1.

She hadn't meant to take this route.

Her mind must have wandered for a second, it often happened like that these days. The patrol had become more than just routine of late, it had become a ritual. The wide arc around the perimeter of the west-side, the short cut through the alley opposite Willy's, double-back up main street past the coffee shop and then the cemetery, always finishing with the cemetery. Old habits died hard, unlike most of the vamps she met these days. Being at the top of her game was getting to be such a drag. Sometimes she thought she'd give her left arm for a challenge, something that could test her. Well, maybe not her left arm, a toe perhaps. A pinkie toe. Hearing a rustle in the bushes she was on her toes in a second, twisting through the air, stake already in her hand, poised for action.

Awww. Just a pussy cat.

Sighing, she pocketed Mr Pointy. Yeah, she needed some action, that or a long holiday somewhere that smelled of coconuts ... and unfortunately the latter was pretty much out of the question. Take a portion of Doublemeat wages, throw in a pinch of Dawn, schoolbooks and new shoes a plenty and combine with a hefty dose of lifelong obligation and you got one big, boring cake that no one wanted a piece of. That was to say — her whole existence. She sighed again. Her life sucked and a reminder of just how much was all she needed right now and yet here she was again. In front of Spike's crypt. Her shoulders slumped a little.

It wasn't as if she missed him.

She didn't miss him.

But, God, sometimes ... she really missed him.

Her hand went out almost involuntarily to the door, touched the wood. She closed her eyes remembering how many nights used to end this way. A whole evening spent prowling the streets of Sunnydale, rousting the undead, making with the staking, always putting off the inevitable. Pushing it to the back of her mind, think of something else, anything else but him. Until, 'hey presto!' or 'kahboom'! She was never sure how she'd got there, but there was where she would be. One hand on his door, hating herself, hating him more for making her weak. For making her want him.

She cast her mind back to the first night, that night, the night he had told her she was 'wrong'. When she had taken out every bit of rage, all the pain she had been unable to express since they had brought her back. She had felt it boiling inside her as he had taunted her, asking her to give it to him, to take it out on him ... and as she had thrown that first punch, watched him stagger back, the relief had been indescribable. Staking vamps was one thing but hitting Spike, punching Spike? While she listened to him say all the things about her that she had thought about herself, it was as if he could read her mind. She heard herself denying it all, denying him the satisfaction of hurting her but all the time the feeling had been growing. He was right. She could feel that he was right and it felt good to accept it, just as it had felt good when Faith had told her the same thing. She was a killer.

It was so simple, because it was the truth. Her heart had felt like it was going to burst wide open as she had thrown him back against that wall, found his mouth with hers, suddenly wanting something from him that she had never even contemplated before that night. She had felt closer to him at that moment than to anyone, before or since. The one time with Angel, that had been intense, beautiful, a perfect expression of their love and trust in each other. But with Spike ... her skin crept cold at the memory. She had felt a freedom that she had never felt before. She knew that she could reveal herself completely to him. Every pore, every blemish, every mean thought, everything she had ever felt ashamed of, disgusted with about herself, none of that mattered to him. His love was all-encompassing and she couldn't seem to get enough of it.

Pushing the door inwards with one hand, she stepped inside. She knew what she would find, had been here ten, twenty times before since he had left and yet it always came as a shock to her. The complete absence of any trace of him. No furniture, no TV, even the candles had all burnt down to nothing, everything covered with a thin film of dust. So cold. No wonder Clem hadn't been able to stand it for long. She was glad in a way. It had become embarrassing, the friendly way he had always greeted her when he found her on his doorstep. Even offering to share his hot wings with her, let her sit down for a chat. He knew she was hurting and thought company would help, tea, maybe a game of 'Risk'? When all the time they both knew. What was wrong with her couldn't be fixed by anything else.

She sat down on the stone plinth and drew her legs up, hugging her knees for warmth. It had never been this cold before, when he was here. Maybe the candles had warmed things up. It wasn't his body, that was for certain. She remembered the feel of him, stretched cool, full-length against her back, his leg through hers, feet touching, his mouth against her neck.

"What are you thinking about?"

and her glib reply, "That you should think about socks."

Had they ever really talked? It seemed like everything that needed to be said they said in other ways, physically, with touches, with small sounds, noises in the backs of their throats. With the wordless locking of their eyes as he lay over her, his face inches from her own, their breathing ragged. There was nothing she could add to that. He knew everything already, although she had tried to deny it a thousand times. That evening he had caught her off guard.

