Second, Stock the Shelves

“I don’t shave, Pet.” Spike pulls the shaving cream can from out of the shopping basket and plunks the metal container back on the shelf amongst the other products.

I snatch the can back and thrown it in the so-far empty cart. “I know, I know. The dead don’t need to shav. . .”

“Undead,” he corrects me for the millionth time.

“The undead don’t need to shave. But you need it. We’re trying to make it look like you’ve been living with us for a while.”

Spike crosses his arms and follows me up the aisle, pausing as I stop to peruse the razors. I’ve never bought guy razors before.

“He’s not going to buy it, you know.”

If I’m not allowed to control whether I’m alive or dead, I’m determined to control whether I get to keep my sister. “He will. That’s why we’re at the grocery store, shopping for you some stuff.”

“Yeah, and I almost died in the process of getting into this bloody place. . . in the middle of the daytime.”

Spike punctuates his complaint by throwing his ratty old blanket into the shopping cart. At least, he’s stopped burning. We don’t have time for him to be a fire hazard.

I bite my lip as I try to decide between a package of two razors and one of three. I’ve never been good at figuring out which size package of the same product is cheaper. “If you’re going to help us, you have to pick things you like.”

Spike rolls his eyes. “I don’t like razors and shaving cream.” He reaches for my hand before I drop the package of two razors in the cart. “Save your money for more important things, pet.”

I shake off his touch, pushing down the confusing feelings I have every time he’s gentle with me. As usual, I cover up the emotions, “Think what we can do with them later.”

Spike growls and moves in closer so that his breath laves over my ear, sending tingles down my spine, “What do you have in mind?”

Proud that I’m able to ignore Spike so well, I circle the cart to the next aisle and study the condoms, running my fingernail over my lower lip in thoughtful contemplation. “So many to choose from. Hmmm. Which are cheap but look like a good brand?”

Spike snorts and attempts to circle his arms around my waist. “Since when do we need contraceptives? I’m dead, remember? That means all my little swimmers are dead, too.”

“Undead, I believe is the correct term,” I say as I expertly step out of the potential embrace and flip over a condom box to read the back. “And if you and I are going to be ‘good ‘role models’ for Dawn, we have to demonstrate the practice of safe sex.”

“Demonstrate, eh? Wouldn’t that actually make us bad ‘role models’? I mean, not that I mind being thought of that way, but c’mon. Even I know that’s a little over the top. Look at what Angelus and Darla did to poor Dru when they role modeled in front of her.”

I wrinkle my nose and toss a box next to the razors I chose. “I so don’t want to know what you’re talking about. And by the way, these condoms are for display only.” At Spike’s look, I add, “In case Mr. Hel-mouth asks. . . or takes a look in the cabinets.”

“Ah. And if he doesn’t, what will you do with the extra condoms then?” Spike leans forward possessively, a trace of jealousy in his voice. . . as if I even have time to date what with the slaying and coping with being alive in general.

Dawn comes skipping around the corner then, and I elbow Spike backwards. He grunts softly, and I fasten my hands tightly around the handle of the shopping cart as he hovers near me momentarily and then backs off.

“So, Dawnie, what’d ya find?” I ask with forced brightness.

Dawn dumps an armload of food and other stuff from her hand-held basket into the large one with the shaving goods. She points to each item with her undamaged arm as she speaks. “Well, there’s cereal, more bread and meat for sandwiches, chips, popcorn, granola bars, peanut butter, a few other things, . . . and cigarettes. . . that you have to smoke outside cause well, eww.”

“How much are those cigarettes?” I ask, snagging the carton from Dawn’s fingers and taking the opportunity to slide the razor package over the condom box. No need for Dawn to get any ideas she shouldn’t have yet.

“Expensive,” Spike interrupts. “We won’t be needing these.”

“But you like this kind. I remember,” Dawn protests. I wonder how she knows what cigarettes Spike prefers.

“I haven’t smoked these since. . . .” he trails off, glancing at me before staring away at nothing.

“Since before I died,” I finish for him. Before my stomach was filled with the hollowness of desire; now it’s filled with hunger for the calm and peace of death. I close my eyes and sway with the sudden overwhelming longing for eternal sleep. Neither of them can understand, and I hope they never will until it can’t be taken from them. Well, at least, that’s how I feel about my sister. Spike’ll probably end up in some hell dimension somewhere, enduring some eternal torture.

Trying to be a peacemaker for once, Dawn scoops the proverbial elephant-in- the-room from my hands and tosses it onto a nearby shelf between two bottles of Herbal Essences shampoo.

        “Okay,” she says with something akin to a forced smile. “Don’t we need to go by Spike’s crypt and grab clothes and stuff now?”

        “Yeah!” Spike is now enthused. “And to the butcher’s to get me some blood.”

        “He can keep it behind the can of pig’s feet that Xander hid in the back of the fridge. It’s so old that even Mr. Hel-ish won’t wanna look back there.”

        “Well, I dunno bout that, Nib.” Spike casts her a grin, and I marvel at the brother-sister-esque chemistry between them. Why hadn’t I noticed before today? “Not sure I’d want to look behind it either. Then, what’ll you do with a ravenous walking vampire skeleton? Might not be to good to look at around the house, and you know I’d scare away all your little school girl friends.”

        “Ewww. I’ll just hide you in the closet when I invite people over. That should do it. Either that or I’ll tell them that you’re my wrinkly old grandfather who’s demented.”

Dawn shrieks and jumps back as Spike makes a fake grab for her. “Better watch it, little miss, or someone will eat you while you sleep.”

        “Ha! You can’t! You have that chi. . .” Dawn dissolves in a fit of giggles as Spike tickles her ribs, and she almost stumbles into the shelves of band-aids behind her, her cast knocking several of the almost weight- less boxes to the floor.

        The muscles in my face barely recognize one of my as-of-late rare genuine smiles. I clear my throat and tap my watch to get their attention. “Let’s go, you two. We’re on a timetable here. We’ll figure something out for the blood.”

        The brightness drains from Spike’s face as he resumes his nonchalant slouch, and Dawn gives me a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

        God, am I always such a downer lately?

“This makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.”

        “What doesn’t, Dawnie?” I ask, shifting the cardboard box from the surprisingly dust-free floor of Spike’s crypt to my right hip.

        My little sister tugs down on the edge of the box I’m holding and emits an essential repeat of her protest after Tara moved out, “We have to get rid of all the candles in the house and tons of mom’s stuff, and now Spike gets to bring in his candles?”

        I shrug. “That was when Willow was living with us.”

        “Yeah, two days ago.” Dawn spreads her legs and cocks up one hip, topping it with her fist.

        “That was before you came up with your plan to fool the new social worker. And before Willow decided to move out for a little while.”

        “And now we can’t get our stuff back,” Dawn whines.

I’m starting to realize that she’s doing an awful lot of whining lately. . . something she never used to do. I wish she’d stop.

        But instead of saying anything to her, I try to placate her. “Look, we can’t. But, at least you’ll get to borrow some of Spike’s,” I say, blowing a strand of hair out of my eyes. “Get busy. You’re supposed to be emptying Spike’s fridge.”

        “I already finished.” Dawn points to another box in the shadows under Spike’s window. “There wasn’t much in it, and Spike won’t let me help him downstairs. I don’t know why; it’s not like I haven’t seen everything down there before.”

        I fight to keep the flush of embarrassment from staining my cheeks. I know for a fact that the last time I was here, I left behind at least one torn negligee. Can’t have Dawn finding that. “Well, you know. It is his space.”

        Dawn makes a noise of annoyance. “Not like I’ll have my own any time soon. Gonna be weird having a vampire camped out on my bedroom floor.”

        Slinging his box onto the main floor, Spike walks silently up the ladder from the lower level of his crypt. “Never complained about it last summer, Bit.”

