For a moment they stared at each other, both too surprised to move. Dawn’s eyes darted around wildly, as if she didn’t know what to do or where to look.

Suddenly Spike started towards her. "Niblet—" he exclaimed, reaching his hand out. She flinched and he pulled it back, stopping several feet away from her, aware of an uncomfortable resemblance between this meeting and the one between him and Buffy the week before. He kept his distance; he didn’t want to crowd her. She hadn’t been overjoyed to see him before, and now she looked all tense, like a half-grown animal that would flee if he moved suddenly. Which, he supposed, was exactly what she was.

"Dawn," he murmured, gesturing widely with his arms. Letting her know that he welcomed her, that his crypt was again open for her girlish confidences and unexpected visits.

She made no move towards him, her forehead puckered with worry. He must have surprised her so much she’d forgotten what she wanted to say. Or maybe he’d walked in as she was rehearsing it, as she was wont to do. Although she usually rushed ahead and forgot her careful phrases. She was impulsive, like him. She was more like him than Buffy, really.

He caught the absurd thought as it flashed through his mind and smiled at Dawn. Sometimes, when his head was elsewhere, he thought of Dawn as if she were his child. His and Buffy’s. She didn’t look like either of them, but the lost, mulish expression on her face—she was their child, all right. As broken as any they could have raised themselves.

"Does your sister know you’re here? You didn’t walk here by yourself, did you? In the dark, without a sweater or a stake?"

She shook her head wordlessly. For someone who’d made a pretty good trek to see him, she wasn’t very talkative. When he’d smiled she looked like she was going to burst into tears, and he wasn’t sure if she was really up to talking. But she wasn’t making any move towards the door. Perhaps she wanted him to take the lead. Maybe she was just giving him the opportunity to…explain himself? Tell her that he hadn’t meant to attack her sister like an animal and then leave her huddled on the bathroom floor? That he’d never do anything like that again to Buffy—or to Dawn? That it had all been a terrible dream, and she could just go back to her life again without hating him and fearing for her sister?

He wanted to sit down and talk with her, but the ratty chairs seemed too casual for this talk, somehow. He almost went to sit on the sarcophagus on which he slept, but that seemed inappropriate. Obscene. They remained standing.

And silent.

He could only take so much silence, at least around some people. "What…what did your sister tell you?" he asked finally.

She cast a vaguely suspicious glance at him.

"Do you mean the other night—"

Spike shook his head, but didn’t answer for a moment. Then another. He didn’t want to answer at all. But she was looking at him, waiting for him to continue. "A few months ago. Before I left. I—" he broke off. She was still looking at him steadily, her face…blank? Or indifferent?

He tried again. "I left because—"

"I heard why you left," Dawn interrupted flatly.

Spike swallowed. His mouth felt curiously dry. "So Buffy told you—"

To his surprise, Dawn laughed. "Buffy? It’s not the kind of thing she’d talk about, is it? Xander’s the one who spread the news."

Harris. He should have expected as much. Must have been eager to tell the Bit—not care how it made her feel, as long as Spike came out covered in shit.

Which he deserved, of course. But Dawn didn’t deserve having to know. No way did she deserve that.

He felt a flush of anger at Xander, that his hatred of Spike overwhelmed his affection for the Niblet. Called himself her friend and probably thought he was the brother she’d never had, but he’d hurt her right quick enough, hadn’t he? Proof that having a soul wasn’t a cure-all for general wankishness, Spike noted humorlessly. Fuck—dumping his bride, judging Buffy, crushing Dawn—what hadn’t he done?

Shut up, brain, Spike thought, ruthlessly pushing the thought away. He was not the Magnificent Poof, and not going to mark off the next century in his day planner for concentrated wallowing with time off for the occasional mope.

"Did, um, did your sister talk to you?" he asked carefully. He wanted to handle things exactly right with her. He was haunted by the feeling that he was on a tightrope and the slightest imbalance would ruin everything. Everything would fall apart; Buffy would hate him, the Bit would walk in the other direction when she saw him. And still he would have the soul, pulsating inside him like a living being, making him aware, skin-crawlingly aware, of the uncountable things he’d done wrong over the last 150 years and the few things he’d done right. All he had to do was misstep, unbalance just a little, and it would all be over.

Dawn nodded. Her face was so impassive for a child. It didn’t seem right.

"What did she say?" God, what, was he going to offer corrections? No, she said she cared about me, then I grabbed her? Oh, she forgot the part about how I said trust is for old marrieds! Can’t leave that out!

"She said you’re friends. But that’s not what you are, right?"

Friends. Seemed an awfully cold way to describe how he felt about her. "Well—" what could he say? I love your sister more than I can say because I was never more than a crap poet and ordinary words can’t describe it? I got a sodding soul shoved into me so she could trust me, and if that isn’t love fuck if I know what is?

"You came here to ask me that?" he probed gently. He wasn’t going to gainsay Buffy, even if friendship was a piss-poor way to describe their relationship. A memory jolted into place and he saw himself with Buffy and Angel in the magic shop, years before, telling the two of them that they’d never be friends; they would experience the highs and lows together, but nothing as bloodless as friendship. What a dolt he’d been, what a fool; Drusilla had been right all along. He hadn’t even seen Angel before him as he’d said it, imagining himself with Buffy instead. As if she and Paingel had ever argued about anything. As if they’d shagged more than that first disastrous time, as if they’d ever had the spleen to hate each other. They didn’t have passion and fire between them, they had dreams and silences. They barely knew each other. Angel didn’t want to know the Slayer, her depths, her capacity for savagery; he wanted only the pristine maiden warrior—St. Joan in ankle boots. Still indulging in his taste for underage girls, even with his soul, Spike thought with distaste.

But Spike loved all of her. He loved her selflessness, her ferocity, her devotion to those she loved, the way she’d suddenly shove him down and crack his belt to see the red marks it made across his flesh. All of it.

"No, that’s not why I came," said Dawn, drawing him back to the moment. Away from Buffy, where his thoughts still lingered. As usual.

He looked at her kindly. "Then why, kitten? Dawn," he corrected himself carefully. She wasn’t ready for that. Of course, who’s to say she ever would be? It was her sister he attacked, after all. Her only family. The woman he said he loved. Why in the hell would she ever become ready for him to act all brotherly with her again? Why would she even want to be in the same room with him?

"I just came to tell you it’s okay. I’m fine with it. We don’t have any problems. That’s all," she told him, moving past him towards the door. She should have left as soon as he came in. Come up with some b.s. excuse and gotten out of there as soon as she could. But he’d walked in, and started talking to her, and looked so hopeful. Looked at her the way he sometimes looked at Buffy, like he’d do anything to make her happy, he just didn’t know what that was. And all of a sudden all she could think about was how much she’d missed him and how angry she was at him. Why had he done it? Didn’t he know how wrong it was—how hurtful it would be? How could he do that, to Buffy, to her?

And then she remembered why she was there and realized she had to leave, immediately. So she told him everything was fine, and it would be. Because Spike never questioned her. He trusted her. And that was going to be her golden ticket out of the crypt. She was going to get away scot-free.

