Gross Pointe Buff

Chapter 15

Spike led the way to the dance floor, finally feeling like he'd found his way home. Buffy swayed in his arms as if he'd never left, her face tilted up for his kisses. For the first time in months, Spike's inner voice seemed to just shut up and let him be. He revelled in the sense of belonging he felt. One more job, and he could start over. Together, with Buffy. He could start planning for the future. He could have a future. The music changed tempo, becoming too upbeat for both his and Buffy's taste.

"Let's go for a walk," Buffy whispered directly into Spike's ear. She walked off the dance floor, using Spike's tie as if it were a leash. The pair walked the quiet school corridors, stopping often to kiss or to hug. Spike figured it was probably some sort of arrested development thing, but since it was the best thing that'd happened to him in about half a decade, he certainly wasn't complaining. Buffy eyed the doors of the classrooms as they passed, until they came to the nurse's office. Buffy turned the handle and gave a wide smile when it opened to her touch.

"You know, I feel ill. I think I might just have to go in here, and have a lie-down," she said in a teasing tone.

"I think you should," Spike retaliated. "But, just in case it's infectious, I'd best stay with you, kinda like a self-imposed quarantine zone. It wouldn't be responsible if I wandered around on my own and spread some disease." He slid through the door behind her and locked them in.

Their bodies responded to each other as if the intervening years had never happened. Spike was thankful they were finally out of sight of the rest of the party-goers. Suit trousers, however expensive the suit, were not as effective as skin-tight denim at keeping a raging hard-on constrained. His hands slipped Buffy's jacket from her shoulders as she pulled her lips away from his long enough to make an observation.

"I know you Brits like to complain that SoCal doesn't have any weather, but you seem to have brought your own private rain cloud with you. You're going to have to come out from under it before we can even begin-"

Spike on the other hand only managed a few words of rebuttal at a time because he couldn't resist the fullness of Buffy's lips when she pretended to pout.

"And it's just like a typical California girl. A little rain follows me to town, and you're already making plans to bail..." Spike gripped Buffy by the waist, lifting her so she sat on one of the counters facing him. Her legs automatically crossed behind his back, drawing him toward her. The heat he could feel emanating from her centre gave her away every bit as much as his erection brushing her inner thigh did him. His hand slid up into the back of her hair, drawing her in for a deeper kiss, while her fingers traced the corded muscles of his back under the smooth lines of the suit.

'This,' thought Spike, 'is what I should have been doing for the last ten years.' A decade of longing infused every frantic caress and every kiss as they tried to reclaim the lost time.

"It's been so long I've forgotten who gets tied up." Spike regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Buffy pulled back away from him.

"Wait."

"What?" Spike asked wondering how she could deny the wellspring of desire that they had tapped.

"No. No little boy lost voice. Just stop."

"Stop?" Spike took a step back, leaving some breathing space between them. "What's wrong? Too fast?"

"I'm sorry," Buffy responded, her confusion evident as she hopped down off the counter.

"Too fast?" Spike asked again. The query sounded almost hopeful, as if he was afraid it might be some more serious problem between them, but he hoped it wasn't.

"No-I, Yeah, maybe. It's like something. Something's missing... something..."

"What?"

"Wait. I know..." Buffy lashed out with her fist, catching him square on the nose, just like always. Her lips parted in a broad grin. "That was it. Welcome home."

Spike's answering grin made his eyes light up like blue neon, and Buffy melted back into his arms as he ducked his head to steal another kiss. They fumbled their way back to the bench, without their lips losing contact, Spike's hands instinctively undoing the buttons down the front of Buffy's waistcoat. As it sailed across the room, their lips finally parted long enough for them both to draw gasping breaths.

Buffy couldn't hold the words in any longer. She'd ached to say them since his car pulled up in front of the radio station that first day, but every self-preservation instinct she had had kept them locked away inside, until now. "God, I missed you."

