As soon as Buffy opened the door and saw the strained, anxious look on Xander’s face she knew why he was there.

"You heard Spike’s back," she said calmly, standing back so he could enter. Thank god Dawn had already left for school. She had no idea where Giles was, he’d been gone when she got up.

"How long have you known?" Xander demanded rawly. His voice was so rough it sounded like he was gargling rocks.

"A few days now," she admitted, moving over to sit on the couch.

He followed her, mimicking her movements. She doubted he was aware of what he was doing—he was completely distracted.

"Why haven’t you staked him?"

Buffy stared at her hands, clasped together in her lap. Like a little girl in church. "What good would it do?"

"Well, it would rid the earth of one soulless, bloodsucking fiend who, incidentally, tried to rape you not so long ago," he reminded her harshly. How could she just shrug off what Spike had done? To her, to others? Her indifference shocked him. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t the Buffy he loved.

Buffy hated having this conversation with him. She hated his knowing. His judging. It was what they did, her friends. Decide what standards she should be held to and let her know when she wasn’t up to par. "That’s between us," she told him.

"Us? Are you telling me there’s an us?" he asked in disbelief.

She considered that. "We’re friends," she said finally.

He couldn’t believe she was acting this way—it was exactly the way she’d been with Angel. Like all of the things they did, all of the evil, didn’t matter as much as her having a boyfriend. Like they had a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. "He kills people," he pointed out.

"You’ve killed people," she reminded him.

Xander stared at her, shocked. "What are you talking about?"

"Remember last year, when you called up that dancing demon who killed all those people? You of all people knew how dangerous demons are, and you summoned him anyway. None of us ever called you on it," she pointed out quietly. "None of us ever said a word."

"I never meant to—"

"I almost died, Xander. Remember?"

He closed his eyes in a hopeless attempt to forget. Of course he remembered. He’d thought he was seeing her die for the third time. He was so frightened, so horrified. He couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Couldn’t help her. It was a nightmare.

"Do you remember who saved me? It wasn’t you or any of the others. It was Spike. He grabbed me even though I was smoking and he’d go up too if I burst into flames. He went in where the rest of you wouldn’t."

"He’s a demon," Xander said desperately.

"So is Anya," Buffy shot back. "I notice you don’t seem to mind so much with her."

"She is—was—a former demon," Xander corrected warily. He never liked to think about it. It was easy to push to the back of his mind, because she’d had no powers when they were involved. That made ignoring it easy. So he wouldn’t have to wonder how he could love someone who’d done the things she had.

"I like Anya, but I’m not going to give her credit for being forced to become a human," Buffy dismissed. "I remember all those grisly stories she used to tell about her glorious days as Anyanka. She didn’t regret the things she did at all. She just regretted not being able to do them any more."

"Like Spike’s ever regretted anything," Xander scoffed, hurt.

Buffy was silent for a moment. "He’s regretted things," she said quietly.

She had seen it in his eyes.

***

The thing that mattered about presents was the thought behind them. Spike had always kept that in mind during his years with Drusilla, which helped him endure celebrations she marked not with the tender love-gifts he gave to her but with odd things that made sense to her damaged mind: a dead fern, a box of ceramic tiles, a lady’s hat. Once, she wrapped up the book he was reading and presented it to him with great flourish. They were lovingly meant, he knew. He was never certain of her exact thoughts, but he felt sure they were warm.

His new present was a little doll. Not like Dru’s. This one was twigs wrapped together and bound with twine to form a human figure. The essential thought behind this one was, I’ve seen "The Blair Witch Project."

So at this point Spike knew the bugger a) hated him, and b) had crap taste in movies.

Kind of a disappointment after the bones, really. All things considered, his anonymous friend was falling off on the job. The lack of effort really kind of hurt. Nobody took pride in their work any more.

He’d been staring at the doll for hours, sitting in his good chair, looking at it balanced on top of his television. For a while he thought it might have hypnotic powers, but then he realized he was still just pissed and snapped out of it. He’d been going at the bottle pretty good after Ripper left, but hadn’t had anything for awhile, and was pretty close to sober.

But he still couldn’t tag the sender. Tucked in the scarf with the twig figure were fresh herbs and leaves so fragrant he couldn’t pick up any trace of human scent beneath them. Eucalyptus leaves and rosemary and some other things he couldn’t identify. Plus some shriveled, blackened rose petals that disturbed him more than the rest put together. The rest was just a pile of mulch, as far as he was concerned, but the rancid petals seemed like a warning, or maybe a metaphor: everything withers. Everything has its day, and then dies. And although he’d walked the earth for a century and a half, he was as vulnerable to death as any human. One unlucky break and there’d be less of him than those shriveled petals, just a little dust marking where he’d been.

Of course, the doll had been highly effective at summoning those abdominal pains again. So it wasn’t a complete loss, right? At least not for the blighter who wanted to get to him so bad.

For a moment his thoughts turned to Giles. He was a good candidate. Had he come in and dropped it off, then found he couldn’t hold his wad and decided he might as well finish it then? God, the man was cold; Spike hadn’t seen ice like that since the winter he and Dru spent in Minsk. All righteous, he was, and fierce about protecting his girl, except not enough to stay with her. What the hell kind of love was that? If you love, you stay. That’s what a man did. A real man.

Abruptly an image flashed in Spike’s mind: Buffy on the ground, her blood pouring out a bullet wound. In the shoulder, maybe? Hurt like hell, but non-fatal. Or the leg—enough to floor her but not enough to leave her with a limp? Where did it happen? Did Warren get to her when she was out patrolling, alone since Spike was gone and the Scoobies were off involved in their own lives? All alone, and every rotten evil thing knew she was out there every night?

Evil thing, he thought with a rise of distaste. He couldn’t say she had it wrong. He had been evil. Now, things were different. He was different. Not sure how different, yet. He’d always wanted to help her, make her happy. Not everything in him had been evil.

He’d never been a thing, though. Never just a thing. She’d wanted to put in him a place where he didn’t matter, and it was easier that way. Didn’t matter how she treated him if he was just a thing. Then he was just an accidental indiscretion, a puddle she slipped in, easy to wipe away.

Warren…Christ, Spike had been there in the basement with the little motherfucker. The same night he and the Slayer were first together, he’d been there with Warren. And all that time, all those things that happened to Buffy, and the whole time it had been Warren and his loser friends. He’d known where they were all along. If she’d just told him about them, about anything other then where she liked his tongue or how hard to hold her down, he could have told her. Told her and saved her being shot, saved Tara from dying and Willow from going crazy and Buffy from hating herself for not protecting Dawn better. Saved them all. God, why couldn’t she have told him?

Things had to be different this time. Had to be. They weren’t teenagers flirting in class. They brushed against death every day. For so long he’d lived with the idea of immortality that he took—well, not the long view, he was too impatient for that. But it had become easy to assume things would work out for him. He had time on his side.

Buffy, however, died on a semi-regular basis, and eventually it would be permanent. She was nearly 22; her time was marked. He had to grab at any time they had together. It could never been enough, because someday there would be a demon too strong, an ascension she couldn’t stop, or just a fledging who caught her when she was tired and had dropped her stake. And then she’d be gone. A few minutes later, he’d be gone too, because there wouldn’t be any point in continuing.

Time to be all responsible, he thought, getting up from the chair. He wished he could slide into his duster, but it was gone.

Let’s see how things went when they tried them like adults.

***

The first thing Spike heard when he stepped on Buffy’s porch was the Bit, screaming at her sister at the top of her lungs. "Stay out of my room, I’ve told you a thousand times!" she shouted, sounding even more like a possessed banshee than she had before Spike left. Christ, she could give dolphins lessons in the ultrasonic shrieks.

Spike realized he was smiling even as he thought about what an annoying little chit she was. He’d missed her something fierce. She and the Slayer, they were a good package deal. He always felt lucky to be around the two of them.

He withdrew into the shadows of the porch before he was noticed. His hand had been on the doorknob, the habit of someone who wasn’t confident of his welcome if he knocked but wanted to enter anyway. It wasn’t how he should act, now.

Besides, he might not be able to enter without an invitation. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out if he needed one. It would hurt. It was stupid, it was unreasonable, but it would hurt. He had wide experience in such matters.