She was almost at the door when his hand closed over her elbow.

"You’re not walking home alone in the dark," Spike told her. "Come on, I’ll go with you."

Dawn smiled at him without effort. When you were that relieved, smiling wasn’t a problem.

Besides her, Spike stopped abruptly. "Hold up a minute. Is that bag yours?"

Dawn turned back to face the crypt, her eyes quickly picking up what he was referring to. Her backpack, abandoned near the wall. God, she’d almost forgotten it. She’d only been there a minute or two before he arrived, and didn’t have time to do her thing yet. She was very careful about it. You could plan it out as much in advance as you wanted, but there were still things that had to be worked out in person.

It could have been worse. He could have walked in a couple of minutes later, and then she really would have had a hard time explaining herself.

"Yeah, that’s mine," she answered quickly, moving past him and grabbing it. Why shouldn’t she be casual about it? It was just supposed to be books and stuff, right? She swung it over one shoulder and turned back to him. "Let’s go."

***

"And school? Is history still—"

"It’s fine," answered Dawn curtly.

Besides her Spike flinched. Her responses had become shorter and shorter as they crossed town. Soon she would be grunting her answers, and after that he expected that she’d just glare if he asked her something.

Yeah, she was fine with him being back all right. What a load.

He knew her. Knew her better than anyone, better than Buffy did. Buffy saw Dawn through the resentful eyes of an older sibling whose role as the pampered baby of the family was supplanted. Who loved her sister enough to die for her, but not always enough to assume responsibility for her care and feeding. She still loved Dawn like a sister, when she had to be her mother. Of course Buffy didn’t see her clearly. Of course.

She was punishing him. That much was obvious. He could imagine her coming by to see him, to beard the lion in his den, to show him that she was above any fear or resentment. She didn’t want any of that to touch her. She wanted to be too cool for that.

But she wasn’t cool, and she never had been. She was temperamental, mercurial, intense. A bit like him, really. Neither of them was able to hide their emotions worth a damn. For a few precious moments her mask had dropped, and she’d looked wistful and vulnerable and like she wanted a hug. And then it slipped back into place before he could do anything, but he’d seen it. He wasn’t kidding himself.

But he had no idea how to bring it out again. He had no idea how to make things up to her. Alive 150 fucking years, and he couldn’t even figure out how to patch things up with a teenager. Even a former green glowy key whose life he’d tried to protect again and again.

He was useless.

"Well, you know, I can always help with geometry," he told her.

"Hmm," Dawn replied.

Down to the monosyllables now.

Her house loomed up before them. Spike didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated. They needed to spend a lot more time together, but their conversation seemed to be deteriorating. "I could come in and help you with your homework now," Spike offered.

"I’m fine," Dawn said, her voice remote. "Giles is home, he can take care of it. I don’t want to bother you."

"It’s no bother," Spike assured her a little anxiously. She’d never been so chilly to him before. It made him feel odd, like there was something wrong with the earth’s rotation and his balance was off. Maybe he was coming down with an inner ear infection, although he’d never heard of a vampire getting an infection. He did feel rather dizzy, actually. Lightheaded.

He felt better when he was around Buffy. He hadn’t seen her for a few days, and he needed to be around her again. He needed her more than blood. More than…he couldn’t even think of anything else that rated. Passions and jalapeno poppers and Guinness made existence pleasant, but they weren’t necessary. Blood was necessary to sustain his body, and Buffy was necessary to sustain everything else.

"Is your sister here?" he asked Dawn, leaning a bit on the porch railing.

Dawn barely looked at him. "No, she has a late class tonight. She won’t be back for a couple of hours.’

"Oh. Are you sure you don’t want me to wait with you, Bit, and I can look over your work—"

"I’m fine," said Dawn, unlocking the door and slipping through without ever opening it enough for him to mistake it for an invitation. "Goodnight."

The closed door made it clear she wasn’t interested in his response.

***

He wasn’t much for bench sitting, usually, unless he was holding his lady’s hand and surveying some lovely scene. Like a serene ocean, or the aftermath of a good night’s fight.

But by the time he was halfway to his crypt he’d been doubled over, holding onto trees for support. And when he’d passed by Sycamore Park he decided to take advantage of one of the benches, to avoid the undignified, but at this point highly likely, chance of collapsing on the side of the road.

Before, the pain in his gut had been steady and…not mild, but not like this. And somehow his head was involved this time, and it was hard to balance. And all of it was washing over him in waves, and all he could do was wait for it to stop. Miserable and vulnerable. God, it was like being a human again.

After a while he became aware that the intensity of the pain had diminished, and tentatively straightened up. Still hurt like blazes, but now he felt more like himself, at least. It was okay, he didn’t have to move yet. The crypt wasn’t going anywhere. He had hours yet before sunrise to make his way back there.

It might take all of them.

He was sitting there, concentrating on not moving, when he became aware of being watched. He moved his head slightly and sighted her, standing on the sidewalk a few yards away, watching him with undisguised interest.

"Come here," he said, wincing slightly as he heard the gravelly tone of his voice.

Willow did as he told her, sitting next to him and watching him with a slightly concerned expression. He did his best to seem like the old Spike, because there was no use in everybody knowing he felt like shit.

"I know what you did," he told her.

A startled expression crossed her face.

"To the man who killed…." he trailed off. She nodded.

"Good for you."

Willow blinked. No one had ever said something like that to her. They were all, that’s what laws are for. Those aren’t things for you to decide. You can’t take the law into your own hands. The wheels of justice, and all that.

She felt so bad. She could never atone enough for what she’d done, what she’d tried to do. For trying to kill Buffy, Giles. Dawn and Xander. The world.

But not Warren. Not for a moment had she regretted what she’d done to him. The only thing she’d do differently with him is make it take longer. Hurt worse. Because she was still hurting, still suffering. It was over way too quick for him. He should have had to suffer like her. Didn’t like losing his skin? Poor baby.

The only she regretted about killing him was that she hadn’t been discreet. Buffy and Xander and Anya, they’d found out. If she’d done it right they wouldn’t have known a thing. But she’d always been a good student.

She learned from her mistakes.

"Are you and Buffy—together, now?" she asked carefully.

He looked surprised by the question. Well, why wouldn’t he be? When had she ever shown an interest in his personal life before?

He hesitated. "We’re—friends," he said finally, settling on the word Buffy had chosen to describe their relationship.

He still didn’t like it.

She continued looking at him, her eyes calm and curious.

Didn’t look much like a black magic woman at the moment, Spike thought. Of course, he’d never noticed her looking any different the entire time she’d been plotting to resurrect Buffy, so what did he know?

"Buffy thinks I’ve put a curse on you," she said tentatively. "Do you believe that?"

He froze. It was as if she’d known what he was thinking. Although, in all honesty, she’d always been perceptive. More so than Buffy. But this was…eerie.

