glanced out at the lightening sky. “Right. Night, Spike.”

She covered the last window carefully with a blanket, pinning it firmly in place. No unexpected slips of fabric were going to steal another person she loved from her.

~*~

It was late afternoon when he finally woke. He rarely managed more than two or three consecutive hours of sleep anymore, often going for several days without getting any at all. The long hours he’d spent today in his Slayer’s bed left him feeling - well, bloody amazing. He stretched, lingering over each movement as he extended his arms and legs, flexing various muscle groups before relaxing completely against the soft, girly sheets.

The air in the room was heavy with the delicious, musky aroma of sex.

God, what a fantastic night! He hadn’t felt this content, this completely sated for - hell, he didn’t even know how long. Years, anyway. He rolled his shoulders, and slid a hand down his body to his flaccid cock.

“Oh, yeah, you got a workout, didn’t you?” His voice purred his satisfaction out loud, as he let pictures of the night past roll through his mind. Buffy, leaning over him, breasts swaying just enough to be enticing, Buffy, moaning under him. Buffy, bringing him off with her hands, her mouth, her body. Buffy, crying out her pleasure as he did the same for her. Buffy, tight and hot and wet around him, her body in his arms, and her thoughts in his head.

He let his mind enjoy each image in all its lovely detail before trying to suss out what exactly had happened. Probably a combination of things. The full bag of his Slayer’s powerful blood, the anger and rage and pain over the encounters with the bot, and the simple reality of sleeping in Buffy’s bed, a place that had figured prominently in his sexual fantasies for several years. Toss them all together in a pot and swirl them about, and apparently you got a pretty bloody unbelievable night of wet dreams.

“Bugger it all.”

Wet dreams.

He was gonna have to do something about the sheets. He knew his body, knew the delicious feeling of total sexual satisfaction making its’ lazy rounds through all his limbs right now. He knew he’d gotten off over and over and over during the night. He could just imagine the reactions of any of the housemates to the state the sheets must be in. He’d have to take care of it. Not that he’d admit to it or anything, but since the disaster in Harris’ basement, he’d learned how to operate a washing machine. Bloke lived alone, he’d better know how to do for himself, right?

Groaning, Spike rolled out of bed, located his dream-Buffy discarded clothing and dressed, letting his mind replay his favorite moment from the long night. Buffy, warm and soft, her voice keening quietly, oh, sweet, helpless passion, as he moved deeply within her from behind. His body was curled possessively around hers, and his hands were stroking her intimately, compounding her pleasure. She began to say his name over and over, a chant, as she visibly started to lose herself in sensation. Her inner muscles were working him, squeezing tightly, and when they were close, so close, he finally gave in to temptation and allowed his elongated teeth to sink deeply into her throat. He drank of her wonderful, rich blood, his mind registering that it tasted even better coming directly from her body, and they came together, hard. The orgasm dragged out endlessly, making all the others they’d experienced during the night pale in comparison. Afterward, she had clung to him, murmuring to him of her pleasure, her contentment and her satisfaction.

Spike paused, his hands on the sheets as the memories rushed through him. His body stirred and he looked down at his groin in amazement.

“You must be out of your bleedin’ mind,” he told his body, and he gave a brief bark of laughter as he started to strip the sheets from the bed. He had almost completed the task when he noticed something - wrong.

They were clean. The sheets. There was nothing on them. He spread them out, examined them. Nothing. No evidence of any kind. Clean. But they smelled like sex, and like something else.

They smelled like Buffy - the differently scented Buffy who had come to him in the night.

Spike’s jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed dangerously.

What the hell was going on?

~*~

Spike was sitting on the stairs, facing the door, when Willow entered the house.

Waiting.

His eyes locked on hers, and the coldness deep in their blue depths caused her to freeze in place. It would never do, she thought nervously, to forget that Spike, chipped or not, could be a very dangerous adversary.

“Got a question for you, Red.”

His voice was as cold as his eyes, and Willow shifted uneasily.

“Y-Yeah?”

“Want a straight answer.”

“Okay.” Willow’s chin came up. She hated this feeling of intimidation and resented him for making her feel so - well, like a big old ‘fraidy cat. She wasn’t. Not anymore.

Not ever again, if she could help it.

“The bot. I know you were working on it last night. What’d you do to it?”

’What do you mean?”

Spike rose from his deceptively casual position and came down the stairs, moving toward her with that smooth predator’s tread of his. During their freshman year at UC-Sunnydale, when they were both punch drunk from lack of sleep during finals, Buffy had confessed to Willow that she often, and secretly, found Spike’s way of moving ‘damned fine’. Willow had dissolved into sleep deprived laughter at the time. But Spike’s way of moving looked ‘damned threatening’ from where she stood right now. And the closer he came to her, the more it approached ‘damned terrifying.’

