Sometimes he felt as if he would break from the strain of it. Like he was bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders—he’d never understood the saying before, but now it made perfect sense. He didn’t think he could manage another minute of it, but he went on the same as always. He didn’t have a choice.

When he left Anya, he’d felt terrible. Actually, felt wasn’t exactly the right word; he was pretty numb at the time. Just certain that what he was doing was the right thing for both of them. The safe thing. The only thing. Which went to show how much he knew.

Pretty much par for the course. He was just surprised that he wasn’t back in the basement. It was his natural home, wasn’t it? He’d gotten out of it only with Anya’s help. He felt that at any moment he might slide right back into it. De-evolution in progress.

It was only with her that he had gotten a steady job, one that didn’t involved bartending or delivering pizza. Or worse. The substitute male dancer gig in Oxnard had been worse. Just being in Oxnard made it worse. He’d started going out with Anya, and suddenly he’d found a job. A career. Fine, it wasn’t sophisticated; being a construction worker didn’t impress anyone. But he had a good job, with responsibility, and was in charge of men with more age and experience. He told them what to do and they did it.

He wondered that it hadn’t disappeared along with Anya.

She hadn’t disappeared, of course. She was right there at the Magic Box. The whole place had been rebuilt. He’d gotten Giles to suggest that Xander be the one to do the repairs. He would have done it free, but Anya refused. Through Giles, she refused. She said she’d rather get someone who knew how to see a job through to the end.

It was for the best, really. He had enough on his plate, more than enough. Willow was back from that place and staying with him, and it was his job to make her feel better. His most important job, even more than supervising his crew or patching things up with Anya. Besides, patching kind of implied there was something left to stitch together. Anya had made it plain to him that there wasn’t. He hadn’t even been back to the shop after it was rebuilt. It had been his second home for two years, but now he didn’t even know what it looked like inside.

He knew he wasn’t wanted there.

But Will did want him with her. She needed him. Tara was gone. Oz was gone. For all intents and purposes, Buffy was gone, at least as far as Willow was concerned. She never asked Xander about Will, never let him mention her name. He’d tried often enough, when Willow was first in that place and desperate to make amends with Buffy. When she’d cried every time Xander visited and she saw Buffy wasn’t with him.

Absently Xander grabbed a bottle of dish detergent from the drugstore shelf and dropped it into his shopping cart. He used to eat lunch with the guys at the site, but since Willow had come to live with him he’d taken to running errands at lunchtime. It would have been easier, really, to do it on the way home from work, but she spent enough time alone as it was. He could have taken Willow with him, but he didn’t think she was that comfortable around people yet. He understood.

He understood, too, why Buffy was angry. He’d been there, he’d heard what Willow said to Buffy in the Magic Box. In the Magic Box, when she looked at Buffy and decided that she wanted to beat Buffy to death. It still frightened him. Will, his oldest friend. He loved her, she was more necessary to him than water. Than Anya. He had to know she was well. And standing there, her skin drained of color like a corpse—like a vampire—and her hair a dull black, she was nothing like the friend he loved. She looked at everyone she loved and decided to kill them because she was suffering.

And that wasn’t Willow. He knew her better than anything in the world. More than Marvel Comics minutiae, more than how to carve a good stake, more than the music of Patsy Cline, which he’d had plenty of opportunity to appreciate over the last few forevers.

So he understood why Buffy was upset with Willow. He was, too. But he forgave. She’d been driven mad, and she’d broken. She was trying to get better now, and Buffy was not helping. Not being a friend.

What did it take with Buffy? Hadn’t they forgiven her everything she’d done? All the times they’d nearly died because of her…or her boyfriend? Hey, boyfriends, now. Her and her homicidal honeys.

It had only been a few weeks before Warren shot Buffy and Tara, and everything got so bad, that she’d laid them out in her basement, trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys, and released a monster against them. Against them, her closest friends. Her own sister.

But he hadn’t been there. She hadn’t wanted him to die. Sure, they loved her. They made excuses for her attempt to murder them. She was under the influence of a mind-altering chemical. It wasn’t her. But she hadn’t wanted him to die. She’d been lucid enough for that. Enough to make an exception for him.

Of course, at the time Xander hadn’t thought it was an exception. Why the hell would Spike be included? He didn’t rate high enough for Buffy to consider him a hindrance to her imaginary life. He was just a pest. An annoyance. Sometimes he was useful muscle.

Xander hadn’t realized just how true that was.

It hadn’t been a one-time thing, she’d told him later. He wanted an explanation—a justification—but at the same time he didn’t want to know any of it. He shouldn’t have to hear it. It should never have happened. What had happened to her? She wasn’t the same girl any more. The vivacious, quippy girl who’d turned away from the popular crowd to befriend him and Will. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been that girl.

When Willow had insisted they bring Buffy back, she said she knew exactly what to do. That Buffy would be herself. Happy. Happy and alive. But Willow was wrong, it was obvious from the start. Buffy came back all silent, her eyes unfocused and disinterested. And then getting involved with Spike….

That had ended about as well as could be expected, what with Spike being a monster and all. Attacked Buffy in her own house, tried to rape her, and then fled to god knows where. Too cowardly to face up to his actions. And he had mocked Xander for leaving Anya? Well, he’d left Anya for her own good. If Spike ever did anything unselfish the world would start turning backwards.

He didn’t have to worry about Spike, though. He was gone. He was smart enough to realize he’d gone too far and that Buffy would stake him if he came back to town. And obviously he wanted to live more than he wanted Buffy. He was a demon. It was the only way he could be. It was impossible to go against nature.

Waiting in the checkout line, Xander glanced at the contents of his cart. It looked like he’d gotten everything they needed, but he’d forgotten to write a list. Maybe he’d ask Willow to write one next time, but she’d probably say she want to go, too. But she didn’t, really, she’d just say it to make him feel better. So he wouldn’t worry about her as much.

Buffy was back on track now. She had re-enrolled in college and gotten a better job, a job with a future. She was rid of Spike, thank god. She was making the house more her own, re-doing her mom’s old room.

Which was necessary, of course. They’d both scrubbed the carpet more than once, but the blood stains wouldn’t come out. Tara’s blood, seared into the room in which she’d lived for such a short time.

It would be Buffy’s room now. New carpet, new paint. She’d sold her mother’s old bedroom set and new furniture was going to be delivered. She was moving out of her little girl room. It was a step forward. She was making a claim on adulthood.

But she was making it in the place that Willow should have been. Where she should would have felt comfortable and safe, in the room she had shared with her lover, with her closest friend in the next room and the girl she loved like a little sister down the hall.