"Do you even like me?"

She had felt compelled to answer truthfully for the first time, but couldn't. All she could manage was the luke-warm, "Sometimes."

It wasn't what she had wanted to say but it scared her so much when he got that way. His face wiped clean of everything but his love for her, his need, making him completely human to her for just a second. She was afraid that, if he knew that, he would use it against her. Somehow trick her into forgetting what he really was. A monster. An evil, dead thing. Not a man, not something worthy of love. But his face.

Sometimes when he had been sleeping she'd found herself lying awake, just staring at him. How could it be that something so beautiful could be so ... wrong? He looked like an angel when he slept and she had wondered what would happen if he were to wake up and see her looking at him that way. Would he laugh? Would he feel he'd won because he had made her care for him? Maybe that was his plan all along? He had killed two slayers, maybe this was just a new method. Convoluted, that was true, but just as effective. He was killing her from the inside instead of the out.

But deep down she knew this wasn't the truth. He loved her. He had proved it time and time again, and after a while she had come to rely on it. One of her only two constants, Dawn's love and his. She knew why her sister loved her, lord knows she didn't have a choice in the matter, but she could never understand why he did. She had even asked him once. One night after she had come looking for him, feeling so completely alone, and found him lying fully-clothed on the bed downstairs. He had been reading, and for a moment she had stood there in the doorway, watching him, thinking how it odd it was that he had not sensed her enter. His head was resting on his hand as he turned the pages and when he finally spoke, his voice was soft but filled with an undercurrent of laughter.

"If you want to put the kettle on love, I'll be done in a minute."

She had flushed, disconcerted at being caught in a stare, "I was just wondering what you were reading. Maybe 'Guide to Slaughter'? Or 'Brain Surgery for Beginners'?"

He snorted and put the paperback down, after carefully marking his page. Feeling in his top pocket, his took out a cigarette, lit it, appraised her with one eye.

"So, what?" His tone was still gentle, sensing her vulnerability, "You just came to look? Or are you buying?"

She felt a stab of irritation. Why was he always so full of himself? But almost as quickly as it came her anger had faded, to be replaced by a familiar void.

"Tell me why you love me."

The words had tumbled out before she had a chance to edit them, make them sound less needy. The look on his face made her head hurt, naked emotion.

"You know why."

She shook her head to hide the threatened tears, allowed him to take her arms, lift her face to his. That look again, she couldn't bear it.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I just feel ... I was lonely."

That had been true, at least, and even though she knew it wasn't enough for him she felt his grip on her soften, his arms slide round her waist, his lips find hers. Her fingers fumbled the buttons on his shirt as he kissed her, and then hands felt cool flesh, palms rested against his chest. One of his found the small of her back, pulled her into him and then backwards onto the bed. They came apart, gasping, his eyes searching hers.

"I know you. That's why."

So simple. How was it he always knew everything, could see right through you, know just where it hurt? Came with the territory she supposed, you had to know how to hurt if you wanted to cause pain, to kill.

And then that night in the bathroom came back to her again, suddenly and with the cold clarity of a nightmare. His face as he had pushed her down had told her everything she ever needed to know about pain. Even as she had fought him off, the misery had far out-rode the fear and anger she felt. That he could do that, that he could turn what they had together into something so hideous, that had hurt more than the bruises. What was it her mother and Willow had said, "Spike, he's so ... twisted", and she had forgotten that. Allowed herself to be fooled into thinking that he had changed.

Her heart felt like lead in her chest, he had seemed so sincere. That night she had come to him wanting an answer, she had let herself start to consider it, that what he said he felt might be real, that his love for her had altered him somehow. She knew the danger of it, of letting her guard drop but she had wanted so badly to believe it and when he threw her down that night, part of her was saying 'I told you so' . But, his face. She couldn't forget his face.

Three years ago, if he had hurt her, made her cry, she could picture the expression of triumph, the joy he would have felt in her suffering. After he had attacked her, when he had come so close to ... all she could remember seeing there was anguish ... and try as she might, she couldn't forget it. Long after the bruises had disappeared and after everything else was over, she still couldn't resolve it in her mind. If he really was evil, if he hadn't changed, why had he been so sorry? He had tried to say it but she had cut him down. He had never meant to hurt her.