“Simple question, Will.”

He leaned over her as she backed up against the closed door, and placed a hand on either side of her head.

“What. Did. You. Do. To. The. Bot?”

“N-nothing,” she stammered, hating herself for the sign of weakness. “Nothing bad. I just started changing some of it’s programming. Stuff to do w-with you. Like you wanted. Taking out the p-personal stuff.”

“And in this programming change, did you decide to send it to me to test out whether or not you’d gotten the kinks out? See if it still wanted to shag the vamp?”

“N-noo. God, no. I promise.” She was genuinely appalled by the suggestion and Spike seemed to hear that in her voice, because he backed away. His hands slid off the door as his menacing aura wavered, though she could still seen the anger burning in his eyes.

“And the bot couldn’t possibly have gone anywhere last night after I quit working on it. The power connections were totally broken, and I’m fairly certain no one else in this house could connect them,” Willow added for good measure, confidence returning now that he had backed off a bit.

Spike’s expression remained coldly furious, and his fist made contact with the door as he brushed past Willow to let himself out. “What the bleedin’ hell is happenin’?” he muttered under his breath.

Even without vampiric hearing, Willow caught his words. She looked at the fist sized dent in the wood where his hand had struck the door, then stared after him, her eyes narrowed and worried.

~*~

He'd known it hadn't been the bloody bot. He'd known it.

After all, he and the bot had never gone in much for mental communication, had they? And he didn’t think there was much chance of a robot learning to dissolve into thin air while he was holding it in his arms.

Still, it had been one possible explanation, and he'd -

He’d what? Wanted to know? To know what exactly? That he was losing his mind? That fear had been hovering on the edge of his awareness for several weeks now.

It was easier, and pointed more to the possibility that he retained some sanity if he just viewed the whole night as a dream. So what if he knew it wasn’t? Dreams damn well didn’t absorb sperm and drift off on the breeze with it.

At least, no dream that he’d even experienced before.

~*~

“I just wanted to assure you that it was not our intent -”

Spike interrupted. “No need to make excuses, Watcher. After all, I did the same thing to you, didn’t I? Deserved to get a bit of your own back, I expect.”

Spike had stopped punching the heavy sack, and had moved across to his coat as he was speaking. He went through the pockets until he came up with a cigarette. His whole attitude was cool and detached. If Giles had not been witness to the blond’s initial reaction to the robot last night and his subsequent reaction upon realizing it wasn’t Buffy, he would have been completely taken in.

But Giles had seen those things. He had seen Spike naked, raw, vulnerable beyond anything he would ever have believed possible.

It hadn’t been deliberate. He would never have done something like that to anyone. Much less to a being - a person - that had been working with them so tirelessly for quite some time now. Yes, he had been planning to ask Spike to look the bot over - after he had told him it had been repaired and reactivated. He and Willow had hoped Spike would be able to tell them how convincing the bot would be in fooling other demons.

He guessed they’d gotten the answer to that.

Willow insisted she’d just sent the bot upstairs, and had had no knowledge that Spike was up there. He had no reason to disbelieve her.

Giles tried to keep up with the conversation as his mind raced along other lines.

“What do you mean, you did the same thing - oh,” he said, as comprehension dawned. “With Drusilla, and Angel - us...”

“Yeah, had Dru summon up the teacher to torture you with,” Spike confirmed, lighting the cigarette. He didn’t contribute the fact that his suggestions to Dru had been made in order to keep Angelus from killing the Watcher. He’d been buying time with whatever came to hand in order to save the bleedin’ world. “No reason for you to explain your decisions to me. You needed to know if the bot would fool a vamp. Well, it did,” He took a long drag off his cigarette. “So, you’re plannin’ to have the bot start patrollin’ then?” His tone made it clear the subject of the previous night was closed.

“Yes,” Giles agreed, before asking carefully, “Do you feel you can patrol with it?”

“Sure, no problem,” Spike’s voice assured him. He gave a casual shrug and took a seat across from him. “She was built to be a good fighter.”

“Of course, her skills will never be able to touch Buffy’s, but...” Giles broke off as Spike’s face went still.

It was the ultimate guard, Giles realized, that frozen, tight-jawed expression. Had Spike always been so guarded in his expressions, in his words and actions, or was this something new since Buffy’s - loss?

“The robot should be able to help keep things under control,” Giles went on. “If we can keep the knowledge of Buf - of the true situation here from getting out to the general demon populace, I feel we can manage to keep any undue problems from arising.”

“Yeah, another apocalypse right now might be a bit much,” Spike agreed.