From the kitchen the Slayer’s voice drifted out, calmer than her sister’s. "I was just straightening up. If you kept it neater, I wouldn’t—"

"Whether it’s neat or not has nothing to do with you! It’s my room, I can make the decisions!" Dawn shouted. "Why don’t you just concentrate on not flunking out this semester?"

"I could say the same to you," shot back Buffy. From the faint gasp Spike heard Platelet make, she wasn’t accustomed to Buffy returning her fire. The sounds of feet stomping, out the kitchen door and up the stairs, were Dawn’s final statement on the matter. Followed by the decisive slamming of her bedroom door, of course.

Beat it, mate. She’s got enough on her plate right now, Spike thought, turning to head off the porch. Behind him the kitchen door creaked open, and he froze, as guilty as if he’d been caught skulking under her tree again, staring up at her bedroom window.

"Spike? What are you doing?"

"Just, uhh…just thought I’d drop by, see if you wanted to go patrolling," he fabricated. Wasn’t going to dump that stupid curse crap on her now, she had more important things going on. He turned to face her and saw the light from the kitchen silhouetting her face, lightening her hair to pale gold as she stood in the doorway.

Buffy sighed. It had been a pretty lousy day. First Xander, and then a geology test she was pretty sure she screwed up, and then an argument with her supervisor, who had half her experience and made twice her pay.

It had been a lousy couple of days, really. She and Giles…she didn’t remember things ever being so awkward between them. The only bright spot had been last night with Spike, when she’d said everything she’d been holding in and he didn’t tell her the things she thought and felt and did were wrong. Just listened to her and rubbed her back during the worst and made little crooning noises in her ear. Nice noises.

And now she was just plain tired, and couldn’t stand the thought of spending the night walking around a deserted cemetery, looking for something to kill.

"Actually, I thought I might take the night off," she told him with a shake of her head.

"Oh—well, I’ll just—" Spike began, backing up.

"You want a popsicle?"

"What? A what?" Spike asked in surprise.

"Or a pudding pop?"

He just looked at her in confusion, like she’d spoken a foreign language. She backed away and held open the door. "Come in, Spike."

He moved into the house almost apprehensively. It was the first time she’d welcomed him there since Halloween. He’d been there for her endless birthday party, and at other times, but hadn’t been welcome. Even when they touched each other, away from the others, he knew she hadn’t really welcomed his presence there. Merely allowed it.

When she asked him in—was that a re-invitation? Or simply a courtesy? Had she put the spell on the house again, to keep him out?

Well, it wasn’t for him to know. Wasn’t his right to ask, and for that matter—oh, hell. "Did you revoke my invitation?"

Buffy pulled her head out of the freezer compartment and looked at him in surprise. "I—"

"You did, didn’t you? I mean, I understand. It was only practical. Really, when—"

"No."

They stood in silence in the kitchen, looking at each other. Waiting for the other to break the silence.

"Why didn’t you?" asked Spike softly, with wonder in his voice.

What could she say? She should have done it, really. Of course, she wouldn’t have asked Willow, but she could have gone to Anya or Giles. But they would have wanted to know why, and she didn’t want to tell them.

She’d seen the look on his face before he rushed out of the bathroom. The look of shock, of hurt. For once not because of something she’d done to him, but something he’d done. She didn’t have to worry about him. Not that way, at least. It was unreasonable. It was probably irrational. But it was something she just felt, and she’d always followed her instincts.

"I guess I just never got around to it," she told him quietly, ignoring a twinge of guilt over the facile answer. She had uninvited Angelus as quickly as possible, but had always been reluctant to do that with Spike. After he helped her with Acathla, she should have done it. They weren’t friends, only temporary allies. She should have done it when she came home and found him in the kitchen with her mother, taunting Angel as he was held back by the barrier she had chosen not to remove. And then a year later he was back, after the Gem of Amarra, trying everything to kill her, and still she hadn’t uninvited him. She didn’t have the spell cast until he’d told her how he felt about her. The idea of him thinking about her that way overwhelmed her.

She should have realized then that there was something between them. She couldn’t name it, but the signs had been there all along. She had tried to ignore him, but couldn’t bring herself to keep him out.

Spike didn’t question her easy answer, merely nodding. He knew there was more to it than that, but he was willing to accept what she gave him. He always had been.

He sat down at the kitchen table, taking the time to relish the moment. He hadn’t sat there since the previous summer, when she was gone. The kitchen was an intimate place, for family, and now she was welcoming him into it.

He’d had wild dreams when he left for Africa, but she disarmed him completely. The simplicity of sitting with her, in her mother’s house, with her baby sister upstairs, was more satisfying than anything he’d known. He’d left to change for her, but somehow she’d changed, too. She wasn’t the same girl who protected herself so fiercely. She wasn’t pushing him away any more.

"Was it a bad day, love?" he asked gently. She seemed so tired.

"Yeah. A bad week, really," she sighed, sitting across from him and handing him a popsicle.

Did she mean him? Of course she means you, you stupid git. Who else could make her feel so bad—other than the Poof, of course, he’d always been great at that. "I’m sorry, I’ll go," he told her, pushing back his chair.

She looked at him in surprise. "No, I don’t want you to go. It’s nice to finally relax," she said.

A stupid thrill of warmth rushed over him. "Why don’t you tell me about it," he suggested cautiously.

"It’s just everybody—everybody is being a pain right now," she said, rolling her eyes. "Giles flew in yesterday and started making these fatherly sounds and telling me I’m handling everything wrong. I know he wants to help, but he’s pushing too much and kept asking about Will—about Willow, and about you, and—why are you looking like that?"

Spike wiped any trace of expression from his face, but too late.

"What do you know?" she demanded. "Is it something about Giles—has something happened that—"

"Buffy, do you know where I put my—" Giles froze a few steps into the kitchen, transfixed by sight of his Slayer sitting at the kitchen table, calmly eating cheap iced confections with her former mortal enemy.

"Hello, Rupe," said Spike, leaning back and making himself at home. He favored the Watcher with an obnoxious smile and enjoyed the expression of distaste on the man’s face. Come into his crypt and threaten his life, would he?

He sneaked a glance to Buffy, who’d drawn her shoulders together tightly before releasing them with an obvious effort. He straightened up a little, regretting his juvenile glee in taunting Giles. Even if he did deserve it, the wanker.

Perhaps he should go. He pushed back his chair. "I think I’ll just be going," he told her, rising.

"Sit down, Spike, and have another popsicle," she told him flatly. It wasn’t an invitation. He sat.

"Would you like one, Giles?" she asked sweetly. She wasn’t trying to be a bitch, but this was a declaration of independence, dammit. She could have who she wanted in her home, when she wanted. As often as she wanted, in any room.

"I think not," he answered, his voice a little remote. Like he was trying not to show her the frosty disapproval she could tell he felt.

A thread of guilt shot through her heart. He loved her. He only wanted things to go well for her. He just didn’t realize she was old enough to decide those kind of things for herself. "We have pudding pops…or tea," she added, a little desperately.

"Tea? You didn’t tell me you have tea," said Spike plaintively.

She glared at him, and he looked abashed. She looked back up at Giles. "Please?" she asked hopefully.

He wavered. He didn’t want to. It was like giving up. Spike was bad for her, he couldn’t pretend otherwise. But the hope on her face…"All right," he sighed, moving to the stove to turn on the kettle and remaining beside the counter as the water warmed up. It would take awhile.

He understood completely.

The three of them looked at each other uncomfortably. This is nice, thought Spike. It’s sort of like meeting the parents for the first time. Only after you’ve tried to kill them.

They were still silent when Dawn swept into the room, making a beeline for the refrigerator and ignoring the others like they didn’t exist.

Spike stood again, feeling a little ill. He had never asked Buffy if Dawn really knew what happened in the bathroom. Giles didn’t know, obviously, or he would have staked Spike straight out that morning. "Hi, Niblet," he said softly.

Dawn swung to face him, hair fanning out behind her. She’d gotten so good at ignoring Buffy and those around her that she hadn’t even noticed him.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, sounding very much like a younger version of her sister.

Spike cast an appealing glance at Buffy, unsure how to handle it.

"I invited him," she told Dawn calmly, moving to stand next to Spike. Protectively, Spike thought, although that was absurd.

"You invited him?" Dawn repeated in disbelief. "What kind of a genius decision was that? I mean, anyone who—"

"That’s enough," Buffy said firmly. "We’ll talk before you go to bed."