        Now it’s Dawn’s turn to blush as my eyes widen. She studies the ground and tries to gain my understanding, “He was watching over me. I had a lot of nightmares after. . .”

        My gaze shifts away from her wide eyes, and she shuffles her feet uncomfortably. I’m not sure what Spike’s doing. I do everything in my power to fight the tears that are threatening to surface. They know I’m in pain, but they don’t need to know how much.

        To avoid the discussion that seems to keep coming up at unexpected times, I duck my head and pick up a stray pair of Spike’s jeans that’s been balled up in a corner of the crypt. Brushing off the spider webs that have accumulated on the denim, I surreptitiously glance at my sister and my lover who are hastily going opposite directions and following the change in conversation I’ve invoked.

        My sister is attempting to pull her long dark hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck with her one working arm, and Spike is picking lint off of his recliner, his blond hair a light against the afternoon shadows of his crypt. He really can be an okay guy when he doesn’t open his mouth too much. Maybe he can change. Maybe he is an enigma among vampires. Maybe the chip did something to his brain chemistry. . . something for the good.

I shake my head. I can’t keep letting myself lower my guard. . . lower the walls of my heart. Gotta remember that he’s evil. He’s not like soulful Angel who slept on my floor and never touched me. Spike’s capable of anything, and if he can do what I let him do to me, who knows what all he’s filled Dawn’s head with.

        “Maybe Spike better sleep in Mom’s room,” I suggest under my breath. I know both sets of ears in the room have heard me.

“This is so not going to work.”

        “Sure it will. Just do this. . . and. . . move this. . .”

        I hear Dawn and Spike’s words as I’m trying to empty half a can of shaving cream into the bathroom sink. I remind myself that the goal is to make it look like Spike has been living here a while. Hence, we’ve been emptying bottles of all sorts of stuff, including aftershave, ketchup, and whiskey. Now I’m working on the shaving cream. Dawn and Spike sent me out of the room. . . my bedroom. . . while they take a stab at cramming Spike’s wardrobe in next mine. They said I would just slow things down.

But damn it! It’s my closet!

        Setting the shaving cream aside, I flick the extra foam from my hand and try to scratch the itch in my nose with my one clean finger. “What’s going on in there?” I shout.

        “Nothing, Buffy!” Dawn shouts back, her voice slightly muffled because she’s in my closet.

        “Be careful!” I return to my shaving cream task, turning on the water to try to get the mountain of foam in the sink to disappear faster. I crinkle my nose up and down because it’s still itching.

        Then, I hear something crash that sounds suspiciously like something big and probably something valuable. This time, I don’t wait for an explanation.

        I dash down the hall and burst into my room to view the damage.

        My eyes must be huge, and I must look pissed because Spike and Dawn look like two deer caught in headlights.

        “What the hell are you two doing?”

        “Hanging up Spike’s clothes?” Dawn asks weakly, shrugging her shoulders.

        Rubbing my nose vigorously and not caring that I now have shaving cream all over my face, I rush forward and pick up the clothes rack that’s fallen out of place, dumping my carefully hung clothes all over the floor amidst Spike’s things. . . laid out for the world to see.

Can’t have that, can I?

“Damn it! We don’t have time for this.” I pull up the broken rod, attempting to keep as many of my clothes in place as I can. Hurrying forward, I jam the pole back into the closet. Spike and Dawn just stare at me. “Come on! Get your clothes in there! And good god, some of this is dirty! Don’t you ever do laundry?”

The doorbell rings before Spike can respond.

I run toward the stairs as Spike and Dawn step up the pace of their reluctant movements. My legs fly down the stairs, and I barely pick up Dawn’s mumbles, “No way he’s gonna believe us now.”

Spike’s British grumble adds, “No way he’s gonna believe Buffy and I both sleep on that little bed.”

“Well, if you snuggle real clo. . .”

I even have my little sister talking about Spike and me. . . if she only knew the real status of our relationship, she wouldn’t be joking about it like that!

Inhaling deeply, I straighten my shoulders and fling the front door open, plastering the fake smile back on my face. I’m getting really good at the fake smile thing. For some reason, that doesn’t bother me at the moment.

“Hello, Mr. Helmunde.”

I didn’t think Mr. Helmunde could be grumpier than he was on his first visit, but he definitely is. He must not like emergencies. I mentally cross my fingers and hope that he won’t find any surprises upstairs.

He doesn’t even bother with a greeting. “Miss Summers. You need to clean up your face. What is that stuff all over it?”

Oh, no. The shaving cream!

I rush to the downstairs bathroom and take in my appearance. To my dismay, shaving cream has managed to work itself across my cheek and into my hair, which I forgot I clipped back sloppily at Spike’s crypt. I rip the clip out of the strands, wincing as I work the tangles out with my fingers. A mass of sticky spider web clings to my fingers and I let out a small cry of dismay, wiping it on the edge of the sink. I grab the hand towel from the ring and wipe down my face, smoothing out my wrinkled skirt and swiping at the dirt stains on my once white shirt.

Am I so far gone that I don’t even notice what I look like now?

When I return to the living room, Mr. Helmunde is already writing. Not a good sign. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, Miss Summers, but you could at least make sure your appearance is appropriate for an in-house visit by a social worker.”

“Right,” I agree. New golden rule: when in the presence of someone who can greatly affect your life, agree with whatever they say. “Well, I apologize. We’ve been doing some cleaning.” I grimace as another crash comes from above.

Dawn’s voice shouts, “Sorry!”

I smile at Mr. Helmunde. “It’s okay, Dawn!”

Mr. Helmunde returns my smile, but it’s not out of kindness. “I think I’d like to see the upstairs first.”

“Sure!” I start leading the social worker up the stairs. To my annoyance, he follows too closely for my taste. I can almost feel his breath on my neck, and it’s not nearly as pleasant as Spike’s. He’s also somehow managed to continue writing with his clipboard pressed into my back. I shudder.

“Something wrong?” he breathes at me.

Just got to get through a few more minutes. “No, of course not!”

Dawn and Spike are grinning fools at the top of the stairs. . . like cats who ate a canary. I’m too worried about what Mr. Helmunde will do next to glare at my sister and her vampire pal.

Spike immediately senses something is amiss with the way Mr. Helmunde is acting around me, and his expression of compliance melts into one of anger. I shake my head almost imperceptibly at him. He gives me a look that says, I don’t like this, but I’ll do what you want. . . for now.

Just what I need right now. . . a possessive vampire on top of a perverted social worker.

“Stay here,” Mr. Helmunde orders.

Without permission, he stomps toward our mother’s old bedroom first.

“Um, no one stays in there anymore,” I inform him, my arm automatically rising as if I can slow him.

“So,” he states.

He flicks the light on and clumps through the room, and I tremble, feeling like he’s raping my privacy. It was one thing for Willow and Tara to occupy her room; it’s quite another for a complete stranger to walk boldly through what had been my mom’s sanctuary from all the horrors of Sunnydale.

I feel an arm around my shoulders and another slip around my waist. I blink. I’m sandwiched between my sister and my lover, my two pillars of support since coming back from death. For the first time, I have I clear realization. They, not including Giles, are the only ones who let me rest in peace. Without thinking, I allow my arms to go around them.

When Mr. Helmunde returns to the hallway, our arms disengage, and I sway a bit before the world stabilizes again.

“Looks all right,” he says. He seems annoyed that he isn’t writing anything at the moment. “Ah! The bathroom.” He takes one glance, not bothering to enter the tiny room. “What’s with all the shaving cream in the sink?”

Stupid, stupid foam. I have half a mind to write the company that manufactures that particular brand of shaving cream and tell them where they can stick their extra foamy crap. Who needs all that foam?

“Well, um, we learned at school that shaving cream cleans stains off basins, so I told Buffy about it, and she was trying it out,” Dawn says quickly, standing a bit on her toes.

