Grocery shopping for herself was a novel experience. Buffy had lived in the dorms all through college and then with Angel immediately after that, so never before had she had total freedom of choice over what she ate. But for the last two weeks all those decisions had been hers alone to make. So for a change, her basket was filled with more fresh produce, with fish instead of red meat and with less dairy than usual. She got the orange-papaya juice she liked, and the super sugary kid’s cereal, and as a special treat, the brand of chocolate chip cookies she liked. It was silly, such a small thing, but it made her feel incredibly liberated.

She chatted with the cashier as the girl rang up her order, then ran her card through the payment machine.

A moment later, the girl looked at Buffy apologetically. “Could you run your card again, please?”

“Sure.” Buffy dug the card out of her wallet and scanned it again.

The girl watched her screen, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but your card’s been declined.”

Buffy felt embarrassment suffusing her face. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what’s wrong. Try this one.” And she ran another card through the reader.

Again the girl shook her head.

Her face hurt and her eyes watered in mortification as she opened her wallet again. Fortunately, she’d been to the bank machine the night before and had sixty dollars in her wallet. She pulled out two twenties and paid the girl. “I’m sorry for the trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the girl consoled her, handing back her change. “We see that a lot. Sometimes it’s just our machines, but you should call your bank.”

“I will. Thanks.” And she scooped up the two bags of groceries for the walk home.

She put the food away before making the call.

“Yes, I’d like to check on the status of my bank account?”

“Of course,” the faceless, officious voice said pleasantly. “Account number, please?”

Buffy read the numbers out of her checkbook.

“Yes, ma’am. Here it is. That account was closed as of this morning.”

“Closed?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But that’s not possible. It’s a joint account. I’d have to agree for it to be closed.”

“No, ma’am. You’re Miss Summers, I presume?” When Buffy agreed, she went on. “The account was Mr. Stevens’. You were just a signatory on it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you had access to the account, but the money belonged to him, and he could do what he wanted with it. Including closing the account.”

Buffy felt panic begin to overwhelm her. “Thank you for your time.”

She called American Express, Diner’s Club and MasterCard, all with the same results. The accounts were in Angel’s name and they had all been closed.

Finally she called Angel.

“Good afternoon, Wolfram and Hart. Angel Stevens’ office,” Darla’s breathy voice came over the line.

“Darla, this is Buffy. I’d like to speak to Angel.”

“Just one moment,” the other woman fairly smirked into the phone, “let me see if he’s available.”

There was no music on hold. Buffy waited impatiently for long minutes before the phone reconnected. “Hey, Buffy,” Angel said, his voice cool and professional. “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell me why you closed all our bank accounts,” she replied, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

“My bank accounts, you mean.” He corrected her like he would an errant child.

“That money is as much mine as it is yours!”

“Oh yeah? When was the last time you put anything in there, Buffy, huh? Have you ever contributed financially to this marriage?”

She was dumbfounded.

“I have to look out for my interests, Buffy. I’ve seen the bills. You’ve bought new clothes, redecorated the studio and who knows what else. I think I’ve been more than generous, but I’m not going to carry you anymore.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“What everyone does. Get a job. Or come back home. Act like a proper wife and you get the benefits, Buffy.” His voice sunk, cloying and persuasive. “Righteous indignation won’t feed you, Buffy. You’ve got no skills, no work experience. No one will hire you to so much as sweep their floors. Come home. Let me take care of you. It will be better that way. A nice house, nice clothes, fancy parties and fancy friends. It can all be yours again if you just. Come. Home.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She felt cage walls slamming into place all around her, and all she could think of was escape.

“Think about it, Buffy. But don’t think too long. This offer’s not going to be available forever.” And he hung up.

She sank down into a chair, dropping the phone heedlessly on the dining table. He was right. She had nothing to offer, no way to support herself. She’d never held a regular job outside of the short term internships she’d held during school, and those were all for nonprofit organizations that basically got paid to hire her.

All she knew was her art. She could sell her paintings, but she couldn’t support herself on that. She wasn’t known and didn’t have any benefactors. There wasn’t any way for her to make a living that route.

She could go dance for Faith. If Faith would let her back in. But stripping for a living? The first time she had done it had been a thrill, and after that it had been a search. But to do it every night, for no other satisfaction than a couple hundred dollars? She didn’t think her spirit could support that for long.

Maybe it was time to give up, move back to California. She loved it here in New York, but if she went home, she could make a new start, away from all the painful memories. Work with her mom at the gallery . . .

The gallery.

Her eyes flashed up to the portrait of Spike on the wall. Could it work? It was a long shot. But she wanted to stay.

She almost ran to the computer cabinet and threw open the doors. If this was going to work, she had to be prepared.


The gallery was busy for a Tuesday. The local lunch crowd seemed to be avoiding the late February chill by browsing the exhibits. Buffy fidgeted nervously, hoping Tara wouldn’t be too busy to talk to her.

She should have known better. As soon as she saw her, Tara’s face broke into a soft smile and she immediately crossed the room to greet her. “Buffy! It’s so good to see you! I hadn’t expected to again. But you look wonderful. How are you?”

“I’ve had a lot of changes in my life recently,” Buffy confessed. “Which is actually why I’ve come. Can we talk somewhere?”

“Of course. Come back to the office.” She gestured for Buffy to lead, following her in after hitching the drape back so she could keep an eye on the gallery. Buffy sat, and Tara wheeled the desk chair around to sit next to her. “What can I do for you?”

Buffy took a deep breath. “Actually, I’m hoping it’s a matter of what can I do for you. I’ve been thinking about what you said the first day we met, about needing someone to replace Dawn and wanting to do some teaching?”

Tara nodded. “I do. Did you have someone in mind?”

“Yes. Me.” She handed over the resume she had worked on until late last night, using the templates she had found as part of her word processing package. “I know my work record doesn’t look like much,” she continued nervously as Tara looked over the single page, “but I couldn’t put on there all the time I spent helping my mother with her gallery. I’ve already got my art degree, including some arts ed classes. I’ve done installations and advertising and fundraising, although you won’t need that since you’re not a nonprofit . . .”

Tara laughed softly. “It’s okay, Buffy. You don’t have to sell me. Frankly, you are goddess-sent. It’s Dawn’s last semester, and she’s been needing to spend a lot more time at school. I’ve managed as best I can, but it’s gotten too big for just one person. Have you done any grant writing?”

“I’ve helped, but I haven’t done one from scratch before.”

“I can’t pay you much. How does fifteen dollars an hour sound, with more if you can bring in some grants for the classroom art project? And we can renegotiate once Dawn leaves for Italy.”

Buffy was stunned for a moment at how fast things were moving. “So, I’ve got the job?”

Tara laughed musically. “Yes, you have the job.”

Buffy collapsed in relief, her own smile blossoming. “Oh, thank goodness! I can’t tell you how much I need this!”

“I’m just glad I could help you.” Tara took Buffy’s hands gently. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about how things ended with Spike . . .”

“Don’t.” Buffy stopped her. “It’s the only thing I ask. Don’t talk to me about him. I’ve . . . I’ve finally put that behind me. I can’t move on if . . .”

“I understand. I’m sorry.” She gripped Buffy’s hand comfortingly. “Not another word.”

“Okay.” Buffy took a deep breath. “So, when do you want me to start?”

“How about Wednesday? Dawn will be in then, so she can show you what she does. We can go on from there. Sound good?”

Buffy smiled. “Sounds perfect.”

Buffy settled into life as a workingwoman so easily it was as if she was made for it.

Dawn was grateful to have her. “I was feeling so guilty for making Tara have to start from scratch with someone, but you already know everything. So this is perfect!”

Buffy couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.