"Don’t bother," Dawn sniffed, turning on her heel and leaving the kitchen. Buffy followed her without thinking, the sounds of their argument fading up the stairs.

The sharp keen of the kettle sounded, breaking the bemused silence in the kitchen.

"Welcome home," said Giles acidly. "Tea?"

"Sugar?"

"No, I don’t like mine sweet," Spike replied.

"What a surprise," sighed Giles.

Spike looked at him suspiciously as he accepted the cup of tea. If the Watcher’d had the opportunity, he probably would have put poison in it. Not that it would have done any good, but Spike kept his eyes on him anyway. It was good to be prepared. He preferred having only one person at a time after him, anyway.

Though who’s to say it wasn’t Giles the whole time? He’d had the chance. And in spite of his professorial air, the Watcher was probably one of the most dangerous men Spike had ever encountered. If he didn’t want Spike hanging around Buffy, he wouldn’t hesitate to remove Spike by any means necessary.

Spike recalled almost two years before, when he had briefly reunited with Drusilla and—Spike had tried to forget about it—chained and threatened Buffy. Love me or else. He had gone to the Magic Box, later, in an attempt to ingratiate himself with the Scoobies, and for a moment Ripper had surfaced. The glimpse had chilled Spike—frightened him more than Angelus ever had. More than Adam. Hell, he was scarier than Darla, and that was saying something.

"Looking to kill me, Rupe?" he asked pleasantly. Might as well discuss this like gentlemen and all. Probably went to the same schools, albeit a hundred years apart. Why, he could be my great-great grandson, thought Spike. Except for the dying a virgin part, of course.

Giles smiled at the suggestion. Actually, he’d been considering the many known methods of killing a vampire—stake through the heart, beheading, fire, sunlight, that curious poison with which Faith had infected Angel—and wondering which of them was the most painful. He thought he might like to experiment and find out for himself. Purely for scientific purposes, of course.

"I’m not really sure why you’d think that," he told Spike mildly. "Other than the fact that this morning I requested that you examine your motives before pursuing a relationship with Buffy, and tonight I find you making yourself at home in her kitchen. You seem to have reached your decision rather quickly."

"Our decision. I was invited here," Spike returned, a little pride tingeing his voice. Damned if he had to lurk on the fringes of the Slayer’s life any more.

"Spike, the only reason I am accepting your presence here is because Buffy asked me to. She has suffered quite enough disappointment, and I don’t want to see her hurt."

"We’re together on that one, then," said Spike evenly. "And don’t flatter yourself, Rupert…I’m not sitting here making nice with you because of the scintillating conversation either."

"We seem to be clear on that, then. But keep this in mind, William…no matter how civil I may be for Buffy’s sake…I have my eye on you."

***

"Dawn, I know this probably seems a little…strange to you?" Buffy suggested. Maybe she shouldn’t have voiced it as a question. Did Dawn need things laid out firmly, or brought up gently? Buffy wasn’t sure.

"Strange? Strange? How about insane? After what he did, how can you just let him back in? Like everything’s fine? Like it was nothing?"

Buffy sat on the bed beside Dawn and touched her back softly. She was surprised Dawn didn’t push her away. "It wasn’t nothing," she said quietly. "I don’t want you to ever think that. And I don’t want you to ever let a man treat you like that. But Spike—things were different between us right from the start. It wasn’t like any other relationship I’ve had, and it wasn’t very healthy."

"So that’s different from your other relationships how?" Dawn said skeptically.

Buffy stared at Dawn. She was trying to have a serious conversation, to let Dawn in, but her sister wasn’t making it easy.

She tried again. "Spike was the only one I could talk to after I came back. I relied on him and then it…became more. But I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a relationship with him, and I was afraid of how everyone would react. I handled things badly some of the time. Well, most of the time. I hurt him. We hurt each other. And things happened. He thought the best thing to do was leave. But we’ve talked, and…we’re friends again, and are trying to handle things differently this time."

"Friends?" Dawn repeated. "So now you’re friends?"

"Yeah," said Buffy awkwardly. "Friends."

"And you’re just going to forget about—"

"I’m moving past it," Buffy corrected. "We’re moving past it."

Buffy waited to see if Dawn had any more questions. The cool way Dawn regarded her made Buffy a little uneasy.

"Dawn, I want you to be comfortable with this. Spike’s going to be around here. I know you two used to be close, and I don’t want to—"

The sound of breaking glass and a harsh shout downstairs cut off Buffy’s explanation. Spike! The two girls leapt up, and Buffy raced downstairs with Dawn at her heels. Twice in as many days Buffy skidded to a stop in her kitchen, this time transfixed by the sight of Giles kneeling on the floor, cleaning up the remains of a teacup, while Spike ranted and swore at…Anya? What was she doing there? Buffy hadn’t seen her in months.

"Bloody hell, haven’t you ever heard of knocking?" Spike demanded. "It’s considered the polite thing to do ‘round these parts."

"And you would know that how?" inquired Giles.

"Well, when I drop in to see Giles I usually don’t knock—I don’t really have to do that these days, after all," said Anya comfortably.

"These days?" repeated Spike. "You mean Fridays?"

"I mean since I regained my demonhood."

Spike looked at her in amazement. "Regained your demonhood? You’re a V.D. again?" He couldn’t help snickering under his breath. V.D.

"You might remember the preferred term these days is justice demon," reminded Anya.

"J.D. Yeah, that’s much better," agreed Spike dryly. "So when did this happen?"

"Oh, it was quite awhile ago. Shortly after my non-wedding. Before we engaged in the emotional comfort of intimate relations," she specified, to the horror of everyone in the room.

Spike glanced at Buffy apprehensively. He knew, from what Snacksize had told him, that she’d been terribly hurt by that. Even if at the time she’d looked at him like she wanted to kill him in the most hideous manner possible.

Buffy didn’t look especially happy now, for that matter. Her lovely mouth had thinned into a disapproving line, the way it did when he put his hand up her skirt right after she’d put her clothes back on and turned into a vestal virgin.

The Watcher didn’t look all that thrilled, either, though Spike didn’t know why he’d care. Probably just his priggishness coming out at the mention of "intimate relations." Been so long since he had any, he was trying to remember what the term meant.

"Nice to relive old times," Spike muttered, wishing everybody but Buffy would fly off and do something else. Fat chance. The Watcher and the newly re-minted Demon Girl were settling in at the table like they planned to stay all night. So much for his nice evening with Buffy.

"Yes, it is a pleasant way to spend time," agreed Anya. "We have so many fine times in common, all sorts of averted apocalypses and that kind of thing. So have you told Buffy about the bag of bones?"

Spike felt rather than saw Buffy swing her attention to him. Thank god he hadn’t told Anya about his soul; she had all the discretion of a bowl of rice pudding. He forced himself to laugh nonchalantly. "No worries there," he dismissed. He noticed Dawn slip from the room and regretted that she’d even heard the mention of that evil piece of business.

"Well, it’s not nothing; someone’s trying to kill you," pointed out Anya. Spike seemed to have gained the human tendency of sweeping inconvenient facts under the rug. She was surprised; he was usually quite blunt. "And apparently they want to scare you good first."

Spike sent Anya a killing glare. Him, scared? Well, justice demons weren’t chosen for their astonishing feats of mental ability, were they?

"Kill him how?" said Buffy to Anya sharply.

Anya smiled at her. This was nice, wasn’t it, the four of them? Kind of a double date, except for Buffy and Spike not being involved any longer, and Giles not being aware of his and Anya’s involvement. "I’m not sure, they didn’t leave a note. Probably they didn’t want Spike to kill them. Oh, did you smell the bundle?" she added to Spike.

Spike groaned. "Fine, I give up. No, I did not smell the bundle. The bundle is gone. No one can smell it."

"Why would anyone want to smell it?" asked Buffy, wrinkling her nose.

"So Spike could identify the person who left it for him. You know, vampire senses," Anya pointed out, tapping her nose helpfully.

Her voice grates, thought Spike. Had her voice always been so grating?

"I guess that’s what your little query earlier was in aid of," Giles said to Spike.

"What? What query? Speak English, Giles," Buffy exclaimed. Turning to Spike she added, "Why didn’t you tell me this? Have there been any others?"