“With half the can,” I add.

“That’s interesting!” Mr. Helmunde actually sounds genuinely interested. “My son, Billy, said he learned the same thing the other day.” He fixes his attention on me. “It work?”

I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding and say, “Well, I wasn’t quite through with it yet, but I can tell you one thing, don’t use the extra foamy brand when you try it!”

Mr. Helmunde makes such a funny noise that several seconds pass before I am aware that he’s laughing. Belatedly, Dawn, Spike, and I force a chuckle.

Abruptly, his laughter is gone. “Dawn. Show me your room.”

Dawn loops her arm around mine so that we’re connected at the elbow. Her face drains of color.

TBC. . . Next chappie: Draw Some Boundaries. . .

Third, Draw Some Boundaries

My sister usually keeps her room neat, which is a big deal for a teenager.

I never kept my room that neat when I was a teen. I had to give up my disorganization when I became the Slayer though. Messy bedrooms are not conducive to hiding a secret identity from one’s parents. Because Mom ran an art gallery that had to be perpetually neat, she had a tendency to clean my room when I wasn’t home. Wouldn’t have been good for her to find wooden stakes and holy water in my underwear drawer or in the back of my closet when she hung up the clothes I used to pile on the floor.

Usually, I tease Dawn and tell her she got Mom’s neat-freak genes.

Not today.

Mr. Helmunde stands with his mouth agape.

And no wonder! Dawn’s normally spotless room is littered with all the candles we confiscated from Spike’s crypt, and most of them are covered in dust.

But that’s not the worst thing.

In fact, the dirt and candles are pretty minor.

Whenever she goes shopping, Dawn likes to drag the packages up to her room and dump them on her bed. She studies each purchase with the scrutiny of an antique dealer. After she’s had her “alone” time with each item, she puts them away.

Let’s just say that today she didn’t get to the putting away part.

And the giant box of condoms that I purchased for Spike and me is sitting smack upright in the middle of her bedspread.

My stomach plunges.

Mr. Helmunde doesn’t even bother to say anything in response to what he’s seeing; he just starts scribbling.

He expected this; I know he did.

Then, he clips his pen on the board and says, “They say that a young minor who is having sex is also probably engaging in other types of behavior that would be considered radically inappropriate for her age group. Don’t mind me while I take a look through your things, young lady.”

“But I’m not having sex! I-I don’t even have a boyfriend,” Dawn insists.

“Just wait a minute.” Spike is defensive of his pseudo-little sister. “Leave the girl’s stuff alone. She’s telling the bloody truth.”

I’m too upset inside to say a word.

“And just how long have you been in this country, mate? Should we be investigating you as well? And how long have you been dating the elder Miss Summers?”

Mr Helmunde does a terrible rendition of Spike’s accent.

“Two years,” Spike and I say simultaneously.

Hey, at least, we got that part right. We just weren’t very clear about which of the questions we were answering.

Mr. Helmunde looks over the rim of his glasses at us, making sure we are all paying careful attention. “What I have seen here today, kids, could get you in a lot of trouble. I think it’s in your best interest to let me do what I have to do.”

Spike snorts and shakes his head, and Dawn’s face is stricken.

The social worker takes a moment to examine the room, and then, he chooses the boxes on Dawn’s desk. He talks almost to himself as he works, opening lids and sifting through Dawn’s things.

“You know teenagers these days. They don’t respect adults; they think the world owes them something, and then, they whine about it if they don’t get what they think they should. It’s like I tell my son, if he doesn’t buck up and take the hits as they come, he won’t survive in the world because in the real world, things aren’t handed to you. You earn them, and people will screw you over before you can say. . .”

Screwed.

We are so very very screwed.

Have I said that enough yet?

Dawn took mostly jewelry, makeup, and other shiny baubles, but she also took a few things that I can’t quite fathom.

Why does she need a toothbrush with rhinestones in the handle or half of three different pairs of earrings?

I can’t believe Dawnie is a shoplifter, a thief.

Well. . . maybe I do kind of get it. She’s been through more hell than any kid should have to. I’m sort of surprised that she’s doing as well as she is. When I was her age, I’d just become a Slayer and if I’d lost my mom, dad, and sister, I’d have gone over the edge. It’s only with time and ever-increasing loss that I am able to cope without completely running away or losing myself.

Oh, wait. I did that a time or two in recent memory.

So, in reality, Dawn is doing better than I ever did in response to the losses she’s had to endure. In some ways, I attribute her adjustment to my friends’ unceasing presence in her life. And those friends include Spike.

Spike, who is sitting by me on the sofa now, rubs my back in soothing circles, and I let him. The social worker is gone, and we have a brief respite from the invasion. Dawn is crying in her room. I sort of lost it and told her to stay there until I call for her.

Except, I didn’t say it very nicely.

I have to talk with her. I know I do. Sometimes I think it’s one of the reasons Giles left. . . so I’ll be forced to talk with my sister. Aside from my absent father, she’s my sole blood tie in the world now, and we haven’t exactly connected since Willow and company brought me back.

“So, you have to talk with her, pet.”

I lean into to his touch slightly but enough for him to notice the change. “Yeah.”

“I could do it for you, but I don’t think that’d really help you much.”

The corner of my mouth can’t help but lift a little. “You’re getting good at reading my mind.”

“That’s cause I know you. . . we’re more alike than you’d care to admit.” How many times has Spike told me that now? “I know I keep saying it, but I only do because it’s true.”

I stand up to rid myself of his touch and change the subject, “I can’t believe they’re going to put video cameras in the house! That’s like totally messed up. . . an invasion of privacy!” I look into his blue eyes that are steady on me. “Do you really think what they’re doing is legal?”

Spike takes a breath and waits a heartbeat or two before speaking, “I don’t know what’s legal and what isn’t. I’m not exactly a law-abiding citizen.”

He closes his mouth deliberately although I can see there’s more he wants to say. Something I can’t quite understand flickers across his features.

Then, he speaks again, “Why don’t we just go along with it for a while. . .” I open my mouth, but Spike holds up a finger. “And let Red do some investigation on the computer. Isn’t that her gig?”

I hesitate, not sure if I want to bother Willow with anything too taxing right now. “Maybe. She did seem to benefit from searching out the truth about my disappearing trick. A-and she uncovered who had been messing with me of late.”

“Right. The distraction from her magic problem’ll probably do her good,” Spike encourages. “I mean, she’ll probably hurry it up anyway with me in the house posing as your s.o.”

Something lurches in my gut. None of my friends know about our scheme to fool social services. Xander and Anya are lost in the world of planning their wedding, Tara is living in the dorm and avoiding Willow, and Willow is avoiding life. . . kind of like me. If things go off right, they’ll never have to know this little scenario even took place.

“Right,” I say with wavering confidence. I must have been insane to agree with a scheme that Dawn and Spike cooked up.

Spike slaps his palms against his thighs and stands. “We have to discuss how we’re going to do this.”

“Wanna pretend that we have to go out of town until they take the cameras away?” I ask in half-jest.

He strides toward the kitchen.

“And hey, where are you going?”

Spike’s voice is faded in the next room. “Avoiding them won’t work. And I’m going in the next room to get me something to eat. I’m hungry and I have to have a bite before I have to sneak around to do it.”

“Sneak? Everyone here knows what you are.” Do we really?

I follow Spike into the kitchen as he replies, “Yeah, but the sodding cameras don’t know.”

I perch on the edge of a stool and watch the vampire in my kitchen. The microwave beeps and begins to hum as he chunks in a fresh pint and slams the door. When his meal is heated, he pops the machine open, pulls out the plastic bag, and takes a big swig.

I wrinkle my nose. Still haven’t gotten used to seeing that.

He nods at my expression. “Nice, pet.” He finishes his meal and hurls the blood bag into the garbage. Leaning on the countertop across from me, he grins. “So, let’s discuss sleeping arrangements.”