She spent the first few weeks familiarizing herself with the gallery routines and standard operations. She got to meet some of the artists Tara hosted, as well as a number of the other gallery owners in the area. It was a different experience for her to be interacting with people for whom art was a way of life and not something they supported but never saw.

Tara stayed true to her promise and never mentioned Spike around her. Dawn was not so reticent.

The end of the second week they were unpacking furniture together, handmade chairs and small tables and the like retaining the natural shape of the pieces of wood they were made from but taking on a Zen, Asian influence. Tara had found the artist upstate and convinced him to let her show some of his work. They carefully lifted out one long narrow table when Dawn spoke up. “I was really sorry when I heard you and Spike broke up.”

Buffy didn’t look up. “Dawn, please.”

“I know, I know. Tara said not to talk about it.” They carefully set the table down on the floor. “It just seems so sad. You two were both so happy that day you were here.”

“It’s just very complicated.” Buffy continued working quietly. “You thought he was happy?”

“Oh, way.” Dawn started methodically popping a sheet of bubble wrap. “He’d been kind of . . . reserved after his divorce. Withdrawn, you know? When he was here with you? That was the old Spike. Only better.”

“Do you think you can finish this?” Buffy pulled away abruptly. She didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to care.

Dawn looked at the two remaining boxes and nodded.

“Okay, I’ll just go finish up the paperwork on it.” And she escaped, as much from the girl’s idealism as her presence.

She celebrated her first paycheck by inviting all her friends out for a drink. Tara and Kennedy and Dawn were there, as was Willow and Oz and Anya and Xander. Even Cordelia made an appearance. Buffy was pleased to see Cordy and Tara hit it off, and unsurprisingly Oz and Kennedy did as well. Xander, Dawn and Anya found something engrossing to talk about, leaving Buffy in Willow’s company.

“To a successful first month,” Willow toasted her quietly, wanting to keep the moment private.

Buffy took a sip in acknowledgement. “Didn’t know if I could do this.”

“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Buffy. You’ve gotten off to a great start.”

She took a deep breath. “Every day and in every way.”

“Better and better. And look,” she indicated the people gathered around them. “You have old friends who love you and new friends who support you. You’re not alone anymore.”

“I wasn’t alone before.”

Willow looked at her sternly. “Yes, you were, Buffy. You just didn’t know it.”

Her new life suited her. It was quiet and comforting, and it inspired her own art. She moved on from her introspective paintings and started finding sources out in the world. She would often go walking, or just sit in the park, watching people, how they moved, what it said to her. She’d document them with her camera and now a video camera as well, then take the images back home to create reflections of what she saw in her mind’s eye.

Her work at the gallery was equally satisfying. By mid-March she had already contracted an artist on her own and Tara made her responsible for the whole exhibition. She thrived on the work, helping the artist organize the installation, writing the press releases, preparing the mailing. She was good at this, and she loved doing it, almost as much as she loved her own art. There was something deeply satisfying about helping another artist be seen.

She was immersed in accounting and commission checks when the phone rang. She picked it up without even looking, mind still focused on the columns of numbers. “Yggdrasil.”

“Hey, Bit, it’s Spike. Is the boss lady about?”

Her heart stopped at the sound of his voice after all these months, all warm caramel and spice rumbling in her ear. Her whole body vibrated in response as her stomach twisted in fierce knots.

“Bit?” He sounded concerned at the hesitation.

She mumbled something that she hoped sounded like “Just a minute” and didn’t sound like her and put him on hold.

She found Dawn first as she stumbled out of the office, her skin chilled and covered in a thin sheen of perspiration. “Tell Tara she has a call,” she managed to get out before she reeled towards the restroom, the contents of her stomach surging.

Tara found her there ten minutes later, sobbing hysterically. She gathered Buffy close, rocking her gently and murmuring wordless tunes to help soothe her. “I’m sorry,” Tara said finally as Buffy’s grief wore itself out. “He doesn’t usually call here. I didn’t even think about it. He usually calls at the house because he knows I’ll have time to talk then. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she sniffed, not moving out of Tara’s comforting embrace. “I knew he might. I just . . . I wasn’t ready for it.” She closed her eyes. “He doesn’t know I’m here, does he? He thought I was Dawn . . .”

“No, he doesn’t know. I just told him I have someone new working for me. He doesn’t know it’s you.”

Buffy drew a deep breath and sat up, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. I should be over this by now . . .”

“Should you? Buffy, did you love him?”

Buffy dropped her gaze.

“Love is not love that alters when alteration finds. If we got over love so easily, it wouldn’t be such a powerful source of inspiration.”

Buffy lifted her eyes to Tara’s again. “Is it wrong that this still hurts, but Angel doesn’t?”

Tara cupped her cheek gently. “You know the answer to that, sweetie.”

Buffy clung to her a little tighter.

The end of March was as lamb-like as advertised, with warm breezes softening the ice and snow and allowing the flower beds and containers to begin showing green tips and small shots of color around the city. The gallery exhibits changed from found object art and the hand wrought furniture to brilliant dyed silk soft sculptures and brightly colored kaleidoscope flower photographs. They left the front door open to allow the fresh breeze to air the winter stuffiness out of the space.

Buffy had her back to the door unpacking a shipment of stained glass and so didn’t hear the woman who came in until she spoke. “Excuse me.”

Buffy managed not to jump, the delicate glass held gingerly in her hands. She put it back down and turned with a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. How can I help you?”

“Are you Buffy Summers?”

Buffy kept her smile despite her puzzlement. “Yes.”

“These are for you.” The woman handed her a thick sealed envelope and a clipboard. “Could you sign here, please?”

Buffy signed her name mechanically on the line indicated and handed the board back.

“Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice day.” And the woman left.

Buffy stared at the envelope, her name and address typed neatly on the front, the Wolfram and Hart logo embossed on the flap. She knew what was in it.

She sank down onto one of the viewing benches before she worked up the courage to slit open the envelope and look at the contents.

Tara found her there. “Buffy? What is it?”

Buffy gestured numbly with the documents “Angel’s filed for divorce. On the grounds of infidelity. And he’s named Spike as the correspondent.” She rubbed her eyes wearily. “What a mess.”

“Well, it’s only fair, as Angel is the correspondent in Spike’s divorce.” Tara took the documents from Buffy. “What’s this other paper?”

“A proposed property settlement.”

“Wherein it is determined,” Tara read, “that the entirety of the marital assets and equity are a direct result of the plaintiff’s employment and investments, it is hereby agreed that all of said property shall be the sole custody and possession of said plaintiff with the exception of the real property located at Forty Seven Dominick Alley, which shall be turned over for the exclusive use and support of the defendant.” Tara flipped to the second page and then back. “That’s all? No alimony? No other support of any kind?”

Buffy shook her head. “Just the studio. But I should manage all right. The studio should fetch half a million at least. If I’m careful, I can live off that for a long time.”

“Wait,” Tara stopped her. “Sell the studio? You can’t! That’s your home!”

“I can’t afford to keep it Tara. I have a five thousand dollar property tax bill that’s due by April fifteenth, and there will be another one in the fall. That’s almost half what I make here in a year. And then there are utilities and fees, plus I still need to eat. I’ll just be better off selling it and renting an apartment.”

”Buffy, he owes you more than this. You were married for five years. . .”

She shook her head in denial. “I never did anything to help support us. It’s all his. And none of this would have happened if I hadn’t started up with Spike in the first place. No, this is the way things are supposed to be.”

“Buffy . . .”

“Tara, if you don’t mind, I think I’m going to go home. I’m not feeling very well.”

“Okay, honey. Get some rest. Maybe you’ll see things more clearly in the morning.”

Buffy smiled wanly. She was seeing things very clearly.