A guarded looked crossed Spike’s face even as he tried to deny it.

"No, don’t bother, I can see there have been. Come on, we’re going to your place. I want to check this out," she told him, jerking her head towards the door. "You two stay here and keep an eye on Dawn."

"Fine, fine, I’ll tell you everything," Spike said in frustration.

"Damn right you’ll tell me everything," Buffy mumbled, disappearing off the porch with him.

"Well, that was a fun time! Wasn’t that fun, the four of us together? And we seem to be alone now," Anya pointed out to Giles with a big smile. Was it too big? She dimmed it a little. She was attempting to convey her amenable nature and how much she enjoyed spending time with his friends. Although she’d never really thought of he and Spike as friends. But they’d been here having tea together, so who knew?

Giles turned to her. "Anya, how long have you known about this sack of bones that was given to Spike?"

"Oh, I’ve known for a long time. Almost as long as he has," she said importantly. Spike had recognized her professional expertise and came to the right place. Even if she hadn’t been able to help him. "He came by the Magic Box to ask my advice on what the curse could be."

"Curse? There’s a curse involved?"

"Oh, yes. Apparently he’s in considerable pain. I think he’s expressing it with his hair. Did you notice his hair?"

"Yes, his hair," repeated Giles distractedly. "So he’s back, and someone’s put a curse on him, and he’s dating Buffy. Good god."

"He’s dating Buffy? Why didn’t he tell me? Nobody tells me anything," Anya complained. Just because she and Xander hadn’t gotten married, suddenly nobody came around to chat. It was kind of hurtful. Like they’d never really been friends.

"Tell me about it," sighed Giles. He hesitated for a moment. "Anya…do you understand why I moved back to England last year? I did it to help Buffy…to help all of you. She was just happy to tread water. And she can be so many things, but she would never be any of them with me there. I was supposed to be a rock to keep her stable, but I was more like an anchor, weighing her down."

"I’m sure she knows," said Anya soothingly.

"I don’t know…when I talked to her yesterday, she seemed so distant," Giles said with uncharacteristic wistfulness. He couldn’t bear to think of Buffy relegating him to that place in her heart with all of the men who had disappointed her. He had only ever wanted the best for her. It had been kinder to allow her to grow, surely, than to stand in her way.

"Anya, when I was here in the spring Buffy told me a little about her life. Things were very much confused at that point, of course—"

"What with Willow trying to destroy the world and everything," put in Anya helpfully.

"Yes, my dear, thank you—she told me some things that had happened and it sounded like a melodrama. Everything in everyone’s life spiraling downwards until it hit bottom. Was that an accurate picture?"

"Well, I—I don’t know exactly how—" Anya struggled to comfort him. She saw that he needed it, but wasn’t sure how to provide it. Lie? Wasn’t that was humans traditionally did in situations like this? But how could it help? It would just be false comfort. It wouldn’t help, really, because Giles was smart and would see through it. And her honesty would show him that she respected him too much to lie.

"Actually, everyone’s life pretty much went to hell," she told him frankly. "Not the good kind of hell either, but the kind with no fresh air, and lots of accordion music."

Ohh. Giles looked so masculine with his mouth hanging open. Most men would look like a trout, or possibly a bluegill, but Giles looked adorable.

"Went to hell?" he repeated faintly.

"Oh, yes. I always wondered why you left again, since things went so badly the first time. But now you’re back…and you’re going to be staying, right?" she asked hopefully.

"Went to hell, did you say?"

***

Buffy studied the stick figure. "A doll. Are you sure this wasn’t Drusilla? Because it kind of sounds like Drusilla."

Spike shook his head. "If Dru wanted to hurt me I’d be in chains by now, with a hot poker halfway up—"

"Okay, okay," said Buffy hastily. "That’s enough. No need for a diagram. Show me where you found it."

"Under there," Spike said, pointing to the good chair.

Buffy moved over to the chair and peered underneath, sticking her cute little ass in the air. Spike appreciated the view. Considering that a few days before he’d been waiting for her to come by and kill him, he was thrilled to be in the same room as her.

Of course, he always had been.

"Well, I can’t see anything here n—eww! A Twinkies wrapper!" Buffy stood, holding the crumpled plastic in front of her. "Clem’s, I presume."

Spike laughed. Really laughed. It was amazing to be with her, relaxed, open, without having to wonder when she’d turn back into Buffy Summers, Supergirl, who hated him and the things they did together and resented the fleeting moments she gave him.

"Yeah, that’s more his kind of thing than mine. I guess I should do some more cleaning, get rid of all the junk."

Buffy nodded absently, mind still on the task at hand. "Now, you said the bones are gone?" she asked. "What happened?"

"Well, I went out for…something, and when I came back they were gone."

"Well, how long were you gone?"

Spike considered. He was pretty smashed at the time, didn’t really have a great grasp of time. "An hour or so?"

"And what did you do?"

Spike was silent for a moment. A lot had happened to both of them since he’d slept with Anya, but he didn’t want Buffy to be reminded of it. Hell, he wasn’t eager to remember it himself. Wham, bam, hello guilt trip.

"I went to the magic shop to get a handle on how the curse was going down," he said finally.

Buffy felt a little chilled. A little disconnected. "So you went to Anya for help rather than come to me."

Spike reached out to squeeze her hand. "God, pet, I didn’t know how you felt about me. It was—it was nothing. I wasn’t thinking. She couldn’t help. If she was what I needed, she’d be here with me now, not you."

She turned her hand in his until their palms met. Returned his squeeze. "We’re not talking about the curse any more, are we?" she whispered.

He felt his heart flip over. "I guess not."

She gave him a shy smile. "Good."

***

It was late, and for a moment, when he first opened the door, Xander thought he was dreaming. He blinked, thinking he might wake up, or that his eyes would clear and reveal an empty doorway.

But when he focused again Buffy was still standing there, small and alone in the hallway.

"Buff—" he murmured in astonishment. She hadn’t been by his place since May. A few days after they’d seen Anya and Spike together. After that everything fell apart so fast, and then the next thing he knew Buffy had put Will’s things in boxes and suitcases and put them by her front door and told him to take them. She didn’t want them in her house anymore.

He glanced behind him; he wasn’t sure why. So she wouldn’t see Willow, and go ballistic? So Will wouldn’t see Buffy, and start to cry? "Buffy—"

"Is Willow here?" Buffy asked.

Where else would she be? Apocalyptics Anonymous? More likely she’d been back peering in the windows of 1630 Revello Drive. "Umm, yeah. It’s kind of late now, and I don’t like to leave her, so maybe I could stop by your place tomorrow if you need to talk?" he suggested gingerly.

"Actually, I’m here to see her," Buffy said with a small smile.

It took Xander a moment to absorb what she said. A wild smile streaked across his face as her meaning sunk in. It was the happiest day of his life; he thought his heart might crack open.

"God, god yeah, Buffy, come in," he said eagerly, urging her in. "She’s just—she’s in the kitchen, we had a midnight snack and she’s washing the dishes. Let me get her, I’ll go, I’ll get her."

Xander rushed out of the room, not noticing and not caring that he was becoming incoherent. A moment later he was back again, holding Willow’s hand and tugging her forward like a child, murmuring something Buffy couldn’t hear.

Willow stepped closer to Buffy, wonder on her intelligent face. It had been so long since Xander had seen her like that. It was like she was once again the sweet girl he’d always loved.

"Buffy," Willow breathed, moving forward suddenly to fling her arms around Buffy. Buffy drew Willow down to sit beside her on the couch, and Xander moved to join them, but Buffy turned her face up to him.

"Could I have a few minutes alone with Willow?"

He got up immediately. Of course, they would have a lot to discuss. He should have realized it; he was just so excited he wasn’t thinking. "Of course. I’ll just—just go finish the dishes," he said, heading back into the kitchen. He felt like skipping.

Buffy watched him leave. When she turned back to Willow, she found the redhead’s searching eyes hadn’t left her face.

She bent closer to Willow. Willow moved closer, too, eager to follow her lead. Buffy was relieved. That made things easier. When she spoke, it was right in Willow’s ear, as she tightened her hand over Willow’s.

"Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing to Spike?"

Buffy must have gripped Willow’s hand too hard, because she cried out in pain and Xander rushed in from the other room.