Downstairs, the tide of arrivals had slowed to a trickle and then stopped. Nancy Doyle-Stevens had been abandoned by her helpers and sat alone at the table, where only a sparse few unclaimed badges remained. She rested her head on her arms, secure in the knowledge that none of the revellers in the adjacent room would come to check on her. She could spend weeks organising the event, designing stationery, tracking down far-flung alumni through her job with the IRS, but no-one would actually notice that she missed out on the party. No-one would come to chat with her while she kept her lonely vigil. No-one would bring her a plate of food from the finger-buffet. Hell, no-one would even come to relieve her for five minutes to go to the washroom.

The outer door scraped open, and she sprang back to life, her welcome for this late arrival every bit as pert and false as her words to the first-comers, even if she couldn't quite summon the enthusiasm to rise from her seat any more.

"Welcome back, Dalesman. It's Nancy Doyle-Stevens. And who might you be?"

The newcomers gaze flicked rapidly to the table, alighting on the nearest ID.

"It is me, Freddie Iverson," answered the one-time terrorist, with the precise, measured turn of phrase that generally marks someone who isn't speaking their native language, or has an IQ that falls far below anything with three figures.

Nancy picked up the badge from its spot and looked from the picture to the man in front of her. "My, you have changed. And spent some time overseas. The time down the gym really has paid off." She passed over the badge, her gaze following the tall well-muscled figure as he moved toward the auditorium. "Save a dance for me, now," she called as he walked through the far doors.

What he saw as he entered the room convinced him that all the worst things he'd heard about the reunion system were true. An area had cleared around what appeared to be a major hazard in the middle of the dance floor. It appeared that the DJ had been unwise enough to include the can-can in his selection for the evening, and it looked as if a one-time basketball star, or football player, had decided to perform the traditional high-kicks without taking into consideration that the group of ex-cheerleaders he had tried to join in with, were ill-equipped to support his weight, even in the days before his expanding waistline.

The girls all pulled away from his still reaching hands and regained their feet, leaving Riley sitting on the floor by himself.

Chapter 16

Just for old times sake, Spike decided to swing past his old locker. He stood in front of it for about five seconds with the dial in his hands, smoke curling up from the half-finished cigarette between his fingers. Then, the combination came back to him. He opened it up and found it bare of books and other odds and ends. Either no-one was using it this year, or the owner had taken the precaution of clearing it out before the homecoming hordes returned. The years had added layers to the stickers used to adorn the inside, but here and there a corner peeked through. Just as he was about to shut it, a figure emerged from the adjacent stairwell.

All Spike had time to notice was the gun swinging toward him. He grabbed the assassin's arm before his body even came into view, slamming it into the lockers three times before Luke's grip loosened enough to let the weapon fall to the brightly waxed floor. A stray kick was enough to send it halfway down the corridor. By now the larger man had overcome his surprise at being caught out. Pulling his injured hand from Spike's grip, he kneed the blond in the kidneys from behind with an agility that belied his size. Spike found himself pinned against the lockers with his back to his opponent as more kicks rained in. Craning his neck, he twisted his left hand until the red-hot tip of his cigarette pushed into the other man's eyeball. Spike felt himself freed as his counterpart let out a furious bellow.

Turning to face his aggressor, Spike fell into a defensive stance. The two men traded kicks and punches for what must have been less than a brutal minute. Spike used his speed and the other man's limited vision to his advantage, but every time the other man managed to hit, his strength made it feel like a hammer blow. Finally, Spike managed to sweep the legs from under his teutonic opponent. He landed awkwardly, spraining his wrist as he fell with his back against the row of lockers. Spike pounced, using the moment of disorientation to smash the man's head back against the lockers repeatedly. Even then the Basque managed to fight back, his undamaged hand grasping at Spike's throat. Using his right arm to hold his attacker pinned against the ranks of cabinets, Spike reached into his suit pocket with his other hand, pulling out his only weapon. Flicking off the cap that bore Scott Hope's name, he stabbed the pen into the other man's neck, aiming for the jugular. When the hold on his throat eased, Spike sagged forward watching the blood that was spreading through the body's white shirt.

This was the point where Buffy came looking for him, running in her eagerness to get back to him. Spike's gaze travelled from her shocked face to the bloodstained pen in his hand and the body next to him.

"It's not me, Buffy. It-"

He watched as her face crumpled and heard her incoherent sobs as she ran to get away from him. He heard her, and he heard Xander's muffled tones as he met her on the stairs, only managing to slow her headlong flight.