Spike sat in the pub, nursing his pint and absently watching the football match on the television. The photo album lay on the table in front of him, and every once in a while he would pick it up and flip through it, remembering.

“Nice rack. That your girl?” Clem asked, bringing him another bowl of pretzels.

Spike closed the book and glared at the barkeep. “Not anymore. And keep your eyes to yourself.”

“So where is she now?”

“Back in the states.”

“American, eh? Their asses are so tight, I don’t know now you can even look at her!”

Spike opened up the book and held it up for Clem to see.

“Okay, point taken.”

“Now shove off. The lady and I are tryin’ to watch the match.”

Clem laughed good-naturedly and headed back to the bar.

Spike wasn’t drunk, much as he’d like to be. He hadn’t had a good binge since New York, four months before. She wouldn’t like it.

God alone knew why he cared what she thought. She’d made it perfectly clear to him that she was through with him. But he did. She’d changed him, and he could never go back to who he was before her.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

He still wasn’t working. Robin had been a good sport and taken it on the chin for the company, filing the paperwork for Spike’s severance as a termination and not resignation so he could get a decent severance package. He wouldn’t have to worry about working for a couple of months yet.

But he’d found in meeting with other firms that he wasn’t really interested in returning to corporate life. He was tired of living by other people’s rules. Maybe this was a chance for him to strike out on his own . . .

His cell phone shivered in his pocket. He pulled it out and flipped it open. “’Lo?”

“Spike?” Tara’s voice came faintly over the line.

He covered his other ear to block out the din. “Tara? This isn’t a great time, pet.”

“It can’t wait,” she shouted into the phone.

“Okay, hang on.” He threw five quid on the table and grabbed up his coat on his way out the front door.

Outside was brisk and quiet, a scattering of stars breaking up the dark sky. He slipped on his duster and sat down on the bench in front of the pub. “What’s up, pet?” he said into the phone. “You in trouble? Or Kennedy?”

“It’s not us, Spike. It’s Buffy.”

He stiffened at the sound of her name. “She doesn’t need anything from me.”

“Spike, Angel’s filed for divorce. You should be getting a copy of the papers in a couple of days.”

“Me? Why . . .”

“Because he’s named you as the correspondent. Infidelity.”

“That bloody bastard . . .“

“It’s worse. He’s trying to railroad her on the property settlement. He’s going to take everything. The only thing he’s leaving her is the studio.”

“He can’t leave her the studio. It’s in her name, free and clear. Any lawyer worth his salt should . . .”

“She’s not going to fight it, Spike. She’s going to go along with it. And she’s going to sell the studio.”

“But she can’t! She loves that place!”

“She says she can’t afford to keep it. She’s working, but it’s not paying her enough. I don’t know what to do for her. She doesn’t think she deserves any more. Because of what she did with you.”

“Stubborn bint,” he growled, more to himself than to Tara. “Look, I can’t help her guilty conscience. Angel would have screwed her over without me. This isn’t my fault.”

“No,” Tara said calmly. “But it is your responsibility.”

He couldn’t reply to that.

“William,” her voice caught on her concern, “she needs your help.”

“Dammit, Glinda, that’s not fair!”

She didn’t answer.

“Fine,” he threw up his free hand in resignation. “It’s going to take me a couple of days, maybe a week. Just keep her away from any realtors until then!”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Tara promised.

“Tara,” he hesitated, afraid of the answer. “She’s been . . . good?”

“Up until now. You’d be proud of her, Spike. She left Angel. Caught him in bed with another woman and walked out. He tried to cut her off and she found herself work. She’s made a decent life for herself.”

He was glad. At least she was free. “I’ll get back to you tomorrow. Let me know if anything else comes up. And don’t let her sign anything.”

“I won’t! Thank you, Spike. From both of us.” And she hung up.

He hit the end button and punched in a new number. Mess with his girl, would they? Spike was about to show just how dirty he could play . . .

The papers weighed heavily in Buffy’s purse. She had been kept busy with Tara all week, not even able to take a lunch break, and hadn’t been able to do anything about them, or about getting the studio listed for sale. She just felt tired, burdened. She wanted this over so she didn’t have to think about it anymore, so she could just get back to trying to put her life back together.

She knew she needed to get an attorney for the divorce, someone to make sure all the documents were in order and nothing was missed. Angel’s friendly rival Lindsey McDonald had drawn up the original papers for him. Maybe she should just see if he would represent her as well. That way they could get this done without a lot of pointless attorney haggling.

Tara was waiting for her anxiously when she got back from the post office. “There’s someone in the office that you need to talk to.”

“Is everything okay?” Buffy slipped off her coat as she crossed to Tara. She had never seen her so . . . well, for Tara this gentle hand wringing and the eye tic was extreme agitation.

Tara took her coat and the mail. “Everything’s fine. Please, just go and talk to him.”

Looking back in concern, Buffy hefted her purse back on her shoulder and went into the office.

The gentleman sitting in front of the desk rose when she came in. He looked to be about Angel’s age and Spike’s build, with a long face ending in a square jaw, silver wire frames perched on his aquiline nose. His dark hair was cut not quite short enough, and the suit, while of good quality, was perhaps half a size too big.

But there was something about his eyes . . .

“Miss Summers, I presume,” he said, his voice soft and light with a cultured British accent that made her heart tighten. “How do you do? I am Wesley Wyndham-Price. I will be representing you in this matter.”

She was dumb struck. “I beg your pardon?”

“In your divorce. Please, won’t you sit?” He gestured to the desk chair, continuing as they sat. “Now, I’ve taken the liberty . . .”

She interrupted him. “Mr. Wyndham-Price, I’m sorry, but I don’t need representation in my divorce.”

“Actually, Miss Summers, you do. New York legal codes strictly mandate adequate representation for all parties in any divorce suit brought within the state.”

“No, what I mean is I already have someone representing me.”

“And that would be . . .? He waited patiently.

“Lindsey McDonald.”

“Your husband’s attorney.” When she nodded, he took off his glasses to meet her gaze, his gentle blue eyes steely. “Miss Summers, I would hardly call that adequate representation. Mr. McDonald was hired to look out for Mr. Stevens’ interests and not your own. As is made plain by this travesty of a property settlement. We should have no problem getting this thrown out straight away . . .”

“Mr. Wyndham-Price, I’m not interested in challenging the divorce. The faster we can get this over with, the better I’ll like it.”

“While I understand the sentiment, that is no reason to let him take advantage of you.”

“I don’t think it is taking advantage at all. I’m still coming out of the marriage with more than I went into it with. Considering I have never contributed financially, I think it’s more than fair.”

“Mr. Stevens went from a junior litigator to a full partner during the course of your marriage,” Wyndham-Price explained patiently. “He is now earning in the high six figures annually. You provided material support in his rise within the firm by giving your services as wife and hostess these last five years at the expense of developing your own career. There is ample precedence in the law for the wife in such cases to be eligible for half of the marital assets.”

“I don’t want it!” she protested angrily. “I don’t deserve it. We wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t . . .”

His voice softened. “Are you talking about your liaison with Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

She closed her eyes, trying not to see Spike in her mind. “I gave Angel reason to think our relationship was . . . something I couldn’t live with.”

“What if I could show you that Angel wasn’t the wronged party in this?”

She was confused. “What do you mean?”

He pulled a stack of folders out of his briefcase and set one thick file in front of her. “This is documentation of a six month affair he had with Drusilla Fitzwilliam, ending in that woman’s divorce two years ago.”

“I already knew . . .”

“This is a record of receipts for hotel registrations, flowers and gifts of an inappropriate nature to Miss Darla Sinclair dating back over five years, the most recent being a fur coat given February fourteenth of this year, three days before your separation.”

Buffy stared at it.

