Chapter 7

The two guys hesitated for just a second before embracing each other in a brief, manly hug.

"Jesus, Xand. Never thought I’d see you in a suit. What the hell happened to ya?" Spike questioned his old friend.

"Shouldn’t that be my question? ‘N’ blame Faith. If she wasn’t off swanning round Baja for a week, then I could be doin’ my job instead of hers." Xander paused to glance at his watch. "Look, I’ve got to meet this couple. Walk them round a house. Why not come with and once I’ve done the business we can catch up?"

Spike eyed Xander’s sleek silver car appraisingly before getting in. "Audi TT. Isn’t there supposed to be some sort of horrendous waiting list for these things?"

"’Bout a year. But it was worth it," the brunette confirmed.

"Hell, life’s obviously treatin’ you right. Didn’t think estate agent’s made that sort of money round here."

"They don’t, but then I’m not an real estate agent. And what about you? That might be the same damn second-hand coat you were wearing in high school, but I’m not so blind I can’t recognise a freakin’ Rolex on your wrist when I see it."

Spike shrugged self-consciously.

Xander glanced away from the road long enough to look at his friend up and down again as if he was having a hard time convincing himself he was really there. "So I’m guessin’ I was wastin’ my time checkin’ out the airport to make sure you weren’t going to show up in a sari, selling flowers?"

"Considered it, but the wages were crap. What the hell have you been up to anyway, robbin’ banks?" Spike counted.

"Not quite."

The sports car pulled up outside a high-walled housing development next to a security booth. The security guard waved at Xander and raised the barrier. Spike’s attention was caught by the large sign next to the booth. "Welcome to Sunnydale Marina, a Harris Properties development." Spike eyed the surrounding area with renewed interest. On his right were rows of wooden piers with dozens of trim, little sailing boats, on his left condos. The farther into the distance he looked, the bigger the yachts became, and eventually, the condos gave way to progressively larger houses.

Spike tried and failed to reconcile the landscaped vista he was seeing with the near-derelict dockside he remembered. "You own this lot?" he asked aghast.

"Not so much," answered Xander with a grin. "All the smaller units have been sold. There’s just the last couple of the bigger properties to go. We built the condos first to get the money in as quick as we could. Even then, me and Faith only own about ten percent between us. The rest of it’s all venture capital. Mostly, what we make off one job goes straight back in to buy what we need for the next one, but we’re not doin’ too bad. Normally, I’m in charge of the construction teams, and Faith takes care of the sales and the admin."

"Bloody hell!"

Spike stood by the side of the road while Xander showed the house, breathing in the fresh salty air, between drags on his cigarette. A gentle breeze tried but failed dismally to ruffle his slicked back locks. He wondered what it would be like to live in a five-bedroom, seafront home with it’s own private jetty. In his mind, the house wasn’t complete without the laughter of blonde kids with hazel eyes running from room to room in pursuit of a dog wet from its swim in the sea.

"I got a job working construction. Faith dropped out of high school and moved up to LA for about four years." Xander looked vaguely uncomfortable, yet sort of proud at the same time. "You know Faith, right? No qualifications, no nothing, just determination and the balls to do any damn thing she pleases. Went out and made enough money off her own bat to get the pair of us started. Came back to town same month she made playmate of the year with enough money to buy a decent sized plot of land on the edge of town. With that as collateral, we borrowed the money for materials, and we pretty much built the first couple of houses with our own hands, just working evenings and nights. Then, what we made off them, we were able to quit the day jobs, set up as builders’ in our own right. Took on some people, did some work for other people, worked on building the next batch and so on.

You been by your old place?" Xander could tell by the change in his friend’s expression that he had. "Yeah, well, we built the store. But enough about us…

Ten years for chrissake. Ten damn years. So where ya been then, Spike? Not to be all grandma, but ya disappear, ya don’t phone, ya don’t write?"

Spike shrugged. "Freaked out. Joined the army. They loaned me out to the government. When my five years was up, I went into business for myself. Been doing that ever since."

"But doing what?" Xander asked.

Spike shrugged again. "Same as any soldier’s trained to do… I kill people. I mean, okay so it’s not like there’s a bunch of people in a different colour uniform on the other side of a field. It’s a bit more specialised and a bit higher paid, but basically it’s the same thing."

Xander looked sideways at him, trying to gauge whether this was one of Spike’s well-known stunts. "So you kill people… Anyone I might have heard of?"

Xander pulled up next to the black Lincoln and Spike climbed out.

"See you at the ‘Better Off Dead’ party," his friend called out as he pulled away. Spike pulled the detachable scope that accompanied his rifle from his jacket pocket, and resting his elbows on the roof of the vehicle he pinned Buffy in the cross-hairs. Far from looking as if she were regretting her actions, or even thinking them over, Buffy looked bored. She was looking at something on her desk, tapping along to an unheard song with a pencil.

The lightening of his mood that being with his old friend had caused dissipated in seconds leaving him despondent. With a sigh he pulled out his cell-phone, still watching Buffy as he spoke.

"Trans-Global Shipping. How may we help you?"

"Cordy. It’s Spike. I need some data."

"Oh, hi. How’d the job go?"

"It’s not done yet."

"So how’s it look? You’ve scoped it out, right? I mean, this is you taking your time and being professional, isn’t it?"

"It’s fine. Nothin’ special."

"Spike! You haven’t looked at the damn thing yet, have you? I’m the one who’s going to have ring the client and explain why they’re still waiting."