“So, you and Spike are going to share your room cause of the cameras?”

Dawn sits on the edge of her bed with her hands clasped in her lap. Her long hair is a curtain across her shoulders, and her nose and eyes are puffy and red from crying. She looks so innocent that I’ve avoided the needed discussion in favor of an easy discussion. . . well, an easier discussion.

I emulate her position on the bed. “Yep.”

“He’ll be good. He was really good to me while you were gone.” She ducks her head and sniffs. “He took care of me.”

Stroking her hair and studying the floor, I acknowledge her experience, “I know. And he’s helping out now. I don’t know how ‘good’ he’ll be with me, but I won’t let him step over my boundaries. He is a vampire and no Angel, at that.”

“If he does. . . step over your boundaries. . . I’ll set him straight,” Dawn says with a trace of pride and protectiveness that makes me look into her unwavering eyes. There’s definitely a unique brand of strength there. “Vampire or no vampire.”

I smile. “Thank you.”

If only she knew how far I’ve let him cross my boundaries.

“Speaking of boundaries,” I say.

Dawn shifts beneath my touch as I did with Spike a few minutes ago, and she jumps the gun on what I’m talking about. “It won’t happen anymore. I promise. I’ll return the stuff. I don’t know why I did it. I just took one thing, and it sorta kept happening whenever I saw something I wanted. I tried to stop, but I-I couldn’t.” Tears begin streaming down her cheeks.

I convey what I thought about in the living room with Spike, “I know. You’ve been through a lot, Dawnie. And we’ve all been too caught up in our own. . . stuff to see how much it’s impacted you.”

Dawn dismisses my understanding, “What stuff have I had to deal with compared to all you guys? I mean, compared to Willow and Tara and mom a- and you. I haven’t had anything on my shoulders. You guys all shield me. . . from stuff.”

I take her right hand in my left. “You’ve handled things better than I ever would have at your age. . . even as the Slayer. You’ve seen. . . done things that I never had to.”

She’s full of genuine curiosity now. “Like what?”

“Like Mom’s death. . . my. . .” I close my eyes and shift gears. Not ready to go there yet. “You know, I wouldn’t have been able to handle losing both my parents at your age. Even with all the vampires and scary monsters around me, I always had Mom and Dad. . . and a pretty cool little sis to go home to after I patrolled. . . even if Mom and Dad were always fighting.” I roll my eyes heavenward and tease, “And even if my sister could win the annoying sibling award two or three years running.”

“Hey!” Now she’s smiling at me through her tears. “I’m not always annoying. . . am I?”

“Isn’t it in your job description?”

“Well, I wasn’t always your sister.” Her hand goes limp in mine.

I hadn’t realized Dawn was still insecure about being a mystical dimensional key. Maybe we never really get over our insecurities. Have to file that one away for later thought.

I squeeze her hand back into place against my palm. “You were a sister to me then, you are now, and you always will be.”

“What about the stuff I took?” She tilts her head toward the pile of stolen goods behind us.

“Well, you’ll return most of it and pay the store owners back. I’ll go with you if you want me to.”

“Okay,” she says in a small voice. Then, “What about the stuff from the Magic Box?”

Hmmm. There’s quite a lot of stuff from the Magic Box. “We’ll wait until after the wedding. . . when Anya’s all happy after her honeymoon. Then, she’ll be in too good a mood to care. . . as much. How’s that?”

Dawn is doubtful. “Okay.”

The doorbell rings yet again.

Dawn jumps. “Shit.”

“Dawnie!” But I secretly agree with her. “Remember rule number three? No cussing in front of the cameras. . . er, social workers!”

“How long do we have to have cameras again?”

I pause in her doorway. “Three days. Then, the tapes will be reviewed by a special panel of social workers.”

“That’s forever! Will we have any privacy?”

I try to be optimistic. “Just in the bathroom. Oh, and the front porch.”

“Great. Guess where I’ll be spending all my time.”

My sentiments exactly.

TBC. . .

That bloody awful, stupid, no good, rotten, evil, godforsaken vampire!

I refuse to call him by name.

No good son-of-a. . .

He's been trailing around after me all over the house this evening, asking for. . .

". . . a kiss, pet," Spike says, leaning in the doorway to my bedroom, trying to look. . . actually looking very sexy.

His arm blocks my path, and all I want to do is grab my pajamas and take a nice long. . . very long bubble bath. I think I deserve it after the day I've had.

"No!" I hiss with a smile on my face.

"But we have to show the cameras how much in love we are."

"In love! Pffff!" I push his arm aside. "I feel weird doing couple-y things in front of the cameras. Most people would."

Spike's shoulder connects with the doorframe, and he watches me with an irritating sparkle in his eye. "I'm not most people, love. I adore the camera, and the camera adores me!" He flashes his pearly whites for the tiny black camera that's been installed from the corner of my bedroom ceiling.

Have to admit that he looks nice when he smiles. Wonder why he's never done it much before.

I open the drawer to my bureau and pull out what I hope is my least sexy, most frumpy T-shirt and shorts for sleeping. I tell myself I'm doing this for those stupid social workers who will be watching this evening.

Yeah, right, I'm doing it for them.

As usual, Spike calls me on my choice, "Sexy, very sexy. Then again, you'd be sexy in a potato sack."

Coming from anyone else, his comment would be a compliment. "You probably remember when the fashion was to wear potato sacks." With that said, I grab the front of his shirt and start to drag him toward the bathroom. Recalling the ever-present eye one us, I loosen my grip, fall behind him, and push him forward until we're in the bathroom and the door is shut.

Spike snorts and leans against the bathroom basin. I still can't get used to vampire's casting no reflection. "If you're going to insult me, you'll have to come up with something a little better than that."

"Too tired," I admit. That's true enough.

"So, what're we going to do tonight after the lights go out? I'm assuming you're not going pat. . . I mean, you're not going out."

"Nope. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow evening." I can't possibly muster the energy for patrolling right now.

Spike fingers the edge of my wrinkled sleep shirt. "Gonna take this off for me or what?"

"Or what," I state flatly, jerking my T-shirt away from him. "Dawn's in the house. I'm not doing anything. . . like that while Dawn's in the house."

"Oh, ho. So, you admit we're doing something here. There's something between us." Spike likes to insert that little jewel whenever he can.

"That's not at all what I said."

He changes tactics, "So, anyway, I gave Dawn permission to go spend the night at Janice's. . . soooo. . . we have the house all to ourselves." He bites his lower lip in a way that's maddeningly sexy. "And we can play rough if you like. I'd still like to know what you're planning with those razors."

"What?!" My jaw drops open before I can stop it from falling. "You let Dawn go to Janice's for the night without consulting me?"

Spike shrugs and gives me a half-smirk. I just want to smack him.

"You know, pet, we have to share the responsibility for disciplining and raising Dawn. I figured that she might need a little break from the stress of social services. You know. . . time to adjust to the notion that she'll be recorded every second of every day for the next three days."

He has a point. Not that I'll admit it. "And since when did we decide to share the responsibility?"

"Since forever!" He puts his cool palm against my forehead. "Got a fever or something? Fall and hit your head?"

My temper soars, and I bat his hand away. "Ha ha ha."

He gives me a stern look with a twinkle in his eyes. "Buffy, don't you wanna play nice married couple for the cameras?"

"Won't it look suspicious if Dawn leaves within the first hour of taping?"

"Well, I figure this will be a good chance for us to show off our ability to work together and our sensitivity to Dawn's needs as a teenager."

Gah! I get so pissed when he starts talking logical when I'm already mad. I know that last thought makes no sense, but at the moment, I don't want to make sense. So there. I cross my arms.

"So, no response to that, eh?" Spike asks. "Nice of you to admit when I'm right and you're. . ."