That’s where Willow should have gone after she left Goldenbrook, not to him. What did he know about taking care of somebody? Buffy had met his parents, she had to realize he didn’t know how to do that. It went against everything he’d learned while growing up. He’d learned to destroy, not nurture. Everything he didn’t ruin was an accident. He’d driven away the woman he loved, thrown her away. He couldn’t heal anybody, even himself. Buffy and Willow had been inseparable for so long, and now Willow was just another taboo subject, like Angel and Riley.

"Buffy roadkill," he muttered. The checkout clerk looked at him curiously. Xander just averted his eyes and thrust some money at him. What could he say?

He hated himself for even thinking such a thing about Buffy. She’d given more than anyone ever would. Ever could. But he wondered again where that light-hearted girl had gone. She’d made everything better, and they all needed that now, more than ever.

***

Willow surveyed the pile of neatly folded towels and socks with satisfaction. She liked doing things like this, they made her feel normal. She wanted to get back to normal.

Willow laid the last folded dish towel on top and began putting things away. She knew where everything was; she’d rearranged most of the kitchen cabinets and all of the drawers since moving in with Xander. She needed something to do, and he seemed to just want her to sit in the couch all day, frozen in the position she’d been in when he left for work. She was ready to do things, all sorts of things. He just didn’t realize it yet.

The Watcher’s Council, of all things, had taken care of her. Placed a psychiatrist at Goldenbrook to help her. Not because they cared, of course, but because they were worried. A major supernatural threat that even the Slayer was helpless against must be dealt with. Contained. Neutralized.

After months of treatment the doctor was satisfied. She was soothed in mind and body. There was nothing left in her to cause the council concern; the magic had been burned out of her somehow, propelled by the dosing Giles had given her. She was cured.

The sessions with the Council’s doctor had been interesting—at least once she had recovered enough to actually realize what was going on. She told him about her life. Her feelings of helplessness as a child and young teen, when her mother was sweet but disinterested and her father merely disinterested. Willow had actually preferred to spend her days at Xander’s, which had to be the first sign of incipient insanity. She told the psychiatrist about her early forays into magic, holding nothing back. How the spirit of that gypsy woman had possessed her and she was able to restore Angel’s soul.

How she’d never really felt like herself since.

It had been only a few months after that when she started behaving peculiarly. Cheating on her adored boyfriend with an close friend. Spending less time working on the computer and more time on her magic. Experimenting with a coven. She didn’t even make valedictorian. And then the sudden attraction to Tara. She felt compelled, barely able to make her own decisions. The intense shot of magic Giles had given her had somehow brought her back to herself, cast out those strange impulses. They weren’t bad, necessarily, but they weren’t her.

The psychiatrist had been delighted.

Two weeks later, Willow had been released. The doctor flew back to England, planning how best to tell the Council of his great success. They would no doubt be very pleased.

She didn’t care if they were pleased. Willow loathed the Council, had ever since Buffy and Joyce were nearly killed during the Cruciamentum, when the Council had weakened Buffy and then set her against a crazed vampire. And when they came back, while Glory was looking for Dawn, they’d made Buffy jump through hoops just to tell her that Glory was a god—she hated them. They were smug. They were useless.

But the really terrifying part was how easy they were to fool.

They thought some dead gypsy made her do things? She made her own decisions. She’d told the doctor what he wanted to hear in order to get out of there. Her heart had been broken, but her mind was intact. She didn’t belong there. They couldn’t fix anything.

She was the only one who could do that, and she’d already set her plan in motion.

***

She didn’t even know why she was friends with Janice. Dawn wasn’t especially trying to stay out of mischief, but Janice...sometimes being with her was like sticking your hand in a blender. She had "trouble" tattooed on her forehead.

Actually, she had "trubble" tattooed on her forehead, because she thought it was funny that way. Also, it was on her hip, not her forehead. But the point stood.

For years Dawn had been in the habit of being her friend, and tried reflexively to impress her. Janice wanted to do this? They did it. Dawn usually did it more. Their friendship was more about Janice than it was about Dawn, and it was the only way she was really able to get her part in—the alternative being to simply listen and agree and be the number two in the friendship. More the number two than she was already. She’d been number two all her life, and she didn’t want to be it any more than necessary. There really wasn’t much to recommend the position.

But this afternoon, they’d met up with the two skankiest guys Dawn had ever seen, and Janice nudged her like that was a good thing. Look, Dawn! Yellow teeth! And holes in their jeans that showed they weren’t wearing underwear. Dawn really would have preferred living with the delusion, thank you. And then Dawn thought: hey, Janice is the one who set us up with vampires. And then never even apologized about it. Dawn was supposed to apologize if she opened her mouth while Janice was going on about her new shade of nail polish, but the whole nearly-getting-Dawn-killed thing? Not apology-worthy.

When she thought that, it was suddenly, whoosh! She didn’t want to impress Janice anymore. In fact, she didn’t even want to speak with Janice again. Her mom was nice, but Janice was a creep. A little second-hand mom time here and there wasn’t enough to make hanging around Janice worth it. Although maybe she could call if she felt bad, or something. Just to say hi.

To Janice’s mom, that is.

She had to get her mom-ishness where she could. Buffy was all absorbed in…Buffy, and Dawn couldn’t even remember the last time someone had kissed her cheek. Which was stupid, because she was too old for that anyway. But sometimes it was nice for someone to kiss you goodnight, to feel your forehead if you had a stuffy nose and hug you extra-hard when you were blue.

Buffy was better at arm-patting.

What had Buffy meant, anyway—"I want to show you the world"? It sounded like some made-for-Lifetime movie, one she wouldn’t watch even if her only other choice was homework. Oh course, it didn’t mean any more than Buffy’s other big-time pronouncements. How many times had Buffy given her that I’m-better-and-everything’s-going-to-be-fine-now spiel? Six or seven times, at least. Didn’t mean a thing.

Dawn had stopped paying attention after number four.

Still, things were a little better than last year. Buffy had started making dinner regularly, and although she was a pretty bad cook, it was still better than anything Dawn could make, plus the benefit of her not having to make it. Actually, Dawn could tell that Buffy was trying, although she wasn’t good at it. Buffy had bought her new school supplies on her way home from work, but that kind of pissed Dawn off, since she would have liked a say in the selection, thanks. Last year Spike had taken her, and let her get whatever she wanted. He’d paid for it, not shoplifted, which surprised her.

Humming, Dawn moved to her bureau and opened the bottom drawer, pushing aside her seldom-used mittens and knitted winter hat. She didn’t know why she was even keeping them, they just took up valuable drawer space. She had other stuff she needed to keep tucked out of sight.