"I’ve looked at it," Spike responded. ‘The outside of it.’ "It looks like every other job we’ve ever had from them." ‘Red plastic wallet wrapped in layers of cling film.’ "It won’t be a problem. I have a job to do. I’m going to do it."

"Yeah, right, Spike. And you haven’t spent all the time you’ve been there obsessing over whether you’re going to end up in a loony bin before your fifty and stalking your ex?"

Spike returned the scope to his jacket pocket with a guilty look. "Look, Cordy, just shut your trap for a minute. I need to know what’s going on here. This place is starting to look like a killers’ convention. So far, I’ve made two Spooks and a Ghoul. So you’re goin’ to have to check up on what’s happening. Seems to me either they’ve double-booked the job, or someone’s out to kill me. Whichever one it is, I’d be kinda interested to know."

"I’m on it."

"Speak to you later, princess."

"If you’re still around. Watch your back."

Spike hung up the phone and gave one last longing gaze toward the DJ booth before climbing into his hire car.

Spike was mentally calling himself a proper plonker even as he walked back into the store. It was probably some deep psychological need to renew his roots that had brought him back to the site of his former home. Yet, even as he acknowledged it, he knew he would never find it there.

The same clerk was on duty. His three ring binder abandoned in favour of a walkman playing "Ace of Spades" so loud you could hear it at the other end of the store even though it was on his headphones and the video machine where he seemed to be playing some sort of variant on Doom.

Spike strolled to the far end of the store, picking up a packet of gum from one of the stands and shoving a piece in his mouth. Briefly, he contemplated phoning Dr Rosenberg but only until he heard the screech of tyres. His eyes darted toward the door as the big guy he’d noticed earlier on Main Street, came through the door sideways with a sub-machine gun in either hand. Ducking down, Spike drew a nine-millimetre pistol in either hand.

The resulting gun battle was the sort of thing that made John Woo famous. Packets of crackers exploded into crumbs. The glass fronts on the refrigerated cabinets behind Spike shattered into sticky spider webs as beer and soda leaked out the bottom onto the floor. His opponent crossed the breadth of the store toward him, firing constantly.

Spike responded with the same pattern of alternating shots his one-time mentor had used to kill the businessman in New York, just a couple of short days earlier. His guns swiftly came up empty, and Spike ducked back into cover to reload, the other guy falling silent at the same time. The pair each came back up firing and began to circle the store anti-clockwise this time. All around each of them packaged goods and shop-fittings disintegrated in the hail of bullets.

And still Motorhead blared through the kid’s headphones, and he continued playing his video game, oblivious to the destruction around him.

Again, both pairs of guns fell silent at the same time, and Spike changed over to his last two clips of ammunition. He crouched with his back to one of the shelf displays, waiting to see if his adversary was out of ammunition or not. When there didn’t seem to be a resumption of fire, Spike edged toward the front of the shop, pausing again as he reached the aisle at the front. A screech of tyres sounded from the parking lot, and Spike stood up to look out the shop door. As he did so, he noticed the putty-like block, complete with little curly red and black wires, that circled and baked in the store’s microwave oven, inches from his head. His eyes widened in shock, and he made a dash for the door, grabbing at Jonathon’s uniform as he sprinted past.

He was ten feet clear of the doorway when he realised that the cashier hadn’t followed him. He dashed back in, grabbing the door before it could fully close, this time pushing the smaller man ahead of him as he ran. They were most of the way across the road when the blast picked them up and carried them the rest of the way to the Mueller’s front lawn on its far side. As they lay there, a large tree, which had once formed part of the landscaping designed to hide the stores industrial sized dumpsters toppled in slow-motion.

From the shelter of a driveway a few houses down Forrest watched entranced. "Cool."

Pieces of debris crashed to the ground all around them, including a license plate. Jonathon brushed at some of the ash that floated down to settle on his uniform. "What d’you do that for?" he asked Spike with a distinct whine.

Spike shot him an irritated glance. "D’you really think if it was me that did it that I’d have wasted my time getting you out of there when I could just have waited till the place was shut."

He looked the kid up and down. "Are you alright?"

Jonathon looked at Spike as if he were insane. "No. I’m not alright. I nearly get blown up. I’m going to be a walking bruise tomorrow. I’ve lost a whole semester worth of notes. They probably won’t pay me for the hours I’ve done this weekend. I’m going to have to find a new job. I was only a hundred points off beating my highest ever score when you pulled me out of there, and that licence plate that just about hit my head used to be attached to my car. So, no, man. I’m not alright."

Spike watched as Jonathon ambled disconsolately toward the centre of town under his own personal, dark cloud. ‘So maybe I’m not the only one whose whole life has turned to shit,’ he thought.

Chapter 8

The small figure receded into the distance, leaving Spike alone once more. Once, he would have been quite content in his isolation. Lately it had begun to wear on him. For a few seconds, he contemplated the cell-phone in his pocket before he pulled it free and dialled the once familiar number of the local radio station.

"WFSC. Bringing you all eighties all weekend. How can we help you?"

"Buffy, it's Spike."

"Well, hello."

"Look, pet. Before... Things, well. I kinda had this plan as to how things might go, an' well that wasn't really..."

Buffy gave a ladylike snort, if such a thing was possible. "Really? It was exactly how I planned it."

"Look, luv. D'you think, maybe, we could meet up, talk about things in private rather than with an audience of thousands?"

"I talk all day, Spike."

"Okay, well maybe I could talk and you could listen," Spike suggested. "What about we meet up for a drink? Assuming you're not on the air twenty-four hours a day every day..."

Buffy sighed, unsure if she wanted to re-open this particular door. "I'm off in half an hour. I suppose you still remember your way to the Bronze?"