She picked up one of the candles from the windowsill. And where was he now? Clem had intimated that he might be back, that he had just taken some time to clear his head or something, but four months now and still nothing. Every vamp in Sunnydale had been here and the place had been picked clean, there was nothing left of him. She turned and walked to the trap door, lifted it and smelt the faint acrid smell rising up from downstairs. Mold mixed with cordite and fried bugs. She let the hatch drop back, letting her breath out again slowly and then, she held it.

She had almost forgotten what it felt like. The slow rise of the short hairs on the back of her neck, the dry mouth, but suddenly it was there like an old friend and she felt her heart double-beat. Although her feet hadn't moved she knew the door had opened behind her ... and, letting the candle slip from her hand to the floor, she tilted her head to the side.

"Long time no see." she said quietly.

She saw him relax a little, rest his weight against the door frame. Still he didn't speak. His face was hidden in the shadows and she noted with a stir of surprise that something was different about him. Was it the coat, the absence of the coat? His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of a leather jacket, his signature boots replaced with what looked like, were those trainers? Her brow creased a little in confusion. Was he going to speak? Ever again? Perhaps he was waiting for her to say something else. She scuffed a toe in the dust at her feet. Like what. Glad to see you're not ... what? More dead? Sorry about your TV? The words came to her unbidden and were out of her mouth again just like before.

"I missed you."

She saw him shift slightly, draw himself a little more upright. He exhaled, his breath a white cloud in the chill of the crypt. Slowly he stepped down towards her, into the light.

"Missed you too."

2.

It seemed they'd stood like that for an hour, although she knew in reality it couldn't be more than a minute. She wanted to see his face, needed to know what he was thinking, but that would mean moving nearer to him and she couldn't do that yet.

This was getting ridiculous. She tossed her hair back in exasperation,

"So ... what? You going to quiet me to death?"

She thought she saw something, a change of expression, it was hard to tell when he was so completely hidden in shadow. Why didn't he DO something? Every inch of her was tense, ready for whatever he might throw at her, verbal or physical. Even so, she was still unprepared for the sudden awkward move forward, the abrupt clearing of the throat.

"Sorry ... sorry. It's just ... it's been a while. I'd forgotten..."

He stopped as he realised that she could see his face now. It too looked different, the angles a little softer, his eyes a little bluer, if that were possible, and above his face ... what had possessed him to do that?

"Your hair!"

She could barely keep the surprise and dismay out of her voice, realised it made her sound like Cordelia, shallow; like 'you're wearing THAT?'. He was smiling now, a little ruefully, passing his fingers through it with a sort of bemused expression.

"Yeah. Yeah. The bleach, it was getting a bit ... eighties you know. Plus, you've no idea how hard it is to find that stuff in the middle of the Namibian desert. That and the nail polish remover..."

He registered the surprise on her face and the smile faded, to be replaced by something else, a look bordering on contrition. She felt him trying to read her, to understand what was going through her mind. Was she still angry with him? Hurt? Did she still want to kill him? Or was it worse, did she feel nothing? Bored maybe? She frowned, shook her head a little.

"A ... ha."

And he was moving towards her now, slow, hesitant. So unSpike.

"Buffy," he spoke her name rustily, as if the syllables hadn't passed his lips in years. She found herself unable to look at him, afraid of what she might see, what it might make her feel.

"I needed to go, I had to get as far away as possible, as fast as possible. The way I was feeling," he faltered, "what I did to you..." his voice died away to a whisper and she risked a glance at him. His head was bowed now, the sight of the dark curls on his neck seeming so alien and yet still strangely familiar to her. She felt a stab of anger at herself, what was this? Did she feel sorry for him? Yeah, that's right — pity the poor animal who tried to rape her. Held her down, ignored her pleas to stop. But there was something there. Something other than the pain and the distrust and she let herself feel it.

It was good to see him.

She felt strange, standing here with him. She wondered what she would say if Xander walked in, right at this exact moment. She doubted that any of her friends would ever forgive his actions. They would understand them — but the fragile trust that he had built with Willow, with Dawn, that was gone. So where did that put him now? Where did he belong? They had barely tolerated him before, but at least he had been reliable in one way, he would do anything to keep Buffy from harm, even if that meant risking his own skin to save her worthless friends. That had been their protection from him and his one saving grace. Now she was pretty sure any of them would stake him as soon as look at him. Her head felt dizzy, what was it he wanted from her now anyway?