Xander came skidding into the corridor, the same look of shock appearing on his face as had been on Buffy's. He looked from Spike's bruised and bloody face to the body on the floor.

"Hey. Is that- Is that his- that guy's blood?" he asked.

The question seemed to rouse Spike from his trance.

"Yeah. A thousand innocent people get killed every day..." He got to his feet and started pulling down a large paper banner from the wall.

Xander watched as Spike placed the banner on the floor at an angle to the body. He couldn't help asking even though he already knew the answer. "Is this guy dead?"

Spike continued on as if the question had never been raised, starting to roll it so it was wrapped in a spiral of paper. "But a millionaire's pet goes boom, and you're marked for life... Give us a hand, here."

"Okay," answered Xander. Even though he was probably in shock, he couldn't help but find his friend's efficiency in dealing with dead bodies slightly chilling.

Spike pointed at a cloth banner that had hung over the corridor even when they were at school there. "Pull that down," he told Xander as he continued to wrap the corpse in its paper shroud.

"How'd he die?" Xander asked passing the cloth to Spike. The blond grabbed the cloth, using it to mop up the spilled blood, and then wrapping it around the dropped gun before pushing the bundle in behind the corpse's head and neatly tucking in the ends of the paper.

"He's a notorious terrorist. There's a contract out on my life."

"He is dead, though?" Xander asked, even as he helped with the last of the rolling and wrapping.

"D'you think this is an exercise in oversized origami?" Spike asked sarcastically before his voice softened. "He's dead, Xand. It was me or him." He took a breath and pointed at the end of the parcel Xander was holding. "Look, are his feet covered?"

The music got louder as they half carried the body downstairs and half slid it down the banister. They stumbled toward the boiler room, and between the two of them, managed to launch the corpse into the depths of the glowing industrial sized furnace.

Spike let loose a stream of very British epithets as he pushed the furnace doors closed, but whether it was because he burnt himself on the hot metal or because of the whole situation, was anyone's guess as far as Xander was concerned.

"Thanks. Nobody's gonna come lookin' for this guy. Come on," his friend told him. Spike's arm fell around his shoulder.

Xander watched the water flow red as Spike rinsed the blood from his hand. The two of them looked a mess, ties removed, shirts rumpled and innocence gone. By the time they made their weary way to the free bar, Xander was more than ready for the double whisky he ordered. He waited while the bartender fetched it and Spike's club soda.

Spike was asking everyone in the same zip code if they'd seen Buffy. He managed to make it sound conversational, just a polite inquiry. 'Nobody's seen her, you follicly-fried idiot. What did you think she was going to do? Make a detour to inform everybody in the auditorium that her boyfriend was a homicidal maniac while she ran for her life? If she had any sense, she was in the next state over by now. And so should you be,' Xander thought to himself.

He took a sip of the fiery liquid and walked up to Spike with his right hand outstretched. "Hi. I'm Xander Harris. I'm in construction. What do you do, Spike?"

Spike's gaze flicked from Xander to the bartender, to Scott Hope who still stood exactly where Spike and Buffy had left him earlier, and to the few others who stood nearby before he looked sheepishly at his shoes, unable to answer.

"What now? Chase the girl?"

Spike shook his head. "No. If you see Buffy, just tell her I'm sorry."

It took a second for Spike's meaning to sink in, but when it did the brunette walked off in disgust. This was it. This was all there was. He'd disappeared for ten years. Come back. Made both him and Buffy accomplice to murder, and now he was just going to leave without even giving Buffy as little of an explanation as he'd given him.

Spike pulled some ice from a bucket that rested on the bar, dropping it into a handkerchief so that he could hold it against his split lip. With a last effort at civility he stumbled from the room. "Take care of yourself, Scott. Thanks for the pen."

Scott looked up from his whisky glass. "Yeah, sure, no problem."

Spike lay on top of his hotel bed, propped up against the headboard. He flicked through the channels, feeling like he was in the video for The Wall except now there were even more channels of shit to choose from. After about twenty, he gave up on finding anything and pulled his mobile headset from into place, pressing speed dial with one hand and flicking channels with the other. A recorded message came over the line.