"Sure. I could meet you at the station? Walk you over there?"

Buffy gave another sigh. "Whatever..."

Suddenly lighter of step, Spike strolled over to his car, which was still parked in the street across from the inferno that had once been a supermarket, untouched by the mayhem mere yards away. A glance in his rear-view mirror confirmed that the station wagon was following on behind.

Spike's hand itched to grasp hers, the feeling of being alongside her without touching making him feel somehow incomplete.

"So?"

"What?" Spike stumbled caught unawares.

"So what happened? So where did you go? So why did you leave me like that? So why prom night?" The stream of questions came out more like accusations. "Take your pick... No, don't take your pick. Answer them all. I want to know. I think I have a right to know."

Spike swallowed. "Okay, pet. But what say you, we wait till I at least have some liquor to dull the pain from the broken nose I'll likely end up with?"

Rather than draw attention, Spike paid the cover charge for both of them, even though the small, engraved plaque above the door still proclaimed that Daniel Osbourne was the establishment's proprietor.

"So what's your poison then, pet?"

"Gin, double, bitter lemon, tall glass, two cubes of ice."

Spike looked over to the bartender to ensure he'd caught the order and added his own, "and a double Jack straight up." Spike threw a few bills on the bar and jerked his head in the direction of a sofa situated in the corner of the room. "We'll be over there when they're ready, and we'll take an order of spicy chicken wings and one of them bloomin' onion thingies if you still do them."

"Sure, sir. I'll have someone bring them right over."

Spike's hand brushed against her elbow as they made their way over to the corner of the room. Even that inadvertent touch sent a pulse of electricity through his whole body, and if he judged correctly, Buffy's shiver showed it wasn't just his body that remembered how things used to be.

Buffy waited till the drinks arrived, using the time to search the face of the man in front of her for traces of the youth she had once known. "So, Spike. What really happened then?"

Spike to a large swig from the glass in front of him wondering how he could ever explain his actions of a decade ago. "I guess I kinda flipped out. Joined the army."

Buffy's eyes became incredibly larger and rounder. "On prom night? You? How on earth did you... Mr Earring And Eyeliner? You joined the army."

"Yeah, well, it sort of seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Yeah, prom night. You pick prom night to enlist. That's... psychotic."

Spike merely shrugged. "What about you? You got married... That... I mean... That's a pretty big deal."

"People do it all the time. In fact I'd say there are more people our age who've been married than not." Buffy tried to curb her irritation at his all too correct assumption, that she'd married someone she'd loved less than him. How long were you supposed to stay alone?

"So, I mean... If it's not too personal a question? What happened?"

Buffy took a long slow sip of her drink as the answer ran through her brain. 'He wasn't you. He just wasn't you.' She shrugged as she replaced the glass on the tabletop. "I wasn't happy with where I was in my life. I guess I thought getting married was part of what was missing, but then it turned out I didn't end up somewhere better, just somewhere different. But let's get back to this army deal... Do you have any idea what you disappearing like that did to me? How long I spent on this masochistic cycle of self-examination wondering what the hell I did to make you just up and disappear like that?"

"Nothin', pet. It wasn't your fault. None of it was your fault. It was just... It seemed like something I had to do."

"Now, you tell me. Do you know how much you could have saved me on therapy bills if you'd stuck around long enough to tell me that ten years ago?"

"I know it doesn't make any sense, pet."

"You know I kind of made up all these little scenarios, where maybe you'd been kidnapped, or brainwashed or murdered...at least I hoped that was what had happened." Buffy worked on keeping her voice cool.

Spike smirked. "Sorry to disappoint you, love."

"So, come on just what have you been doing for the last ten years."

Spike shrugged, as if to say there was nothing of note.

"You must have had some sort of worthwhile experience in the last decade."

"Bad experiences."

"Met some people..."

"Bad people," Spike replied. A small smile forced Buffy's lips to curl against her will and was immediately answered by one on Spike's lips.

"You know what you need, Spike. A short, sharp kick to your mental behind."

Spike smiled, and she couldn't help but notice how his eyes positively glowed. "So, well, I was thinkin' what say I pick you up around seven tomorrow night, take you to the reunion."

Buffy, sprayed a mouthful of gin across the table. "You cannot be serious, Mr Blank. You can't seriously be expecting me to go to the reunion with you as my date?"

"I don't see any reason why not?" Spike replied as if it were the most reasonable suggestion in the world.

"Well, I do. Besides I wasn't even going to go. I was just going to make fun of everybody on the radio."

"Really? Well look, say you changed your mind and wanted to go, there's no real reason why we couldn't go together. Come on, pet. Open up, a little forgiveness. Show the world how big a person you can be. I'll even be on time."

Buffy gave him an appraising glance. "Showing up would be a major improvement..." She took another sip of her drink. "I'll think about it."

Spike's smile barely made his mouth turn up at the corners, but it brought a warm glow to his eyes.

"Oh. My. God. It's Pike and Buffy." The slightly nasal voice carried across the room. "It's me Harmony. Are you guys still together? You know you guys were such a cute couple back in high school. Are you back for the reunion? Where have you been the last ten years?"

Buffy smirked. "Yeah, Pike. Where have you been?"

Spike quickly fell into a facetious routine. "Me. I work for Double Meat Palace. I sell Double Meat Medleys all over the deep south."

"You do not," replied the apparently inebriated blonde.

"Would I lie to you?" Spike asked. "Look why don't I leave you two girls to catch up while I go get us all another round of drinks? What d'you fancy?"