Beneath the winter gear, that’s what she wanted. She pulled out the folded towel and carried it over to her bed, unfolding it carefully. Didn’t want to damage it.

She smiled as she unwrapped the scarf inside to study the jumble of bones. Had Spike even noticed it was gone? Maybe he was drinking too much to see straight—there were bottles everywhere in his crypt. But he couldn’t stay drunk forever. He’d sober up some time.

And then when he was sober…that’s when he’d start to feel it. It might not bother him too much yet, but it would get worse. Dawn knew exactly how to make him suffer.

The bag of bones? Maybe it would upset him. But he’d realize soon enough that it was only the beginning.

She knew something was wrong the moment she touched the handle of their front door. She’d made it clear to Dawn that the doors were to be kept locked at all times, even when they were home. They used to leave them unlocked, but that was a dangerous habit, and Buffy had put a stop to it.

Laying her book bag on the front step, Buffy eased the door open. Whoever it was must have thought the house would be deserted; Dawn was usually over at Janice’s after school, and Buffy had class. No one was supposed to be home.

From the kitchen she could hear voices, muted. One of them pitched higher, and Buffy’s heart stilled, and then began to race. It was Dawn, and she was upset. Buffy abandoned stealth for speed, and ran to the kitchen, bursting through the doorway, ready to fight.

Dawn and Giles, sitting together at the kitchen table, looked up at her with surprise evident on their faces. Between them was a plate with a few cookies and a litter of crumbs, and in front of Dawn was the remains of a glass of milk.

Buffy skidded to a halt, as surprised as they were. Giles, after all, had returned to England after he recovered from his injuries. There was really no reason for him to stay in Sunnydale, was there? Nothing to keep him here.

"Giles? What are you doing here?" she asked blankly. But then her brain started to work, and she came to the most obvious conclusion: impending apocalypse. "Is there some Hellmouthy beast about to destroy the world?" she asked cautiously. It had only been a few months since Will—since the last time. Those things usually only happened in spring. It was nice and regular. Like everybody coming back in September from wherever they’d been all summer.

Hey, it had happened again. It was fall, and Giles and Spike had both returned. It was like magic.

Like magic. Abruptly her mood soured. She’d missed what Giles was saying, but shifted her attention to him now.

"—would have notified you immediately of course, so don’t worry about that. Really, I just came for a visit. I was concerned."

He was visiting because he was concerned about her? That was bizarre. The first time, he’d left her with a day’s notice. Left her with no mother, no father to speak of, a sister to care for. She was just getting used to being alive, and he left her. Because leaving really was the best way to express concern, or at least that’s what they all told her before they left. Some variation thereof.

He’d just found out she’d been pulled out of heaven, and he left anyway.

No visit for six months. He came by finally, to save the world. That was big enough for him to visit. Nothing less. So what was he doing here now? The last time he’d left, in June, she’d told him to go, she was fine. But he hadn’t listened when she’d asked him to stay, so why did he listen when she told him it was okay to leave? Did what she said suddenly count more?

Stop it, she thought. It doesn’t have to be like this. Act like an adult. Be an adult.

Buffy shook her head, dismissing her bitterness. His concern. "Why would you be worried?"

He opened his mouth, but Dawn beat him to the punch. "Spike’s back," she announced loftily. She hadn’t wanted to tell Buffy before—couldn’t stand the thought of it, and besides, Buffy might suspect something—but if Buffy was going to hear about it, Dawn wanted the satisfaction of being the one to tell her.

Buffy shifted her gaze to her sister. "And you’re just now telling me?" she inquired with mock surprise. "Because you’ve known for days."

The smile dropped from Dawn’s face, but she quelled her rising panic quickly. Buffy didn’t know anything. She couldn’t. Not unless she’d been going through Dawn’s things—of course, that would be just like her! "How did you find out?" Dawn demanded furiously, jumping to her feet.

"Spike told me. Apparently he didn’t want to lie to me," said Buffy, trying but failing to keep the anger out of her voice. It pissed her no end that her own sister had lied to her about it, but a soulless demon had told her the truth.

Oh, who was she kidding? Maybe the soul was overrated anyway. The world had nearly ended a few months ago because a souled witch was angry. And Buffy had spent months before that chasing after three completely souled, completely dangerous assholes, one of whom was the one who had pushed Willow over the edge—

Shut up, she told herself. No one made Willow do anything. She made her own decisions.

And so did Buffy.

"You talked to him?" Dawn gasped. "After what he did—after—"

"Dawn, that’s enough," rushed out Buffy, heading Dawn off. She hadn’t told Giles about what happened in the bathroom, and she wasn’t about to. It wasn’t his business. It was between her and Spike. No one else ever should have known.

"But he—"

"Excuse us," Buffy said to Giles, tugging Dawn out of the room. She was being gentle, but not giving her sister a choice.

In the entryway Dawn wore a typically sullen expression, one that surely Buffy had given up by the time she was 16. The only thing Dawn wore more often was Buffy’s favorite sweater.

"Did you tell him? About what Spike did?" Buffy asked quietly, trying to keep her patience. She knew she had a tendency to snap at Dawn. It had only worsened after Dawn had become so remote. She had absolutely no idea how to set things right between them, but she had a great handle on making things worse.

Dawn’s eyes grew hostile. "I didn’t tell him anything," she said coldly.

Even trying to treat Dawn gently she’d been too harsh, Buffy realized. Sometimes it was difficult to remember she was dealing with her younger sister, someone who depended on and looked to her for guidance and affection. Or had.

"Dawnie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I was just so surprised to see him," Buffy said soothingly.

Dawn didn’t look convinced, but her expression eased a little.

"Just walking in and finding him in the kitchen with you was a shock," Buffy added.

A chill settled over Dawn’s face again. Apparently that hadn’t been what she thought Buffy was going to say. Buffy wasn’t sure what Dawn wanted. "I mean, I just—"

"It’s fine," said Dawn stonily. "I have homework anyway." She disappeared up the stairs, going, going, gone.

It was a view Buffy was very familiar with, but she didn’t know how to change it.

***

Judging by the apprehensive look Buffy had given him, it looked like Dawn had nearly blurted out why Buffy and Spike had parted ways.

Buffy didn’t even notice him as he watched the sisters from the doorway. Strange, how he and Buffy had known each other so long and so well, yet had grown increasingly estranged. It wasn’t the distance, couldn’t be. When he’d returned to Sunnydale the previous fall, Buffy had maintained a perfect remoteness from him. From everyone. Everyone except Spike, apparently. Giles had thought that his returning to England would provide the jolt necessary to bring her back to herself, but she’d only sunk in deeper.