He placed another file down. “This is a statement from Ms. Lilah Morgan, attesting to the fact that the encounter you walked in on was not their first and that the affair had, in fact, begun in July of last year. Ms. Morgan had been led to believe Mr. Stevens’ story of yours being an open marriage and was none too happy to find out she had been deceived. She is more than willing to testify should it come to that.”

She felt sick.

He laid down half a dozen more folders, each slim. “These are sworn affidavits from various employees, coworkers and friends in which they outline how Mr. Stevens propositioned them for sex. Most damning of all,” he slid one of the files forward, “is the statement of Ms. Cordelia Chase, who attests that on no less than ten occasions did Mr. Stevens make iniquitous advances on her. She is able to give dates and particulars, and like Ms. Morgan is willing to testify to every particular.”

“And finally,” he pulled out one last file, “receipts, eyewitness accounts and photographs providing evidence that in late October of last year, Mr. Stevens began an intimate relationship with Mrs. Sophia Masters, wife of Mr. Stevens’ employer, Henry Masters.” He spread all the files out. “So you see, Miss Summers, if you are to use infidelity as a criterion for this property settlement, you would in fact be deserving of the lion’s share of your marital assets.”

“How did you find all this?” She could barely get the words out.

“It wasn’t difficult to find once I knew where to start. One source usually led to another.”

She reached out a hand slowly, not quite touching all the evidence laid out before her. “Was he ever faithful to me?” she asked in a small, quiet voice.

“I’m sorry.”

She pulled herself together, wiping away the tears that threatened. “So what do we do now? I still want this to be over as quickly as possible . . .”

“And you don’t want to feel indebted to him, either.” She nodded. “Alright then, this is my proposal. We don’t want you dependent on unreliable alimony checks or other regular payments from your husband, and presumably you don’t want to incur a punitive judgment against him either, such as claiming the house. Is that correct?”

“I don’t ever want to see that house again,” she declared emphatically.

“Then I suggest we ask for a flat settlement payment. Five hundred thousand dollars, to be paid immediately upon final judgment, and assumption of all expenses incurred from the divorce, including a living stipend for your maintenance until final settlement.”

Buffy’s eyes grew huge. “So much?”

“He can well afford it,” the attorney insisted. “And that is fifty thousand a year over ten years, which is less than most city school teachers make. He could do a lot worse. And this,” he tapped the Sophia Masters file, “will guarantee that he goes along with it. He values his career too highly to risk Henry Masters finding out about it. He’d be doing legal aid work so fast he wouldn’t know what hit him.”

“And it will be over?”

He nodded.

“And I can keep the studio?”

He smiled. “Absolutely. I understand you are concerned about the taxes. We can stipulate his responsibility for those in the preliminary paperwork.”

“Oh god!” And she burst into tears.

He rose quickly and went to the door, gesturing for Tara, who came in and offered Buffy comfort.

“It’s all set?” Tara asked Wesley as much as Buffy.

He nodded. “I have a meeting with Mr. Stevens’ attorney this afternoon. With any luck, we’ll have the new paperwork filed by the end of the week.” He began gathering up his documentation. “It will take a little while, but within six months, you will be a free woman.”

Buffy wiped her face and blew her nose. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

He smiled kindly as he hefted his briefcase. “You can start by calling me Wesley.”

Short, yet . . .



It worked.

Buffy couldn’t believe Wesley’s ploy actually worked, but it did. After a certain amount of threats and posturing by Lindsey, which left Wesley supremely unimpressed, Angel finally had no choice but to accede to their demands. The original petition for divorce was rescinded, and Wesley refiled with Buffy as the plaintiff, on the grounds of mental cruelty. No mention was made of Angel’s extramarital affairs, as per the lawyers’ verbal arrangement.

And so, on the third week of April, they gathered in the courtroom of the Right Honorable Charles Gunn to have all the particulars heard.

They rose when the judge entered and stayed standing as he reviewed the case briefly for the court reporter.

“This looks like a fairly straight forward case,” he said, looking over the paperwork. “Unusual in a divorce case. Do both parties agree to all the provisions in the decree?”

“The plaintiff does, your honor,” Wesley spoke up promptly.

“As does the defendant,” Lindsey confirmed sulkily.

Judge Gunn paged through the document briefly, and then through another file before looking up at Buffy. “Ms. Summers, has your attorney advised you that, according to these financial statements, you could be entitled to a great deal more money than is agreed upon in this settlement?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Then may I ask why you aren’t pursuing those options?”

“He’s not worth it, sir.”

Angel scowled, but the judge and Wesley both grinned. “Alright then, have to respect a lady who knows her mind. This judgment is hereby entered into, and will become final after the mandatory waiting period of six months from this date, at which time all payments and settlements will be due. Mr. Stevens, you may pay Ms. Summers’ maintenance support in the clerk’s office on your way out. My sympathy to you both, and may you move on to happier lives.” And he gaveled them into adjournment.

With an enormous grin, Wesley hugged Buffy fiercely.

“I couldn’t have done this without you,” she said into his shoulder. “You were a godsend.”

He pulled back, still smiling. “Slaying dragons for beautiful damsels in distress is the most gratifying part of my job. I am just glad I could be of service.”

“You were my knight in tweedy armor.”

Wesley began gathering up his materials. Buffy waited until she heard the voice behind her. “I hope you’re happy.”

She turned to see Angel standing there, murder in his face.

“Angel, no.” Lindsey tried to pull him away.

She crossed her arms in front of her protectively. “I am. Very.”

He let Lindsey pull him away, but not without a parting shot. “You were a huge disappointment as a wife. And a miserable lover. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

His words sliced though her, this reminder that she wasn’t wanted, wasn’t valued.

But something else rose up in her, something that had lain dormant for the long months of winter to awaken now in full blossom.

She let her jacket slide off to bare her shoulders and slowly, aggressively swayed towards him, her chest high, her eyes turned sultry. “Really? Because, you know, Spike said I was amazing. A goddess. That no woman had ever roused as much passion in him as I did. And,” she tugged lightly on his necktie, “since he could get it up more than once a week, I’m more willing to trust his opinion than yours.” She patted his chest condescendingly and sashayed away, winking at Wesley’s dumbfounded expression.

“He only fucked you to get what he wanted!” Angel shouted as Lindsey led him from the courtroom.

She looked over her shoulder as she slipped her jacket back on. “So did you. And he was better at it.”

“Bitch!”

She turned to face him, hands proudly on her hips. “And don’t you ever forget it.”

The door closed behind Angel as Wesley, the bailiff and the court reporter all burst into applause. She blushed and closed her blazer demurely over her chest.

“Don’t you forget, either,” Wes said quietly as he helped her into her overcoat.

“I won’t,” she assured him. “I don’t think I ever will again.”

Nothing very interesting happens this time . . .



Yggrasil was packed.

Buffy looked at the crowd in amazement. She couldn’t believe all these well-dressed people were here to see her. Or, more accurately, her work.

It had all happened so fast.

Giles had brought the contracts by the gallery himself. He explored the exhibits while Tara went over the contracts and plans with Buffy. The consultant and the gallery owner came away with a growing respect for each other.

And promptly took over Buffy’s professional career.

“Your gallery would be an ideal setting for Buffy’s work,” Giles said, looking around the space. “It’s more appropriate to her artistic style than a traditional establishment.”

Tara looked surprised. “Of course her show will be here! I wouldn’t hear of it being anywhere else.”

“Do you have an opening in your schedule before the end of summer? I would imagine you have to book fairly far in advance.”

Tara waved away his concern. “We’ll put her in after the schools exhibit. I can rearrange the schedule to accommodate.”

Buffy finally had the chance to interject. “You can’t do that! Carey and Nyla are counting on it!”