“Quite.”

“Still, normal random acts of violence, nice brawl breakin’ out here and there, the newly risen bein’ their usual idiotic selves - I should be able to take care of most of that. With the bot’s help, be a piece of cake.”

He studied the glowing end of his cigarette for a moment, then took another drag.

“So - another slayer get all chosen yet? ‘Spose the Council sends up a puff of white smoke or somethin’ when they’ve picked their girl?” Spike asked, exhaling his own smoke off to the side, away from the Watcher’s face.

He’d avoided asking the Watcher about a new slayer in the other talks they’d had. Giles hadn’t brought it up, and just the thought of it aroused such anguish in Spike that he’d simply left the subject untouched. But he was beginning to wonder why she wasn’t here yet, and if the Watcher felt the need to activate the bot again - well, he wondered if something wasn’t up. Something not of the good, as Dawn would say.

“There won’t be another slayer.” Giles’ troubled expression conveyed his real worry about the situation.

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

Giles explained about the imprisoned Faith, and the fact that as long as she lived another slayer would not be called.

“Bit of a snafu, that,” Spike commented. His mind was whirling with the implications.

“Indeed,” Giles agreed. “I’ve contacted the Council. I hope there’s something that can be done to circumvent the traditional methods of calling a slayer.”

Spike’s mind was spiraling into other areas now as he tried to suss out what all this meant for him and for Dawn.

“Heard anything from any of Dawn’s family yet? Her old man check in?” he asked bluntly.

Giles started a bit, a little surprised by the change of subject.

“No, nothing. Nor from any of the other relatives,” he added, correctly anticipating Spike’s next question.

“The bit’s worried about what’s gonna happen. Doesn’t wanna live with her wanker of a father in L.A., or wherever it is he lives now. I thought she’d be better off here, in familiar territory, so to speak. But maybe it would be better if she went to him.”

Giles didn’t hide his surprise. Spike seemed so devoted to Dawn. Was he tiring of spending time with the girl? He eyed Spike speculatively, and Spike answered the unasked questions.

“Way I got it figured, no slayer means life around the Hellmouth could get pretty dicey. Might not be the best place for the bit to finish growin’ up. And with no slayer about to ride to the rescue, I’ll probably be needed here. So...” he sounded reluctant, disturbed. He looked down at the floor, his expression hidden. “Maybe Dawn’s better off in L.A., even if she hates her old man right now. Lotsa kids hate their parents, right?” He was almost talking to himself. “They get by. An’ I could visit regular like. Keep an eye on her. Make sure she’s safe. Keep my word.” He looked up at Giles, met his eyes, and held them. “Maybe you could go to L.A. too. Get a place close to her. You’re a Watcher. Haven’t g - haven’t got a slayer to watch right now. Maybe you could watch out for the bit.”

“Spike -” Giles was completely taken aback by the turn in the conversation.

“I’d still be keepin’ my word, right?” Was he seeking reassurance from Giles or just trying to reassure himself? “Could go with her myself. But we both know I’m your best bet here. Take over some of the duties. Kill things. I’m good at that. Killing. Wa - watching things die.”

Spike stood, restless, and turned slightly so that Giles could only see his profile.

“Your word.” Giles repeated. Spike had mentioned that more than once. “Did you make a promise of some kind to Joyce before she died?” Giles knew Joyce had always been extremely fond of Spike. He’d often wondered at it and had even cautioned Buffy’s mother occasionally about it, but Joyce had just smiled and told him not to worry. Spike would never hurt her girls. She’d seemed as sure of it as she would have been if it had been engraved on a stone tablet and brought down to her from a mountaintop. Once her brain tumor was diagnosed, she’d seemed even more trusting of the blond vampire. She’d still hated Angel, though, so Giles knew she retained some rationality on the subject of the undead.

Spike was pacing now, smoke arcing from the cigarette as his hands moved expressively.