"Wrong?" I interrupt, eyes blazing.

"Nope. Stubborn."

Now I know I need some space. "What do you think they'll think if we're in the bathroom together for too long?"

He dives in closer until our lips are almost touching, and every fiber in my being begins to tingle. "That we're a normal, healthy couple."

"This between us. . . is anything but norm. . ." I'm cut off because Spike's lips are just too tempting, and I groan because he knows just the right place to put his tongue and just the right place to touch my thigh and just the right place to. . .

And I may just lose myself yet again.

But then. . .

Brriiiinnnggg!

I almost jump out of my skin.

With the second phone ring, I pull myself out of Spike's embrace.

"What's that?"

Spike sighs. "The bloody phone."

I tug the edge of my shirtsleeve back into place on my shoulder. "Go away."

Now it's his turn to be annoyed. "Can hardly do that, now can I?"

"The phone's ringing. I have to answer it," I state as if he's the village idiot.

I stomp out of the bathroom, trying not to show how much I'm fuming. I snatch up the receiver beside my bed and say as calmly as I can, "Hello?"

"Buffy?"

"Dawn! Why are you calling?" I turn to see Spike standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

Dawn doesn't respond right away. "Because Spike told me to?"

"He did?"

"Um, yeah. He made me promise to call you guys when I got to Janice's house."

"He did?" For some reason, I'm repeating myself.

"Hello? Buffy, are you broken or something? I said he did. Listen, I'm putting Janice's mom on the phone to 'confirm' my whereabouts."

"What?"

Dawn sighs, and I hear the sounds of a phone being passed off.

"Buffy?" Janice's mom has a pleasant, adult-sounding voice. Something inside me relaxes.

"Hello," I say, restraining myself from calling her Janice's mom because I don't know her name.

"This is Linda, Janice's mom. The girls are spending the night here." She pauses and when I don't say anything, she continues, "Don't worry. They have plenty of soda and a pile of movies I've rented for them."

"Sounds like they're in good hands," I manage.

"Okay, then. I'll drop Dawn off at around 10 A.M. tomorrow morning?"

"Sounds great!" Gee, at least I'm saying a few more words at a time now.

After an awkward break, Linda says, "Okay. Have a good evening. Bye!"

Right as she's about to hang up, I decide I want to appear at least halfway intelligent. "Oh! Linda!"

And it's a rip-roaring success so far. . .

Lucky for me, she plays along, "Yes, dear?"

"Tell Dawn to be good." Okay, so I'm a complete moron. Since I came back, I seem to have lost my ability to do a lot of things. . . one of them is the ability to converse with any semblance of sense.

Linda holds the phone away from her mouth and shouts to Dawn, "Your sister says to be good!"

So maybe I'm not the only one with conversation skill problems.

"Buffy!" Dawn complains from the background.

I grin to myself. "Thanks, Linda! Bye."

"Bye, dear."

I set the phone in the cradle and find myself drowning in the man's. . . no, vampire's eyes across from me.

In less than a second, my body is alive in every sense of the word. . . arms, legs, breasts, head, feet, hands. . . consumed with a fire that may very well char my soul. A tiny guttural growl escapes my throat, and I launch myself at him so that I'm enveloped in his cool embrace.

His hands are every where. . . touching all the places that are anticipating contact, and I hear myself moan in response. To get him back, I wrestle with his shirt until the bottom has escaped his jeans, and I run my warm fingers over his cool abdomen. He groans, and I smile with my lips covering his. He responds in kind by nipping lightly at my lips and then pressing them down over mine to erase the smile.

He breaks away so that air barely rushes between us. He doesn't even bother to disguise the arrogance in his voice, "So, love, wanna go somewhere private or shall we shag here for the social wankers?"

Spike really needs to learn when to open his big mouth.

I shove him backward, harder than I intend, and he slams into the doorframe. "Shut up." I push past him, deliberately hitting his arm with my shoulder. "I need to shower."

The mask of pride melts off his face, and he steps toward me. "Pet, wait. . ."

"No waiting, Spike. I'm just doing this for practical purposes."

He scoffs. "Practical purposes. Whatev. . ."

I whirl on him, holding an index finger up. "No, not whatever. Practical purposes."

"Gee, and I thought you enjoyed sleeping with me."

"I don't," I lie.

"So, I don't even get brownie points for the way I dealt with Dawn?"

Ignoring the hurt in Spike's tone, I slam and lock the bathroom door and lean against the sink. I just need some time to myself. Nothing untoward is happening between Spike and me.

I think I've convinced my brain. . . now I just have to convince my. . . body.

Yeah, right, my body.

I just hope I haven't messed everything up by throwing that little temper tantrum for the cameras.

My body is warm, and my muscles are heavy from soaking away their tenseness in the bathtub. I turn the doorknob with confidence, intending to send Spike to sleep on the couch.

As soon as I open the door, a very sheepish appearing vampire greets me. "Hey," he says with such a shy smile that I soften.

"Hey."

"You have a nice bath?" He's being surprisingly meek. What's up with that?

"Yeah." Gotta keep things short, or my resolve will break.

"Love, I'm sorry."

Oh, crap. My resolve's just been smashed to smithereens. "It's okay. I-I'm on edge about the whole social worker slash camera fiasco." I study my feet. I'm a little uncomfortable being nice to Spike. I can do civil but not nice. . . not with Spike.

"If you want, I'll sleep on the couch downstairs." His head is bowed, too, when I look up at him.

Something twists in my stomach. "No."

"No?" he asks, confused.

"No. I want. . . . I mean, you can sleep with me."

"You sure?"

I nod with a surety I don't feel. "Yes."

Another genuine smile breaks over his face, and for some reason I can't fathom, I feel the tiniest twinge of guilt.

I'm just doing this for the cameras. . . yep, for the cameras.

He’s sleeping when I wake.

I know he doesn’t breathe, but it never fails to amaze me that his chest doesn’t rise and fall when he’s gone to the world. Still, when he sleeps, his face is as smooth and placid as the rest of the human race. . . and he occasionally mumbles in the midst of dreams. . . bits and pieces which I don’t often understand and am too afraid to ask him about when he wakes.

I’m too afraid because asking about something so intimate implies a closeness that I’m not ready to admit to myself. Sometimes I admit this to myself, and sometimes I don’t.

There are a lot of things between us that I’m afraid to mention in the daylight hours. That would make us too real for me. . . and perhaps even for him.

Before I can look away, his eyes are open and peering deep into mine.

I purposefully shift my eyes away before he can see what lies there. I’m not sure I want him to have access to my emotions before I’m even aware of them myself.

He caresses my cheek with the back of his hand. His skin is warm from being wedged against my back, and to my surprise, I can’t help but lean into his touch.

Maybe I’m more open to him because this is the first, and only, time we’ve shared my bed. And if I have my way, it’ll be the last time.

“You okay, pet?” he asks, shifting his head so that his arm curls beneath his head. His eyes are smiling at me, and heat spreads over my stomach and inner thighs.

Denial girl, that’s me. “What do you mean?”

I glimpse a trace of hurt in the clear blue depths of his eyes, and they strike me in a way they never have before. Blue is the color of the sky. . . water. . . purity. . . all of the things vampire’s aren’t.

Now that I think about it, I’ve never known any vampire with blue eyes. . . black, deep brown, hazel, green. . . but never blue.

I’m not sure what that means.

“You cried all night,” he whispers, studying my face.

I close my eyes, and memories of the previous night wash over me. My teeth find my lower lip, and I chomp down hard to blot out the images. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head.

“Don’t shake your head like you’re okay,” he says.

“It’s nothing,” I hiss, tasting the tang of coppery blood on the tip of my tongue.

Spike sits up, disturbing the safe cocoon of sleep to which I’m still desperately clinging. I scramble to emulate his stance, not wanting him to get the upper hand on me. . . on my emotions. My knees are inches from his thigh, and I allow myself to watch him as he stares forward with his forearms perched atop his knees.