He studied her face and shrugged. Hell, he’d always got on well with Red, even with the weight of his past misdeeds—when he’d kidnapped her and Harris, when he’d put a wedge between them and Buffy, when he’d tried to kill her in the dorm room she shared with Buffy. He thought, absently, that she probably remembered the dorm incident only in terms of herself being too plain to bite. Ridiculous, he’d told her as much, but he didn’t think she could hear that enough.

He shrugged. "If you say you didn’t, I believe you," he told her honestly. She’d been friendly to him all along, especially the summer after Buffy died. She’d invited him to Buffy’s party without a lot of prodding.

And she knew, like him, what it was to have her heart ripped out.

"Good. I wouldn’t hurt you," she said.

"I’m sorry about—you know," Spike said softly.

Willow was silent for a moment, absorbing his sympathy. She’d had little enough of it. Tara was dead and Willow felt like she was the only one who mourned her. The others had just forgotten. It was as if she’d been a speed bump in their lives, something to get past on the way to the next exciting beast or lover or job.

It wasn’t fair. Tara deserved better. She had been so much more than that. She deserved to have an honored place in their memories, not be a footnote to their college years, like dorm food or a lousy professor.

"Thanks," Willow murmured.

"She was right tasty," said Spike without thinking, then mentally kicked himself.

Willow looked a little startled, but then she laughed. "Yeah, she was," she agreed. She glanced around. She didn’t know what to say, but it was nice to talk to someone besides Xander. She loved him, but a little variety was good. "So you’ve got a soul now?"

Beside her, Spike froze.

"It’s okay, I won’t tell," she assured him hurriedly. "You haven’t told Buffy yet, have you? Because I think she might have told Xander if you had. Well actually, I think she might have screamed it at him."

"How did you know?" Spike asked after a moment. No one had noticed a thing. Not Buffy, his beloved. Her Slayer senses and their intimacy had told her nothing. Not Anya, endowed with the supernatural abilities of a demon. Not Dawn, his former shadow, with her magical origins. "Are you dabbling in magic again? Because you should realize by now that those things are dangerous—"

"No one knows that more than I do," she said quietly. "Tara taught me how to read people’s flow; I don’t need to do magic to see your soul. You’re wearing it the way you used to wear your duster."

She had no idea why he flinched.

"I should get back now," he muttered, getting up from the bench and starting down the block. He didn’t look behind him, and he didn’t see her stare after him, long after he had disappeared from view.

It took a while for him to reach the crypt, what with all the pausing and gulping in huge lungfuls of air and steadying himself on handy graves. It seemed like he’d been walking for years, and he could barely continue. Fixing his eyes on the door, he forced his feet to move even as he wanted more than anything to lie down and moan and…god knows what. After what seemed like forever, he was close enough to believe he would actually make it. Ten feet, five, almost there….

Then he was inside, on his knees, shuddering, crying, his stomach clenching. And then a wash of red covering the floor in front of him, as his body rejected that which sustained it.

Giles had always had an appreciation for blueberry pancakes. On their own, pancakes were rather boring. Bland and soft, and really too sweet for breakfast, to his mind. But with blueberries, they were something else entirely. A few mornings when he had been over early to speak with Buffy he had enjoyed Joyce’s blueberry pancakes, which had a pleasant bite to them. He’d watched her wash fresh blueberries and toss them with sugar before folding them into the pale batter, and the freshness had given the pancakes an appealing crunch.

The pancakes with which Buffy had presented him a few minutes before also crunched, but that was because they hadn’t defrosted completely.

He ate them anyway.

Dawn wasn’t so tactful. She cut bites from around the edges of her pancake stack, leaving a very conspicuous untouched center.

It was the third time Buffy had served pancakes since he’d arrived, and she hadn’t heated them correctly once.

Giles smothered a sigh. She was the dearest girl, and she’d come so far by herself. Back in school, a job that made sense. Doing her own grocery shopping.

Yet there seemed to be a point at which her development stopped. At which she said, I can do this, and no more.

Perhaps, Giles thought suddenly, he should have listened to her the previous fall, when she’d pleaded with him not to go. She said she needed him, but he was so determined to do the right thing by her. And so deluded to think that he knew what that was.

He’d never died. He’d never held his family together while trying to save the world every night. He’d never had to kill someone he loved.

He’d never been left by the person chosen to guide him.

When he and Anya had spoken a few nights earlier, he had been taken aback to realize that instead of Buffy and her friends growing up while he was gone, they had all devolved rather spectacularly. He had no idea how it had happened, but the evidence was before him and he could not refute it.

As he stood up to help clear the table—Dawn having vanished without offering—he studied Buffy. She was certainly more self-possessed than she had been after her return the year before, yet she still seemed unlike herself, to his mind. She was quieter, and less effervescent. She kept things to herself.

Of course, she’d always kept things to herself. But she had usually covered her secretive tendencies up with a bright smile and smart remark, and as a result he somehow never thought of her as keeping secrets. Now, her demeanor suggested, she was her own woman and didn’t have to answer to anyone.

So he had no idea how she would react to what he was going to say, and might as well not even try to cipher her out. "Buffy? May I have a word with you?"

Buffy froze in the act of placing the breakfast dishes in the sink to soak. Okay, syrup didn’t require much soaking, but she never had time to wash the dishes in the morning anyway. He caught me, she thought, before remembering that she’d done nothing wrong. And that she was an adult. And that people didn’t get to call her on things anymore, even if she loved them. Even if they disapproved.

She braced herself anyway.

"Buffy, I’m been watching you since I arrived—"

"You being a Watcher and all," she agreed dryly, covering her trepidation.

"Yes," he said absently, not listening. "And I’ve been doing quite a bit of thinking. I—perhaps you should sit down."

They both sat again at the kitchen table. "I-I’ve—" he hesitated. He wasn’t sure how she’d react. He wasn’t even sure how he felt about it yet himself. "Maybe I should just show you," he said finally.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out an airline ticket.

She couldn’t think for a moment, and was startled by the sudden crash of her heart. Almost like the other shoe dropping, she thought remotely. Why would she even be surprised? At least this time he wasn’t back long enough for her to begin to depend on him again. Better than last year, at least.

He unfolded the paper and held it out to her, shaking it impatiently when she didn’t immediately take it. Finally she focused on it.

"It’s not a plane ticket," she blurted out in surprise.

He had no right to be hurt that the first thing she assumed he would do was leave. No right at all.

"It’s a purchase agreement," he explained gently. "I’ve long enjoyed that bookshop down on Hazel Street. When I saw the for-sale sign in the window, it seemed the natural step. I…I missed the shop very much when I was away. I didn’t even realize how much until I came back. It’s the sort of thing that needs someone to look after it. To care for it, do what they can to make sure nothing bad happens. To—"

"Dust its shelves?" Buffy offered. Was she imagining this? Was he really coming back for good?

"Yes, dusting. We can’t forget the dusting," Giles agreed with a small smile.

"Are you going to stay—"

"Yes, Buffy, I am going to stay."

"I meant here. In our house."

Giles felt himself flush a bit, a sensation he hadn’t often felt since before his Ripper days. She was certainly accepting his news easily. Not a great deal of reaction, really. He’d thought—hoped—she’d be more excited. "Oh. Well, I thought I might get my own place. Unless you’d prefer I stay here?"