“No. That night. Before the tower. When we were... We were getting the weapons. We knew. Knew we weren’t all going to... I thought it would be me. Wanted it to be me. Go out in a blaze of glory. Best way for a warrior, right? And woulda been best for me. Sodding chip in my head messes with me all the time. Thought I’d changed some, but she’da never believed it wasn’t just the chip. So I was never gonna have her, ya know. And I knew it. Knew I’d never have her. Wanted it to be me. Help out once. Maybe someday, sometime, she’d look back and think maybe that one time, I’d done okay, ya know? But I gave her my word. She asked me t’ look out for the bit, anything happened. So I said I would. ‘Til the end of the world. Gave her my word.” He repeated and Giles wondered if he was even really aware of his presence anymore. “She haunts me, didja know? Comes to me all the time. In my dreams… Yeah, you’d expect that. Bloke dreams of the bird he loved, right? ‘s only natural. Snoggin’ and shaggin’. Everything all sex and blood. But she comes when I’m awake too. Tryin’ to tell me somethin’. Tryin’ to make me hear. An’ I never can. Never could, anyway. Not ‘til last night. Askin’ me again to watch out for the bit. To be ready. Stay strong, she says. Strong. Like I could ever be strong enough. Let her die, didn’t I? Laid right there, helpless on the ground, an’ couldn’t do a fucking thing but watch her die. An’ then she’s tellin’ me I think I know what I am, what’s to come, but I haven’t even begun. What the bleedin’ hell does that mean? Does she want me to stay here, help with the slayin’? But if no new slayer is comin’ to take charge of the soddin’ Hellmouth, how can I do all that an’ watch out for the bit too?”

Giles was almost frozen with shock. What had the vampire just said? Was he having visions? And if he wasn’t, how could he possibly know those words? Those particular words? Dear Lord, the possibilities that had suddenly been laid out before him were rife with implications he couldn’t even begin to guess at.

“What did she say to you?” he asked for a repeat of the words with quiet deliberation. This was important.

“Told you. She asked me to watch out for the bit. To stay strong. Be ready.”

“No, the other bit,” Giles prompted, leaning toward the vampire. “The bit about knowing what you are.”

“She said -” Spike began, and Giles interrupted.

“Her exact words.”

Spike seemed to come back to himself a little, and he turned to face Giles squarely. His eyes revealed his curiosity at Giles’ intent posture and expression, but he provided the information without questioning him. “She said, ‘Spike… You think you know, what you are, what’s to come… You haven’t even begun.’”

Giles sat back in his seat. He removed his glasses, put the earpiece to his pursed lips and stared at the vampire, speechless.

~*~

Tuck kept a wary eye on him.

He’d been sitting there for a good three hours now. He’d come in shortly after dusk, a time Tuck found he often had a minor wave of vamps drop in. Most of them had a drink or two, tried to pick a fight if they were in the mood, and left again, presumably to hunt. Not many of them hung out. The second wave showed up closer to closing time, after they’d fed. That crowd tended to be a bit more unpredictable. His bouncer, who didn’t start until 11:00, could usually manage an unruly crowd. It was the type of work Fyarl demons were best suited to, if you could train them not to just crush everyone who came in. They worked cheap, too.

He’d owned this bar for five years now, and Tuck figured the guy must be relatively new to Sunnydale, because he hadn’t seen him in here before. Of course that didn’t always mean anything. He could sense that the blond was older, a master, he’d guess, and they sometimes tended to keep more to themselves than their younger counterparts. Younger vamps didn’t exude the same power and mystique as the masters. And they rarely had that seemingly effortless swagger. Instead, they were better known for mouthing off to other demons. This guy stayed to himself. He’d ordered a beer, and a pint of human blood. Picky about it too. Fresh, A-Negative, he’d stipulated, in his British accent, and warmed to the right temperature. Tuck had long ago learned just how many seconds it took to warm a pint to 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit in the little microwave behind the bar.

The bartender didn’t know why he’d been so insistent. The beer was long gone, but as near as he could tell, the blond hadn’t touched the blood. He’d wrapped his hands around the mug, and stared at it; he’d leaned back in his chair and stared at it; he’d even pushed the mug around a little and stared at it. But Tuck hadn’t seen him raise the mug to his mouth yet, and it still looked full. He’d made it a point, after the first hour, to pass by his table every fifteen minutes or so and check.

The crowd was starting to grow, and the vampire looked up, seeming to suddenly notice the increased noise level. With a frown of annoyance, he lifted the mug to his lips and quickly drained it. He set the mug down, grimacing, and pushed back a little from the table, his hands clutching the edge of the wood, hard. He lowered his head between his rigidly straight arms, effectively hiding his expression. Tuck could see, though, that he seemed to be breathing hard, almost gasping for air. Odd. The vampire stayed in that position for a good five minutes. Some of the patrons were getting annoyed by Tuck’s absorption with what was going on at that dark table near the side exit, but when one of the customers got a little mouthy, Tuck silenced him with a baseball bat to the head. He was rarely truly intrigued by a customer, and the rest of the crowd could damn well shut up and sit still until he felt like serving them. After all, it was his blasted bar, wasn’t it?

Eventually, the vampire straightened up in his chair. His face was coldly expressionless, and his eyes were staring straight ahead. Tuck couldn’t tell what, if anything, he was focused on.