After a few seconds of contemplation, something unusual for Spike, he says, “No, pet. This time that. . . well, sod it, I’m really not going to let you get away with avoiding this.”

He punctuates his claim with direct eye contact.

I lift my chin in defiance and stare back.

He continues, “You think I haven’t seen others go through what you’re going through? It’s not exactly the same. . . it never is. . . but it’s similar enough.”

I glare at him, but inside I’m trembling like a mouse. . . hiding in a hole and being dug out by a very hungry cat. “Oh, yeah? When have you come across someone like me?”

His stern expression softens, and he chuckles, almost without humor, “No one’s ever been. . . ever affected me exactly like you.”

Although my heart is thumping and my mind is whirling with thoughts about what he’ll say next, I refuse to let him see. Instead, I roll my eyes and bring my arms across my chest. “Bet that’s what you tell all the girls. Really winning me over here, Spike.”

“I’m not trying to win you over, love. I’m trying to talk with you about what’s happening here. . . you know what I’m talking about.” That said, he lifts his eyebrows at me, and when I catch a glimpse of his sincerity, I fall into my regular routine.

I run.

“Wait!” He tries to grab the edge of my pajamas but fails, and I keep going.

I’m an expert at running. . . but usually, I’m running after the vampires with a pointy stake in my hand. . . not the other way around.

My bare feet thunder across the hardwood floors and down the stairs, down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door where I collapse just outside the back door with my back to the house. The normally bright morning sun is blotted out by a cluster of grey clouds that are heavy with potential rain. . . kind of like me.

I manage to hold back tears.

And I opt for heavy breathing. . . not sobbing. I make a short little jog down the stairs, and I’m out of breath. What kind of Slayer does that make me? It makes me a Slayer who’s out of step with her life. . . it makes me vulnerable.

Pesky thing. . . vulnerability.

When at last I begin intentionally inhaling one second and exhaling the next, I hear the still ajar door squeak open. “Buffy?”

I ignore him, raising my knees to my chest and tucking my chin in the resulting valley.

I sense him poking his head into the daylight, but I wait in several seconds of angry silence before I say, “Don’t do that, Spike. It’s morning.”

“I don’t see sunlight,” he replies with indifference.

I offer an olive branch with my tone of voice, “Still, any second now, Mr. Sunshine could pop a shiny beam from out behind one of those clouds, and poof! No more snarky Spikey.”

Spike snorts in vague amusement and slips out to sit beside me on the doorstep. “Don’t know if it would be exactly ‘poof.’”

Although he’s not touching me, the physical presence of his shoulder next to mine is a comfort, so I continue with teasing, “Don’t like to think of yourself as a mere vampire, huh?”

“I’m not a ‘mere vampire.”

I shrug, throwing off his claim of distinctiveness. Again, denial is easier than admitting what I’m beginning to believe about what exactly Spike is. In a psychology class, I once read that individuals are the sum total of what others believe them to be. . . that they are defined by spoken and unspoken interactions with others. If so, does that mean that Spike is defined by how other people talk about him? Am I?

(Who says Slayers are all brawn with no brain? I earned my high SAT scores, thank you very much.)

Spike is quiet again, and I wonder if I’ve hurt him. I decide to wait for him to speak. When at last he does, I listen. I have a sudden need to know if what I’m saying to others and myself about Spike is accurate.

“I understand why you run,” he says. When I lift my head in alarm, he adds, “At least, I partly understand. You’re going through a lot.”

I start to deny, but then, I whisper, “What have you seen before?”

He cocks his head to the side with genuine curiosity, “What do you mean?”

I struggle to say what I mean without actually saying anything about myself, “Before. . . when you said. . .”

“What did I say and when did I say it?”

I’m doing good to answer one of those. “This morning.” He waits for more. “That’s when you were talking about it.”

“It?”

I sigh heavily. Do I have to spell everything out? Isn’t he supposed to be so in tune with me that he can read my mind? “You know. . . the ‘similar’ things you’ve seen in other people.”

Recognition lights Spike’s eyes. “Oh. . . that.”

“When did you see it before?”

Spike leans his head back against the doorframe. “Long time ago before I even came here.”

“Here?”

“America, California, Sunnydale.”

“Oh.” I’m contradictorily impatient. Who says I’m predictable? “Who, what, where? Details please.”

“Oh, so now you want to talk.”

My heart sings. “Maybe. I’m confusing?”

“Bloody hell, woman. . . you’re more than confusing.”

“What does that make me?”

He regards me without lifting his head from the doorframe. “I’m not sure.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Now you’re being all avoid-y,” I observe.

“Easier for me to talk inside with the cameras rolling.” Spike notes my expression. “Contradictory, I know. But I think that maybe you won’t be able to completely ignore me or run away if I have you where you’re under scrutiny by outsiders. . . outsiders who are evaluating you. . . or that you perceive are evaluating you.”

Several choice phrases rush through my mind before I choose, “I feel better talking out here.” I pause and then ask, “were you with Angel when you saw that ‘similar’ stuff?”

Spike has never been good with the poker face. He wears his emotion on his sleeve. . . either that or his emotions rule him. . . I’m not sure saying fits him best. “Maybe.”

“You can tell me.”

Now he closes his eyes to me. “Not sure I want to bring your ‘soul mate’ into this thing we got going here between us, pet.”

“I want to know.” I find myself in possession of a desperate wish for understanding. . . understanding from Spike.

Some of the tension melts out of his shoulders, and I realize that he’s trying to find the best place to start his story. “Dru wasn’t the only vampire that Angelus created.”

He pauses here, letting his words penetrate my mind. His obvious uncertainty about telling me calms me.

Spike keeps speaking, “And he continued to like tormenting the ones he brought over. Before he ever actually laid a hand on them, he lined up horror upon horror for them to witness. . . things that would make even your Slayer blood go anemic.”

“Like what?” Do I really want to know the answer to that?

“You don’t want to know.”

That was easy. “Okay.” My hand finds its way to touch the top of his thigh.

“So, Dru and I were recruited to perform some of his more complex schemes. . . schemes that involved more than one vamp. I witnessed first hand what such events had on his victims. Never liked it much. To me, it took the fun out. . . drinking blood is no fun if you have to work so many weeks for just a sip. Me? I preferred taking on a tavern full of people, supping from all of them and then, setting the bloody place on fire. Now that’s f. . . ”

I hold a hand up and wave it in front of his face. “Way, way too much information.”

I don’t need to be reminded that my boyfr. . . the guy I’m sleeping with is a dangerous killer without that nifty little government chip in his noggin.

“The point is, that I saw what those people went through. I saw how it impacted them. Quite often, Dru and I were sent to watch these people for hours during the night. . . and during the day.”

“The day?” How the heck had they done that?

Spike stares into the vastness of the backyard. “We’d break into their homes or the hotels or wherever they were staying. And we’d just watch.”

“For hours?”

“Yep.”

“Can’t picture you doing that. You don’t have the patience.”

Angling his head slightly toward me, he arches an eyebrow. “Pot, kettle, black.”

“Whatever.” I can’t suppress my smile.

“And I do have patience. . . when the situation is important enough to me.”

“When the situation is a challenge. When you can’t get what you want when you want it,” I correct. I recall him standing outside my bedroom window, leaning against a tree, and staring.

A bit of hurt flashes across his features. “All a matter of semantics, pet.”

Guilt hits me. Here I am falling into the familiar routine of labeling Spike. I’m not exactly sure why I’m starting to care about that so much. “Right. You’re right.”

This time both eyebrows raise. “First time I’ve heard you admit that.”

I ignore him. “So, what’d you see?”