Willow Rosenberg lay cuddled up in a warm cosy bed with her significant other. She stirred as the phone rang, trying to shake the sleep from her system in case one of her patients was having some sort of crisis. She stretched, listening to the recorded message and waiting to see who the caller was.

A flat monotone voice followed hers. "Doctor Rosenberg, it's Spike Blank. Listen, I just wanted to tell you that I won't be coming round any more." A look of annoyance settled on the redhead's face, and she crawled out of bed. "Things are going really well here. Everything's worked out better than I thought, and I don't think our little chats are really helping." Willow picked up the cordless handset and headed to the en suite bathroom as the voice droned on. "I don't think you really take our sessions seriously, and I want you to take a deep breath and realise-" The rest of Spike's message was lost as the handset settled to the bottom of the lavatory cistern. Replacing the heavy porcelain lid, Willow smiled smugly to herself, pleased that she'd stood up to Spike's bullying tactics and toddled back to bed.

"I want you to realise... that this.. is.. me.. firing.. you." Spike drew out the phrase, enunciating every word before he pulled off the headset, which would have broken the connection if it hadn't already been broken.

The knock at his room door made him reach for his gun, and he crept to the door in case another killer waited on the other side, just hoping for the smallest noise to let them know where to shoot. He pulled the door open the smallest amount that would actually let him see who was there, holding the gun at waist level, ready to shoot if need be. Instead he found himself pointing the weapon at Buffy.

She looked hunched up and miserable, her arms wrapped around her as if for warmth, even though the weather wasn't cold. Spike pulled the door wide, ushering her in and dropping the gun into his jacket pocket. She looked at his battered face up close for the first time. Her question came out as a whisper. "He was going to kill you, right?"

"Yes."

"It wasn't the other way round?"

"No. No. I didn't want that to happen."

"I-is it something you've done?"

Spike took a breath, and then another before he answered. "It's something I do... professionally. For about five years now." He used his sleeve to gently wipe a tear from Buffy's cheek as he spoke.

As he finished, Buffy's mouth fell open with a gasp as she put the pieces of the puzzle together. "But you were joking. People joke about the horrible things that they don't do." She backed away from him into the middle of the room her hands held out in front of her to stop him closing the distance between them. "They don't do them. It's- it's- You-"

"When I left I joined the army, and when I took the service exam... my psych profile fit a certain... moral flexibility. I was loaned out to a CIA sponsored program, and we sort of found each other. That's the way it works." Spike bent his head this way and that as he spoke trying to keep eye contact even when Buffy dropped her gaze. It made him look a bit like a small dog trying to look endearing."

"So you- you're a government spook?"

"Yeah, I mean no, not any more. Thing is, I kinda realised all that's just irrelevant really. I mean when you talk about nations, governments, it's all just public relations, really."

"Don't. Just don't." Buffy cut off Spike's rambling. "Don't start rationalising and theorising. Just tell me about the dead people. Explain the dead people." She didn't look hurt any more. She looked betrayed, betrayed and pissed.

"Well, it's kinda complicated. In the beginning, you need a reason, some sort of principle that you believe in. With me it was maintaining unchecked aggression. Other guys were into live free or die, but you get the idea...

But what happens eventually is that you realise that all that is, is a line they feed you to make you willing to do what they want. But by then you're not just willing to do it, you're trained to do it, and you want to do it. You get to like it." Spike tried to backpedal when he saw the look of horror on Buffy's face.

"I know that sounds bad-"

"Yeah. You're a psychopath..." Buffy backed away almost as far as the room window.

"No. No." Spike sputtered knowing he was losing her. "A psychopath kills for no reason. I kill for money. It's a job- That doesn't sound right... Let me put it another way... If I turn up at your door, chances are you did something to bring me there. You should see the files on some of these wankers, pet. They read like a demon's resumé.

Look, love, I... I can't do it any more. I've lost my taste for it, completely. That's why I came back, you know. I wanted to see you. Start over, leave all that behind."