The bellow made him jump. The blond had been so silent and contained since he’d come in that the almost deafening roar shocked him. He couldn’t tell if it had been caused by rage, or pain, or annoyance at the cold blood, for that matter. If it was that last, though, Tuck hoped the vampire realized that it was his own fault the blood had cooled. Hell, it could have been a roar of joy. With vampires, the difference between rage and joy could be subtle, and not always easy to discern. But it didn’t look like happiness that had the butt of the blond’s fists slamming down onto the table, which cooperated by breaking cleanly in half under the force of the blow.

Tuck’s grip on the baseball bat tightened, and he stole a glance at Haufgle, his Fyarl bouncer who had just recently come on duty. Haufgle rose, preparing to step into any fray that might break out.

The vampire stood, straightening his shoulders. He wasn’t in game face, but the coldly threatening look on his sculpted features, and the grim set of his mouth, was frightening enough. Patrons made way as he glided through the crowd. He threw a ten dollar tip on the bar, nodded to Tuck, and killed three demons in less than fifteen seconds as he left the bar, barely even breaking stride.

Including Haufgle, damn it.

As Tuck watched him go he heard the murmured name drifting through the crowd.

Spike.

Tuck’s eyebrows rose. He’d heard of him. Fairly often. There were a lot of rumors about Spike. So many, in fact, that Tuck had sometimes wondered if the vampire himself actually even existed. Apparently he did, Tuck acknowledged, if that had been him. Still, he figured most of the stories that seemed to center around the British vampire were probably myths. Urban legends of a sort. After all, the idea of a vampire working alongside a slayer was pretty far-fetched. And, of course, it couldn’t be any ordinary vampire, could it? Oh, no. It had to be a master from the oh-so-mysterious line of Aurelius, just to make the story a better tell.

Tuck had always been pretty firm in his belief that the whole Order of Aurelius was nothing but myth. The select, the elite, the chosen. What a load of bull. Sounded like delusions of grandeur to him. Of course, whoever was talking about the mysterious line didn’t seem to have any idea of what they were supposedly ‘selected’ or ‘chosen’ for, and the talker never actually claimed to be Aurelian himself. He’d never met a vamp who did. Which didn’t sit well with his delusions of grandeur idea, but lent considerable weight to his myth theory.

But whatever the truth, it was certain that this vampire - whatever his lineage - was a popular subject for discussion in his bar. Last winter, and into the spring, he was spoken of with hatred and contempt, but as the summer progressed, that tone had changed, and Tuck knew the blond was now feared almost as much as he was hated. There was also a growing and rather grudging respect for his ferocity among some of Tuck’s regulars, especially the oldest demons. That didn’t surprise him. In the demon world, fear usually begat respect, even admiration of a sort.

Even though he’d found him rather interesting, Tuck fervently hoped the blond didn’t come into his bar again. Killing customers like that could be bad for business. Tuck looked at the two dead bodies and the pile of dust littering the floor, and sighed. Finding another unemployed Fyarl that had the intelligence to be trained as a bouncer was going to be damned difficult.

Some nights it hardly paid to open for business.

But a few minutes later, trying to keep up with the heavy orders and hearing the excited murmurs that continued to run through the crowd, Tuck was forced to reconsider.

Death, it seemed, could be a downright boon to business.

He was busy all night, staying open long after the legal closing time to take advantage of the heavy drinking and the rampant gossiping. It was interesting to see the birth of a new urban legend, see how the story changed, how the demon kill count became higher, and the blond vampire wilder and faster, as the night progressed.

Right kind of slaughter, intriguing slaughterer… Turned out it lent the place a little mystique.

~*~

It wasn’t that often that someone knocked on his door, and he supposed that was why it always seemed to catch him by surprise.

He was tired. Since he’d spilled his guts to the Watcher like some bleedin’ wanker two days ago, he was back to sleeplessness. Not that he’d been off it for long, but he’d had that one nice long lazy day in his Slayer’s bed. The memory hit him hard, sending a violent rush of pain and pleasure through him.

He ruthlessly shoved the memories away and swung the door open.

He should have known.

Brooms, bucket, scrub brush, garbage bags. Dawn was armed to the teeth. He tried to stare her down, and was met with Summers Stubborn Look #4, eyebrows slightly higher than either #5 or #6.

Failure.

“The others aren’t coming are they?” There was no other way to categorize his tone. Spike was whining. “’Cause I don’t want any of them touching my things.”

“What things? Dawn asked derisively, as she swept into the crypt and deposited her load. “You smashed everything you own to pieces.”

Had to admit, she had him there.