“Carey had a show here six months ago. He can wait a bit. And I’ll make it up to Nyla. Ceramics sell better in the late fall anyway. It’s your time, Buffy. Let us do this for you.”

Buffy looked from Tara to Giles uncertainly. But the confidence in their faces moved her. “Alright, let’s do it.”

They had only three weeks to get everything prepared. The schools opening was the thirtieth of May and ran until the tenth of June. They would then have a week to get everything installed before Buffy’s opening on the eighteenth. The first thing to be resolved was the advertising.

Giles concurred with the painting Buffy selected for the publicity. “This is an excellent demonstration of the style of your work,” he had nodded approvingly. It was one of her park inspired works. In it a young, brunette jogger, complete with short shorts, jogging bra and cross trainers, raced through a primeval woods, hair streaming off her back and face alight with a grin of pure joy, one perfect golden apple in her hand, a pack of dogs chasing along behind. Atalanta in Washington Square.

Within three days of her contract being signed, the printer delivered a box of color and black and white camera ready glossies, as well as five thousand postcards printed with the graphic on one side and the show details on the other. These were quickly turned around and sent out to everyone on both Tara’s and Giles’ mailing lists, while the photos were attached to press releases that went out to every newspaper and arts magazine in the region. Short of leafleting every coffee house in Lower Manhattan (which Dawn seemed to have taken upon herself to do), Buffy didn’t think they could have done much more.

Thankfully, with the completion of her senior show, Dawn was now available more. She picked up the slack at the gallery while Buffy scrambled to get her canvases ready for exhibit.

Help on that front came from an unexpected source. Upon hearing about the dilemma, Anya came by and all but kidnapped Buffy to take her to a salvage shop Anya frequented often in her design business. With a list of canvas dimensions in hand, they picked through the effluvia most of the afternoon and hit a jackpot, coming away with thirty old wooden picture frames, some plain, some incredibly ornate, paint gone or varnish peeling, for which they paid less than a hundred dollars. One long Saturday with a bunch of friends, a couple of power sanders and three bottles of tinted linseed oil resulted in all of them and a dozen more stained and oiled to a matching glossy walnut.

The actual installation took most of the week. They had to remove and return all the student art before the end of the school year, and then patch all the mounting holes and repaint before arranging the pictures to suit Buffy’s eye. She decided to run them in ascending order of personal relevancy, with the most intimate being at the back of the gallery. Which also saved her the embarrassment of casual passers-by seeing her self-portraits. The night of the opening should be interesting for her modesty.

And here it was. Giles’ promotion seemed to have done the trick. There were almost a hundred and fifty people in the gallery already, and the opening was less than an hour old. Giles had gone all out and even hired a caterer for the event, so handsome young men and women in black and white wove expertly in and out of the crowd with trays of hors d’oeuvres and wineglasses and pleasant smiles for the guests.

Buffy was too nervous to eat, so she let the trays move past, clutching at her untouched wine.

“You need to go mingle,” Giles spoke softly from behind her. “They will be more interested in the art if they know the artist.”

She looked up at him anxiously. “I know. I’m just not very good at small talk. What is there about me that anyone would be interested in?”

“Tonight? Your art. They want to know the stories behind the pictures, Buffy. Go tell them.” And he gave her a gentle push in the right direction.

Giles had done a brief speech and introduction as the reception began, so many of the guests recognized her and drew her in to ask questions or comment on the work. Slowly she found her confidence growing and began to enjoy the conversations.

She ran into her friends everywhere she turned. Dawn was minding the door, greeting the arrivals with brochures and answering questions. She grinned and threw Buffy a quick thumbs up before going back to her duties.

Xander was doing a credible job of mixing, but Anya was interested in only one thing. She camped herself next to the costume portrait and cornered anyone who came near. “Aren’t they beautiful? They are mine, you know. Buffy did a wonderful job capturing them, but then she had good material to work from, don’t you think?”

Giles and Oz seemed to hit it off, because Buffy often saw them in conversation, the two men scanning the crowd critically, one or the other pointing or gesturing questioningly. She presumed they were comparing the jobs of representing artists versus performers. They seemed to handle the talent the same way. When Oz would stop to talk to her, it was always the same questions Giles asked her. How was she holding up? Did she need anything? Did she have any concerns? Buffy smiled and shook her head, and Oz went back to working the room.

Willow didn’t ask. She just appeared magically to replace Buffy’s wineglass with cold water, making sure Buffy drank some before commenting, “I think it’s going really well, don’t you?”

Buffy nodded. “There are just so many people!”

“But that’s a good thing. No matter how much attention Giles gets for you, it’s going to be word of mouth that gets you noticed.” She glanced down. “Are you regretting those shoes yet?”

Buffy rested her foot on one narrow stiletto and rotated it back and forth, letting the silver and crystal medallion hanging from the ankle strap tickle back and forth over the top of her foot. “A bit,” she conceded ruefully. “But they’re so pretty!”

“Well, I have sneakers in my bag for you when you give up suffering for your art.”

“You’re too good to me.” Buffy felt a pang of guilt. “You’ve been a better friend than I’ve deserved. It’s hard for me to talk about the things that have happened in my life, but I owe you more than that. I should be more open with you.”

“Buffy, it’s understandable. You’ve had some pretty crucial stuff in your life lately . . .”

“Before that.” She turned her eyes aside regretfully.

Willow laid a hand on her arm. “Don’t. You did what you thought you needed to at the time. You can’t second-guess yourself now. It won’t change the past. If it makes you feel better, we’ll get together next week for a nice long lunch and you can spill your guts. In the meantime, forget about it and enjoy your night. You’ve earned it.”

Buffy threw her arms around Willow and hugged her fiercely.

Cordelia made an entrance as only Cordelia could. She blew in like a hurricane, greeting everyone she knew loudly as she made a beeline for Buffy.

“I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch,” she apologized, holding Buffy’s hands as they greeted each other. “I’ve been in Europe on a buying trip since the beginning of May. And you were busy while I was gone!”

“I was worried you were avoiding me.” Buffy squeezed Cordy’s carefully manicured hands gently. “I didn’t know what he was doing, Cordy. I’m just so . . .”

“Don’t you dare apologize for him, Buffy. He’s a sucking bastard, and you’ve wasted enough time and energy on him. Just please, please tell me the affidavit was useful?”

Buffy outlined the details of the divorce agreement and the evidence that had wrung it out of Angel.

Cordelia was incensed. “I can’t believe he’d lump me in with the likes of Lilah Morgan. She’s just so . . . common!” She let the indignation rage for a moment, then shook it off. “But anyway. All’s well, yadda yadda. And now you’re free to pursue greener pastures. Speaking of which,” she moved in closer. “Have you heard anything from the other one?”

Buffy flushed and shook her head. “He’s gone, Cordy. Out of my life. I’ve moved on.”

“You sure about that? Because he still seems pretty present to me.” She indicated the long row of images of Spike lining two walls toward the back of the gallery. “And let me be the first to thank you for showing that he looks even better out of his clothes.”

“Cordelia,” she chided. “He stirred up a lot of strong emotions. The paintings were too good not to include.”

“They are good,” Cordy had to agree. “I think I’m going to go enjoy a closer look.”

Tara offered her a safe harbor. When it got too much, when things just started to overwhelm Buffy, Tara was there to draw her away for a few moments of quiet, gentle words of encouragement and a chance to just draw a deep breath.

“I don’t understand any of this,” Buffy confessed. “I’m afraid I’m going to close my eyes and it will all disappear.”

“It won’t, Buffy.” Tara rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. “You’ve just gotten all the negative things out of your life, and good things are rushing to fill the void. Nature abhors a vacuum.”

“You make it sound so magical.”

“Life is magic, Buffy. That’s why it’s called a miracle.”