Buffy shook her head. "No, you—you can get your own place. Will you move back into your townhouse?"

"No, I gave up the lease on that when I returned to England last fall. Perhaps someplace a little larger now."

"What about the Magic Box?" Buffy asked quietly. "I mean, you still own it. Why the new shop?"

"You know, I bought the Magic Box because it coincided nicely with our interests and because, honestly, it seemed to do a brisk business. But since you convinced the council to reinstate me, I don’t really need the reassurance of a profitable establishment—and I prefer spending my time around books rather than Fjyliac casting stones and pickled gelsen tongue. For one thing, they smell better," he joked mildly. "For that matter, Anya is doing very nicely on her own; I’m going to offer to sell her my share of the shop—she’s such an clever investor, she probably has enough to buy me out tucked in her change purse. I’m sure it will be quite a relief for her, not to worry that I’m going to be imposing my unwanted suggestions on her. She really is quite a remarkable businesswoman."

"Why are you staying?" Buffy asked baldly.

Giles hesitated. "Well, as I said, there is a shop I’m rather partial to—"

"Yes, I heard about the shop, and the shop needs someone, and you shouldn’t have left the shop, and can we stop talking in metaphors? Why are you staying now when you wouldn’t last year, even after I begged you to?"

Well. She still knew how to cut a person deeply; that hadn’t changed. "Last year—last year I thought it would be best for you to develop your sense of responsibility," he explained carefully.

"My sense of responsibility?" Buffy repeated in disbelief. "Is that a joke? How many times do I have to save the world before you think I’ve developed a sense of responsibility?"

"Responsibility was a poor choice of word," Giles amended hastily. "Independence, I think, is more what I was hoping to encourage."

"Encourage from the other side of the world?"

How could he explain his intentions when they had been so misguided? Plead temporary insanity? He’d reached the point where he now barely remembered his reasons for leaving. Well, he remembered them; they just seemed so trifling now—almost like a pretext. "Buffy…you had so much thrust upon you last year…your mother…raising Dawn…readjusting to life. Yet it seemed to me that the longer I stayed, the more dependent you became. You didn’t want to be the adult in Dawn’s life. You didn’t even want to be the adult in your life."

Buffy opened her mouth to interrupt, but Giles held up a hand to preempt her. "I wanted to help you. But although I can train you and conduct research, I have no expertise in the raising of a young woman. I don’t know how to help you, but I wanted to, more than anything—you must believe that. You didn’t seem to be adjusting as soon as I thought you should. I’m afraid I reverted to a ‘sink or swim’ mentality—really quite barbaric. But you must know that I expected you to swim beautifully."

"I guess I’m a slow learner," Buffy replied, hurt.

"No, my dear, I am. I was quite stupid. A person cannot swim when they are already weighted down, and you have more anchors than any one person should have to bear. My role as Watcher is not merely to help you train and record your deeds; it is to make your job easier however I can. And despite the best intentions, I did the opposite. I let you down, Buffy. As a Watcher and as a friend," he said honestly.

Buffy regarded him suspiciously, still not convinced. She’d heard the I’m-leaving-for-your-own-good speech so many times she could recite it in her sleep. She’d never heard it in reverse before. She thought she liked it better that way. "You’re not staying because you’re worried about Spike, are you? Because I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," he responded with heartbreaking tenderness. "You just shouldn’t have to."

Buffy glanced down at the table. It was hard to believe he was really here, saying these things to her. She’d dreamed it so often in the months after he’d left, wanted it so badly. She’d been hurt so deeply when he left. When Riley had left she was wounded and angry, but it was nothing compared to what she felt when Giles—her rock—had listened to her beg him to stay and then packed his bags anyway; it had been as if the world were turning backwards. A reminder that she could trust no one to stand by her, a little refresher course in what her real major was in life.

You can trust Spike, a little voice inside her whispered. She pushed it aside. Yes, he’d always been there for her, but not everything was about him. This was Giles, asking for another chance to care for her. Like Spike had. Like Angel, like Willow.

No, not like Willow. Nothing like her. Giles had—he’d been trying to help her.

"Okay," Buffy murmured. Her brain hurt, and she didn’t want to think anymore.

"Okay?" repeated Giles.

Buffy jerked back to reality and stood up, walking over to the sink and turning the faucet on hot. Flooding the breakfast dishes, squeezing in detergent. Behind her she could hear Giles rise and move towards the doorway. She turned around suddenly. "So you’re really staying? For good?" she asked softly.

He regarded her gravely. He regretted he’d ever given her reason to doubt him. "Yes. For good."

She nodded, and returned her attention to the sink without a word. Giles sighed and left the kitchen. It wasn’t the response he’d hoped for. But what could he expect? It appeared she still had a layer of—

He stopped abruptly when a strong, thin pair of arms sneaked around him from behind, squeezing him desperately. "You’re really staying?" Buffy whispered again.

He squeezed her hands where they met around his waist. "Yes, I promise," he said softly, and smiled as he felt her rest her head against his back. She didn’t seem inclined to let go.

That was just fine with him.

***

There was something lazy about bells over shop doors. The old, burned-down Magic Box had had one, but Anya had always disapproved of it. An attentive shopkeeper didn’t need a crutch like that, she knew when customers came in because she was paying attention. So when the store was rebuilt, no bell was put over the door. Giles hadn’t been there when the project was reaching completion, but Anya had popped over to see him and let him know what she was doing, in the guise of asking his advice about it. He had agreed with her, because he recognized her expertise in the matter. She enjoyed the faith he had in her abilities. Perhaps, now that he was in town again, he would like to begin spending his days at the shop? Not that she needed the help. But it would be nice for him to have something to do. Something to do around her.

She did spend a lot of her time thinking about Giles. Sometime she was planning their long and happy lives together, but she believed in being practical, so the primary focus of her Giles-related thoughts was on devising a sophisticated approach with him, rather than the lose-the-dress gambit that had worked so well with Xander. He was much older than Xander, and much wiser. Of course, Spike was older than Xander and wiser too, which was actually kind of depressing, and she hadn’t even had to shuck her clothes for him to be on her. Ah yes! Alcohol! How could she have forgotten about its many fine, inebriating qualities? Of course, she wanted Giles to be cognizant of their relationship. But sometimes relationships needed a little grease, or at least lube. And they’d had a breakthrough a few nights before, hadn’t they, when Giles had asked her about the wisdom of him returning to England last year? It had shown he’d valued her opinion as a woman as well as a shopkeeper. He’d never have told her such intimate things otherwise. He wanted to know what she thought. It was a nice change of pace from…well, everyone.

The thing was, when she thought about Giles, she didn’t always notice things. So when Xander walked into the Magic Box, she didn’t see him, and she didn’t hear him, because of the no-bell door, and she didn’t smell him, because why would she?

It was the first time Xander had been to the shop since it was rebuilt. Things looked different now, but they felt different too. Perhaps that was because he was an outsider. It used to be his second home, and now he wasn’t welcome there.