"What is it? What’s wrong?" asked Xander worriedly.

Buffy loosened her hold on Willow’s hand, but didn’t release it. "Nothing," she said reassuringly. "I just forgot my own strength." She forced herself to give a little chuckle. It sounded artificial to her ears, but Xander didn’t seem to notice.

Willow hadn’t even looked over at him. Her eyes were still on Buffy’s face, although the rush of joy had faded from them.

And still, Xander didn’t notice. He’d never been a noticer, Buffy thought. He just ricocheted around on his hopes and fears. It made her sad, although she wasn’t sure why. She could see how happy he was. How hopeful.

"Do you want to me to go back in the—"

Buffy nodded and smiled, and he returned her nod eagerly. Why would he question her?

Why indeed, thought Buffy with a trace of bitterness. When had she ever done anything not designed to meet with her friends’ approval? When she did something she thought they wouldn’t like, she hid it. In the dark, where they thought it belonged.

Where she would have thought it belonged, once. The girl she’d been all those years ago—Buffy, their friend, the one who made their lives matter. The only pretty girl who’d give Xander the time of day, the only cool girl who wasn’t afraid to be seen with Willow. That’s what she would have thought, then—that those were things Faith would have done, but not her.

She wasn’t Faith. She never had been. Faith had been wrong about being selfish, about being above the law. But she wasn’t wrong about grabbing what she wanted with both hands. About not being ashamed of what she wanted. She hated thinking that Faith had anything to teach her, but she was right about those things. Buffy liked the rush of excitement during a battle. She liked the look of fear on vamps’ faces when they realized she was the Slayer. She liked it when Spike pushed her skirt up and bent her over the railing at the Bronze, even if he was pretty much being an asshole at the time. And she liked sitting in the kitchen with him and Giles, with Dawn upstairs doing her homework. She shouldn’t have to choose, to be just one. They were both part of her.

Last year they thought she was different, that she had been since Willow scattered herbs and chanted over her grave. They looked at her and wondered why she wasn’t the same, and she could see it: Them wishing she was the other Buffy, because she was better than what had returned.

But they were wrong. She’d been wrong, when she thought that. She was still Buffy. She walked the same way, liked the same things. She was the same girl, really. Just a little different. She didn’t have the patience to pretend any more. She didn’t want to act like she was all sunshine and roses when she wasn’t. She liked those things, but she liked other things, too. Some things the others didn’t approve of. But they were still things that were natural to her.

Vaguely she was aware of Xander returning to the kitchen. This wouldn’t be a problem. She could handle Willow. Even if she wanted to squeeze Willow’s hand, still cradled in her own, so hard that every bone broke.

She bent towards Willow again, taking care to keep her voice down. Xander was sure to be listening, eager to borrow any bit of joy he could from the reunion. "I know what you’re doing," she told her, deadly serious. "I never believed for a moment that garbage about you being cured. All your magic gone? I know you, you’re careful. You always keep something in reserve. You don’t need a lot of magic in you to work a few basic spells, do you? A nasty little curse?"

Willow shook her head inarticulately. She looked too stricken to respond.

"So what is it?" Buffy prodded. "Have you got a little stash of herbs around here somewhere? Some sage in the kitchen? Xander wouldn’t notice that, would he? So tell me," she said, getting her face right in Willow’s, "what exactly are you doing to Spike? Are you trying to kill him? Or just using him for target practice as you work your way back up to the whole global destruction thing?"

"I wouldn’t hurt Spike," whispered Willow. So softly, holding to Buffy’s unexpressed desire to keep this between them, even as Buffy’s eyes smoldered and her hand crushed Willow’s relentlessly. Willow couldn’t do anything else. She didn’t even want to. "I haven’t done any magic, I swear."

"Don’t lie," hissed Buffy. "He told me everything. And I’m telling you right now, stop hurting him. Do you hear me?"

"I’m not—"

"I said don’t lie to me!" Buffy yelled suddenly, patience gone. Goddammit, what had she expected? That Willow would just confess? That would be too easy, wouldn’t it? "You stop it, keep your magics away from him," Buffy ordered furiously, seizing Willow by the shoulders. She shook her heedlessly, not even considering her Slayer strength. Noise roared in her ears, and for a few moments she couldn’t even see anything.

The next thing Buffy was aware of was Xander shouting and trying to pry her hands from Willow’s shoulders. Willow, whose loose hair was now completely wild and whose skin was pasty with fear. Buffy released her and moved away from the couch.

"Jesus, Buffy, what is wrong with you?" exclaimed Xander, hovering over Willow protectively.

Buffy didn’t even spare a glance for him as she stared at Willow, her composure regained. "Stay the hell away from Spike," she told Willow coldly, and left the apartment without a backwards glance.

A second after she got into the hall the door banged again. She turned, anticipating Willow, but it was Xander there, eyes blazing.

"Is that who that was about? Spike?"

She stared at him, her eyes opaque. "What did you think it was? Some grand revelation on my part that Willow didn’t mean to kill my sister and beat me to death and destroy the world? That when she tried to kill Giles it was just a little mistake, that her saying sorry makes everything all right? Because she’s one of us, and so it doesn’t matter what she did, we just forgive it? No matter how big it was, and how awful, and how evil?"

"Evil?" said Xander, shaking his head in disbelief. "You’re dating Dr. Evil. That’s why you attacked Willow, isn’t it? Him? He comes back to town, and two minutes later you’re over here attacking Willow, when she’d done nothing but try to make things up to you. Oh, and just forgetting what someone’s done? You’ve made an art of it when it comes to some people. But people isn’t really the right word, is it? God, it doesn’t matter what they do, they get a free pass with you."

"I told you what happened in the bathroom is no one’s business but mine," returned Buffy in frustration. God, she wished she’d gotten up and gone to her bedroom after Spike left, or gotten in the shower, or just locked the goddamn door. Xander pretended to be outraged, but he loved knowing about it. Loved having another cudgel to use to beat her back into line.

"What happened in the bathroom, maybe. But all the times he’s tried to kill us? We’re just supposed to forget about that because he’s your boyfriend now and suddenly what he’s done doesn’t count? What he’s done to us, and to a thousand other people?"

Buffy flinched. She didn’t like to think about that. "He doesn’t do that any more."

Xander gave a bitter laugh. "The only reason he doesn’t is because of that chip in his head. If that chip was out, he’d been tearing his way through this town like the demon he is."

"Demons? Do you really want to talk demons?" scoffed Buffy. Damn him, how dare he judge her? The hypocrite! "You’ve dated every female demon who came to town—bug lady, mummy girl, Anya. Oh yeah, and Cordy—though I don’t know if I’d call her a real step up. If she were a demon your record would be perfect."

"I never—"

"Never what? Never had anyone in your face 24/7 about what you’re doing and who you’re dating, telling you what you’re doing wrong and how you’re disappointing them and your calling and the world and fluffy kittens and god knows what else? And generally acting like being someone’s friend gives you the right to judge everything they do? What kind of friendship is that?"

"I’ve risked my life for you," Xander shot back furiously. "I have always been your friend."

"But there was always something in it for you, wasn’t there?" Buffy demanded. "You weren’t helping out of the goodness of your heart. In the beginning you helped because you were trying to get my attention. Thought you’d get in good, I’d notice you and suddenly you’d be my dream guy. Wasn’t that more like it?"

Xander felt wounded. They’d been friends for so long, through so much, and she was attacking him? Choosing Spike over her friends? "Well, there wasn’t much chance of that, was there? Not with your vampire boyfriend of the moment around."

"I met you before I ever saw Angel, and I still wasn’t interested," snapped Buffy. "How long did that go on? Your little competition with Angel? Even after you started dating Cordelia, I could see it. I ignored it because your friendship was important to me. But now I’m kind of wondering why, since it seems to consist of you setting standards for me and letting me know when I’m falling short. How about you just try being a friend, and not the Sunnydale branch of the Watchers’ Council?"

"How about you try dating humans?" returned Xander.

Jesus, he hadn’t listened to a word she’d said, she realized in disbelief. It just rolled right off him. "How about you try minding your own fucking business?"

A hard look crossed his face. She’d never said such a thing to him before. He’d never even heard her use that word, ever. Welcome back, Spike. "Done," he said frigidly, walking back into the apartment and closing the door behind him.