"Oh, so I'm part of-" Buffy gave a hiccup that in her near hysterical state could have been either a sob or a laugh. "I'm part of your romantic new beginning. Right?" She advanced on Spike, the hostility in her voice causing him to give ground before her. He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off before he could. "How come you never learned that it was wrong? That there are some things you do not do- You just do not do in a civilised society."

"Actually-"

"Shut up. Just shut up. Everything about you is a lie. Everything. You're the one with the demon's resumé. Stay away from me." Buffy stormed around him and headed for the door.

Spike lunged after her. "Buffy, don't go!"

"Don't you get it Spike?" Buffy turned to face him, her eyes full of fury, as she held the door open. "You don't get to have me. There are some things that are just too big to be forgiven."

All Spike could do was watch as she slammed the door behind her on the way out.

Note: Flashbacks are shown in italics

Chapter 17

Cordy reckoned this was the best time she'd ever had in a morning's work. She sang a tuneless version of a song that no-one else would have recognised as "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" as she sloshed kerosene all around the office. When the second can was empty, she picked up a large hammer and tipping over the pc's tower unit, she began to thump away. Papers from the antique filing cabinets lay sprawled in accelerant soaked heaps on the floor. Anything that could possibly tell anyone that the so-called shipping firm was anything other than what it seemed was ready to go up with a nice big whoosh, preferably after it was smashed to smithereens. In the midst of this delinquent's playtime, the phone rang.

"Are we out of business yet?" Spike asked.

Cordy didn't even stop her destruction to answer, just the singing. "I'm closing up the office, as we speak," she replied into her headset as she tossed the pc unit across the room.

"Good. I'll put things right, and then I'll find you."

Cordy's voice was laced with suspicion as she asked, "Why?"

Spike sighed. "It's not like that, Cordy. Look under your desk. I left a little something for you... Right under." Cordy felt around on the underside of the huge desk.

"You couldn't have told me this before I doused the carpet all the way round the desk with kerosene?"

"No, you stupid bint, I waited specially. "

Cordy pulled out a parcel roughly the size of two house bricks. Pulling away the parcel tape that had held the bundle to the bottom of the desk, she found herself staring into the plastic-wrapped face of a dead president, Benjamin Franklin if memory served, lots of Benjamin Franklins.

"You shouldn't have."

"It's profit-sharing. You've earned it."

"Now all you need to do is sort out my love-life, and I will call you God."

"Actually, if you make it back to your California roots, I probably could set you up with someone. Independent business man, but he still keeps his hand in on the physical side of things..."

"Porsche?"

"Audi TT."

"I could settle," Cordy said with a playful lilt to her voice.

Spike gave a snort of amusement. "Bye, pet. I'll be in touch."

He pulled off the phone headset. The harsh light of day didn't make Spike's situation look any better than it had done the night before. A shower and a change of clothes, back to the jeans and duster had helped a bit though. He picked up the familiar cling-film covered parcel in front of him, peeling back the layers of wrapping till he got down to the red wallet. He pulled the top sheet up, knowing it would have the key to his target's identity. He read the name, and then sat there with the parcel in his hands, stupefied by the ludicrous twist of fate. "Bugger it all to hell an' back." Picking up the file, he grabbed his gun case and started to jog to his car.

The jogger came into sight over the brow of the hill. As he did, the rifle's crosshairs trained first on his head and then on his heart. Angelus leant back from his position in the front passenger seat to instruct the man with the rifle, who was taking aim through the open side door of the large, white van.

"Wait a while, Dalton. You can't get a sure kill with a single shot at this distance, and if the old fart falls over, he'll make a bastard of a target. Never mind the fact that if he dies of a coronary, the tight fuckers'll try an' welch on payin' you."

Just as he finished speaking, Spike's Town Car crested the rise, slewing almost immediately into a handbrake turn that left him parked across the road, with the body of the car blocking Dalton's shot. Giles watched with a bemused expression as Spike leaned over and flung open the passenger door.

"Yes, Spike. Was there something that you wanted?"

"For Christ sake! Get in the bloody car, quick! And keep your head down."