“And no, Xander and Anya have some other stuff to do.” Dawn didn’t know what they were up to, but they sure seemed to whisper and grin at each other a lot, heads bent close together. Even more than usual. It was kinda gross. “Willow and Tara can’t help ‘til tomorrow, if we still need them, and Giles might stop in, but he was waiting on some phone calls, so he couldn’t promise anything. Mostly,” she went on, “I think it’s just you and me.”

That was a bleedin’ relief.

“Well, let’s get to it then, shall we?” his voice was grudging as he admitted defeat gracelessly, and accepted the big push broom Dawn thrust into his hands.

It didn’t take as long as Dawn had thought it might. Since so little was salvageable, it was simply a matter of sweeping, dumping debris into garbage bags, and repeating until the floor was something that could be safely walked across again.

When they’d scrubbed up the spots that needed it, and swept down all the cobwebs over Spike’s objections that they lent the crypt ‘atmosphere’, Dawn stood in the middle of the large room, looking about her with thoughtful eyes. Spike, though not human, and having never been subjected to a female’s nesting/remodeling instinct, which had been completely lacking in Dru, nevertheless felt some deep seated male fear stir within him, causing an odd panic to flare up at the look in Dawn’s eyes.

“We need to fix this place up,” she stated baldly, and the panic almost ignited into flames.

“What?” he hedged. “I don’t need much.”

“You don’t have anything,” she reminded him. “And we can’t do much, ‘cause of the whole no money thing, but geesh, we should be able to make it a little more livable.” Her eyes ran around the room again. “You can have the television from my Mom’s bedroom. I already told Willow and Tara I was going to give it to you. It’s got a built in VCR, too.”

“Thanks, bit.” He’d take the telly. Bloke couldn’t miss his shows, now, could he? “But I’m not that interested in where I live, so we don’t need to -”

“Oh, pleeease,” she interrupted. “Look at this place. If you didn’t care about where you lived, you’d be living in some creepy warehouse, or in a cave like The Master. Instead, you pick this place - flowering vines covering the walls and roof outside, these great windows. It’s such a total giveaway. You picked this crypt ‘cause it appeals to something in you.”

Had he? He glanced around. The windows really were rather visually pleasing, and maybe the ancient wisteria vine covering the outside walls reminded him a bit of England. But all in all, it was just a place to sleep, on the rare occasions he did, and store blood.

Speaking of which…

“Bit - been meaning to tell you, since I know you fret about it. I’ve been drinkin’ regular blood - plain, before you ask. And - no problems.”

She looked so happy, so relieved, that he felt that funny little tug in his chest that he seemed to feel more and more often around her. He put a hand to his chest unconsciously, rubbing at the scar over his heart.

Dawn came over to him and hugged him. He supposed he could get used to that too, if he had to.

“Is Buffy’s blood all gone?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah.” He moved out of her arms and away from her. He had no intention of admitting how painful that loss was to him. Another little death. The absence of her powerful blood in his mouth, in his throat and body, was like losing another part of her. And knowing he would never have that again was another agony. For a minute his whole being was wracked with a terrible, mind-numbing pain.

His lifted his head, forcing himself to talk to her. Keep going. Just talk, make noise, keep going. “So, what’re your ideas for the place?” he asked. His need to distract himself was growing, and his hands clenched as he struggled to gain control before he began to slam his fists into the crypt walls. Again.

Dawn studied him for a moment, glancing at his hands. She knew he didn’t think so, knew he thought he was hiding his pain so well, but he was becoming more and more transparent to her as the weeks passed. Sometimes she wondered if the others could read him as easily as she could. She wasn’t stupid. Vampire - blood. Spike - Buffy’s blood. She wondered if he was going through withdrawal, like an alcoholic. Or a drug addict.

“Are you okay?” She didn’t have to let him try to hide everything, did she?

He met her eyes steadily. “’m fine,” he assured her, his voice calm. “So - telly. What do you think? Nice comfy chairs, a sofa, earth tones?”

Even though she could see that his fists were still clenched, Dawn followed his lead. She pushed down her concern and arranged a smile on her face. Just distract him. Give him other things to think about. Things that aren’t Buffy, or her blood, or…

“Mostly I’m thinking we check out moving week at UC-Sunnydale. There’ll be lots of unwanted furniture left at the curbs when the students move out of their summer housing and into their new places.” Dawn made sure her voice held a sufficient amount of animation. “Then - garage sales. Dump - last. I know it’s traditionally your favorite home furnishing shopping center, but we can try to move up in the world a little, don’t you think?”

Spike judged the anticipation on Dawn’s face, and made a decision. Why not? Bit wanted to fix the place up, he could do his part.

“We might be able to do a bit better than curbside at UC-Sunnydale, pet. But we’re gonna need a truck.”