Buffy was about to reply when she heard Cordelia’s voice raised in fury from the rear of the gallery. “You son of a bitch!”

Their eyes widened and as one they turned to race towards the disturbance.

“How dare you!”

Giles and Oz were restraining Cordy as gentlemanly as possible, but that didn’t keep her from shouting invectives.

“After what you put her through, you dare to show up here?”

Buffy’s heart sank into her stomach. She couldn’t believe Angel would come here tonight to ruin this for her. She drew a deep breath and turned to face her husband.

Electric blue eyes arrested her.

“’Lo, Buffy,” Spike said softly.

If you're curious, here are Buffy's dress <http://www.betseyjohnson.com/shop/shop_detail.asp?Pid=22701500&Cid=1011> (ignore the fugly model) and shoes <http://www.neimanmarcus.com/store/catalog/prod.jhtml?itemId=prod7520164&parentId=cat000271&masterId=cat000266&grandMasterId=cat000258&index=6&cmCat=> from the opening. I do way too much research in some things . . .



He couldn’t have stayed away from her show if he’d wanted to.

Not that the thought ever crossed his mind.

He’d been back in New York six weeks. He hadn’t staked out her studio. He hadn’t tried to find out where she worked. He hadn’t so much as looked up her phone number.

But the postcard in his mailbox was his undoing, all his restraint crumbling away to dust in the face of it.

He knew it was her work the moment he saw it. Her style had matured in the time he had been gone, but it was so clearly her. He was relieved to see she still had enough joy in her to create such a playful image, and touched to see some of the elements they had talked about in their brief time together were now present. Even in this pale reproduction, he could see detail of muscles and intent of movement she hadn’t incorporated before.

So now he stood across from the front of Yggdrasil, trying to decide his next move. The place was crowded, so he should have no problem blending in once he got inside.

First he had to get past the guardian at the gate.

He stepped out of the shadows and waited to be seen. Dawn noticed him almost immediately, her face lighting up. It instantly dimmed again as she realized where they were and for whom. He nodded to acknowledge her concerns, then crooked his finger to call her out to him. With a quick glance around, she conceded.

She hugged him quickly before saying sternly, “You shouldn’t be here, Spike.”

“I had to. I had to see. It. The art.”

“Uh-huh. And not her?”

“Not her. I don’t plan on her even knowin’ I was here.”

“Spike, you do know that you and plans are contradictory terms, yeah?”

“You gonna help me or what?”

She sighed. “Yes, I’ll help. Just keep your head down and your mouth shut. And keep an eye on her. She’s mingling, moving around. You’re going to have to always know where she’s at.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

She stopped him at the door. “I’m trusting you, Spike. Don’t screw this up.”

She went in and peeked around before waving him in. “She’s halfway back on the right.”

He scanned the area quickly before spotting the golden head amongst the crowd. “Got her. Thanks, Bit.”

He slipped into a cluster of half a dozen other patrons slowly wending their way through the collection. Buffy had apparently been prolific in the months he had been gone, because the exhibit appeared to take up the entire gallery. Each section of the gallery held about a dozen paintings broken up by pages out of her sketchbook framed simply and hung as accents to the more detailed paintings.

The first section held the Atalanta painting along with a number of others that she seemed to have found inspiration for in the world around her. Most intriguing was an enormous canvas, velvety black and speckled with stars. In the center, dozens of men and women gathered in a circle, hands held as they danced. Each carried with them a sheen of prismatic energy that flowed and tangled with that of the next and the next and the next, spiraling in to create a vortex of rainbow power that rose up in the center, illuminating the joyous faces in the circle. Tara must have taken Buffy to a ritual, and Buffy had obviously found it inspirational. More new experiences.

As he moved back through the gallery, he began to find familiar faces among the canvases. Wesley knelt before him in one, dressed in worn and rusted chain mail armor as he leaned against the hilt of a sword. His face looked worn and tired but triumphant. Behind him, the green and iridescent corpse of a dragon lay, or at least the small part of its body which would fit on the canvas. Buffy had managed to imply the creature’s size and appearance with only a small section of its body. A woman’s hand, possibly Buffy’s own, rested on Wes’ shoulder in gratitude, her blue silk token drifting along his arm. Spike smiled. It suited Wes. He had an enormous chivalry complex.

Further along was a painting he recognized. And a woman he didn’t.

The painting was the one Buffy had started in his hotel room, of the children dressed for Halloween. Her final execution of it was everything she had told him she wanted and more. The wonder on their faces was enough to make even the most hardened cynic soft hearted. Clustered above and around them were the faces of dozens of spirit children, each worked in different translucent colors but all with similar expressions of surprise and delight.

The over-dyed blonde woman captured his attention. “Those are my children. Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Um.” He was a bit thrown by her directness. “Yes, quite.”

“I think Buffy did a great job with them, but then . . .” she paused, looking at him hard. “Do I know you?”

He stepped back away from her. “No, I’m certain I’d remember meeting you.”

“Are you sure? You look so familiar . . .”

“Ahn.” He was rescued by a stocky brunet who came and wrapped his arm around the woman. “The nice man doesn’t need to hear all the details about our kids. He’s here to look at all of the pictures.”

“It’s alright,” Spike said, feeling a touch of envy at their easy intimacy. “They are lovely kids.”

She looked surprised and gratified as her husband drew her away.

Spike loved the painting of Dawn. Buffy had turned the anachronism around in this one, making Dawn the piece out of time. Dressed like a Greek muse, her hair piled softly on her head, she stood in the middle of her sculpting studio. Sunlight shone in the windows, revealing the cars in the street and the buildings across the way. All the clutter of a modern sculpting studio, hammers, chisels, drills, files, all lay scattered around her. But she simply stood before the half carved woman crouched before her and swept away the remnants of rough stone with one hand to reveal the rest of the creation’s leg, offering the other hand as though to help the statue to its newly exposed feet. The statue was the one from Dawn’s show, come to awareness and life under her hands.

The first portrait of himself pierced his soul.

It was the angelic painting she had penciled that first day in the studio. In his moment of revelation. Did she know that? Did she know that was the moment? She couldn’t have, and that made the transformation of the sketch even more agonizing.

No longer did the angel sleep peacefully. Instead he lay on a bier of stone, flames and jagged rock rising all around. The elegant wings were perfect no more. Iridescent crow’s wings sprung from his shoulders, one twisted and broken to flop uselessly on the stone, the other a bloody stump, mangled feathers dangling from the matted remains. His eyes were no longer closed in rest. They were open, ice blue and burning with rage, a rage that was clear in every line of his face. She had captured his own expression perfectly, Spike knew. But he couldn’t for the life of him remember when she had seen him that angry. The figure in the painting was bloody and beaten, a shattered sword in pieces on the rocks around him. But Spike could tell by the tension he saw in the body, by the slight flex of the wrist that this creature had not surrendered. Lucifer may have been cast out of heaven, but he was prepared to fight and claw his way back, damning all those who stood in his way.

Spike didn’t think he had ever been demonized quite so effectively.

The stained glass window picture had changed as well. The angel in the glass now offered judgment instead of comfort, its wings unfurled and a flaming sword in its hands, blocking the entrance to Eden. The crouched figure seated in the window now hung his head in shame instead of sorrow. Was she reading into him some shred of real feeling, that she would credit him with having remorse? Or was she projecting her own wishes onto him? He couldn’t tell. But he could hope.

Also giving him hope was the watercolor diptych of the two of them that he had first seen in her portfolio. She hadn’t done the oil version she had talked about, but neither had she made any changes to the originals aside from framing them. Had she remembered her promise to save these for him?

But these pictures marked the transition from images of him to images of her. He scanned the row and saw that in the eight self-portraits on display, she represented herself as nude in every one of them. Her shyness, her modesty seemed gone. He hoped rather than believed that it was due to greater confidence and not to a sense of violation.