He hadn’t let her know that he was coming. As much as it shamed him to feel that way, he didn’t want her to have a chance to brace herself before he arrived. To prepare a story with which to fob him off. She was dear and brave, but she loved her secrets. That was nothing new. How long had she kept Angel’s return from the dead to herself? Despite the danger to herself and others?

He didn’t want her to have the opportunity to plan any further deceptions. Or, if it came to that, to warn Spike.

If it came to that.

Dawn had been surprised when he’d shown up on the doorstep, but seemed pleased to see him. They’d been having a perfectly civilized conversation when Buffy had burst in. Dawn had been speaking to him with unusual frankness. She was upset. Upset about Janice. About Buffy.

About Spike.

He’d been surprised she’d even mentioned him; she seldom had since Buffy returned, sensing his dislike for the vampire. He’d only just put up with Spike after Buffy’s death, knowing they needed his help with patrolling and looking after Dawn. He was rather good at both.

But Giles had never felt entirely comfortable about Spike’s association with Buffy and the others. Even years ago, when Angelus had been so determined to end the world, Giles would have cautioned her against trusting Spike to assist her in defeating Angel.

Of course, he had been in no position to do so. He was busy being tortured, which Spike had been content to allow as he nurtured his own plans.

Later, after the Initiative had succeeded in doing what no Slayer had ever been able to—leash Spike—the vampire had flatly refused Giles’ suggestion that he consider the opportunities the chip presented. To forge a new path, to align himself with good, since he was unable to indulge in evil. Spike had made clear he wanted no part of redemption. He would rather enjoy what wickedness came his way, through Adam and Harmony and others, than make any movement towards the light. He wanted no part of protecting humanity.

And he was back. Dawn had seen him. And naturally he had made his presence known to Buffy; he had centered his life around her for the better part of two years. The only things Spike knew how to do were fight and fixate on women. In Buffy he had found the ideal outlet for both his preoccupations—first wanting to kill her, then wanting something else.

Yes, it was good he had returned.

***

"It doesn’t disturb you—his return?"

Buffy shook her head and forced a smile. It was uncomfortable, sitting in the living room talking to Giles about Spike. It was wrong, she’d never talked to him about her personal life. She remembered when he’d asked how she’d known that she was responsible for Angel losing his soul, and she felt so miserable and looked at him and he’d known. And she felt like garbage.

It wasn’t the kind of thing someone who’s like a father to you should hear. And now she was an adult, she was 21, and she still didn’t feel comfortable talking about her private life with him. She would have liked to have asked her mother if that was normal, but that wasn’t an option. And she wouldn’t have felt comfortable asking her mother about such things in the first place.

She relied on her own judgement, and she always had.

"It’s his home," Buffy replied simply. "Where else would he go?"

It was his home, she knew, because she was there.

She was being deliberately obtuse, Giles felt sure. "If you’re not comfortable with his presence, he can be made to go elsewhere," he pointed out.

Buffy stiffened. "What? Threaten him into leaving?" she asked, her voice tense. She knew Giles was only trying to help, but it was wrong. It seemed like most of the Scooby interaction with Spike had involved coercing him to cooperate under the threat of death. He could assist them in defeating whatever the new big bad was, but he couldn’t fight them. Hell, even Dawn could hurt him if she wanted to, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

Suddenly she remembered last spring, patrolling in his graveyard. She’d broken up with him weeks before. He’d left Xander and Anya’s wedding before…well, before Xander did. She and Spike had run into each other and started talking, and they were getting along fine. Then Xander and Willow had come in and Xander, feeling angry and guilty about leaving Anya, had torn into Spike. Snarled at him and then knocked him down, like he was the dummy in her training room, just there for someone to abuse.

Inside Buffy winced. And she’d always been number one with the punch.

Giles was still talking, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what he thought about Spike, or what Xander thought or even Dawn. No one was interfering with him. They’d done enough, all of them.

"He’s here and he’s not going anywhere," Buffy said flatly. "I’m fine with that. We’ve talked and things are okay."

Giles considered her statement. Spike might have seemed unthreatening when the two had spoken, but they had no idea how he would react to being around Buffy after she had rejected him; his reaction to Drusilla’s rejection had involved kidnapping Willow and Xander to procure a spell to enchant Drusilla, and then ended "happily" with him torturing her.

In short, not something Buffy should have to deal with because of a slip in judgement when she was depressed.

"You may think everything is fine, but you can’t—"

The rest of his argument disappeared as Buffy leapt to her feet, staring out the front window. "Jesus, what is she doing here?" Buffy ground out, lunging towards the door and wrenching it open. She stalked across the lawn with jerky strides to the small figure under the tree.

Willow, face tilted to the ground but eyes looking upward, gazed intensely at Buffy. Hungrily, Giles thought. Like she hadn’t seen Buffy in months.

Buffy flew to Willow as if to stop her from making any move closer towards the house. Giles didn’t know when Willow had appeared; she hadn’t been there when he and Buffy had sat down.

"What do you think you’re doing here?" Buffy snarled. "I told you to stay away!"

"I—"

"Do you have a death wish? Because if you come here again, I’ll forget that Slayers don’t hurt humans," Buffy spat out. "Now get out of here! Now! Or do I have to call Xander again?" she demanded, advancing on Willow as if she would grab the girl. Willow backed up hurriedly, casting Giles a frightened glance.

He nodded to her. "Go," he mouthed, and she turned and disappeared into the growing twilight, shoulders slumped. When he turned back to Buffy, she was already in the house, shutting the door behind her, not realizing that he wasn’t with her. Or not caring.

He followed her inside, and found her pacing mindlessly in the front room.

"That was rather unusual," he noted neutrally. "May I take it that wasn’t the first such scene?"

Buffy cast him a wild-eyed glance. She was completely undone, and clearly in no mood to talk.

"It really doesn’t seem realistic to expect that Willow will never come here again, does it?" he prompted gently. "I think it might be better if you dealt with this situation instead of just ignoring it."
 

"Deal with it?" Buffy scoffed. "Which part it? The part where she tried to kill me? Or the part where she tried to destroy the world?"

"Both parts, I should think," he returned calmly. "Angel tried to do both, and you forgave him."

Buffy froze in her tracks. He knew immediately he’d said the wrong thing. But how could she forgive such a thing for one person she’d loved, and not another? Buffy looked at Willow and saw the murderous witch who’d attempted to end the world. He looked at her and saw the timid child she’d been before Buffy came to Sunnydale—the friendless girl who had to work up her nerve to speak outside of class, who’d shifted her eyes from the gaze of others, lest she see their derision. She was far more innocent of her crimes than Angel. And she depended on Buffy’s love and approval far more than he ever had.