But he needed to be there. He needed it so badly. He’d needed to be around Anya for months, but he’d respected her desire that he leave her alone. It hurt his heart to be away from her, but he’d done it because she wanted it and he owed it to her. He couldn’t stay away any more. He knew he should, but things were worse and he had no one. He had no one except Willow and his job was to help her, not burden her with his problems.

He shouldn’t be doing that to Anya, either, but she’d always known how to take care of herself. Even when she was sad, even when she was angry. She did it better than anyone he knew. She wasn’t nurturing. But she was strong.

There weren’t any customers in the shop, and Anya stood before a display of dried herb bouquets, staring at them with intense concentration. Herbs didn’t need that much attention; she must have been thinking about something important. Something that mattered to her.

Something that undoubtedly wasn’t him.

"Ahn?"

Her back stiffened, and then she turned around slowly, her face tense. Well, she hadn’t forgotten his voice, at least.

"Xander," she said formally, as if they barely knew each other. "What are you doing at my establishment? Do you wish to purchase one of the large variety of magical goods we carry? This week we have a special on bulk quantities of tagus root."

As she spoke she moved behind the counter, letting him know that she was only interested in talking business with him. But he’d played it her way ever since he’d broken up with her, when he was wearing a stupid rented tux that barely fit and she was achingly beautiful in a dress that made her look like a mermaid. He’d tried so hard to do things her way, because he’d thought it would help. And he’d never been able to make her understand what he feared, what that foul old man had shown him. He knew it was fiction, that it was just some scenario to make him hurt Anya, but she hadn’t grown up wincing every time his father opened his mouth. Cringing when he raised his hand. Hiding in his closet so he wouldn’t be found. Fantasizing that he wasn’t his father, that his mother would swoop him up and take him someplace else, where they could be safe and happy.

And then, as an adult, feeling trapped there. Like it was quicksand, and he couldn’t fight his way out. Even after he started working, working at a lot of different things, he’d stayed there, and it made him feel even worse. But somehow the chains holding him there seemed to grow even tighter. If it wasn’t for Anya he’d still be there. She was the only thing that had gotten him out. But even with her, he hadn’t been sure he was strong enough not to become his father. Because two years of Anya couldn’t erase 18 years of him, and he loved her too much to risk it. She could dismiss it as a shadow threat. He lived with it every night. He knew it couldn’t just be waved away.

"I was just—just, uh—wondering how you were doing." Anya regarded him steadily, and Xander felt himself begin to wilt under her flinty gaze. He felt as big a loser as he had been in high school. He didn’t think he’d ever been this tongue-tied, even with Cordy at her most sarcastic. "Have you seen anyone interesting lately?" he attempted, trying not to sounds jealous, or possessive, or any of the other things he wasn’t entitled to feel.

"What?" Anya demanded in disbelief.

"I mean…like Giles, say? Have you seen Giles?"

"No, I haven’t seen Giles. Today," she added shortly

"Oh. I was just wondering. Because I heard you saw a lot of him."

"We’re business partners. And friends. Friends first, really. He respects my opinion and treats me with respect. Yes, a lot of—respect. It’s a nice feeling. It’s a new feeling," she added frostily.

Xander stared at the floor. How could he tell her it hurt, to hear she was popping over to the other side of the world to see Giles, and wouldn’t even come out from behind the counter to talk to him? He’d tried again and again to tell her how sorry he was. But he wasn’t here to apologize; he’d done that enough.

He needed to talk, and he just didn’t have anyone else.

"If you want to talk to Giles I suggest you call Buffy," Anya said, drawing him back to the moment.

Xander flinched. "I don’t think that’s really a good idea. Buffy and I are a little—things aren’t good now."

"Ah. Is it about Spike, by any chance?"

"You know about that?" Xander asked in surprise.

"Why yes, of course. We’re friends. She and I and Giles and Spike. Why, just last weekend the four of us had a wonderful time together at Buffy’s."

Xander ground his teeth to avoid saying anything bad about the everything that he hated about that sentence. "Aren’t you at all—concerned about her?" Xander asked.

"Why would I be? She’s the Slayer, she knows how to take care of herself better than anyone."

"He’s a vampire," Xander said doggedly—the same argument he’d made before, to Buffy, to others, about Spike, about Angel. It all felt so old, and like it had happened so many times. But he felt as if he didn’t struggle everyone would go under, and then it would be too late. Too late for all of them. And yet he seemed to be the only one who was worried.

"And she’s a vampire slayer. That would seem like a good balance to me. Unconventional, but equal."

"Balance? The balance between vampires and the Slayer is that she kills them. That’s where the whole balance thing comes in. It’s like she’s forgotten what she’s supposed to do."

"How could she forget?" Anya scoffed. "She’s done it every night for the past seven years."

"But she’s different now. She used to be my hero," said Xander quietly. "Now, I don’t know."

Anya shook her head in disbelief. That had always been Xander’s problem. He had grown up trying to hide from reality, and had taken refuge where he could. Mostly, in fantasy. His view of reality was so colored, so skewed, that when people behaved like…people, he couldn’t stand it. It didn’t fit his idea of what was normal. What was right. God knows she never had.

"Xander, she does heroic things, but she’s a person," pointed out Anya. "Not a comic book hero. Not an action figure. She’s a person, and she’s allowed to lose her temper and hold grudges and make bad romantic decisions. Or perfectly good ones that you just don’t approve of."

"I don’t think she’s an action figure," protested Xander, wounded. He only wanted Buffy to be Buffy, the girl he’d met and immediately fallen into…uh, admiration for so many years before. Who’d been so brave, and done what was right no matter how hard it was. Who had opened up his world, and Willow’s.

"Then why do you get so upset when she breaks out of her little mold?"

"I don’t want to force her in a mold, I just want her to be Buffy," he said desperately.

"Well, who else do you think she’s being? Just because she’s not doing what you want doesn’t mean she’s not being herself. You want her to be exactly the same as she’s always been, but everything in her life has changed, and you can’t expect that it—" Anya stopped and drew a breath. "Do you know why Giles left last year, Xander?"

He couldn’t answer. He’d never had a clue.

"He left so she would grow up," Anya told him plainly. She didn’t like talking with him. She felt like she was talking with a child; she wasn’t sure what she’d ever seen in him. She’d pushed aside warm memories of Xander bringing her soup when she was sick, and rubbing her feet when they were cold, pushed them so far away she could barely recall them. She gathered up an armful of stock that hadn’t been moving well and turned to head into the back. At the door she turned. "And she has grown up. You have to let her do it her way. You know, Xander, the trouble with putting people on a pedestal is that sometimes they find it hard to keep their balance. And most people prefer the view from the ground, anyway."

She stayed in the storeroom a good five minutes. When she came out, the shop was empty.

***

It wasn’t appropriate to skip through a cemetery, was it? Buffy didn’t think so. And really, it sounded like something that fruit bat Drusilla would do. But she felt lighter than she had in years. Giles was staying—staying for good, he’d promised. And he’d never promised her anything before, and he was English, and it probably meant more to him because of…some reason she didn’t know, and he was staying. And Dawn had been doing her homework like she was supposed to when Buffy got home from class the night before, and she chatted during breakfast, and seemed happier than she usually did. And now Buffy was going to see Spike, and it had been a few days, and she was sick of not seeing him, and was it possible to babble when talking to yourself?