As soon as Giles got in the car, Spike hit the accelerator and took off away from the point where the van was waiting. He took a zig-zag route to the house on Revello drive instead of the more direct one that would have taken Giles within fifty yards of the gunman. Unsure whether Spike would return to the house, or take Giles somewhere else until it was time for his court appearance, Angelus had no alternative but to follow him.

Spike reached through the gap between the two front seats, pulling out the red file and tipped it into Giles' lap, photographs and documents spreading everywhere. Giles pulled out a handful of sheets at random.

"Good Lord! They've got my whole life in here."

"Hopefully not," Spike responded.

"What exactly is going on here, William?"

"Well, I was hired to kill you." Spike glanced apprehensively over at the older man, knowing that in a brawl, especially when his opponent was distracted by, say, driving a car for example, Rupert was more than capable of holding his own. "But I'm not going to. Don't ask me why."

"Why?"

"It's my job. I seem to remember I told you that already. At the time you gave the impression you approved, as I recall."

"I did? I guess I wasn't really listening. Sometimes I find it's better not to hear what you young people say."

"God, Giles I knew about the glasses. I didn't realise you had selective deafness as well."

Giles continued to sift through the papers in his lap. "Why not?"

"Why not what- Oh. Look. I don't know. It's either because I'm in love with your daughter... or I have a new found respect for life.. or both. I'm not sure."

Behind them the white van followed as fast as it could, but the Lincoln seemed to handle better on the turns, and Spike knew where he was going, whilst the van's driver had to try to react. Angelus watched the car in front as if he could will the distance in between to disappear.

"That punk is either in love with that guy's daughter... or he has a new found respect for life."

The van's driver looked over at Angelus. "FYI sweet cheeks, no-one says punk any more. That went out with platforms and Dirty Harry movies, and it's only the platforms that came back."

"Coming from someone who dresses like he stole his wardrobe from the cast of guys and dolls, I think that's a bit rich." Angelus voice almost became a whine. "And he is a punk, literally. You should have seen him when I met him. Billy Idol wanna-be..." Turning in his seat, he swallowed something he'd taken from a tub in his pocket. Holding out the lidless tub toward the two men in the back, he offered to the men seated behind him, "Durazac?"

Giles stopped sifting and stared at the piece of paper currently at the top of the stack.

"A strip mall. Someone wants me dead, so that they can build a strip mall on our dig site."

Spike shrugged. "It's economics, Rupes. It cheaper to pay someone to kill you. Then, if no-one else gets all the paperwork in soon enough to stop them, they can put up the mall right where they first intended, rather than find a new site and start from scratch."

"You were going to kill me just so a gaggle of women can buy even more shoes that they'll wear once and then keep for special occasions until they can't wear them any more because they're last season's."

"It's not me! Why does everybody think it's personal?" Spike swung the steering wheel sharply and hit the brakes, swinging them around the side of the house and into an area directly adjacent to the back porch that was never intended for vehicular traffic.

Giles fixed Spike with a disapproving stare as the younger man turned to grab his case from the back seat. "Joyce is going to kill you when she sees the state of her roses."

"Not if you're still around for her to see the state of, she won't." Spike rebutted. "Now move, they're not far behind us." Spike made a dash for the back door carrying the case full of guns and knives.

Spike pushed Giles through the back door and into the kitchen. Buffy looked up from her bowl of cereal, saw Spike, and then looked back down at her yummy sushi pyjamas. "Giles, what's he doing here? He's not welcome. Kick his butt out of here."

Giles sighed and looked from Buffy to Spike, who was currently unloading large portions of his case out onto the kitchen island. "There are some people trying to kill me. Spike just saved my life. Now can the pair of you be civil, or do we have to pretend you're both fifteen again?"

Buffy gave a disbelieving snort as Spike ushered her and Giles into a corner of the dining room where they were protected by a brick wall rather than wood and were out of sight from the front of the house. Spike pulled back the slider on a Desert Eagle pistol and handed it to Buffy, before he headed back to the kitchen island grabbing a pair of 9mm pistols for himself and talking as he made his way through the living room to the hall.