***

Willow watched Xander pace around the room. He’d come back from the hall so upset he was panting. She’d heard what he and Buffy had said to each other, mostly. It would have been hard to miss, what with the loudness and all. The last time she’d heard them talk to each other that way was years before, after they had found Miss Calendar’s disk containing the spell to re-soul Angelus. Xander had been against the ensouling, arguing that Angel didn’t deserve it. He’d killed Miss Calendar and Theresa and lots of other people, and he would always be dangerous, even if they restored his soul. He’d accused Buffy of not caring about anything but getting her boyfriend back.

The thing was, he was kind of right. It wasn’t just Buffy, it was all of them. It was the way of the world. The heart wants what it wants, that sort of thing. It was the same thing that had allowed Willow to try to kill them all. To create a fireball to kill Jonathan and Andrew, knowing that they were with Xander and that it might kill him. To threaten Dawn, even though she knew Tara had loved Dawn so much—maybe even more than she’d loved Willow. Even though Willow had loved Dawn for years. Because when the heart was in pain, it didn’t think of anything except what it needed. The world ceased to matter.

And Xander had forgiven Willow. It was something she could always count on from him: His love. His understanding. Buffy had his love, too, but he didn’t understand her at all. He never had. Willow clearly remembered the day they had met Buffy. Cordelia had been cruel to Willow, as usual, this time in front of her new friend. And then Buffy had come up to her at lunch. Sought her out and made it clear she wanted to be her friend. Willow could still feel the puzzlement, the excitement, that Buffy wanted her friendship. The gratitude.

And then Xander had come, and poor Jesse, and they jockeyed around for position, trying to impress Buffy. She had barely looked at them. And as Xander continued, for weeks and months, to attempt to gain Buffy’s attention, Willow had gradually lost her apprehension that Buffy and Xander would begin dating. Because she realized that even if Angel wasn’t there, it would never be Xander. Not for Buffy. He was a friend, a companion. Not a lover. Buffy had something epic going on. It was really the only way she could have anything. Now she was 21; she’d died twice. Anything she’d have would have to be accelerated. Willow hated to think of it, but Buffy wouldn’t be around to enjoy anything taken at a normal human pace, on a normal human scale.

Xander had never really understood that.

Xander had finally realized that a superhero needed a boyfriend with superpowers, or at least a handy chip of some sort. He was thinking more the Riley sort of chip, though. Or maybe he just became sick of waiting—Willow had never been sure. So Xander had resigned himself to a brotherly role, but he thought that came with certain privileges, kind of like a consolation prize. He wasn’t the person who’d save the world, usually, and he wasn’t her boyfriend. But he could influence her. Persuade her. Shame her. It wasn’t deliberate, at least Willow didn’t think so. But having pull with Supergirl, the coolest girl in high school, gave him something. Maybe people didn’t know Buffy was the Slayer, but Xander did. One in all the world, and she listened to him. Tried to make him happy. And Xander needed that. He needed it to help define himself, because otherwise he was just a laborer with a bad family who’d thrown away his fiancée and was playing nursemaid to his emotionally crippled friend.

Xander was so much more than that. But he never saw it. He never saw what Willow did—the little boy who’d tried to keep his own clothes clean because his mother didn’t bother, the kid who’d gotten into fights in grade school because someone had made Willow cry. The teenager who’d looked at the girl he was infatuated with, saw her love for another man shining in her eyes, and risked his life to help her anyway because he would do anything for a friend. He wasn’t complex. He was brave and loyal and simple. He took everything like a body blow; he didn’t have it in him to shrug anything off. A person had to be elastic to do that, and he wasn’t. Everything was personal. Everything mattered.

"I’m going to kill him."

Willow’s attention jerked back to Xander. He was standing in the center of the living room, fists clenched. She hadn’t even noticed when he’d stopped pacing. "What do you mean?"

"Spike. It’s time someone put him out of his misery. Buffy should have done it years ago. He’s done everything he could think of to kill us, and we shouldn’t just stand around waiting for next time."

"He hasn’t tried to kill us for a long time," she pointed out. "Not since Adam—"

"Oh, that’s good, he hasn’t tried to kill us for two years! Let’s throw him a party! We’ll have hats and streamers and cake! Jeez, Will, he should have been dusted years ago, chip or no chip. That’s all that’s standing between us and him, the chip."

"You didn’t want to kill him until he slept with Anya," Willow pointed out softly. She hated bringing it up to him. Hated hurting him with it. But he’d become so angry, sometimes it seemed like the only emotion he had left. "You didn’t even hate him any more. You two used to play pool at the Bronze, remember? And I remember you laughing together the summer after Buffy died."

Xander felt his throat close up. He hated to think of that. Hated to think of Buffy dead, in the ground. Cold, and gone from them. "We didn’t laugh," he muttered.

"Yes, you did. It took a long time for either of you to laugh, but finally you did."

Xander stared at the floor.

"Buffy’s the Slayer, not you. If someone’s going to be killing vampires, it will be her. It sounds like Buffy and Spike are becoming friendly again. I don’t think you should bother them, Xander. It doesn’t have anything to do with you."

"Right?" Willow prompted.

Xander sighed in frustration. "But she was in here acting crazy and threatening you," he protested. Willow looked so pale, so drawn. She’d been okay before Buffy stopped by with her fake friendly visit. Better than usual, at least. Xander thought it might be because she’d seen Giles again.

And now she was all worried, her face creased and marked with more pain than a 21-year-old should know. He didn’t know how she managed, all alone except for him.

He reached out and gently touched her face. Maybe he should ask a couple of the guys’ wives in to talk to her. While he was there, just to make sure everything went all right. He hated her being alone so much, but he wasn’t sure she was ready for anything more.

"Fine, fine, you win," he finally agreed. There’d be time for Spike later.

"Thank you," Willow said gratefully. She reached out, wrapped her arms around him. It was nice to get a hug, especially when you were isolated from most of the people you loved. Which pretty much described both of them.

Xander tucked his head over her shoulder and squeezed her with the same open affection a child shows a playmate. Willow hugged him back, enjoying the contact. Xander was so sweet, so uncomplicated. He wouldn’t understand what she was doing any more than he understood Buffy. Who also wouldn’t understand, not yet. But soon. What she was doing was for the best, Willow knew. Buffy had been right, she was careful.

And things were going exactly as planned.

It was getting worse, that was for damn sure. Of course, it could be difficult to differentiate between one level of searing pain and another, but thanks to the chip and its many degrees of punishment, Spike had no real problem telling the difference. Also, the fact that he’d found it almost impossible to stand upon waking that afternoon was a bit of a giveaway.

So now he was flat on his back on his sarcophagus, unable to concentrate enough to read and unable to watch TV due to the controller being on the other side of the room. He would have liked to go get it, but that would have involved standing. Unfortunately, his attempts to come up with a means of retrieving the controller without actually moving were unsuccessful. So instead he just lay there and thought.

The other night, he and the Slayer had been looking around the crypt, searching for clues, when suddenly things turned all mushy—mushy being a good thing—and they hadn’t done a lot of searching after that. Actually, Spike didn’t really remember much of what they’d done afterward. Stood there looking into each others’ eyes, like idiots in some romance novel, and then went out and…well, they’d taken a walk, but they’d run across some demons, so maybe it was patrolling?

He liked to think of it as a walk, though. The killing was just a lovely cherry on top.

But then she’d returned, an hour or so after she left, moodiness radiating from her like that unspeakable perm she’d gotten her first year in college, and told him to get his things—by which he assumed she meant his blanket—and come with her, he was spending the night at her house.

Which undoubtedly would have excited him had she not then gone on about how Willow was a sneak, and Xander was a caveman and probably planning to come over and kill him in his bed—she’d apparently forgotten he no longer had a bed, but he let it go—and that he wouldn’t be safe, so grab his stuff, now, and come with her.

Bugger if his first night in her home was going to be spent downstairs on the couch, hiding out from the Pillsbury Doughboy.

He told her he was fine and settled her down a little. Finally she’d said something about Red being responsible for the mojo, and sidekick number two having it in for him, as if he didn’t already know that one. He hadn’t been able to get it out of her if they were working together or not. Well, it was nice that some still thought of him as the big bad, right? Felt good. Well really, it felt odd. Actually, he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it.