His voice softens, “Lots of things, pet. I saw them have nightmares all night and sometimes into the daylight hours. I saw them cry themselves to sleep, wake up in the middle of the night crying, and wake up in the morning crying. I saw them hallucinate and re-experience their experiences. I saw grown men. . . men others thought of as impenetrable huddled in the corners sobbing and hiding their heads. And nothing and no one was even there.”

I feel completely naked. . . as if my armor has been stripped away. My stomach hurts, and I bow my head to break the connection I have with him. Can’t afford to have him see too much. . . not my hiding has ever stopped him.

He lets me hide. “And I’ve seen them do all sorts of things to compensate and try to appear as if everything was unchanged. Sometimes they’d throw themselves into their work, sometimes they’d withdraw from their friends, and they’d always throw on a happy mask for the people in their lives. I’ve never seen more religious conversions and spiritual renewals than among those Angelus chose to have tortured.”

A mantra comes to life in my head. . . a mantra that I’ve had to repeat many times, especially over that summer I spent alone in L.A. after I killed Angel. Angelus is not Angel. Angel is not Angelus. Got to remind myself of that, or I find myself slipping into a vicious cycle of guilt and anger that leads me to tear myself down.

Spike tucks his hand against my inner thigh and brings me back to my reality and another source of guilt. . . guilt for what I’m doing with him. . . and he doesn’t even have a soul. “What do you think of what I’m telling you?”

I bite my lip. “What does what Angel did have to do with me?”

“What do you think?” Spike asks with more gentleness than I can stand.

“Buffy!” Dawn’s voice bounces from across the yard.

My head shoots up, I shake Spike’s hand off my leg, and I blink away the tears that have formed in my eyes. I was so caught up in my interactions with Spike that I didn’t even hear the car that was now pulling out of our driveway.

Dawn doesn’t wait for us to respond. “Spike! What are you doing outside? It’s daytime!”

“Clouds.” Spike’s response is short, which doesn’t allow me to determine if he’s angry at me for rejecting his touch in front of Dawn.

“Oh. Makes sense.” Dawn slings her overnight bag onto the porch next to my foot and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s for breakfast, guys? I’m starved! It’s already ten, and I haven’t eaten yet!” She taps the front of her watch.

I can’t help but smile at Dawn’s enthusiasm.

And I can’t help but feel relieved that I’ve avoided Spike’s confrontation once again.

So why do I feel so guilty about it, and why do I feel like Spike might be getting too close? Does living with him mean that I can’t hide anything from him anymore?

More importantly, do I want to hide things from Spike?

I don’t think I have an answer for that one.

TBC. . .

Sixth, Cook, Clean, and Eat Together

A happy family is one that cooks together.

Isn't there a saying like that somewhere?

Dawn and I used to curl up with Mom on the couch and watch Julia Child. That's the closest we came to actually making a meal together. Sometimes we paired up to cook breakfast or bake cookies, but never did we include all three of us. Major fights would have ensued, and we genuinely loved one other.

On the other hand, I don't love Spike even if he does understand me. . . gotta keep reminding myself of that one.

He's taken over in the kitchen. . . as if he owns the place. Boxes and bags are open everywhere, and ingredients cover every available surface.

"Buffy! Pay attention to the bloody pot!" Spike's voice shakes me out of my reverie.

Crap! The liquid in the saucepan in front of me is boiling over, making sizzling noises on the stove. Grabbing the oven mitt from the counter, I grasp the pot handle with both hands and move the spewing mess to a non-flamey part of the stove.

Dawn has rushed over from her chopping position at the kitchen island, and the smell of onion follows her as she hovers over my shoulder. "Buffy, you made a mess."

I scoot back from the stove a little, attempting to reach a semi-wet rag on the side of the sink. "Gee, Sherlock, what makes you say that?"

Rubbing her nose and sniffling, Dawn shrugs, waving the butcher knife she's been using around to underscore her point. "The mess. . . and the stench of burning cheese."

"Very observant." I swat at her with the rag and attempt to wipe up the still bubbling fluid without burning myself. "Aren't you supposed to be chopping onion or something with that thing?" I push the knife down, so the point's not likely to puncture my skin.

Dawn gives me a watery smile. "Yep. I do whatever Spike tells me." She gives Spike a mock bow and sneezes as she heads back to the work of awkwardly chopping food with a broken arm.

"What is this stuff anyway?" I ask Spike who has his nose buried in a dusty cookbook that he found at the top of a kitchen cabinet.

Spike doesn't even bother to look up.

So I study him.

Somewhere, he's found a little pair of glasses that he's propped up on his nose to help him read the tiny print in the thick tome. He turns a page and runs a hand through his hair. Damn. He looks. . . cute. Who knew that a man with platinum-colored hair dressed in black could look cute wearing glasses.

"You'll see, pet," he says in an offhanded fashion.

"Wish I knew what we were making." I sidle up to him and try to catch a glimpse of the text on the page.

Spike's head jerks up, and I almost giggle because for a moment with those glasses, he reminds me of Giles with the glasses. "Pay attention to your pot!" he growls.

I glance at the lackluster little saucepan on the stove. "It's not going anywhere."

He buries his head in the book again. "Then, you can put stuff in the measuring cups for me."

I roll my eyes; he's taking this domestic diva thing a bit far for me. "Aye, aye." Picking up a giant measuring cup, I glance at the plethora of supplies and don't even know where to begin. I turn back to face him; he's still lost in thought with one finger running over lines in the book. Part of me wonders if he's treating me this way because we just shared something excruciatingly intimate on the porch. Or maybe I'm just projecting my own discomfort onto him.

Something's definitely different between us, and I find myself in desperate need to cover that difference up. After all, we're posing for the cameras. Why not have a little fun with the process?

So, suppressing an inane giggle that's sprung up in my throat, I immerse my fingers deep into the bag of flour and sling a handful at the back of Spike's head.

Upon impact, he jumps, spreading the shower of flour through the air. "What the f-. . ."

In that second where time stands still, he glares at me with fire in his eyes, the glasses askew on his nose. I'm hyper aware that Dawn has stopped chopping vegetables and is staring at both of us with undisguised shock.

I've never wanted a man. . . vampire. . . so much in my life.

And he responds exactly as I want him to. . . by flinging the glasses aside, lunging at me, and seizing a handful of flour from the nearby bag. For another second, we're breathing heavily in each other's faces, and then. . .

Spike whirls and hurls the flour at the still dumbfounded Dawn who raises her cast in a futile attempt at shielding herself.

There's so much white powder in the air that I can't see anything, and I know Dawnie can't either. . . much less the cameras.

So I seize the moment and kiss Spike hard on the mouth, pressing my body up against his so tightly that I can feel my heart pounding against his silent chest. The fire between us sparks and sizzles, boiling over all my senses like the cheese in that stupid saucepan.

The moment lasts a mere heartbeat, and I barely catch the second shockwave in Spike's eyes before I'm caught up in the food fight again.

Dawn has found her bearings, and I join her in pelting chopped food and other ingredients at the vampire in our house. He fights back with the same grace and effort that he uses in demon fighting, creating an earnestness to the kitchen battle that strengthens our resolve against him.

The food skirmish ends as dramatically as it began. . . with a giggle. This time, I can't stop the sound from pushing past my lips and hanging in mid-air.

I can't help myself.

Spike and Dawn look too funny covered in a conglomerate of food stuffs, and I'm certain that I look no better.

My laugh elicits mirth from Dawn who laughs so hard at Spike and me that she bends over, clutching her ribs. . . and slipping on the now slick floor. She lands on her butt but keeps smiling with tears streaming down her face.

Suddenly, all this playfulness feels good. I can't remember when I last felt such joy at the thought of living. I know I don't want to die, but feel happiness again? That's a foreign concept of late.

"What are we making again?" I ask, brushing greasy strands of hair from my eyes with both hands and grinning at the pair before me.

"Can't recall, love. And can't read now either." He nods in the direction of the cookbook's goop-filled pages.