"So... prom night, I'm sitting there in this bloody nancy-boy rented tux. I've got a corsage in one hand and a bottle of champagne, that you'd probably have told me you were too young to drink, in the other." Spike heard Giles snort of amusement at how wary Buffy had once been of alcohol. "So I just sit there, and suddenly I can see the whole night. It just flashes before my eyes. And then, suddenly, it's not a prom dress you're wearing. It's a wedding dress, and it's my whole life that's flashing in front of my eyes... And that was when I realised. For the first time in my life I really wanted to kill someone. So I figured, since I loved you so much, that it'd be a good idea if I didn't see you any more."

Buffy could tell by Spike's voice that he'd moved into the hall and she started to move forward, determined to give him back his gun. Just then, two shots rang out at the front of the house, and Spike took off for the kitchen again. In the dining room, Buffy and Giles shifted far enough to see the two tennis ball sized holes that Spike's shots had put through the front door. Buffy pointed in the direction of the kitchen to indicate Spike, and then made a twirling motion to one side of her head to indicate what she thought of his mental state. Then she pointed back and forward between her and Giles and then at the front door. Giles nodded, and the pair made a break for it. Buffy pulled the front door wide, ready for a quick getaway, only to see the gun-toting corpse that decorated the front porch, and Angelus running down the path toward her. She slammed it shut again, running back to the spot where Spike had originally left her. Giles followed close behind.

The station wagon turned onto the suburban street just in time for the spooks to see the white van screech to a halt in front of 1630 Revello Drive. Angelus, Dalton and another gunman jumped out of the van almost as soon as it stopped, passing out of their line of sight. A few seconds later, Angelus ran back to the vehicle and seemed to be waving his weapon at the vehicle's driver. Forrest pointed to a narrow turn off between them and the house. "Take the back lane we'll come up on them from behind."

"No way, dumpling. I don't do guns."

"Why don't you just pick up a gun, and get your arse in the house, before I stick a bullet in it."

Lorne tutted at him. "And waste ammo you might need for Blondie? I don't think so. You said everybody had to join the union, so I joined. You hired me to drive, so I drove-"

"Almost. Remind me to stay out of whatever state gave you a licence," interjected Angelus.

"Semantics. But I don't do guns. And I most especially don't do the other end of a gun from cup-cake in there. So, if you want someone poisoned, or you make it out of there, your chauffeur will be waiting, but until then, have fun without me."

Angelus gave a grunt of disgust and set off at a run toward the house. The front door miraculously opened to show his target standing just behind his step daughter. He opened fire with both the handguns he was carrying, just as the door slammed shut again. He blew several holes through the door, but it still provided a miraculously solid barrier, preventing his entry. He decided to see if Dalton had had better luck at the side of the building.

Dalton's shot shattered the glass in the upper half of the back door into smithereens and sent Spike ducking for cover behind the island. As soon as he was mostly in cover, his left hand came up over the unit, firing four shots blind in the general direction of the doorway. Dalton's body fell forward. His upper body hung in the kitchen. His lower half was still standing on the porch. Spike cautiously looked around the side of the island. As soon as he saw Dalton's body, he dashed back to where he had left Buffy and Giles and began to usher them through the hall and upstairs ahead of him.

"The bathroom. The tub's cast iron. Get in there, lock both the doors and lie down in the tub."

As he made his way up the last flight of stairs, Angelus' barrage of shots came through the front door. Spike turned and crouched. Then, taking aim between the balusters, he loosed several shots in the area of the front door. When it seemed that no further attack was coming from that direction, Spike continued on up to the top landing, where he made sure he had a clear line of fire on anyone who tried to come up the stairs and started swapping the partially used clips in his guns for fresh ones he had in his duster pockets.

As he worked he called out so that Buffy would be able to hear him. "I love you, Buffy... I know we can make this work... Back then I was afraid to commit to a relationship... I mean eighteen's no age to be settling down... But there was never anyone else, and I know I'm ready now to make it happen. I know what I do isn't, well moral per se, but it's over now, and if you can just look past that, then you'd see a man worth loving."