"You shouldn't have come back."

There, she had said it and she meant it. It would have been easier if he hadn't, for everyone. She could sense him looking at her again now but still couldn't bring herself to return his gaze. She started forward towards the door, half expecting him to catch her hand, but he didn't.

"I wasn't going to."

His voice was calm, no trace of the misery she knew he must be feeling and curiosity overcame her need for flight.

"So why, then?"

He reached into his pocket, fumbling for something wrapped in a cloth, again so awkward, so unSpike. A step forward.

"This."

His palm stretched out to her. On the surface lay a stone, like an emerald, bright green, but the centre glowed with a soft, moving light. She looked at it, then at him, considered her next words carefully, "Pretty! But you know a postcard, that would have been nicer."

He frowned with annoyance and she saw it, the old Spike, Spikeness, he was pissed that she wasn't all 'oooohh!' over his expensive bauble. Expecting her to be grateful or something.

"Look Spike, it's all very sweet and everything but really, the money thing isn't such a big deal these..."

He interrupted her with almost Giles-like self-control, "It's not for you. It's for Red."

Oh. Well, colour me embarrassed as hell. She examined his expression for a clue, but there was nothing. Still she didn't reach, didn't take it from him.

"So it's like a magic thing? Because that is so what she doesn't need right now..."

She caught herself mid-sentence. He didn't know about any of that. He'd left right before everything happened. She wondered how he react, what he'd say when she told him how close they'd all come, how much they had needed his help, how much she had needed it. And where had he been? Swanning around some desert, soaking up the sun — the moon — on some kind of head-trip thingy when he should have been here, helping without being asked as always. Saving Willow, saving....

"It's from Tara."

And now she couldn't think of anything. All words had gone. She looked from the stone to him again, back to the stone, asked questions with her eyes.

"The place I went," he didn't seem to want to explain but she obviously needed it, "I was after something. I wanted..." he stopped, started again,"I wanted to feel better, to be myself again. This demon that lives there, he's got a handle on the whole nether worlds thing, the dark magicks. I thought he could help me."

Her interest was piqued despite herself, "Help you do what?"

He raised an eyebrow at her meaningfully. "The chip." He tapped the side of his head, "One of their own docs couldn't get it out, I reckoned magic was the only answer."

She felt her skin begin to crawl with a slow dread. Was that it? Was that the difference she'd noticed? But before she could begin to react to that he silenced her, "Don't worry, that's not what happened."

His expression was unreadable now and she couldn't tell what he was about to say next. She couldn't understand why he seemed so different, so calm, quietly authoritative.

"As I say, I wanted a quick fix but he wasn't going to give it to me. Said he could give me something else though, something better."

So that was it. He made a bargain with a demon, for this ... whatever it was.

"And it's from ... it's Tara's?"

He nodded once, eyes on hers. She had to ask, "How do you know?"

His hand reached out, placed it in her palm and she felt her. A heat radiating out, down her arm, pouring out of it over her whole body, surrounding her with familiarity, with Tara and tears spilled from her eyes, hot, disbelieving and then it was gone. He had taken it back.

"Sorry. Should have warned you. It's pretty intense."

His voice was soft, filled with emotion as he carefully re-wrapped the stone. The tears wet her cheeks, like a blessing and she stared at him unable to vocalise what had just happened, what she had felt. What was that and where had he found it? Yet she knew there was no need for any answers, other than the one she had just been given.

"Spike, do you think ... should Willow have it?"

A small smile.

"It belongs to her."

He was right. Whatever it was for, whatever the stone contained, it was meant for Willow. He was looking at her again now, his head cocked, as if awaiting her next move.

"Maybe I should be the one to take it to her though. She's not allowed to see ... it's only close friends and family at the moment."

He stirred as if waking for a dream, realised her meaning.

"Right, you're right. Just..." he hesitated, "Give her my ... you know," and his hand came out again passing it back to her, their fingers brushing. He jerked back quickly with a start, but that moment was as long as it had taken. Her eyes were wide now, wider than before and he was backing away.

"Give me your hand!"

It was less of a command, more of a plea, but he wasn't going to listen. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes cast down to the floor, his voice cracked, "No. It's not why ... this isn't why I came back. I promised her, I said I'd bring the stone but that was all."