Harmony looked Spike up and down as if she found the idea he might be on the menu appealing. "I'll have a bloody Mary, heavy on the Worcester sauce."

Buffy held up her glass. "Same again minus the gin." When he raised his eyebrow, she added, "Still got to drive home."

The two agents busied themselves at the sink when Spike walked into the mens' room. Spike walked over to the mirror checking his hair before he washed his hands. "So, hi guys. The girl down there, she doesn't trust me any more, so basically I'm doing what I can to try to regain her trust." He moved over to the roller towel drying his hands as he continued. "I'm going back downstairs. Going to have one more drink, walk her back to her car. Probably be back at my hotel in about an hour or so. See you there?" Spike casually walked out of the restroom, leaving the two government men non-plussed.

A third man strode briskly from one of the cubicles. "That was him. That was Blank."

Immediately Forrest responded with some attitude of his own. "You think we don't know that. We are well aware of who he is. We been followin' him around for two days now."

Angelus ducked slightly to view his hairstyle in the mirror as he spoke, absently fingering the front strands into a more erect position. "You're following him. Are you gettin' paid by the hour?"

Graham intervened as the voice of reason between the pair. "If we observe the subject in the process of committing an illegal act, only then are we permitted to intervene and terminate him."

"Really?" asked Angelus sarcastically with just the tiniest hint of his old Brogue sneaking into his voice. "Why don't you just kill the little tosser?"

"Because," Graham responded from where he lounged against the wall by the door out, "we are not assassins. We are government operatives." His gaze flicked to the side. "He's coming back." Angelus ducked back into the nearest stall and Graham signalled to Forrest the pair leaving silently as soon as Angelus was out of sight.

A few silent seconds later, Angelus stalked back out of the stall, muttering under his breath. "Smartass bloody wankers."

Spike held the door open for Buffy as they left. "You know, you seem exactly the same." Buffy remarked, crossing her arms across her body in a conscious effort not to take his hand.

"You too, pet."

"How d'you mean? Screwed up?"

"Everybody's screwed up, love. It's just a matter of extent. I got some problems, don't you?"

"Sure," Buffy admitted.

"What do you do about it?"

Buffy shrugged. "I've been to the nutritionist, the herbalist, psychiatrist. You name it. It ends in ist. I've been there."

"Really?" Spike raised an eyebrow. "Any of them work?"

"Can't say yet... But a girl's gotta try."

"Well, say, how about you tell me all you problems," suggested Spike as Buffy came to a stop and turned to lean against her car. "I'll tell you all mine." He moved to close the gap between them to bare inches. "...and maybe we can solve them all ...tonight." Buffy's heart beat ten to the dozen as she shied away from him.

"No..."

Spike straightened up, allowing her to do likewise and still maintain some distance between them. His eyebrow quirked upwards and his head tilted to one side slightly eliciting memories that pulled at her heartstrings. "No?"

"No," she responded, her voice firmer than her resolve. "Not yet. You've still got a long way to go to rebuild that bridge."

"Well, look, thanks for meeting up and not humiliating me all over again."

"So," asked Buffy, knowing the question gave away too much but unable to help herself just the same. "Is there a Mrs Lucan?"

"Nope. Just me and my cat."

"I always thought you were more of a dog person."

"Yeah, I kinda figured when I stop travelling around so much I'll get one of them too. Make it a matching set."

Buffy gave him another curious glance. "Are you happy?"

"Kind of," Spike hedged before looking her up his gaze caught and held hers. "At least, I think I could be happy..." Mentally, he added, 'With you. I could be happy with you.'

Note: Flashbacks are shown in italics.

Chapter 9

Feb. 1989

Spike shouldered open the doors that led to the main waiting area, making his way past the people waiting for the ER, or as he and Giles called it, A and E. He struggled with the burdens that he carried, and it was all he could do to make it to the lift without dropping something. Thankfully, someone else was there to ask him which floor he wanted. As he made his way to Joyce's room he fixed a smile on his face. Everyone knew that the odds weren't in favour of Joyce's recovery, but no-one was allowed to be negative when she was around, so they smiled, and they hoped, and on occasion they even prayed.

Buffy looked up as the door to her mother's room opened. She smiled warmly, as Spike pushed through the door backwards, her eyes widening when she noticed the large bunch of flowers in his hand along with his normal burden of take-away food.

"What's up, pet? Don't tell me you were that preoccupied you forgot it was Valentine's Day? I'll bet Rupert there's done yer mum proud."

Joyce smiled over in Spike's direction and then back at the older Englishman. "Of course he did. As always," and she was right. Compared with the mounting hospital bills, the money Giles spent on flowers and perfumes, on pretty nightdresses and anything and everything that would bring some small pleasure to the woman he loved, was insignificant. If behind every gift, was the thought that it could be Joyce's last, then no-one would speak the words aloud for fear it would be a curse. And if it should happen that Joyce were to make her way through this time of trouble, then no-one, least of all Giles would care if his bank balance were reduced or non-existent.

Buffy looked from the smile on her mother's face across toward the man who had put it there, her heart clenching slightly at the obvious feelings between them. Giles caught her look and was surprised when Buffy smiled back at him with genuine warmth. "Yes," she said thoughtfully. "He really always does." Her father had been told about her mother's illness, but had yet to check in, even for a progress report. Buffy belatedly realised that she'd been holding onto an idealised image of her father, when the reality fell far short of the man who had taken his place in her mother and Dawn's lives.

Spike deposited his stack of pizza boxes onto the tray stand by Joyce's bed, and then tossed the bunch of flowers to Buffy. "Catch, pet." Buffy cast around the room before laying the bouquet gently on the windowsill, freeing up her hands for pizza. "So who ordered the pepperoni?"