Angelus voice echoed up from downstairs. "Don't listen to him. He's a professional. It's in his blood. He'll never give up... "

Spike knocked quietly as he could on the bathroom door. After some whispered words between himself and Giles, the door opened a few inches briefly and then closed again. Abandoning the stairs, Spike made his way to Buffy's room. It only took him seconds to open the window and get down to the ground using the familiar tree. As he paused cautiously, debating whether to use Giles' front door key to let himself back into the house, he could hear Angelus' voice coming from the dining room. Choosing caution, he darted round to the side of the house, entering through the kitchen.

"What's up, Spike? Does your girlfriend not want to listen to your pathetic serenade? Doesn't she believe that the Big Bad's retired?"

Spike couldn't see anything from his view point and started sneaking through the living room, while Angelus hearing movement in the other end of the house, made for the kitchen. Spike had almost come full circle through the downstairs of the house, when the back door (now minus Dalton's body) was kicked in. "National Secur-" Spike turned to where Graham Miller and Forrest Gates were framed in the doorway and started firing with both guns. A double stream of bullets also came from the kitchen just to one side of the serving hatch, telling him where Angelus was.

Spike moved as he fired. He wanted to be sure that once the NSA agents were taken down he would be able to step into cover at the side of the serving hatch, so that his position effectively mirrored Angelus' with the counter between them. Miller's body must have had about thirty rounds in it from the four automatic pistols before it began to drop and sag enough that the shots began to hit Forrest. It only took slightly over a second from the abortive warning shout till the second agent hit the floor.

Spike turned toward Angelus and shot even as he saw the larger man's guns pivot toward him. He blessed his lucky stars that both guns were empty, the sliders jammed in the back position. Spike waited for the recoil to jar his wrists. When it didn't, he realised that Angelus' guns weren't the only ones with no ammunition.

"What d'ya know. Both empty," Angelus quipped.

Angelus ducked down behind the serving hatch, and Spike sidestepped into the cover the wall. As he did so, he noticed the cumbersome old TV that had once adorned the living room, but had obviously been relegated to the seldom used dining room when it was replaced with a sleeker model.

"So Spike, You out?"

"Maybe," Spike hedged testing the weight of the old set. "You?"

"I'm fine... How about I sell you a piece for a hundred grand?" Angelus asked from his spot behind the counter.

"Front me?" Spike asked as he moved back to his original position with the TV in his arms.

"Okay."

A gun arced its way over the counter too near the middle for Spike to have been able to catch it, even if he wasn't holding the TV set. From the position of the slider, Spike noted that it was empty. As the gun clattered to the dining room floor, Angelus began to rise up from his position behind the counter with a fresh gun in each hand. As his head popped up, Spike brought the TV down, screen first. Angelus fell over in the middle of the kitchen; his head encased by the mock wood of the TV's sides. As Spike peered over the counter, his leg twitched slightly, and a blue flicker of electricity sparked near his head. Jerking the cable from the wall, on the grounds that Joyce would never forgive him if he burnt the house down, Spike began to make his weary way upstairs.

His face still sported several cuts, and his left eye had turned black and blue overnight. His hands were dripping with blood from the splinters of glass that found their way there when he smashed the TV, but none of that mattered because he was the last man standing. He stood to one side as he knocked on the bathroom door and was pleased that he did when two holes larger than his fist suddenly appeared in it.

"Buffy, it's me, Spike. They're gone. Well not gone, but... You can come out."

When no-one answered, Spike reached through one of the holes, undoing the bolt that held the door shut. "Buffy, I know I'm not a good man." Spike pushed the door open to see Buffy and Giles spooned together in the somewhat cramped bathtub. "...But I think I can be a good husband. Buffy, will you marry me?" Buffy looked up at him with a look that conveyed sheer exhaustion, but Giles piped up in a somewhat dry tone. "Well, I think you can have my blessing." Spike slumped to the floor.

"Okay, people of Sunnydale. It's another sunny morning, and Radio Sunnydale is here with six hours of non-stop music. Some people say forgive and forget. I say forget about forgiving and just accept, and get the hell out of town."

Spike snapped the radio off with a jerk. "I've already got to listen to you gibbering away about where you want to go next without listening to a tape of you on the wireless as well."

"Wireless. It's a radio. Where do you think you are? England? In the 1950's?"

"Not yet."

"And not till I've had at least a week shopping in Paris, either..."