She restrained herself from kicking in Spike’s door. It almost felt wrong not to, but that was of the past. Along with hiding their relationship and beating him up when it wasn’t for mutual pleasure, or at least training purposes. Or both.

Huh. There was usually noise coming from Spike’s crypt. He hardly ever sat still, and would have the television or CD player going, or just be nattering on to himself about Dawn or Tennyson or onion rings. Or talking to an imaginary Buffy, she’d heard him do that enough times. Imaginary Buffy seemed to like to argue.

But tonight the crypt was silent. It was eerie, and perhaps it was the unaccustomed silence that made her freeze with her hand on the door and draw out her stake.

When she quietly pushed the door open she was startled to find…nothing.

No trash decorating the room; no grime on the floor; even the furniture was gone.

Her heart caught in her throat. "Spike," she whispered. Then, more loudly, "Spike!"

"Buffy?"

Buffy swung her attention to the corner of the room, and in the dim she could make out Spike’s bright head as he moved towards her from the far end of the crypt. "My god, what’s happened here?"

"Just doing a little spring cleaning is all. Clem really did leave the place a bit of a mess."

"You moved all the furniture out?" she asked in disbelief.

"Furniture’s right there, Slayer," he pointed out, gesturing to the wall. She followed his hand and her eyes, now adjusting to the lack of light, made out the shapes of his few pieces of furniture, pushed to the periphery of the room. "Had to get it out of the way."

Buffy looked around more carefully, then bent to touch the floor in surprise. "You washed the floor?" she marveled.

Spike stiffened a little. If he’d just washed the one spot he’d been ill it would have looked a little odd, wouldn’t it? It was stupid of him not to tell her, really, but it made him feel weak. Vulnerable. And she had more than enough to deal with already without worrying about him. Even if he liked the thought of her worrying about him. Hell, he was only h—well, he had feelings same as anyone, didn’t he?

Besides, no need for her to worry. It had just been that one time, and he was fine. Sure, he hadn’t eaten since, but that was because he really wasn’t hungry. That was all.

He walked over to her and touched her cheek. He loved the way she let him do it, the way she reached up to cover his hand with her own.

"Did Xander visit?" she asked a little nervously. "Or maybe you got another present?"

"No, Slayer," Spike murmured, nuzzling her cheek. "And there aren’t going to be any more."

Buffy pulled back in surprise and looked at him. "Why not?" He smiled at her, and she felt a shiver run down her spine.

"Because I did a little thinking, and everything’s clear now. And I know exactly where they came from."

It was a very long night. Giles knew that because he was awake for nearly all of it, his ears, despite the plugs he had pushed into them, traitorously straining to catch sounds from Buffy’s bedroom—much in the way that he couldn’t resist pressing his tongue against a sore tooth.

The good thing, or perhaps the bad thing, was that he couldn’t hear a sound.

Now, sitting across from him at the breakfast table, Spike was fully dressed. He hadn’t come down with his shirt off, or the top button of his jeans undone, rather to Giles’ surprise. Other than that, everything about Spike screamed “We went at it all night like crazed mink”—or at least how it seemed to Giles, as he spread a slice of toast with orange-peach marmalade and surveyed the demon sitting across from him, his hand resting on Buffy’s, stroking it as he looked at her and laughed and appeared more carefree than any creature of the night had the right to. There was nothing in the world that could concern him, it seemed. No matter what the wrongs he’d committed, he was welcome back in the Summers’ house, as if a long-lost loved one had returned home.

Perhaps he had.

Beside Spike, Dawn stabbed her fork into her plate and sliced her ham to pieces with mathematical precision. Each draw of the knife scraped against the plate with a disturbing screech, a fact of which Giles felt sure Dawn was aware. Still, she ignored him as completely as she ignored the others. Her breakfast was all that was important to her, apparently. Her breakfast and whatever damage she could inflict on their eardrums.

Buffy cared about Spike, and apparently this sort of thing was going to be occurring with some regularity.

Suddenly, moving out seemed like a particularly good idea.

Buffy smiled up at Spike. It was going well, wasn’t it? Dawn had jumped and yelped a little when Spike came into the kitchen, but other than that seemed fine. Giles had just continued cooking and asked if scrambled was fine with everyone.

It was good, wasn’t it? This was her world now. Everyone she loved was in this kitchen, eating together happily. Well, she and Spike weren’t really eating, mostly giggling, but it was nice. And Giles wasn’t eating much, he just had a piece of toast on his plate. But Dawn was eating great, better than she had in months. In fact, she was shoveling it in like a farmhand.

Of course, she wasn’t talking much. Neither was Giles. Or, of course, her and Spike. But what was there to talk about? Things were great. The night had been…so tender. And also? Wicked hot. Their relationship was different than it had been last year. Last year even the front yard seemed too close to home; now, it seemed right for Spike to be in the house with her, in her room, the place she was herself. The place she didn’t have to pretend. She’d dreamed about him being there, the year before. In the bed with her. comforting her, protecting her. But she couldn’t have let him in yet. He’d wanted to protect her, to comfort her, but he didn’t know how. He was the man who, after their first night together, compared making love to her with killing her predecessors.

And she was the woman who’d left him crumpled on the ground when he tried to stop her from throwing herself away. They were different now, they were both different. If they weren’t, they had no business being together.

Screeeeeeech!

Spike repressed a shudder at the high-pitched noises Niblet was making with her cutlery. If he wasn’t mistaken, the screeches had a slightly higher pitch than the shrieks she made when upset. Of course, she wasn’t using any equipment then, so she was handicapped, so to speak.

The Watcher was glowering at him as if he’d just caught Spike with his hand in the cookie jar—which he had, Spike supposed. Probably should have been more discreet the night before, but he’d been mostly asleep and hadn’t really been thinking. It was so fucking unbelievable—the two of them, together, in her bed, in her mother’s house, in the home she shared with her baby sister—that he’d had the insistent feeling that the whole thing was just a dream. The most glorious dream of his life, and he’d be miserable when he woke up and realized it wasn’t real.

But he was here, with the mug of blood Buffy had warmed for him. He didn’t know when she’d stocked up on blood; she’d never kept it last year. If he wanted a drink at her place, he could have Diet Coke, Mountain Dew—god, that should be illegal—or see if she was in the mood to let him talk her out of a sip.

Which he’d never tried to do, because he knew a great way to turn off the Buffy spigot when he heard one. Said that, he would have been uninvited again and left to stare at her bedroom window. Bad enough he’d said that thing about Slayers their first morning together—that had been stupendously stupid. And it was hard to explain that she’d dazzled him so much that he’d obviously come his brains out and didn’t have any to spare, so show a bloke a little compassion, all right? What he’d been trying to say was, she’s taken what he thought was the best thing he’d ever experienced and made it look like nothing compared to her. The glory he’d sought, the dangerous rep—they were nothing next to her.