~*~

Oh. My. God. They’d stolen a truck. Grand Theft Auto. She was sooo gonna go to jail. ‘Course she’d have to be caught first, and Spike would never let that happen.

This was sooo cool!

Dawn was literally bouncing in her seat. Her eyes darted from Spike, who was driving with his usual blatant disregard for traffic laws, to the expanse of road behind them. She was watching for the flashing lights of a squad car, which she expected to see at any moment. Then she tried to look cool and nonchalant for a few seconds, which she never came close to pulling off. Back to bouncing.

Janice and Lisa were just gonna die.

“Get your seatbelt on, luv, and quit bouncin’ all over the place.”

“Will you teach me how to hotwire a car?” she practically begged, fishing for the safety belt and fastening it.

“Sure. You got the hands for it, bit. Can tell by how you play cards. Be a snap for you to pick up.”

“This is sooo cool.” She gushed, finally saying out loud the words that had been repeating non-stop in her mind for the past fifteen minutes. “ Where are we going?”

“Thought we’d check out the mansion. There was some nice stuff there when we lived there.”

“The mansion? You mean Angel’s place?”

“Yeah.”

“Are we gonna rob it?” she squeaked.

Her eyes were huge, and Spike grinned.

“’Course, we are, bit - er, no.” Suddenly he was frowning, attempting to backpedal. Robbery was wrong, wasn’t it? Oh bugger it. He supposed stealing a truck wasn’t very high on the list of approved things to do with his Slayer’s kid sis, either. Bleedin’ laws and rules of society were a damned nuisance. Not to mention there were so blasted many of them. Then he shrugged. Bloke couldn’t really be expected to keep them all straight now, could he?

“Bitter?” Dawn smirked, in one of those cooler moments. “If that’s a new nickname, I don’t like it.”

“’s not really robbery, pet,” Spike tried. “Some of the stuff in that house ‘s mine, and some’s Dru’s.” They’d both lived there, too, hadn’t they? Should give them some claim. Like squatter’s rights, in a way. “We can leave Angel’s stuff alone, if it makes you feel better.”

“Are you nuts? I can’t stand Angel. I say - it’s there, it’s ours.”

“That’s my girl.” Spike perked back up and smiled at her, nodding in approval. And, when they were done with it, they could park the truck back in the same spot they’d nicked it from. Wouldn’t need it anymore, anyway.

There - see? It would all come right in the end.

~*~

He had to admit, the place looked pretty nice. Posh, even.

It had taken them a few days. The hours that were dark enough for him and early enough for Dawn were pretty limited after all, and hauling loads out of the mansion, driving, then unloading their take at the crypt was time consuming. But they had done it. Dawn’s enthusiasm for the project hadn’t waned, and he was pleased that, as it turned out, his girl had a pretty good eye.

Angelus had always liked his creature comforts and for once Spike wasn’t annoyed as hell by it. Well, strictly speaking, he didn’t go much for that living underground to pay homage to The Old Ones drivel that the Master had blithered on about on the few occasions Spike had been forced into his presence for some brief period of time. The desire to live above ground was one of the few things he was grateful to Angelus and Darla for. He liked the world, after all. Why would he want to bury himself beneath it in caves with a bunch of bleedin’ moronic minions? He’d had a lot less patience for Darla’s desire to stay in all the best hotels in Europe as the four of them cut a swathe across the continent. Could be damned inconvenient havin’ to deal with all those windows.

The bed had been the biggest challenge. First off, they had to find one in the mansion they both liked. Then it had to be one Angelus hadn’t shagged Dru in, an’ it couldn’t be one he’d laid awake in listening to Angelus shagging Dru. It was a good thing it was a mansion, and had lots of beds to choose from. Handy, that. It was also a lucky thing that vampires had superior strength, ‘cause the thing was bugger all to dismantle, lift and carry. Heavy as hell. And he didn’t even wanna think about getting it into the lower level of the crypt, or the words that had turned the air a bright blue while he was doing it.

Mostly Dawn held doors open for him while he toted and cursed, her blue eyes wide at some of the words she’d never heard before.

It was a bit of all right though. They’d actually gone out and purchased bedding. Not that all the money had been come by in a strictly honest fashion, mind you, but still... After stealin’ the truck and the furniture, he thought he’d better not push things any further with Dawn. She might inadvertently tell someone. He knew she gossiped a bit with Anya. He figured it paid to try to keep some things above board, leastways if the Watcher might find out about it. Not to mention, Marshall Field’s had a better security system than the little market where he nicked most of his cigarettes and booze.