Buffy glared frostily at him. He would not be able to reason with her, he knew, not until she calmed down.

"I need to take a walk," she announced coldly, glancing around, looking at everything but him. She stalked over to the corner of the living room, picked up a large shopping bag full of god knows what, and moved past him.

Giles couldn’t stop himself. "Are you going to see him?"

"Yes," Buffy replied tonelessly. She didn’t even break stride as she left the house, and Giles, behind her.

***

She’d brought him a blanket. Just handed him a big paper bag and let him rummage inside and there it was. She’d never given him anything before.

"It’s for me?" Spike asked in surprise. "You bought it?"

"It was around the house. I thought you could use it," she replied, feeling antsy. It was still a little awkward to be around him. Not as much, but a little. She wanted to just rush past this stage and hit the next one, which had to be better. "I noticed your old one was gone."

Noticed on one of her many visits to check the crypt.

"Yeah, I saw that. Clem must have set it on fire, or lost it in a poker game," said Spike softly, still amazed that she’d brought him something—anything—but especially something to keep him safe. His ratty old one had protected him on countless trips to see her, to visit the Magic Box, and to steal her underwear.

It had lain over them when they slept. Tangled under them when they weren’t sleeping.

He wished Clem hadn’t lost the blanket, but her giving him the new one was…nice. Pale blue, with little stars embroidered on the trim. He recognized it now; he’d seen it on her bed several times. She seldom bothered to make her bed.

Of course, she didn’t know he’d been in her room all those times. There was really no reason for her to know.

"You up for patrolling?" she asked briskly.

He nodded. He didn’t mind that the moment was broken. He was just glad they’d had it at all.

They walked through the cemetery in silence for a while. Buffy seemed preoccupied, and he didn’t want to interfere. Well, that was a bloody lie, he wanted to stick his nose in every inch of her business, but he was going to handle this well, even if it killed him.

"What do you do when you do something stupid, and it comes back to bite you on the ass?" she asked suddenly.

Spike was startled. For a moment he thought she was talking about his soul, but that was ridiculous. She didn’t know about it. Couldn’t…right?

"What kind of thing?" he asked cautiously. Feeling his way around.

She hesitated, then plunged ahead. "In the spring—right after you left—a bunch of stuff happened." She waved her hand in dismissal as he opened his mouth. She wanted to get this out now, or she’d just shove it to the back of her mind again. "Warren—the guy who built the robot for you—was bugging me all year. He’s the one who killed that girl, the one I thought I’d killed. He decided things would be easier with me out of the way, so he shot me."

Spike froze, unable to breathe. Forgetting he didn’t need to, but suddenly desperate for air. "You—you—" Suddenly he was tugging at her clothing, searching frantically for the wound, as if it were fresh and he had to staunch the bleeding. Why hadn’t he been there? What kind of a bastard was he? He’d left because he was selfish. Wanted her to love him, so he went off to get something to make it possible. Didn’t even think about staying and making sure she was safe.

She pushed his hands away. She thought, calmly, that she probably should be having a flashback to the bathroom, but that seemed so far away now. So many things had happened, and it was starting to seem like something that had happened in a movie, not a part of her life.

"I’m fine," she said shortly. "But one of the bullets hit Tara, and killed her."

He pulled his hands back. The Good Witch gone, huh? He felt a little nauseous. She’d been a pretty thing. Sly, too. He liked that in a woman.

And she was good to the Bit, and treated her like a mum would.

"Sorry about that," he murmured sincerely.

Buffy nodded. "Anyway, Willow went berserk and killed Warren and went after his friends. She got a big jolt of magic and tried to kill me—" She continued talking despite his horrified attempts to interrupt—"and then she decided it would be better to simply destroy the entire world. Giles and Xander stopped her. They stopped her. I couldn’t do a damn thing."

They were both silent for a moment, absorbing her words. Then, softly, Spike asked, "Is that why you’re upset? That you felt it should have been you to stop her?"

Buffy looked at him in surprise. Where had he gotten that? She knew the world didn’t revolve around her. "No," she said impatiently. "It was because—because months ago, after she’d broken Dawn’s arm—I chose her."

Spike stared at her without comprehension. He could tell what she was saying was very important to her, but he had no idea what she meant.

"I chose her over my sister," Buffy continued bitterly. "I should have thrown her out that night. She’d taken my sister out and then gone and gotten her magic crack and then nearly got Dawn killed. And I let her back in the house. Dawn was there, we’d just brought her back from the hospital, remember? Her arm was in the cast, and Willow was down the hall, in our mother’s room. And Willow sat on the bed and shivered and I felt terrible for her and I thought, a friend would help. I have to help. She didn’t mean to hurt Dawn. So I let her stay, and I took everything in the house that was magical at all, even the Kokopelli statue, he was our mother’s, Dawn loved him," Buffy explained almost incoherently, her voice starting to crack. "I took it all and threw it out. Some of it, Dawn begged me to let her keep. But I said no. That’s not what friends do.

"And then, after Tara was killed, Dawn tried to help Willow. I took her to your crypt so you could keep her safe, but you weren’t there. Why weren’t you there?" she asked, beginning to cry. "Clem was there but he couldn’t keep her in. And then she met Willow, and Willow tried to—she tried to—" She broke off, crying. He touched her shoulder and she turned into him, burying her face against him as he stroked her back.

"She tried to kill Dawn. She was going to kill her. I’d ignored Dawn’s pleas for her, forgave her what she’d done to Dawn, and she was going to kill her."

***

It was later, much later that Buffy returned home, and she didn’t see Giles in the shadows of the porch as she slipped up the stairs and into the house. She’d been gone for hours, and he had been left with plenty of time to think. He really didn’t like his conclusions.

An ugly incident, and her first impulse was to go to Spike. How long had that been going on? Had she been doing that last fall, before he’d left?

Unbidden, he recalled helping a drunken Buffy up the stairs one night. Abruptly he realized that she hadn’t been drinking alone. And she’d never let a word slip. All those night patrolling—had she been alone then? It was good that she’d apparently felt she could confide in someone. But Spike? Nothing healthy could come of it. And considering how everything had worked out for…everybody, he couldn’t have been doing much good.

Obviously, nobody had.

When Giles had spoken to Xander, before he’d left for England, the boy had become agitated when Spike’s name had been mentioned. That wasn’t uncharacteristic, really, considering the nature of Buffy and Spike’s involvement. When she had been involved with Angel, even before he lost his soul, Xander had been almost irrational about the vampire. A hatred of demons, maybe, although he seemed to have gotten beyond that in his relationship with Anya. And certainly jealousy had played a part. Perhaps that was all it was this time. Perhaps.