Dawn looks up at us with round childlike eyes, brushing food off of her cast. "Can we order a pizza?"

"That might be a good idea. Then, we should clean up in here and maybe shower," I agree.

"Maybe shower? Sounds like a must to me," Spike comments.

"Good plan." I wipe my hands on a halfway clean towel and head for the phone. "What would you guys like on your pizza?"

Dawn clamors to her feet with a soft grunt. "Pepperoni!"

"Can we order one with extra rare steak? I know a couple of pizza joints in town that specialize in. . . you know. . . " Dawn and I frown at Spike. ". . . with a little extra bl. . ."

Dawn and I respond with equal disdain and awareness of the cameras, "No!"

I knew we couldn't cook a meal together.

Does that mean we're not happy?

I believe that the jury is still out on that one, and that's hard for me to admit.

Picking up the receiver, I dial the familiar number of the pizza delivery place. Knowing the number by heart has to be a bad sign.

ooooooooooo

Feeling quite fresh from the hot shower I just took, I skip downstairs and hear a distinct grumbling of the masculine variety coming from the direction of the kitchen.

Somehow, I can't resist.

I lean on the doorframe and cross my arms, just watching. Spike is still covered in congealing goop and is struggling with rinsing off the mop in the cracked bucket Dawn must have produced from under the sink. His hair is a disheveled mess, and the scowl covering his face is classic Spike. He curses as the mop handle catches on something. Extricating the handle from its unseen trap, he raises up the water-laden mop and plops the wet tendrils onto the linoleum.

For some reason, the plop makes me giggle.

His head shoots up at the sound. "What are you staring at?"

"You. Mopping." He gives me his most ferocious glare, and his eyes glow yellow-gold. "William the Bloody a-swabbing the deck," I add in my best fake pirate voice.

"Being the resident maid is not what I signed up for." Spike props the mop against the cabinet. "I'm not doing it anymore."

"Awww. Didn't you read the fine print in your contract? It was there. . . the whole mopping and cleaning and dusting bit. . . in detail."

Spike smirks at me, sucking in his cheeks a little as he saunters over to me in the manner that makes me want him. "Oh really. And I thought you wanted me here for other reasons."

I can't help myself, "Practical reasons."

He snorts. "Right."

"Go shower," I say, feeling amicable. "Dawn's in her room drying her hair. I'll finish up in here."

To my surprise, he kisses the tip of my nose, ignoring my verbal attempt to push him back again. "Will do."

In two words, he's somehow manages to convey that things between us are not resolved. . . are most definitely unfinished.

And with one small sign of affection, he conveys that the chasm we crossed earlier has returned.

Sighing, I cross the room on tiptoe, grip the broom handle, and tackle the mess.

ooooooooooo

After Dawn prances downstairs with her hair still damp, I put her to work with me, and we finish cleaning the kitchen in no time. Then, Dawn pops a movie into the DVD player, and we snuggle up on the couch like two kittens, smelling fresh and feeling warm from our baths.

Spike takes an inordinate amount of time in the shower, and I'm beginning to wonder if he went down the drain when he appears on the stairs. Engrossed in the movie, Dawn ignores him, but I can't help but stare. I've never seen Spike with uncombed damp hair, and I've certainly never seen him descending my stairs with such comfort. . . as if he belongs here. . . in my house. He locks eyes with me only briefly, and I feel the almost icy distance between us.

I'm not certain I like the hollow feeling that accompanies that distance.

As soon as he reaches the bottom of the staircase, Dawn disentangles her legs from mine and picks up her brush from the coffee table. "'Bout time."

Spike grins at her with such genuineness that my heart sinks. How can I possibly feel jealous of my own sister when I'm the one sleeping with him? And yet, for some unfathomable reason, I do.

Spike accepts the brush from Dawn's extended arm and settles on the couch. . . careful to stay apart from me. As I stare, Dawn kneels at his feet, places one hand in her lap, cradles her broken arm against her stomach, and continues watching the movie. Spike pulls her long brown hair from in front of her shoulders and arranges the strands artfully along her back. With the ease of having brushed hair in the past, he watches the movie and works the instrument through Dawn's tangles, careful not to pull too hard on her scalp.

He's so tender with her that my heart hurts, and I wonder just how many times he's shared such an intimate moment with my sister. . . something I've been reluctant to share with him since we started having sex.

I have to disturb the comfortable image of my sister being parented by my lover. "How long have you been doing that, Spike?"

As if broken out of a trance, Spike glances at me, stopping brush in mid-stroke. He shrugs and returns to his motions. "Always knew how, I guess. Brushed my mum's hair. . . and Dru's."

Dawn twists her head and smiles at me, "He started doing it for me when I couldn't sleep at night. . . after you. . . and I. . ."

"Was having nightmares," Spike finishes, pushing her head back in place and resuming brushing. "We'd talk about you and. . ."

"It would be peaceful." Dawn closes her eyes in memory, and I feel strangely detached as if I'm not supposed to be present.

"Oh," my voice is smaller than I intend it to be.

Dawn peers at me from the corner of her eye. "Want a turn?"

"That's okay. You guys go ahead. I'm watching the movie." I try to focus on what's unfolding on the screen. Like that's going to work.

Dawn stands, grabs my hand with her good one, and tugs me up. "Your turn." She pushes me toward Spike, and Spike smiles at me almost sheepishly. I lower my eyes but settle myself between his knees with as much nonchalance as I can muster.

I'm not sure I like where this is going. Surely, Dawn will suspect something is going on between Spike and me. I determine to grit my teeth and not react to his touch.

Boy, that plan is a complete and utter failure.

As soon as his fingertips graze my neck, my body tingles with a fire that I can't deny, and I close my eyes and lean closer to him. The presence of his legs around my shoulders enshrouds me like a cocoon, and. . .

I feel safe. . . safer than I've felt since my return to life.

Goosebumps rise on my arms as he tucks the shorter tufts of hair on the side of my head behind my ears, and I can feel his vampire strength behind each stroke of the brush against my scalp.

Just as I'm about to lose myself completely in the brushing, the doorbell rings.

"Pizza's here!" Dawn shouts, and my eyes fly open to witness her jumping up. "I'll get it. You guys keep doing what you're doing."

I don't even have the energy to fight her. "The money's. . ."

"In the kitchen. I know," Dawn interrupts. She scampers into the other room with the energy of a puppy.

Spike and I are left alone. He immediately sets the brush aside.

"What are you doing?" I protest, torn between wanting him to continue and knowing that it's all a show for the cameras.

He leans back against the couch and away from me. "Stopping."

"How come?"

I hear the lie in his voice, "Food's here."

I turn around completely to face him. "Spike. . ."

"What, pet?"

The words come out of my mouth before I can stop myself, "I want you to touch me." I need you to touch me.

I can't stand that he's pulling back from me. . . and I have no idea why. Or maybe I do and admitting it to myself is too scary.

"Do you now?" he asks with such deep sincerity that my insides melt.

I decide to show him, and I touch his thighs with my hands, running them all the way back to his hips. "Yes. Please."

He says nothing and doesn't move to make contact, but the depths of his eyes say everything. He tries to hide his feelings, but I see them clear as day. He understands me. . . perhaps more than anyone in this world right now.

How can a soulless demon have so much empathy? If a vampire can show empathy without a soul, what does that mean about the rest of his feelings? Can he actually love me like he claims?

Or does the living arrangement make me project my feelings onto him. . . similar to the way we project feelings onto pets? Do pets have feelings?

And then, my off topic thoughts are disrupted.

"Buffy! What are you doing?"

My heart skips a beat as my head jerks up.

Willow stands over us holding a pizza box. Dawn is hopping up and down, doing a silent little antsy dance and making apologetic faces.

And Spike and I are. . . .

Oh, crap.

TBC. . .