He’d wanted black. Dawn had pushed for blue, holding a sheet up to his face. He’d jerked his head away. Who the hell chose bedding to match their eyes? he’d wondered in disgust. They’d compromised on deep reds shot with black and gold. He’d even given in on the throw pillows, which had resulted in Dawn doing some sort of little jig in the aisle of the store.

His girl was happy.

Dawn had nicked some nice statuary from different rooms in the mansion, and they’d had a good time choosing which of the many rugs they liked best, and which ones should go where in the crypt. Lit by the flickering light from dozen of candles, and by the glow from the telly, where Rick was telling Ilsa that they’d always have Paris, the place was almost cozy.

‘Course, he’d drawn the line at plants, standing firm, and Dawn had reluctantly conceded the point. Besides, the wisteria vines weren’t going anywhere, were they?

They were seated on a nicely squishy leather sofa in front of the telly. His girl was sound asleep. He’d already used the cell phone the Watcher had insisted on getting for him to let Willow and Tara know that Dawn was asleep and would be staying the night with him. Although she’s only stayed once before, that time at the request of Tara, Dawn didn’t seem to mind staying in the crypt. Spike had suspected the woman had wanted a night alone with her lover. His lips twisted in momentary amusement. Sitting on the roof of the Summers home every night, and blessed with vampiric hearing, he had a pretty good idea of the passion in that relationship. Some of the accompanying visual images his brain had come up with were damned nice, too.

Dawn lay against him, curled under his protective arm. Her head rested against his chest, and her arm was draped across his stomach. Her position bespoke her total trust in him, and he tried to suss out how that made him feel.

Damned edgy, mostly. It was unnatural, wrong. A girl her age should run screaming from someone like him, not cuddle up next to him and fall asleep. It aroused all sorts of conflicting emotions in him. If he made a list, pleasure and fear would be warring for the top spot.

Her hair smelled like Lilies of the Valley. He hadn’t noticed it before she’d fallen asleep in his arms. She hadn’t been this close to him earlier in the evening, and with all the scented candles wafting their varied odors about the room, he supposed missing it could be explained. He dipped his face close to the shining locks and inhaled deeply, letting memories of his Slayer and the accompanying pain wash over him.

It was not her usual scent, which made it stand out more clearly in his mind. It was Joyce’s, he remembered now. Buffy must have used her mother’s shampoo that day, and Dawn must have done so today. Had they used it to feel closer to their mum?

Another night. A different setting.

It was just a tiny little thing, a remembered scent, but it triggered memories that quickly and radically altered his mood. The contentment he’d been feeling as he surveyed the redecorated crypt slid away, and the always-present pain intensified, flaring up and grabbing him full force, twisting viciously in his gut. His head fell against the soft back of the sofa, and he swallowed convulsively, struggling against the tears burning in his throat and just behind his eyes.

He’d only allowed himself to cry twice. That first night at the morgue, and a few nights back, with the bot. He refused to let the tears come more often.

He didn’t deserve the release they offered.

He’d killed her, hadn’t he? Let her die? He should suffer for eternity for that. And, bein’ what he was, he knew he would. It was fitting, proper.

< You can’t think... Spike, you almost died for Dawn, for me. You would have died for us. You put your life on the line, and you think you failed us? Failed me? You’re wrong. So completely wrong. >

If nothing else, hearing Buffy say that in his mind the other night had been enough to convince him she was simply a dream of some kind, a vision. The real Slayer would’ve been much more likely to kick his arse from here to eternity for his failures the night at the tower.

The thought of fighting with her induced its usual reaction in him - pleasure - and his longing for her intensified. He closed his eyes, and indulged himself for a few minutes with pleasant memories,

Buffy - their first time, at the high school; in a warehouse on Halloween; in an abandoned church…

Dawn muttered in her sleep, and Spike eased away from her, lowering her into a supine position. He ran a shaking hand over her hair, and stood, looking down at the sleeping girl.

Dawn turned on her side, and curled a hand under her cheek. Her eyes blinked open and she smiled at him sleepily.

“Mmmm. Night, Spike. I love you,” she murmured before dropping back into sleep.

Spike took a step back in shock, staring at her. She’d never said that to him. He’d felt it, maybe, yeah, but she’d never actually said it. She couldn’t… She didn’t…

He could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d heard those words since he’d been turned, and they threw him, arousing feelings he wasn’t quite sure how to cope with. The longer he knew her, the more time he spent in her company, the more he realized that their whole relationship did a damn good job of making him feel things, and think about things, that he’d never had to deal with in well over one hundred years. He didn’t think he even understood half of them.

Spike flung himself into a nearby armchair and lit a cigarette. Moodily, he changed channels on the telly, trying to find something of interest. After a while he gave up and set the remote control aside.

Instead, he watched Dawn sleep.

~*~

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