At any rate, he’d told her he could take care of himself. When she shot right back with a snotty little "No you can’t," he promised he’d keep an ear open and dash through the ruins downstairs into the tunnels if he heard anything. He felt like a pansy even thinking about it. But it was a nice change to see her all het up about making sure he was safe.

Real nice.

Didn’t know that she was right about the boy, though. Harris had about as much self-restraint as Drusilla in an orphanage; if the kid knew he was back and felt up for a game of kick-the-Spike, he’d be at the crypt in three seconds flat, with an axe or a mace or just a baseball bat. One good swing for the side of right and justice and all that. Then he’d never have to look at Spike again and think of him with either of the blondes in his life. Well, he’d have to back it up with a stake or a sword, but the kid had come prepared that night at the magic shop.

Spike started a little. For the first time in…ever, he flashed back to when he’d taken them, Willow and Harris. Taken them out of the school in one of his typical drunken schemes to win back Drusilla. Harris had taken one look at him, so much older than he, so much stronger, and fought without hesitation. Fought until Spike knocked him unconscious. Spike wasn’t even going to take him, but the boy’s persistence irritated him, and so he became a hostage to encourage Red in her witchy efforts. Most people would have frozen. Let the demon make off with the girl, saved their own skins. He could have acquiesced to Spike and called Buffy to find her—she’d known immediately where he’d taken them. She’d always known him, elementally, even before either of them had thought of the other as anything more than an enemy.

Thank god Red had stopped him. There, in the bowels of the warehouse, he had ranted and sworn, cursing Dru, cursing himself for loving her. Then crying because that’s what he did when he was upset, cry. Nothing unmanly about it. Shows you’ve got emotions, don’t lurch around like some great side of beef with two expressions and a martyr complex. Spike had never been afraid to show his emotions. The day he stopped feeling, he’d walk out into the sun.

And then, because he was drunk and crying and felt like shit, he put his head on her shoulder and hoped she’d comfort him. He needed comfort, just a little understanding. It was awful to feel so alone. So unloved. But then it had drifted to him—the scent of her blood, flowing just beneath her skin. And he had vamped out and was going to—not kill her. The other. She stopped him. Thank god. Thank god she had. Buffy would never have looked at him otherwise. Never have looked at him, never have cared for him. His unlife wouldn’t have been worth living.

How was Willow able to do that—be in the same room as him, afterwards? While she told him what ingredients she needed? And later, when she’d sat at the Thanksgiving table with him. That had been only days after he’d burst into her dorm room and held her down on the bed and tried to kill her. Offered to make her like him. Offered? Threatened. Christ.

How was it she was able to look at him without hatred? He’d never felt it coming from her, and he noticed those kinds of things. Had felt it often enough, right? Felt it as William, felt it as Spike. Never felt it from her.

So why would she do something now? If Buffy was right, of course; she wasn’t always. Was it because of what he’d done to Buffy? Sometimes a wrong done to someone you love can hurt more than one done to you. And she loved Buffy, was devoted to her. Buffy’s anger at her wouldn’t stop that. Like him, she didn’t give up love easily.

Could she blame him for Tara’s death? He hadn’t been there, of course, but he’d known where king geek lived. But Willow didn’t know that, surely. None of them did.

The bathroom was enough, though. Didn’t need anything else.

He’d see. He had time. This couldn’t kill him, right? Just hurt like hell.

***

It was so much easier to think at home, with all the peace and quiet. Which was why Dawn was there, instead of at school like she was supposed to be. Buffy had work and class almost all day, so Dawn didn’t have to worry about her. She’d hear if Giles came home, and it would be easy enough to sneak out without him hearing her; he wouldn’t notice, he was like a thousand. Or maybe she wouldn’t even bother—she could tell him it was a teacher inservice day.

Of course, he’d probably mention it to Buffy, and Buffy now kept a copy of Dawn’s school schedule on the refrigerator.

For a moment Dawn felt an unpleasant twinge in the pit of her stomach. She doesn’t trust me. She dismissed the thought with a toss of her head. Fine with her, what did she care?

Buffy would say it had nothing to do with trust. Giles would probably say that, too: That she was just taking an interest in Dawn. And honestly, it was better than last year, when Buffy wouldn’t have noticed if she lived or died. Or if Social Services had taken her, like they had threatened to last winter. That had been close.

Dawn didn’t like to think about it. Even when Buffy had spent all her time staring at walls and doing god knows what—Spike, mostly, from what Dawn gathered—it was still better than what she’d get elsewhere. And it was nice with Giles back, and the three of them sat around the table together. It was almost like having Mom back. It made her feel safe to have Giles around, and Buffy was laughing more and seemed like a real person again. It was like things had been a few years ago, back when things were normal, except for Mom being gone.

Normal. Maybe that wasn’t the right word to use, when things were never that way. Maybe it was normal for things to be unsettled, and people to come and go. Maybe she couldn’t count on anything.

But Dawn didn’t like to think of her life being that way. Sometimes, when she thought of her mom, it was like that was so long ago she couldn’t even remember it. Like she was an old woman remembering her childhood. And she was only with Mom for a year. Less than a year. Most of what she knew about her life was what the monks had put in her memory, made-up stuff. But she missed it, and missed her mom, sometimes more than she could stand.

Buffy wasn’t anything like Mom, and she wasn’t made to be anyone’s mother. Not just because she wouldn’t live long enough, but because she couldn’t love anyone enough. Not anymore. To be a mom you had to love someone more than you loved yourself, and Buffy didn’t give that much of herself to anybody. Not since Angel left.

That was hard to remember too, sometimes. What it was like when Buffy was like any other girl. And she was, even when she was slaying, back when she was in high school. He broke her, Dawn thought. He was trying to help her, and instead he broke her. For some reason it was worse when he left than when he’d turned into Angelus. She barely remembered when he’d turned all evil—of course, she hadn’t realized at the time what was happening, but she managed to fit together bits and pieces of what people had said, and figured it out. Oh, and she’d asked Spike last year, and he’d told her the whole thing. Thought she was old enough to handle it, and he’d been right.

And now Spike was back and Buffy was doing what with him? Dawn wasn’t sure. Buffy had been out with Spike ‘til after two in the morning on Friday night—not that Dawn was spying on her—and she’d mentioned him a few times to Giles since, like it was normal for her to talk about Spike at the breakfast table. She’d never done that before.

Of course, Dawn had also never come into the kitchen and found Spike and Buffy sitting together eating popsicles before. With Giles, yet.

God knew where Giles was. He’d been gone most of the time he’d been back, and it wasn’t like he had friends or anything. Maybe he was visiting Willow. Buffy went crazy whenever Willow was mentioned, but that was some strange Buffy thing. Dawn had never been sure how she decided what was acceptable and what wasn’t; forgive Angel for trying to end the world, check; forgive Willow for trying to end the world—woah, sorry. Not happening. It was like she chose at random. Buffy said it was because Willow was going to kill Dawn, but that didn’t make sense. She would have been killed when Acathla sucked the world into hell, and that didn’t stop Buffy from jumping on the forgiveness train.

Spike had come out lucky. Guess Buffy hadn’t hit his name with her little "unforgiven" dart, or S-P-I-K-E and W-I-L-L-I-A-M added together meant something good on her numerology chart, or whatever it was she did to decide.

It had been so strange to see him there, downstairs. She hadn’t expected it. She really thought the only time she’d see him was skulking around town, trying not to let her catch a glimpse of him. He hadn’t come around, because he knew that would be a stupid thing to do, and whatever else he was, he wasn’t stupid. He was rotten creep and deserved everything she was doing to him, but he wasn’t stupid.

Maybe she should stop.

It didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. He was back, and Buffy was okay with it—again with the luck there—and Dawn wasn’t sure any longer. She’d missed him, although she bitterly resented the feeling. Maybe it would be better just to forget all about it. She hadn’t done all that much anyway—not nearly as much as she’d planned. He’d noticed, she’d heard that much in the kitchen, but she’d really barely started. It was frustrating, though; she’d been so excited while she made the plans and carefully timed her visits to his place, and it gave her a kind of giddy thrill of accomplishment. He’d never suspect her. Not in a million years.

Yeah, maybe she should stop.

Maybe.