But then again, perhaps it was time he went to visit Spike for himself.

Bag of Bones

His heart hurt. It was subtle at first, the kind of faint ache that accompanies melancholy. Not the piercing, inescapable pain that comes with the loss of love. Spike was familiar with them both, and had no problem telling the difference.

But when the pain suddenly became sharper, he awoke without a sound or a start and looked up to see Giles, standing over him, pressing the point of a stake against his chest.

"Been awhile, Rupert," Spike breathed—careful not to exhale much. Didn’t want to jostle the stake. Hadn’t seen him since they were stuck in the magic shop, when they had lost their memories. He and the Watcher had thought they were father and son, and the last thing they’d done was hug. He hoped the Watcher hadn’t gotten any ideas, because he wasn’t Angelus.

Or, of course, he could’ve come to stake him for attacking Buffy.

Giles pressed the weapon closer to his heart. Spike could almost feel the muscle giving way beneath the pressure, ready to allow it entry. As if its presence were welcome.

Well, it damned well was not. His heart could keep its buggered opinion to itself. His entire existence had proven nicely that his heart couldn’t find its way out of a one-room shack without a sign over the door, so all things considered, it wasn’t getting a vote in this case.

"I want to know about you and Buffy," Giles told him coldly, holding the wood steadily against Spike’s chest. "What happened between you. Why you left. And what you think you’re doing back in town."

Spike shifted a little. Of course, he could hold a position for hours; no circulation to worry about. Came in handy quite a few times. But that didn’t mean he liked it, and he normally roamed around like he was on wheels. Of course, he thought sourly, some of the time he actually had been on wheels.

"You don’t really need the artillery, mate, what with me being toothless and all," Spike reminded Giles.

Giles glanced towards the door. For the first time, Spike noticed that the Watcher had left it open, bright early morning sunlight streaming into the crypt.

A well-timed visit, one designed to prevent Spike from escaping if the Watcher decided he didn’t care for Spike’s answers. He could stay with Rupert and his little stake, or take his chances on the sunshine. Which was still in the fatal way for him, soul or no soul.

Of course, he could always haul the blanket with him to give him a fighting chance outside. The blanket Buffy had given him. He liked it on his sarcophagus, where he slept. Where he had slept with her, months before. He liked it there, and he liked her there, and he might as well face it, he couldn’t run from her Watcher and still hope for more from her. It wouldn’t just happen.

Christ, felt like he was still in school and called before the headmaster. Of course, the headmaster had never actually called William to his rooms, because William had never stepped out of line. But if he had called him, Spike was fairly sure he would not have threatened to drive a stake through his heart. Beat him with a switch, maybe. Stake, no.

Slowly, Giles backed away, keeping the stake at his side. Spike sat up

"What is it you want to know?" he asked warily. It didn’t sound like Buffy had told him about the bathroom. Had she told him anything at all about their involvement? Maybe the Bit had told him. Or Anya. Or Harris…yeah, Harris hated him. Only reason he hadn’t taken Spike’s head off was that Anya stopped him. Guess he owed her one.

Giles surveyed Spike. "I know you told yourself you had feelings for her. I want to know what you think you were doing acting on them."

Spike felt a surge of anger. What the hell was with these people—didn’t think he was capable of love? Thought he was too low for that? Or that Buffy was too special to be touched by the likes of him? He’d agree with that one, actually. But the alternative was not touching her, and he didn’t care for that option.

And where, he wondered, did Rupert get off imagining that Buffy was some delicate violet who had things done to her? Like she wasn’t there right alongside him the whole time. Urging him on. Taking the lead. She was the one to kiss him the first time, and the second. The one to climb on him, not the other way around. To shove him against a wall and—

"Well?"

Spike gathered himself. He wasn’t above enjoying a beautiful memory a time or two. Or twenty. "She’s an adult, Watcher. She makes up her own mind about these things. I don’t remember her ever consulting you in the past."

Giles felt irritation prick at the edges of his composure. Why, he wondered, did Spike always have that effect? "Buffy makes her own choices, yes, but in the past she—"

"In the past, she dated a bunch of worthless gits because she was trying to make the lot of you happy by acting normal," Spike snapped. How dare he try to run her life? Giles had attended one too many Pink Floyd concerts in his youth, obviously, and brain damage was the inevitable result. "I suppose Captain Cardboard was your idea of the perfect boyfriend? Bland and USDA inspected? Readily digestible, no unpleasant aftertaste? At least that’s what his little bints said."

The lack of comprehension on Giles’ face alerted Spike that he’d said too much. Kind of a common affliction with him, really. "Forget I said that," he added hastily. Giles opened his mouth to inquire, but Spike cut him off. "If Buffy wanted you to know everything, she’d tell you everything."

Giles’ mouth tightened. The insufferable delinquent. "You’re trying to interfere with the Watcher-Slayer bond—"

"Bond? You mean the one that’s so strong you skip back to England a week after she’s perfectly happy to burn up rather than keep on living? Or the one where you leave her living with an unstable witch so powerful she can raise the dead, and you don’t even check up on them? Or there’s always the one where you take your swollen chess-club brain off and leave her to try to figure out every fucking magical bit of mayhem in Sunnyhell by herself, ‘aided’ by her useless friends. Christ, their combined brain wattage couldn’t power a nightlight. Or maybe the one where—"

"I think you may be forgetting that I’m holding a stake," Giles reminded him mildly.

Spike broke off his litany of Giles’ shameful shortcomings. It really was shocking. He’d secretly kind of admired the man before he hied off and left Buffy. Left her to bear the weight of protecting the world without his guidance. Left her with a bunch of self-absorbed children who gave her no help at all, and then came back and thought he could dictate her life. "You were supposed to take care of her," he pointed out. "And you left her, like all the rest of them did."

"As did you," Giles noted, his voice remote.

Spike closed his eyes briefly. Was that how she saw it? How she felt it? "I did it for her own good."

"As did I. One of the reasons I left was so she would make her own decisions," Giles pointed out. "But I want you to think about what you can offer Buffy. You are restrained from killing only by virtue of a chip in your head. It’s not something you’ve chosen, and it’s not something you control. What happens if and when the chip fails? You claim you love Buffy, but how will you behave if you cease to love her?"

"Won’t happen," returned Spike flatly, meeting the Watcher dead in the eye.

"So you say. But perhaps you should look to the example of your grandsire," Giles advised, ignoring the way Spike bridled at the suggestion. "I won’t even mention the unlikelihood of your just happening to fall in love with the woman your grandsire and former rival loved. The psychological implications are immense. I wonder, really, if it even has anything at all to do with her."