Apr 1989

Spike and Buffy sat companionably on the back porch of the new house amidst the plethora of banners, balloons and streamers that proclaimed the "Welcome Home" message. The debris that accompanied a simple family barbecue was scattered around the back yard.

"You sure it's okay?"

Buffy smiled back at him. "Go. She's home. She's settled. She's fine, so I'm fine. But not fine enough to go listen to your music for a night." She screwed up her face in mock disgust.

"You've got the number for the club, if you need anything, haven't you?"

"Spike..." Buffy gave a laugh that was heading toward a giggle. "Go. Get gone. Vamoose." Placing her arms around his neck, she punctuated each exhortation to leave with feather-soft kisses on his forehead, the tip of his nose and, finally, his lips, the last kiss deepening into a lingering farewell lip lock. The blond youth finally pulled himself away, walking backwards toward his car just so he could watch her for those extra few seconds.

"Tell Giles I'll come over in the morning to give him a hand with the clean up," he called out.

"And I thought you were coming to see me..." Buffy teased, her bottom lip gently protruding.

"That, too." Spike couldn't help going back for one more taste of strawberry lip balm. This time, his hands on her hips supported her weight. drawing her against him. His lips nibbled at hers as he carried her down the path, only lowering her to the ground when he found himself backed up against his car. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to leave you, love?" he ground out in a hoarse whisper.

"Uh-huh," answered Buffy brightly, with an accompanying nod of her head. Then, she lowered her voice to match his serious tone, resting her forehead against his. "About as difficult as it's been getting lately to let you go."

"I love you." The words slipped unbidden from his lips and he froze as he waited for her reaction.

"I love you, too." Buffy's lips met his again, a caress as gentle as a summer breeze. "Now, git, before you end up being so late leaving, that you get yourself into an accident trying to make it to work on time." She slid once again into a teasing tone.

Spike levered himself into the car somewhat cautiously due to his state of arousal. He looked over, to find her watching him, as the engine roared into life. He mouthed the word, "tomorrow," making it a promise, before he drove off into the twilight.

Chapter 10

"So, Cordy, what have you got for me?" Spike sat down on the bed, fresh from the shower, wearing nothing but a towel.

"Since it's the middle of the night here, or to be more precise, the early hours of the morning you're lucky I've got anything for you," his secretary replied, squinting at the alarm clock beside her bed as she opened up the laptop that rested on her bedside cabinet.

"C'mon, pet. You know I'll remember come bonus season. Now make with the goodies?"

"Okay, you online? Right, let's see. Your two spooks. We've got one Forrest Gates, ex-college football star from Georgetown, majored in abnormal psychology, and Graham Miller, one time wrestler from North Western, business major. They're down there in your neck of the woods as part of the government's new policy on gun crimes. Their big get "tough on terror" campaign. It's basically a publicity stunt. These guys need to take down someone quick, make the government look good. They needed a patsy, an Oswald. Angelus fed them you."

"So our Irish friend is the one behind all this?"

"Well, duh. Are you saying you're surprised?"

"Not really. No."

"Anyway, they were supposed to catch you in the act, then they get to take you out and be heroes, but they were too late..." Cordy waited for confirmation that didn't come. "They were too late, right? The job's done and you're on a flight out of there tonight. I mean, I know I went on about this reunion thing, but we are talking serious heat, so you're out of there, right?"

"It's not done, yet."

"Spike, this is not good. This is so far from the vicinity of good that on a scale from Mother Theresa to Rasputin, we're talking Saddam Hussein."

"Can you wait long enough to tell me about the ghoul before you get your knickers in a twist?"

"Luke Aurelius. Started out as an amateur with the Basque separatists. Car bombings... kidnapping... a few high-profile hits. Went professional with that cruise-liner for ransom deal a few years back."

"That's where I know that wanker from... but since I don't think he's offended by my politics, you have to figure someone somewhere is paying him to try'n' blow me into chunks that even my dentist wouldn't recognise."

"It's the Oregon thing... with the dog..."

"Jesus bloody Christ on a bike. Is that guy never going to give up?"

Cordy shrugged, the corners of her mouth turning down, and then she realised Spike would be oblivious to the gesture. "That probably depends on how much he has to pay to get someone good enough to get the job done, and since the job in question is you, I'd be hoping that Angelus prices him and his crew out of the bidding..."

"Mmmh," replied Spike, deliberately avoiding telling his secretary that Angelus had threatened to kill him, without any added cash incentive.

"Spike, just lose the spooks, do the job and get the hell out of there before you get hurt."

"I didn't know you cared, princess..."

Cordy snorted. "As if, but if you don't get your ass back, I've only got two days to learn how to forge your signature before payday."

"More like it took you two days to learn to do it, five years ago."

"Hey, it's not like I've abused the privilege. It's been strictly for emergencies."

"The beauty salon?"

"Have you ever tried touch typing with a hangnail?"

"Fortunately, no. I can't say that I have," responded Spike.

"Look, Spike, I am seriously worried about your safety here. Just do the job and get the hell out of there." Cordy countered.

"I've got to go, princess."

"We've all got to go, but we can choose when," Cordelia answered snippily.

Spike answered, as much to himself as to Cordy, as he cut the connection. "Nobody chooses when."

Spike flicked through the profiles that Cordy had e-mailed across to his laptop, making sure he had memorised all the details before he shut down the computer. He double-checked the guns and spare clips that he'd reloaded with ammunition from the case he'd taken from the old fireplace. He absent mindedly tested the sharpness of a blade that fitted snugly in the top tier of the case, before he closed it up again. He picked up the red, plastic wallet, flipping it between his hands.