He was fascinated by one in which the viewer saw only the back of Buffy’s head, hair caught up in a loose ponytail. She held two mirrors before her. The one to the right reflected her much as he had seen her the second time, at the United Way fundraiser. Her hair was tightly coiffed, her make-up elaborate and perfect, her neckline demure and offset with a simple strand of pearls, looking every bit the proper Manhattan socialite wife. In the other she looked as he had seen her, as he had made her look, so many times after, her chin up, face flushed, lips swollen and red, her hair in wild disarray. Just looking at it made him hard. She didn’t look at the left-hand mirror, staring intently at the one on the right. But her body leaned toward the left, and that hand was raised just a bit higher, just a bit closer. What she wanted to be but knew she shouldn’t.

In another she stood bare, wrapped into a suited man’s arms, leaning back against his chest. But something about those arms wasn’t quite right, wasn’t in balance. It took him a minute to recognize Angel’s Stanford Law ring on the right hand and Spike’s own silver bracelet on the left. The he realized the proportions were off, intentionally. The left arm was more slender, with a more delicate hand and long tapered fingers. His arm, his hand, his fingers. The other was meatier, more muscled, the fingers shorter and thicker. Angel’s fingers. The man was both of them, holding her trapped. Her own hands curled up around his arms and her head tipped back to lean against his chest. She looked so vulnerable in her nakedness against the armor of his clothing. Spike couldn’t tell if she was holding on or trying to pull away, if she was in ecstasy or anguish. It was devastating.

But not as powerful as the next painting.

He recognized the setting instantly. It was the garden at the Briarwood Country Club. The scene of their second encounter. She was even dressed the same, wearing nothing but the black silk stockings he had so loved the feel of. Her head was thrown back in pleasure, her mouth open, her bare breasts rising, her hair flowing around her head as though caught in a breeze. But she was suspended, crucified on nothing, her arms outstretched, her ankles locked together as though tied. The garden around her was all dead and withered and rotting, everything washed out in shades of cold blue. This was all about shame, regret and guilt. And he felt it. Felt hers and felt his. Felt it so strongly he could taste it.

He wanted to reach out and touch her. The painting should feel warm, like she had that night. But it wouldn’t.

“Like what you see?” a sharp voice said quietly over his shoulder.

He turned with a jerk to look into the cold, dark eyes of Cordelia Chase.

“Depends on whether you’re talkin’ technically or emotionally, doesn’t it?”

“What, it doesn’t give you a sense of pride to have been such a source of inspiration?”

“You think I liked causing her that much pain?”

“Have you apologized? Tried to make it up to her?”

“She doesn’t need to hear from me. She’s better off.”

Cordy studied him critically. “You know, I never would have pegged you for a coward.”

“Hey . . .”

“So let me help.” She backed up two steps. “You son of a bitch!” she screamed at the top of her voice.

And punched him.

The crowd around them gasped and pulled back, save for two men, one older, one younger, who lunged forward to grab her arms and keep her from attacking again.

“How dare you!” He backed away, but he was cornered by the crowd and the layout of the gallery. “After what you put her through, you dare to show up here?”

And suddenly Buffy and Tara were there. Tara tried to sooth Cordelia’s rage while Buffy turned to him.

From the gob-smacked look on her face, she’d been expecting someone else.

“’Lo, Buffy.”

She looked incredible. Her hair flowed in loose waves about her face and shoulders, hiding the silver medallions hanging form her delicate earlobes. Her eyes were smoky and dark, although at the moment they were big as saucers. She wore a sweet little sleeveless black dress more suited to her style than all the couture she’d been wearing in the fall. The scooped neck displayed her décolletage to its best advantage, while the fat clusters of scarlet red roses embroidered along the hem drew his eye to the length of her thigh and calf. And those shoes. Christ. He wanted to take her little feet in hand and toy with those little silver baubles with his lips and tongue for hours. They were enough to give a man a fetish.

And thoughts like that weren’t going to make it any easier to sleep tonight.

“What are you doing here?”

The crowd seemed aware that something significant was going on. Spike could almost feel the pressure of all those people trying not to seem like they were listening in.

He pulled the postcard out of his pocket. “Got an invitation, didn’t I?” He held it up so she could clearly see the label affixed with his address on it.

“Oh, Buffy!” Tara breathed guiltily. “He’s on my mailing list. I didn’t even think . . .” She moved to Spike’s side. “I’m sorry. Maybe you should go . . .”

“No!” Buffy seemed as surprised by her outburst as anyone. “No, it’s okay. He can stay.”

The two men holding Cordelia took this as a sign and released her to begin dispersing the milling audience, returning their attention to the artwork. Cordelia shrugged her dignity back on like a cloak and turned her back to Spike and Buffy.

But Spike could have sworn she winked at him.

Buffy drew him away from the main gallery without touching him. “So . . . um . . . how have you been?”

He was amazed. Was she really trying to make conversation with him? “I’m good. Thanks. And you?”

She nodded. “Yeah, me too.”

They were awkwardly quiet before Spike blurted out, “I like the show. It’s really good work.”

She blushed and cast her eyes down. “Thanks. It was all kind of sudden.”

“Yeah? Sounds like a story.”

He mentally kicked himself for the words, an unintended reminder of their last conversation. “I’m glad you were able to have it here,” he hurried on. “Tara was really keen to get you here.”

“She didn’t leave me much choice. She all but threatened to fire me if I didn’t let her host.”

“Fire you? You’re working here?”

She nodded slightly.

He shook his head with a derisive chuckle. “Tara never told me.”

“I know. I asked her not to.” She actually looked apologetic.

He shrugged. “No reason you shouldn’t.”

“Okay then.”

“Yeah.”

The awkward silence returned. “Bugger this,” he finally said, disgusted with himself. “I’m gonna shove off. Congratulations on the show. It’s brilliant.”

“Thanks.” She hesitated. “It was good to see you again, Spike.”

God. He hated that name on her lips. She could still give him redemption and damnation in one sentence.

And he was happy for it.

The crowd was gone. The caterers had finished removing all signs of their presence and departed as well. Only Buffy was left to turn out the lights and lock up.

She didn’t mind. She was too geared up to sleep anyway, so when Kennedy came by to meet Tara, Buffy had sent them on their way. Tara didn’t want to leave her. “This is your night,” she had insisted. “You shouldn’t have to work.” But finally Buffy and Kennedy convinced her, on the condition that Buffy take the next day off. Buffy didn’t mind agreeing to that. As she was probably going to be up bouncing off the walls most of the night anyway, she didn’t think she would be any good working in the morning.

A horn sounded in the street, signaling the arrival of her cab. She quickly flicked off the row of switches, plunging the gallery into darkness, then stepped out to close and lock the door. Finally she dragged down the ornate security gate and locked it as well. Dropping the keys in her bag, she turned toward the cab.

Spike was standing on the other side of the street.

She couldn’t breathe looking at him. She’d been working with his image for months now, but she’d forgotten how much better the real thing was. He was dressed all in black, the silk tonal striped shirt hinting at the cut muscles underneath. The flat front trousers displayed his hips perfectly, and he wore matte black dress shoes that were just this side of boots. His silver tie was loosened, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, and the blazer of the suit thrown over his shoulder. His white blond hair, played up by all the black, was rumpled and curled slightly the way she liked it. He had obviously been waiting for her all night.

He just watched her quietly.

“Hey lady, you need a ride or what?”

The cabby’s terse demand jerked her out of her trance. She stepped into the street and reached for the cab door.

“Buffy.”

He had mirrored her actions and now stood on the other side of the car.

“What are you doing here, Spike?”

“Didn’t we have this conversation already?”