But that was long past. This was their real first morning together. The other one didn’t exist.

Of course, the other one didn’t have the Watcher looking at him as if he expected Spike to nick the silverware, or Snackpack staring at her plate as if she thought it would reveal how to meet the boy band member of her dreams in ten days or less. If she still listened to those sad excuses for singers. Did she? He had no idea. He wagered Buffy didn’t, either. Guess he’d have to ask her himself. Assuming she could hear him over her silverware assault.

Why was he looking at her? He wasn’t going to say something to her, was he? Dawn hastily pushed herself from the table. “MayIbeexcused?” she mumbled, then ran out of the kitchen before anyone could reply. God, he’d been going to say something to her, and she didn’t want to hear it. What could he possibly say? “Did our rambunctious sexifying wake you up last night, Bit? You don’t mind if we snog right here on the table, do you?”

As it happened, she hadn’t heard anything the night before, but she’d taken a Tylenol PM and left her radio on, because she’d been having a hard time falling asleep the last couple of weeks. Normally she could hear everything. Probably. It wasn’t like he’d ever spent the night before. Was sex…loud? Dawn had no idea. She didn’t remember Riley ever spending the night. No man had ever spent the night there before last night, except for Giles, and Giles didn’t count. He was too old for sex, anyway.

Dawn hastened into her room and shut the door. She paced around, tripping over a stuffed animal here and a notebook there, barely able to control herself. She felt like running, like screaming, like jumping up and down.

The stuff—just look at the stuff—Dawn dropped to the floor and rummaged through her dresser drawer, drawing out the evidence of her crypt visits and spreading it across the bed. Slowly she felt her heart slow down and her breathing return to normal. When she looked at it, she regained a sense of control. She wasn’t just someone things happened to; she wasn’t rocked by others, they were rocked by her, even if they didn’t realize it was her. Even if they just thought she was Dawn, Buffy’s younger sister and formerly important Key.

It was gross to think of it—Spike being in the house all night, with Buffy. Touching her, the way that vampire had touched Dawn on Halloween, except more. All over, with no clothes and no stopping.

Dawn remembered how chilly the boy’s—the vampire’s—hands had been on her, as he’d stroked his finger across her cheek, his other hand disappearing up her shirt. Buffy knew what that felt like. More vampires had touched her than human men.

Something they had in common. Maybe that’s just the way it was on the Hellmouth. After all, if you refuse to date the evil undead, you’re reducing the dating pool considerably.

Her mother had been cold, when Dawn touched her at the hospital. Her body. Not like ice, but…not warm, like a person. Dawn had touched her cheek carefully, not sure what would happen. Almost thinking her mom would move, open her eyes. Look straight at Dawn, and ask what they were doing there. But her skin was cool, like marble, and felt heavy, somehow. Like a statue, and not like her mom.

That’s when Dawn realized Buffy was right, that their mom wasn’t there.

Dawn wrapped up her little treasury and tucked it away again, safe in her drawer. She wasn’t upset any more. The pieces had worked their magic and soothed her.

But even calm, she didn’t want to stay there in the house while Buffy and Spike billed and cooed, and she probably sat on his lap and acted as cutesy as she had with Riley. It was enough to make Dawn wish she were blind, or at least still an indifferent energy blob. The hell if she’d stay around there; she’d head over to…not Janice’s, no, she was through with her, but…but….

God, she needed some more friends.

Fine, she’d go to the mall. There were always kids there, and besides, it was there, not here. That was the best part about there.

They probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone.

She slipped down the stairs silently. No need to let anyone know that she was going out. They were still in the kitchen; she could hear Spike saying, “Then be happy shoes don’t button anymore, because—”

“Dawn? Where are you going?”

Dawn swung around, suppressing a gasp. Almost made it. God, Buffy could be as silent as Spike. Boy, it would be wonderful living with two beings who could move around on little cat feet and hear what you whispered two rooms away. One of them a reformed neglectful older sister, the other a smothering older brother type who thought she needed babysitting even when she was 15, and had talked Buffy out of letting Dawn go on an overnight field trip to the Monterey Bay Aquarium the year before. You’re going to let her out there with ghoulies and boys and pervert teachers? What, are you off your nut?

“Dawn?”

Dawn turned her attention back to her sister. “Just thought I’d go to Janice’s,” she lied smoothly. Of course, she had plenty of practice. It sometimes seemed like people would rather be lied to than hear the truth—Well, I can’t stand the thought of watching you and Spike swallow each other’s tongues all day, so I thought I’d wander around aimlessly and maybe hit strangers up for spare change. If she’d given Buffy a choice, Buffy probably would have said, “Lie, please.”

Buffy nodded, and Dawn started to turn back to the door. “But I thought maybe we could talk a little first?”

With a sinking feeling, Dawn headed into the living room. Behind her, she heard Buffy take a deep breath. Oh, god. That was never a good sign.

***

Well, they hadn’t been there in…days, Spike thought, offering Rupert a bland smile. He was trying to be good and not bait the Watcher, and it really wasn’t that difficult. After all, a night of luscious shagging followed by breakfast at his lady’s table, with her hand on his atop the table and her leg rubbing against his under it, was surprisingly effective at making him as blissful and content as an overfed cat. Hardly felt the urge to snark at Giles at all.

Buffy had disappeared a couple of minutes before, and Spike hadn’t gone after her. Didn’t want Rupert to think he had nothing on his mind except getting laid, and that wasn’t a lie. It was in the top five…okay, the top two, but the whole night and morning was a fucking fantasy come true. Him and her, together all night. Waking up in each others’ arms, and her looking right at him, not away because she was ashamed or looking for her clothes, to hide her traitorous body from his eyes.

“Have you made any plans?” Giles asked Spike with notable politeness. He didn’t want his antipathy towards Spike to affect his relationship with Buffy, and he’d seen quite clearly the path their relationship was on even before Buffy had opened her door the night before.

Although that didn’t prevent him from requiring a rather large Scotch after the discovery.

“Are you asking me my intentions?” Spike asked with amusement.

Giles rolled his eyes. Trust Spike to reduce any concern to its least plausible element. “Not in the strictest sense, no,” he answered. It wasn’t like they could marry or experience any kind of a future—after all, he was a vampire and Buffy a Slayer, and therefore—Christ. “Yes, I believe that would be a reasonable way to put it, now that you mention it. What are you going to do?”

The corner of Spike’s mouth canted upward, and Giles hastily cut him off. “And please spare me any attempts at cleverness, I haven’t had enough tea to make that tolerable. I strongly suspect there isn’t enough tea. I want to know what your plans are with Buffy. Where are you going to live? What have you got to offer her?”

The protective papa speech would have made Spike smile, except he had the suspicion that it wasn’t the first time Giles had used it. “Dusting off one of your old Angel speeches, Rupert?” he asked cordially. Not that he felt cordial. But he was a shitload better for Buffy than that pansy had ever been. Angel may have been all soul-having when they met, but it was a curse. Not something he’d wanted and fought to earn. It was something he’d been given as punishment—like being forced to write sentences on a blackboard for the next 3,271 years.