It didn't take much for Spike to throw off the men who had been following him. He had room service send up a bottle of bourbon and made a pretence of drinking half of it, before collapsing on his bed. All of this he did in plain-view of the parked station wagon, with the lights on in his room and the curtains open. When he doused the room light, he wasted no time rolling off the far side of the bed. He pulled on the clothes he had left draped over a nearby chair and a pair of black canvas hightops he preferred to his boots for climbing and was good to go. The men outside in the car never even noticed the chink of light that penetrated from the hall as he exited his room. He moved easily through the walled gardens at the rear of the hotel, finding them deserted, now that the sun had set and darkness fallen. The wall itself presented him with no problems, being far lower than those he had faced in basic training, and minutes after leaving his room, he was retracing familiar shortcuts through Sunnydale's back alleys and side streets.

He stopped some distance away, watching until he was sure his target was in the room he had expected, before he strolled nonchalantly toward the building. He made short work of climbing the tree out front, landing lightly on the porch roof that led up to Buffy's bedroom window. He knocked gently before pushing up the sash window that had been open a few inches when he arrived and taking a seat on the windowsill, resting his back against the side of the frame.

Buffy's smile of welcome was almost a reflexive action. Then, she remembered their years of estrangement and the fact she had a towel on her head and was wearing only a robe. Her brain was incapable of deciding whether the robe's bulk and practicality was a good thing or not. She snatched the towel from her hair and half-hissed at Spike as if she was still seventeen and afraid her parents would hear. "You can't come in."

"Okay, then. I can't come in." Spike stood up and extended his hand through the window toward her. "Maybe, it's time that you came out?"

"Dressed like this? I don't think so... You can come in... but just for a few minutes."

Spike's smile gained a few extra watts, as he sat down once more and swung his legs over the sill. He looked round the room as he straightened up. "Is this still the same wallpaper?"

"Yeah, well, it's not like I've been looking at it for the last ten years, what with going away to college and stuff... My lease ran out a couple of months back, and I'm staying here till I find someplace to buy."

"Really. Y'know I saw a nice place for sale down by the seafront.." Spike answered thinking of the family home Xander had been showing that afternoon.

Buffy smiled over at him. "I take it you ran into Xander, then."

"It's a possibility," Spike admitted before taking a deep breath and continuing. "But, then, I'm kind of thinkin' that you're not ready to be making joint real-estate decisions, yet... So, what d'you say we just settle for, say, making plans for me to pick you up tomorrow."

"I haven't agreed to go with you, yet," Buffy answered. "I said we'd talk about it later."

"And now is later. And you just said you hadn't agreed yet, which implies that you will."

"What makes you so cocky, Bleach-Freak?" Buffy countered before a frown settled on her features. "Wait, you said because I said I hadn't agreed, yet, that I was going to agree, but then you said we weren't ready to buy real-estate together, yet. That's a pretty big assumption there."

"Actually, pet, I didn't say we weren't ready. I said you weren't ready... But, look about the reunion, is seven okay for you?"

"Spike, you don't just get to walk back in here, like the last ten years didn't happen. I have not just been sitting round waiting for you. I have a life and I'm happy, well sort of... and you don't just get to come in here and turn it all upside down. I am not about to reshape my entire existence because William Jefferson Blank decided to finally turn up." Buffy's face flushed with anger as she turned on her former suitor.

"I'm not asking you to change your life. All I'm asking you to do, for now, is go with me to the reunion. And believe me, love, I don't assume that things are how they were ten years ago." All the time he was talking, Spike moved inexorably closer to Buffy. "If I thought I could pick up where I left off, then as soon as I came in I would have done this." Spike's head lowered to claim her mouth. At first his lips were gentle, teasing hers apart with all the expertise born of years of familiarity. As her lips parted, his tongue moved to tease hers, brushing against it with a gentle friction. Finally, he drew back leaving Buffy dazed, her pupils dilated and her breath uneven. "...And after that..." Spike stepped back, putting the temptation to follow up further on his words, out of reach. "...That robe of yours would have lasted about five seconds before it was in a pile on the floor." Spike's eyes held hers, letting her see the depth of his desire matched her own. "I know it's not ten years ago. I just want to... We had something special... and I think the first step to seeing if we still have it, is for you to come, with me, to the reunion."

"Alright, already, Blondie. I'll come. You can pick me up at seven. Okay? Now, go."

Spike, for once, decided not to push his luck. He retreated to the window, pausing as he swung his legs through. "Love, this, tomorrow, it's going to be an important step in our relationship."

"Spike," Buffy half-laughed as she spoke his name, torn between amusement and exasperation. "You... are... a... complete... psycho. You know that right?"

Spike ducked his head underneath the open window as he stood on the porch roof. His voice was so serious that Buffy found it vaguely unsettling. "You know, you really shouldn't rush to judgement on something like that until you have all the facts, pet. ...And, Buffy, you really shouldn't leave your window unlocked like that. There are some bad people round town right now." Buffy made a shooing gesture with her hands and pushed the window closed. She looked up and realised Spike still stood on the roof. He raised an eyebrow and looked down at the lock. Buffy slid the catch closed and mirrored his own raised eyebrow before he finally turned to leave.

Spike climbed as effortlessly down the tree as if it were a ladder. He jumped the last few feet, only to freeze in surprise when someone behind him cleared their throat too noisily for it to be anything other than a bid for his attention.