“I expect that the answers have changed.”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

“We don’t have anything to say.” She pulled the cab door open to escape him.

She didn’t see him come around the car before he slammed the door shut again. “We have a lot to say, Buffy.” His voice was tense, his eyes flashing. “Whether we want to hear it or not.”

He was so close she was overwhelmed. Despite her best attempts to hold onto the rage, the shame, the guilt, all she could feel was his presence. Finally she capitulated.

“Yeah? Okay.” He bent down to the driver. “Sorry, mate, lady’s gonna walk for a bit.”

The driver grumbled and pulled away, leaving the two of them standing in the street.

They simply stood there, looking at each other for the longest time. But she refused to make things any easier on him, so when he didn’t speak up, she began walking toward home.

He caught up with her quickly. “So,” he finally said, “how did the show go?”

“Fine,” she answered coolly, not looking at him. “Better than I had hoped. I sold seventeen paintings and got two commissions. Giles is thrilled.”

“Giles?”

She glanced over, surprised that he sounded genuinely interested. “My representative.”

“Ah.”

They continued on in silence until they reached Hudson Street and she reached the end of her patience. “Look, you wanted to talk. If we aren’t going to, then I’d just as soon . . .” She raised her hand for a cab.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted out, trying to stop her with his words.

She dropped her hand.

“I never meant for you to get hurt.”

“Well, then, you shouldn’t have asked me to walk home in these shoes.” She turned to start walking up Hudson towards the studio.

“Buffy,” he growled, obviously frustrated by her quip.

“What?” She whirled on him, forcing him to stop in mid-stride in surprise. “What did you think would happen, Spike? Did you think you could seduce me and rub Angel’s nose in it, and when it was all said and done he’d take me back?” She marched off again, the rage she had been searching for now fully aroused.

“To be honest, I didn’t think about you when I came up with this stupid plan.”

“Oh, well that makes it all better, doesn’t it?”

“How could I possibly imagine you?” he defended. “I couldn’t picture Angel involved with anyone who wasn’t as vicious and manipulative and self-absorbed as he was. You don’t fit his profile, pet. You have to forgive me for not seeing you coming.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“I admit it,” he continued after her, “when I came up with the idea, I didn’t give his wife any thought. He hadn’t given me a thought when he started screwing Dru, had he? And let’s be honest, that first time? In the restaurant? I didn’t even have to try real hard, did I? You seemed to prove every preconception I had. Except you were a sight prettier than I’d expected. And felt a lot better to fuck.”

“You’re a pig.” She walked faster, hiding her blush.

“But by the third time I knew I was wrong about you. I started feeling guilty. And by the second week I’d given up the whole thing as a hopeless case.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d fallen in love with you.”

She hesitated. “You never said.”

“How could I?” He shrugged. “You’d made it pretty clear I was just a training ground for you. You wanted to go back to your life afterwards. Why should I spill my guts when it wouldn’t amount to anything? I just figured on taking what you would give me and hoping that would be enough.”

“I didn’t . . .” She floundered against his confession, reaching for anything to help her hold onto her anger. She threw the first thought she found at him. “You are so full of shit. You asked Angel if you could seduce me!”

He grabbed her arm at that, and she saw the barely controlled rage in his face. “I never did. He found out about us. I don’t know how, but he did. After we’d been together about three weeks, he finally confronted me on it. And he magnanimously” the word dripped bile coming out of his mouth, “allowed us to continue. That’s why he didn’t come home that one night. I’d beaten him up over it. I never asked him, I never told him, and I never intended to. Not after I got to know you.”

She jerked out of his grip, but her indignation had subsided a bit. She started walking again.

“How can I believe you? After all those lies . . .”

“No lies.” He shook his head in denial. “I never lied to you.”

“But . . .”

“No! I never lied to you.” His eyes fell to their moving feet. “I didn’t tell you everything, but I never said anything to you that wasn’t true.”

She tried to find one instance to spit back at him, but the longer she thought about it, the more she realized that he hadn’t ever told her an untruth. All those chances, and he’d so carefully kept his integrity. She wasn’t sure how that made her feel.

He moved up to walk beside her, hands in his pockets, eyes on the street. “I hadn’t thought he’d have the nerve to use our relationship against you in the divorce. With his history of philandering, I wouldn’t have figured he’d want to risk it. Hadn’t counted on you layin’ down and takin’ it.”

“How do you know about that?”

“Oh. Um.” He looked sheepish. “Tara called me. She was worried for you. Asked me to help.”

“And you gave Wes the files on your divorce to use against Angel.”

He looked more uncomfortable.

“Oh my god.” She threw her hands up in disgust. “You know Wes, don’t you?”

“We went to school together,” he admitted.

“What is this, some grand English conspiracy to control my life?”

“Well, I don’t think so, but I haven’t been to the meetings in a while . . .”

“Do you know Giles, too?”

“Can’t say I do, but I’m inclined to approve of him. He did right by you when I couldn’t.”

She couldn’t look at him. “Did . . . did you know about all those other women?”

“No.” He stroked her back, a quick, comforting gesture that shouldn’t have left fire burning under her skin. But it did. “I suspected, but I didn’t know anything for sure. I gave Wes Cordelia Chase’s name. Figured she hated Angel enough that she knew where the bodies lay. Didn’t realize she was one of them.”

“So many secrets.” She felt the weight of them on her heart. “No one ever told me any of these things.”

“They were just tryin’ to protect you, pet. Didn’t want to see you hurt.”

“Not everyone.”

“No,” he conceded. “Not everyone. But most everyone. The people who love you.”

She hated seeing him like this, so humble, so passive. What happened to his snark, his swagger, his supreme confidence? He seemed somehow broken.

“What are you doing here?”

“I think we already covered that.”

“No, I mean what are you doing in New York? You didn’t come just for my show.”

“I would have, if I’d known. But no.” He pulled out the gallery postcard, indicating the address label.

She read it, then looked up at him in surprise. “But this is in Chelsea.”

He shrugged. “I’ve got a flat there. It’s not much, but it’ll do until the practice gets established.”

“Practice?” She was speechless.

“Yeah.” He smiled boyishly, shyly. “I’ve started my own firm. Legal counsel for creative types. I’ve already got retainers with a couple of new independent publishing houses. Got tired of shilling for the corporate hacks. Decided to do something I wanted for a change.”

“That’s . . .” She stopped herself. Why was she so excited for him? Because he was doing the same thing she was. Moving on. Starting new. Becoming the person he was meant to be. “Spike, why are you telling me all this?”

They had finally reached her building. The alley was deserted, dark except for two exterior lights that hadn’t burned out and been forgotten.

“I wanted you to know.” He looked into her eyes, letting her see clearly the depth of his feeling. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you in the world hating me.”

She unlocked the security door and swung it open before turning back to him. “Spike, I’ve changed . . .”

“I understand that. I’ve changed, too. But my feelings for you haven’t. I know these things take time. Trust has to be built again, on both sides. We have to learn if we're even the same people we were. It's a long, important process, and . . .”

She grabbed his tie and pulled him in to devour his mouth.

He didn’t respond for long seconds, and Buffy began to think she’d made a mistake when his arms closed around her like iron bands, his mouth opening to welcome her in.

It was like coming home. He fit her so well she knew he was made for her. Her hands tangled in his soft curls as he ran his hands along her back, both of them reacquainting themselves with the other.

It was right, it was true.

She was complete.

She found herself backed against the open door when she finally broke their kiss. “I’ve changed a lot,” she said huskily, her eyes meeting his passion-dark ones. “I know what I want now.”

He slid his hands up into her hair, never breaking eye contact. “What do you want, love?”

“I want you to take me upstairs.”

“Your wish is my command.”

And he swept her off her very expensive stilettos to carry her home.

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