"I—"

"But Angel left town so that Buffy could live her life. Live it as a human, not as a consort to a creature who cannot walk in the sun or give her children. And there was less to worry about with Angel. He had a soul, and was guided by more than merely his feelings for her."

I have a soul, thought Spike with bitter resentment. But he said nothing. The Watcher was not going to be his test subject for that little piece of news. Spike somehow doubted that he would be a receptive audience.

"How many people do you suppose you’ve killed over the years? A thousand? That would be a very modest guess, wouldn’t it?" said Giles. He clearly was not looking for a response. "You’re what, 200? Even if you only killed a person a week, that’s more than 10,000, isn’t it? And really," Giles added, shoving his point home, "you didn’t just kill to survive, did you? A vampire could survive on a person a week, but a nickname like ‘William the Bloody’ isn’t earned though moderation…is it?"

Spike didn’t reply. He wasn’t anywhere near as old as Giles thought, but the estimate of 10,000 victims was still terribly low. Unspeakable low. Unimaginably.

He’d needed to survive, dammit. That’s what vampires did, they killed and they ate. What was he supposed to do? Stand on a street corner with a tin cup and a sign? Will growl for blood? He was a vampire. It had delivered him from mediocrity, he’d told Buffy. That was nothing but the truth. As a human he’d been pathetic. A target for bullies, scorned by women, desperately taking refuge in poetry. Drusilla had made him a man in more ways than one. Spike had eclipsed William entirely, and it hadn’t just been his demon. It was the man inside him as well, hungry for conquest. Aching to get a little of his own back. Somehow, it had turned into a lot. And he’d loved every bloody minute of it.

What was he supposed to do? Apologize? Hello, demon. It was what came naturally. Had come naturally. Ripping and tearing and running wild. Energy and lust pumping through his veins, alive for the first time. Acceptance. Admiration. Other vampires, humans, looking at him with awe, with fear. Not contempt.

"I—I—" Spike began hopelessly. He would never hurt Buffy. Never hurt her again. Other people—well, who the hell knew? He didn’t feel like it at this particular moment, but that was no guarantee. The chip was still humming in his brain, its painful little electrodes muzzling him. Keeping him in check. But it wasn’t alone now. Not alone.

"I want you to think about what I’ve said, Spike," Giles told him, crossing to the crypt door and slipping the stake into his jacket pocket. "Buffy may be content to have you in town. But as you pointed out so eloquently, not so long ago she was also content to dance herself to death. When you were involved before, it was secretly. No one knew. Now, I’m aware of it, and I will be keeping my eye on you. So I strongly suggest you think before you do anything, Spike. Anything at all."

***

The pounding on the door woke Xander out of a sound sleep. It was dreamless, and that made him happy. He hadn’t dreamed anything pleasant in a long time, which was sad. Before, no matter how bad his life had gotten, he’d always been able to take refuge in dreams. Now he was happy just to sleep straight through the night.

He dragged himself to the front door without bothering to put on his robe. It was barely seven in the morning; whoever came that early could be terrorized by the site of Xander in his jammies, he was past caring. Maybe they’d take it as a hint not to come so early.

In the past, he might have been worried at being roused that hour. Was it an emergency? Was he needed? He knew that wasn’t happening now. The only person who needed him was in his spare room. As for the world possibly ending, would they even be aware of it? They didn’t do research any more. Buffy still patrolled. At least he thought so; he hadn’t gone with her in…well, since she died. She could—

"Xander? Are you there?" came Giles’ voice through the door.

Xander pulled the door open hurriedly. Giles had left Sunnydale as soon as he’d recovered from his injuries, moved back to England and hadn’t been heard from since, more or less. He’d called Xander a couple of times. Willow said he called her during the day occasionally, to check on how she was doing. Xander had been relieved to hear that. Giles’ apparent disinterest in all of them had hurt him. Made him wonder if Giles had ever really cared about them, other than for the help they might provide Buffy. Made him wonder how he could just turn off his feelings for people he had been around every day for the last five years.

Xander could never do that.

"What is it?" he asked in concern as he stepped back so Giles could enter.

"Did you know? Why didn’t you call me?" Giles demanded. He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but talking with Spike had unsettled him. The things Spike had said to him—surely Buffy didn’t feel that way. That he’d abandoned her. She knew he had left for her own good. She had agreed with him, told him he was right to do so. She’d gone to the airport with him and kissed him goodbye. She hadn’t seemed upset. Certainly she would have said something if she were.

Xander had no idea what Giles was talking about. "Know what?"

"That Spike’s returned."

Obviously, Xander hadn’t known. For several moments he just stood there in shock, looking like he’d received a blow to the head. Then his expression began to clear and anger filled his face. "Are you telling me that little—"

"Giles?"

The two men turned at the sound of the tentative voice. Willow was there in the hall doorway, wrapped in a chenille robe. The same one she’d used at Buffy’s, Giles noted.

"Has something happened?"

"It’s nothing, Will," Xander told her. She knew nothing of what Spike had done. Buffy had been adamant that Willow not be told. At first Xander had thought that she hadn’t wanted to distress Willow with such upsetting news, but eventually it became clear that Buffy simply wasn’t interested in telling Willow, ever. It was this major thing, but it was something Willow would never know because Buffy had cut her out of her life. Willow didn’t even get second-hand information about her. Xander hated it, but he didn’t want to tell Willow about it either. There wasn’t anything they could do about it. Before now.

Now, Spike was back.

"It seems Spike has returned to Sunnydale," explained Giles, relaxing a little. Obviously, the children had known nothing of it. He hated to think of not being told.

"Oh, that," nodded Willow.

Unbidden, Xander felt a curl of apprehension lick along his spine. "What do you mean, ‘oh, that?’" he asked tensely.

"Well, yesterday I went out—just for a walk," Willow added hurriedly, cutting off his protests. Xander was so protective. What did he think she was going to do? Walk into traffic? Or maybe walk into the Magic Box and stock up on ingredients?

Actually, both of those options had their merits.

"So, I went out on a walk and I passed by Buffy’s and I—uh—thought maybe I’d say hi, and Giles and Buffy were talking, and I overheard," Willow finished somewhat lamely.

"You know not to go there," Xander exclaimed in agitation—his concern about Spike pushed to the side for the moment. Jesus, the last time Willow had gone over there Buffy had told him that if Willow ever came back, Buffy would…he didn’t like to think about it. She’d told him to keep Willow the hell away. Said she could pretend Willow didn’t exist if she didn’t see her, and that was the best thing for all of them. He’d told Willow, again and again, not to try to see Buffy. He thought he’d gotten through to her.