Chapter 11

"It's customary to use the doors. In fact, there's this little button right next to it, that rings a bell to let us know when people come calling." Joyce's voice betrayed her amusement.

"What can I say? Old habits die hard." Spike turned to face his companion, treating her to a broad smile.

"That would mean that you still have a sweet tooth for hot chocolate."

"You always did know my weaknesses, Joyce."

"Mostly, because you never tried to hide them, William." Joyce headed toward the back door of the house. "You'd best come in... I caught Buffy's show. I knew we'd be seeing you sooner rather than later."

"You're still looking good, Joyce. It's good to see you again." Spike hedged until he knew where Joyce was headed, but that didn't mean that he didn't mean every word. In fact, he knew better than to try to lie to this woman, who had always been able to read him so easily.

"You're back for good, aren't you?" Joyce asked as she tipped some milk into a small pan to heat.

Spike shrugged. "That depends on Buffy. If we can... If she'll let me."

She turned looking him straight in the eye as she said her next words. "You were right to leave. It was the right thing. Buffy couldn't see it. She was eighteen, she was in love, and she still thought that love would be the answer to everything. You ...weren't quite so naive. How am I doing so far?"

"I'm not sure... I don't think there's one... It was a lot of things."

"You never felt like your mother got a chance to live up to her potential, did you? You always felt that having a child so young, getting married at seventeen, that she missed out on her chance at life."

"Christ, Joyce. You know as well as I do that she never had a chance. They had to bloody elope to Scotland 'cause she wasn't even old enough to get married without her parent's consent in England. She got into Oxford, and she gave it up, to bring up a kid, that if she'd had any sense, she should have aborted." Spike's hand raked through his hair loosening his curls from the hold of the gel that fixed them. "It's a miracle she didn't end up hating both of us."

"Maybe ...but she didn't. She loved you both. She loved your dad so much that she couldn't cope with it when she lost him." Joyce's voice softened as she spoke of Drusilla's broken mind. "But you wanted Buffy to have the chances she never got, didn't you? And you knew that as long as you stayed in contact, she wouldn't let go..."

"You're making me sound like Johnny Oates, Joyce. I'm not sayin' you're entirely wrong. I'm just saying that if you're right, it was only ever one tiny part of the equation. An' I didn't reason everythin' out and decide what was best. I was scared, and I ran. Full stop."

"You did what you felt was right. At times, the difference between instinct and logic isn't as big as people like to think. I'm just surprised it took you this long to make it back."

Spike's eyes briefly clouded over before he tossed his head back, raising his chin in a subconscious gesture of defiance. "By the time I was out of the army, she was already wed to that... guy. She deserved a chance to make it work, without me stickin' my nose in where it wasn't wanted."

"It's been three years since the divorce."

Spike looked round the room, his gaze finally settling on his feet. "I stopped writin' after the wedding." Spike gave Joyce a guilty glance, realising he'd given himself and his accomplice away. "An' then, when... My job. It's not something a married man should do."

"I had a feeling you would have kept tabs on her. So who was it? Dawn?" Joyce queried.

"Yeah, but after I left the army, we kinda lost touch. I didn't know about the divorce till I ran into her just before Christmas."

"And this job?"

"I'm thinkin' I'm probably goin' to quit. It's pretty much lost its appeal. It was easy money, but I think it's time I moved on."

Joyce nodded her head and passed him a steaming-hot mug of cocoa.

Spike knew it was a bad idea, but he didn't let it stop him. He was just so far beyond caring. He sauntered back in the direction of his hotel, taking a route that brought him alongside the parked car. Miller, it seemed, had drawn the short straw. He was awake and keeping an eye on the hotel, watching in case a light came on in Spike's room. Gates was sleeping, his face resting against the car's side window. Or he was asleep, until Spike rapped sharply on the glass.

The window whined its way down, and Spike bent over so he could see both the car's occupants.

"I figured you guys must be gettin' a bit tired of all this by now, so I thought maybe a couple of double espressos would do the trick."

Forrest looked uncertainly at the cardboard tray that Spike held by the open window. Spike rolled his eyes. "Why would I be trying to poison you, when I've already proven I can just avoid you if I want to? For all you know, I could have done whatever it might be that you think I should be doing, before I made the detour to the coffee-shop." Spike pressed the tray into Forrest's unresisting hands and walked off whistling "I Fought the Law." As he neared the hotel's entrance, Forrest, still holding the tray, climbed out of the car. The station wagon then did a rapid three point turn, as the other agent, presumably, went to check the well-being of Spike's target.

The station wagon was, once more, parked outside the radio station. The two agents watched as the black Lincoln pulled up outside the Espresso Pump. "What's the deal with this guy?" Forrest complained. "Why can't he just do his job, so that we can do our job and head for home?"

"What d' you mean, why can't he do his job?" Graham looked over at his companion. "You are not supposed to be the cheering section for the bad guy. We are meant to be the good guys."

"Let me get this straight." Forrest looked over at Graham. "We're the good guys. When he does his job, that makes him the bad guy. At which point, we, the good guys can do our job without becoming the bad guys. But up until five years ago, he was doing our job, taking out the bad guys so that he was the good guy. But, don't you think it would be better if we could just do our job, without waiting for him to do his job, because then we would be preventing the bad guy from doing the bad thing?"

Graham shook his head and gave his partner a rueful smile that somehow bordered on boyish. "You know it doesn't work that way."

An identical town car pulled into the spot next to Spike's. "And hell-o, Angelus." Forrest supplied commentary. "Ooh. It looks like our friend's brown-bagging it today... I wonder if he'll play nice with our Mr Blank?"