***

It hadn’t worked the first time, and he had no idea why he was back. As Spike crossed the Magic Box towards Anya, beaming behind the counter like a crazed lighthouse, he accidentally glanced at the large table on one side of the store. It couldn’t be the same table they’d polished, could it? Well, strike that first thought. It hadn’t worked either of the times he’d come to Anya for help.

Then a knife-like pain sliced into his solar plexus, and he remembered exactly why he was there.

"Good afternoon, Spike," Anya greeted him cheerfully. "Are you here on business or pleasure, perhaps to discuss our mutual friends Giles and Buffy? I know many amusing anecdotes about each of them, some of which you may not have heard."

Spike regarded her skeptically. Since when had she become all sociable with him? The best he could say about her before was that she’d never seemed particularly interested in his death. And then they’d had their unfortunate indiscretion, and that was that. But then she’d been pretty nice when he came in last time, and the other night she’d been quite friendly—although he thought most of it seemed directed at Giles. But that didn’t even make sense, since cozying up to him wouldn’t score points with the Watcher.

It was always a good idea to get things off on the right foot, wasn’t it? thought Anya. And seeing as how it was really time to move her relationship with Giles forward, welcoming his friends was an excellent place to start. Well, a personal observation indicated interest. Such as when Giles showed up at the Magic Box just as Willow was about to turn Buffy into table scraps, and immediately remarked on how different Buffy’s hair was. And neglected to mention Anya’s.

Really, hair was always a good place to start. "I notice your hair has new and exciting variations in color. I was discussing it with Giles last night, and wondering if perhaps it was an expression of your inner pain."

Spike scowled. Apparently the question wasn’t to his liking. Perhaps hair was a sore subject with him?

"Is yours?" he returned.

Anya blinked. "Well, that’s different," she said.

"How?"

"Well, it—it just is."

"If you say so," Spike returned politely. He’d been polite several times lately, dammit. Sometimes he didn’t hardly feel like himself. "I was wondering about countercurses."

"Countercurses? Didn’t you and Buffy figure out who did it?"

Spike glared at her, then felt himself perk up a little as he realized he was giving her a nasty look. Here now, he wasn’t hopeless yet, was he? Things were looking up after all. "No, we didn’t find anything. Pain’s not bad—" which was a lie—"but there’s no real reason I shouldn’t just get rid of it, is there?"

Anya nodded agreeably. Once again, he’d come to her shop for her professional guidance. And this time she had just the thing. "As a matter of fact," she told him, "I have a wonderful counterspell I used to diffuse Willow’s power when she destroyed the Magic Box."

Spike did a double take. That was one he hadn’t heard. "This occurred during her attempt to destroy the world, I take it?"

"Yes, that was it," Anya agreed cheerfully. She probably wouldn’t have been as chipper if the shop’s insurance hadn’t paid off so handsomely. But really, with its history of mayhem and disaster, what responsible shopkeeper wouldn’t be well-insured? It was simply a matter of good business.

Spike glanced around the completely transformed shop skeptically. All new, totally rebuilt. "So, just how effective was this counterspell?" he asked gingerly.

"Oh! It was highly effective, I assure you. Willow was out of control—first she tried to run over Buffy and Xander and Warren’s virginal cohorts with a Mack truck, then she was going to kill them over here. But I started in with the protection spell and Willow couldn’t do magic on anyone," she concluded, pleased.

"So, what happened to the—"

"Oh, she couldn’t work any magic on anyone else, but she could still spell herself. So she did a magic that made her enormously strong. Like an elephant, or an especially large—"

"Right. Sounds good. What do I need to do for that?"

Anya smiled happily. She didn’t think a member of the Scoobies had put so much faith in her advice since Buffy had accepted her suggestion to use the troll hammer against Glory. They did have a tendency to ignore her recommendations, despite the fact that she had more experience than the rest of them combined. She was a thousand years old; she had been to multiple realities.

Of course they had too, but they didn’t remember them.

"Just this," she told him, pulling a piece of paper out from a drawer by the cash register and handing it to him.

He looked at the sheet of paper. The words didn’t look right, so he squinted. "What the devil is that? It’s not Greek…."

"No, it’s Babylonian. Just keep repeating that and you should feel much better."

"Keep repeating it? For how long?"

"Well, for as long as you want to counteract the curse."

"What?" Spike exclaimed in disbelief. "You just want me to go around chanting all day?"

"Well, you do want the pain to stop, don’t you?" Anya pointed out.

"Yes, but that sounds like another kind of a curse, doesn’t it?" asked Spike testily. Dozy bint. Did she really think he would just go around reciting ancient gibberish 24 hours a day? Even Dru gave it a rest sometimes.

"You wanted an effective spell-repellent, and I gave you one," Anya said. "Nobody said these thing were easy. If they were, people would just give their children protection spells at birth and any attempt to magic them would be useless. Not to mention I’d lose 35 to 50 percent of my business."

Spike peered at her with—well, it almost looked like disapproval. "So you do a brisk business in baby curses?"

Anya rolled her eyes. He and Giles both had sexy voices, and they both smelled good, but the resemblance ended there. She wasn’t even sure why the two of them were friends. Maybe it was the opposites attract theory? Much like she and Giles, although in a platonic, nonphysical, just-friends who drink tea and discuss…whatever sport was enjoyed in England kind of a way? "No, not babies. But the kind of thing you seem to want would never wear off. And that kind of spell doesn’t exist."

"Well, have you got anything at all? A little more short-term?"

"Well…you could try a crystal."

"Crystal?" he repeated. A vampire, carrying around a crystal? God, he’d be a laughingstock.

"Some of my customers swear by them," she assured him.

He wasn’t really convinced, but the pain…hell, he’d try anything once. "Do I have to chant?" he inquired. Damned if he was going to spend the rest of his unlife muttering extinct languages until he finally died of boredom.

"No chanting," Anya assured him, holding out a jagged, cloudy blue stone. "As long as it remains opaque it’s still effective, but you have to keep it on your person for it to work. Go ahead, it’s not going to bite."

"Are you guaranteeing that?"

"Are you paying for that?"

Spike gave her an aggravated look, then drew out his wallet. He hated to pay for things; it went against his philosophy. "How much?" he asked grudgingly.

Anya shook her head. "Don’t worry about it,’ she told him. He was friends with Giles, and dating Buffy, who was closer to Giles than anyone, and she’d learned a lot about human relationships during her involvement with Xander. Her relationship with Willow, for instance, had never recovered from Anya’s early attempts to make Willow pay for the items she took from the shop with no concern for their expense.

Of course, the time at the Bronze that Anya had encouraged a vampire to kill Willow probably hadn’t helped their friendship either.

But she’d learned since then. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, Xander had told her several times. Usually while sounding frustrated. It was a saying she’d never really understood, considering that several products were made especially for the extermination of flies, but none, as far as she was aware, for their attraction.

"You sure?"

Anya nodded vigorously. With a big smile. She was going to start things off right this time. Not like last time, with Xander. This time would be better. How could it not be? It was Giles. That was like a built-in assurance of quality. "Tell Giles I said hello," she told him firmly. "And that I’m happy to help."

***

It was a coincidence that the pain in his gut was easing, Spike told himself as he strode through the cemetery, back to…well, probably just watch TV and hope the Slayer showed up. No way a crystal could do squat for him, no matter what Anya said. She was a shopkeeper, they were supposed to move the goods.

But she hadn’t even accepted payment. Why would she tell him it was effective if she wasn’t even going to make a profit? That didn’t even make sense. The curse was plainly starting to affect his mind. Further proof that the crystal didn’t work.

He pulled it out of his pocket and studied it. Of course, he couldn’t really see it in the dark. Still looked cloudy, so that was good, right?

Maybe he could have a hole drilled through it and wear it like a piece of jewelry. He always did like his stuff, thumb rings and chains and—well, lookit that. Light escaped in a thin line under his crypt door; no waiting tonight. Hello, Slayer.

Absently he let the crystal fall to the ground. Didn’t need it with her around, not to mention didn’t want to explain about it. He never seemed to feel the pain when she was around anyway. She had too large a presence when she was around him; he couldn’t contain both the pain and his love for her. The pain lost in those moments.

He swung open the door and started towards her eagerly. He’d hated being away from her the last few days.

He’d been quiet when he opened the door, and she had her back to him. But he must a made a sound when he saw her, because she swung around, shock on her face. Only it wasn’t Buffy.

It was Dawn.