And if Spike’s soul was ever pried from his body, he knew he would continue to love her. Because his soul didn’t lead to his love—his love led to his soul. His love wasn’t cheap; it didn’t depend on some curse to survive. It survived because that was what he did, love.

“Spike—”

Spike cut him off. “Whatever she wants is good enough for me, mate.” Giles opened his mouth, but Spike continued. “Whatever she wants is good enough for anybody, I’d guess. I think she’s had enough of making due, don’t you?”

Giles looked singularly unamused. But how could he argue? He agreed with the vampire.

“Be nice to see her happy for once,” Spike continued blandly.

“Will you be moving in?” asked Giles. Spike shrugged. Oh, fine. Giles gave up; Buffy wanted Spike around, she’d made that much clear. It was useless to struggle against the tide, and he was giving in. She didn’t always know what was best, but she had the stubborn certainty of a mule. She would be involved with Spike until she didn’t wish to be involved with him any longer. Her relationship with him last year, and with Angel before him, showed that she would do what she wanted anyway; if people disapproved, she’d just conceal her actions.

And despite his disappointment over her choice of paramours, he didn’t want her to hide. She’d earned the right, long ago, to do as she wished. She’d paid for the right with her blood, her life. She needn’t skulk around in dark corners to avoid to his bad opinion, because she could never have that.

“I’ll be leaving soon,” Giles told Spike somberly.          

Spike looked at him in surprise. “Buffy told me you were staying?”

“I’m staying in Sunnydale, yes. But I’ll be moving out.”

“Because of—” Spike hesitated. A dart of guilt struck him. Because of him?

“Well, Olivia will be coming out to join me and I really think it would be best if we had our own place,” Giles said.

“Olivia?” Spike repeated in surprise.

“Yes, Olivia. I believe you met her—she was in town when the Gentlemen—”

“Yeah, I remember. But I thought you and Anya—” Spike broke off.

Giles looked at him in puzzlement. “Anya and I what?”

“Does Anya know about Olivia?”

“Well, of course she does. She met her when you did. As I recall, she described our relationship quite memorably,” Giles noted with a shudder.

“Oh yeah, she called her your—”

“I remember, thank you.”

If Anya and Giles really weren’t together, it wasn’t his business, so he should just keep his hole shut, Spike knew.

But he’d never been good at doing what he was supposed to, and Anya—well, he wasn’t especially partial to her, but they’d comforted each other when they were low. “Anya’s a different girl than she used to be,” Spike said quietly. Giles looked at him quizzically. “She’s grown up.”

Giles frowned at him slightly; clearly he had no idea what Spike was going on about. Spike sighed. Fuck, he wasn’t sure either. “Look, just break it to her gently, okay?”

Giles forced himself not to roll his eyes. Yes, it was definitely time to move out.

***

Dawn stared at Buffy, sitting next to her on the couch and smiling with such blank hopefulness that Dawn suddenly thought of the ‘Bot, packed away in pieces down in the basement. Willow had said she was too valuable to discard, even after those demon bikers had reduced her to parts.

Dawn waited, but Buffy looked at her expectantly.

“Do you…uh, have any questions?” asked Buffy finally. She thought Dawn would want to talk about it; she’d been a babbling tower of Spike for so long. And now that their relationship had moved past the sex-in-dark-alleys phase, it seemed like a good time to discuss it.

Of course, she’d never really had a talk like this with Dawn before. It was kind of like when their mother had told Buffy about…ugh, Ted. Her least favorite robot.

“I guess you’re not just friends anymore,” Dawn quietly—reminding Buffy of what she’d told Dawn so recently. It was amazing how quickly things changed.

“No, we’re lov—we’re—we’re serious now,” Buffy told her, groping for words.

“More serious than you were last year?”

God, yes.

But how do you tell your baby sister, Last year I wanted to die, except when I was with him, and I hated myself for needing him, and he hated me for hating him? And we hurt each other, and made each other cry, and I don’t want to die anymore, but I still want to be with him? And I don’t hate myself for it anymore?

“Last year—” Buffy began hesitantly. “Last year Spike helped me as much as he could, after I came back. And I fell in love with him, but I was still uncomfortable with…everything. I mean, with coming back, and adjusting to everything. And I really wasn’t ready for anything more. But now I’m, you know, me again, and…what I mean is, yeah, it’s more serious now.”

Dawn studied Buffy’s face quietly for a moment. “So you’re just going to forget about everything?”

Buffy flinched at the question. God, they’d talked about it before; wouldn’t it just go away, someday, and become something people never asked about? Thank god Giles had never been told about the bathroom; she didn’t want to think about what he’d be saying now.

“It’s between Spike and me, and we’ve dealt with it,” said Buffy carefully. “And now we’re together. And we both love you, and want you to be happy.”

She wanted to believe her. Buffy could tell. Dawn was leaning forward, looking unbearably hopeful, the way she used to years ago when their dad called; these days, she ran out of the house when he called, because she didn’t want to talk to him. Buffy touched Dawn’s face gently, cradling it the way their mother used to. She’d touch them and everything would be all right, if only for a moment.

She’d never be there again. That was Buffy’s job now, more important than her work at school, more important than saving the world.

She’d always been the most important thing in Buffy’s world, even if she never realized it.

***

It left her unsettled, like a bad dream. Blocks from home, Dawn sank down on a patch of grass at the edge of the playing field at Holloway Elementary and gulped in air, calming herself. She’d felt hard and calm before she and Buffy talked, but now she was almost panicked again. Things were like she’d hoped they would be last year; Buffy relaxed, without that thousand-yard stare, and laughing again, and Spike there, and Giles not going anywhere. And she’d looked up and seen Spike peering in at her and Buffy in the living room, shamelessly spying on them, and thought, God, he knows.

It was ridiculous; he couldn’t know anything. To him, she was still “Little Bit”; she could see it in his eyes. See his eyes softening as he looked at her. Like her mother’s had. More than Buffy’s ever had, despite all the things Buffy had said.

Now that’s not exactly true, is it? asked a voice in her head. Spike’s voice.

“Shut up,” she muttered. But the voice persisted. Jumped off a tower for you...died because she loved you so much...put a sword through Angel, but she would have let the world go to hell rather than see you gone....

And what have you done? she thought savagely. You didn’t die for me. Weren’t there for me when Tara died and Willow went crazy and almost killed me and Buffy and everyone and Mom was gone and Xander told me you—you—

How could he do that, and then come back like it hadn’t mattered? Didn’t he know that she needed him?

But it had been so nice, when he walked her home from his crypt, and she forgot about what he’d done, and things were like they used to be. Him asking about her schoolwork and her friends, that nice feeling of somebody liking her. Not because she was Buffy’s sister, but because she was Dawn.

She was so absorbed in thought she didn’t notice when the shadow fell across her face. The sound of her voice, sudden and familiar, made Dawn jump a little in remembered fear, despite the fact that they’d both come a long way since the darkness of spring.

“Hiya, Dawnie.”