Spike reached below the table, pulling a small gun from an ankle holster that was made convenient by his cross-legged position. Angelus quickly crossed the room and took a seat opposite. For a few seconds each tensed with their fingers on the trigger before they laid their weapons aside, Spike's hidden by a napkin, Angelus's still in its brown paper bag.

"What brings you to California, Liam?" Spike was careful to give the name just the right amount of derision.

His counterpart was spared from answering when a waitress wandered over and started to recite the day's specials. Neither man even looked in her direction as they placed their orders. They were too busy watching each other's eyes for the give-away flicker that would precede an attack.

Angelus watched as Spike picked up and swallowed the various tablets and capsules he had laid out ready on the table. "What are those?"

"Nutrients."

"Here's the new stuff, boy. Durazac 15. Makes prozac look like your morning coffee." He tossed a small container from his coat pocket onto the table. "Keep 'em. I've got boatloads."

"I don't take that shit any more," Spike answered.

"And he wonders why he's got the shakes. Now I know how all those burn-out rumours got started."

"Well that's fascinating, but some of us came here to eat, not discuss your drug habits."

"I heard about the little blow out you had at the seven-eleven."

"Really?" Spike arched his brow. "One of yours?"

"Me. No. I'm still hoping we can come to some sort of agreement, work together again. I heard it was some indie Frog. Some Basque separatist turned capitalist from the Pyrenees. Are you sure Oregon doesn't ring a bell? Pacific North West? Something about some wonder dog? Cujo?"

"Budro. If you're going to make it such a joke, at least get the damn name right."

Angelus gave a smile that reached nowhere near his eyes. "Budro. Cujo. What's the difference?"

"Look, is it my fault if the bloody wankers I got paid to off were using dynamite to flush game, and the stupid gits go and borrow a soddin' retriever. I didn't touch the damn dog."

"Yeah, well. What I hear, word on the street says that your marks "borrowed" your client's prize hunting pooch. So bad luck for the bow-wow and bad luck for you, boy."

"Let's forget about Budro. How about we talk about the two No Such Agency's sat in the station wagon out front. Word is you set me up."

"Me?"

"Yeah. You."

"As if. Look, why don't we get our relationship straight?"

"We don't have a relationship. Get it? I got into this line of work because I don't do relationships. If I was the little team player you want me to be, I'd be sitting in Fort Dix or some other army stomping ground with a hundred other guys all dressed in the same little uniforms. I didn't fit in that little box. Look at me. Look at the way I'm dressed for Christ sake. I don't do teamwork. Lone gunman. Emphasis on lone. If you want to have coffee and doughnuts with your co-workers, why don't you join the bloody police-force?

If it makes you feel any better, the chances are this is going to be my last job. So what do you say we both put away the guns, forget the whole thing, and have some breakfast?"

Something in Angelus eye gave him away before he moved, and Spike was just as quick to grab his own gun, resulting in another stand-off. "No scabs. From right now all jobs, all arrangements, all contracts are regulated."

"With you as the new boss?"

"Yes."

"Don't think so."

"Okay, but you aren't going to do your job, because we are. And once we've done that job, then we're going to do another little job."

"Do tell." Spike's calm scorn infused the two words as Angelus' voice resonated with cold menace.

"We're going to blow a hole right through that lily-white forehead of yours, and just to prove you can be useful, I'm going to let every guy that works for me fuck the brain-hole."

"You know I always wondered, with how you were about the clothes and the hair, but I guess that proves it really is blokes you fantasize about."

This was the point the unfortunate and reluctant waitress chose to return with their meals. Spike reached out as if to take his plate from her, but let it fall to the floor instead. As the waitress was slightly off-balance, bending to pick up the pieces, he pushed her toward Angelus, backing rapidly toward the door with his gun still drawn but hidden. Neither man could get a clear shot on the other, and Spike bet that Angelus would bide his time, rather than risk injuring innocent bystanders, not out of any feelings of compassion, but just because it made life more complicated. He bet right.

All day, Spike had had nothing to do except call his psychiatrist and get ready for the reunion. By rights, he should have been spick and span and on Buffy's doorstep, by now. Instead, he was wandering round his hotel room with his shirt undone waiting for Cordelia to pick up the phone. On the second ring, she answered.

"Cordy? It's Spike," he cut-in before she could get a word in. "I've been trying to get Doc Rosenberg, but she's not answering my calls, and I'm already late for the re-union. Look, can you ring round? Try her at home, in her car, at her gym, wherever you can think of but get a hold of her and patch her through. I need to speak to her right now."

"Alright. Breathe, Spike. I'm on it."

Spike stood in front of the mirror as he fastened his shirt and tie. He'd decided to prove to Buffy he could look like a grown-up when he wanted to, and he was back in the black Armani. He practiced various lines with varying degrees of sincerity as he worked.

"Hiiii. I'm Spike. Remember me?"

"Yeah. I'm a pet psychiatrist. I have an office in Iowa where I treat cows with post-traumatic stress syndrome."

"Me? I sell couch insurance. Mm-hm. Mm-hm. You do?"

"Yeah, I lead a small cult. Some of the members were originally with Bader-Meinhof, but I managed to convert them. Every month we sacrifice a goat and deflower any virgins who might have joined. What about you?"

"Yeah, you look great. Oh, you married a plastic surgeon... Uh-huh. Wish I'd thought of doing that."

As he straightened his collar, he let the fake smile he'd been practicing fade away.

"Hi. I'm William Blank. Remember me? I'm not married. I don't have any kids, and I'd blow your head off if someone paid me enough."

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