But she’d gone over again anyway. What could he do? How could he protect her? He didn’t want her in an institution again. It hurt his heart to think of her there, trapped, locked up like she was nothing. But god, if she was going around to see Buffy…Buffy was adamant. And he couldn’t watch Willow all the time. He had to go to work. And he had to trust her that she was staying away. What was the alternative?

Willow wasn’t even looking at him. "What did Buffy say?" she asked wistfully, her eyes on Giles. "Did she mention me?"

Dear god, how could she look at him with such hope? Buffy had screamed at her on the street like some kind of shrike the previous day. She had sounded quite unbalanced, really. He’d actually been afraid Buffy might strike her, yet Willow seemed to have no idea of just how angry Buffy was.

Or, he admitted to himself, she was just too persistent to be discouraged. Willow had always pushed forward through difficult times. It was something he admired about her. He remembered how tenderly she had cared for Tara after Glory had stolen her mind, and winced.

"I’m sorry," he told Willow. "She…she spoke mostly of other things."

"You mean about Spike?" Xander asked. "What did she say about him? Is she going to st—see him? Is she okay? Is she upset? Did she say whether—"

Giles cut off his babbling. "Xander, what are you going on about?" he asked in bemusement. He’d seldom seen Xander so discomposed.

Xander looked around in utter frustration. He was not supposed to talk about it in front of Willow. Or in front of Giles, probably. Buffy hadn’t told him that, but they’d had a lot on their minds the last few times he’d been around Giles.

"Yeah," Willow added. "They broke up months ago. Why would Buffy be all upset now?"

"Well, it’s—it’s only natural," Xander improvised wildly. "Remember when Riley came back? Him and his wife—what was her name? Mary Sue?"

"Sam," Willow corrected. "Buffy wasn’t happy, but I think that’s mostly because she suddenly had Ms. Perfect shoved in her face. Spike didn’t—he didn’t come back with a girlfriend, did he? Because that would just upset Buffy. She got the most awful look on her face when she saw—" Willow broke off hastily. She’d been about to say, when she saw Spike with Anya, but Xander didn’t need to hear that. But she saw, from the crushed look on his face, that he’d made the connection for himself.

"No, he’s alone," sighed Giles. "Apparently you two know even less about it than I do." Which was amazing, him being isolated other side of the planet and all.

"So how did you know?" asked Willow.

He replied without thinking. "Anya told me."

There was a stricken silence in the room. Finally Xander said, "She called you?"

Giles shook his head. "She came to see me, actually. Teleported, or whatever is the acceptable term for vengeance demons."

"She came to see you?" Xander repeated, his voice hushed. "Has she done that before?"

Giles fidgeted. He hadn’t really thought about how to address this before coming over. Perhaps he should have. "Once or twice," he admitted.

Xander just nodded dumbly. He’d never mastered the skill of keeping his emotions off his face, or out of his voice. At least he could try not to talk. Maybe he could walk around with a bag over his head. That should take care of it. "I have to get ready for work," he said hollowly, turning to head back to his bedroom, leaving Giles and Willow in the living room.

It was still early. Not yet eight. He was due on the construction site, but there was time left for what he wanted to do. After that little piece of news he wasn’t heading straight to work. He had a stop to make first.

***

Why did bottles hold so little? It was one of life’s little mysteries. Like hot dogs, or Enrique Iglesias.

Nice little visit he’d had from Ripper. Earned himself his nickname there. Came in, said a few things, made Spike feel like crap. All in all, a good day’s work for Watcherboy.

Fuck him. Who did he think he was? Thought he knew everything. Didn’t even know how old Spike was—wasn’t that enough of a clue that he didn’t have a…clue?

Got to lay off the booze, Spike thought vaguely. Wasn’t doing him any good at all. Probably killing off his brain cells. Wait, could dead brain cells be killed?

Another of life’s mysteries.

So the Watcher thought Spike’s love for the Slayer had something to do with the Poof? Ridiculous. If he’d wanted to get back at that big girl’s blouse he would have gone after Darla. She was undead again, last he’d heard. And despite what Giles and Buffy and everybody else in Sunnydale thought, she was far more the center of his existence than Buffy had ever been. His whole fucking existence had revolved around Darla. It wasn’t just the blood bond between them; he was fascinated with her. He’d been with Darla for more than a century. Even with the soul, he wouldn’t leave until she forced him too. He ate the dregs of society and hoped that would be enough to earn him her favor. When it hadn’t been, he’d scrabbled around alleys and dank holes and hadn’t cared if he lived or died. And as soon as Darla was brought back to life, they were together again, according to Dru.

Meanwhile, the Slayer was up here going about her daily life, trying everything she could to protect her sister. And he was down there with Darla. Didn’t even come up to help fight Glory, the self-involved git. Yeah, that’s some eternal love for you.

Spike finished the bottle he was working on and started in on another. Dropped the first to the floor as he lolled in his armchair. Hadn’t even bothered to turn the television on, which was probably a bad sign.

He thought of his present. His now absent present. He started to giggle stupidly. He really was rather shit-faced at the moment. He’d had a sharp ache in his gut the entire time the Watcher had been there and it had taken a long time and a lot of booze to make it go away. Damned curse.

What was that poem—Kipling, wasn’t it? Rag and a bone and a hank of hair? He knew it, but it was a long time ago. That’s what he was, right? Nothing but the contents of that package. Except for the powder, he didn’t know what that was about. But the rest…that’s what he was before the soul, right? Empty, without meaning or emotion or—

Fuck that! Spike straightened up, his head unfogging a bit. He hadn’t been empty, he’d loved and thought and felt as deeply as anyone. Shitload more than some. He had never been empty. Life would have been easier if he had. Wouldn’t have hurt so much.

He wondered when he’d see the Slayer next. Maybe Buffy could help him with his little present. It was her job, wasn’t it?

No, mate, her job is killing your kind to protect her kind. Not protecting demons from scary bones and hair. Shouldn’t bother her with it anyway. She had enough on her plate, feeling all guilty about the Bit.

Still, if she was coming around he could straighten up the place a little. Make it more the kind of place she’d want to be, and less of a hole. He stood up to start with the cleaning, but his head started throbbing and he staggered a bit. What was that? Too much booze, or was he starting to sober up? Hadn’t been drinking as steadily the last fifteen or twenty minutes. Had let down the pace.

He bent to retrieve the bottle at his feet, and instead knocked it under the chair. Hunkering down, he stuck his hand underneath and rooted around for it. He didn’t find it. But he did find something else. A snug little package.

His secret admirer had paid him another visit.