But she was reaching for his face, his neck, any bit of bare flesh she could find. He wasn't going to fight her, didn't want to and finally he let it happen, let her touch him, feel the warmth of his skin, his hands. He watched her face as she found a pulse, placed a palm flat on his bare chest.

"You're not cold. You're not cold."

That was all she could say, all she could keep repeating.

He slowly drew a breath, a deep one, let her see his lungs fill, let it out slowly into her hair as she bent her head to his chest to listen, an expression he'd never seen before in her eyes. Wonder. She was filled with it and it almost stopped his brand new heart beating for a second, such was the delight of seeing her smile in that way. How could he have even contemplated not coming back? Missing this? The childlike awe he himself still felt, every morning when he woke up to the rising sun, on that most beloved of faces.

"But how..."

She couldn't even finish the question, couldn't seem to get her head past the sound of his heart, his new smell, his mouth, she kept looking at his mouth.

"Sort of a freebie actually. Well, more of a bonus thing."

He could explain more later, right now he needed some space. Pulled away from her gently, stepped back towards the door. He couldn't get over her, the way she was just standing there now, in the ruin of his former home, shaking her head in amazement. He risked a smile, another small one, "What are you thinking?"

Her eyes focused, unfocused with an almost comic gesture, the implication clear — her mind had just blown. She laughed once, abruptly, "What am I...? Spike you're alive!!"

He couldn't resist, knew he shouldn't, but the timing was too sweet.

"Actually, I'd prefer William, if it's O.K with you."

3.

It was so clean.

Why were these places always so clean? I mean, if they were supposed to prepare people for re-entry into society, wouldn't a little dirt be a nice way to edge them into it? Real life was, after all, pretty grubby. A twelve-step program, maybe starting with a dirty plate or two, leading into some gentle dusting? She realised her mind was wandering again, snapped back to reality. It was just a clinic, not a bad place, no need to be afraid, no one going to strap you down, Buffy, deep breaths. Calm. Calm.

It was the same every visit. She just couldn't help herself. The smells, the noises, all the white, it gave her the heebie jeebies big time. But she could deal, needed to, for Willow's sake. Her friend needed calm-Buffy, together-Buffy, she did not need someone who leapt to her feet every time someone said 'medication'. An intern passed her, smiled hello and she managed a grimace in response. Breathe, remember your breathing. Almost there now.

Clutching a now slightly sweaty bunch of tulips, she pushed open her friend's door one-handed and took a welcome gulp of Willow-scented air. The familiar red head turned from the TV with a wary expression that quickly turned to one of blessed relief, "Oh thank you! I thought it was Dr. Van Nostrum again"

Buffy rolled her eyes, sank into a convenient chair. "Nah, he's headed in the other direction. Been doing the human pin-cushion again?"

Her friend curled her lip, "No, worse. Now it's the questions. It's the ... oh, how do you feel about society as a whole, Ms Rosenburg? Or ... do you still think demons inhabit the earth, Ms Rosenburg? Do you still want to kill yourself, Ms Rosenburg?"

"That kooky doc. Always with the uneccesary suicidal thoughts questioning."

Willow met her eyes, her gaze steady.

"I'm OK, Buffy."

She wavered, so much pain there, always lapping below the surface.

"I mean, I'll never be OK. I know. But I'm coping. I can get out of bed now."

Putting her flowers down she took her usual seat beside her on the bed, Willow making room, moving the cereal bowl. They skooched up, a hand going automatically to the red hair, like with Dawn, smoothing, soothing her.

"I know that. I'm glad."

And they sat. Side by side, as always, one shoulder supporting the other in a comfortable silence, only disturbed by the muted sound of cartoons from the small TV by the bed. Buffy let the clock tick, tick, tick, soft and slow, listened to Willow's measured breathing slow, match her own.

So long. They had done this for so long, it seemed. Every day, pretty much without fail, for the last four months now, she had braved the smell of antiseptic, the white coats, the pawing hands in the lobby, to bring what Willow needed more than anything else. Her love and support. She hoped that it would be enough to save her, to bring her back from wherever she had taken herself, so full of pain and rage that her best friend had been almost unrecognisable. There had been times, in the first few weeks, when she had begun to lose hope, but then there had been Xander and nothing could ever shake him in his belief. Willow was there, she was still in there and together they could find her, help her, heal her. All they needed to do was to love her and to wait.

And she knew the truth of it. Without both of them ... she couldn't even begin to count the times they had made the difference for her. Making sense when no one else could, pulling her back from the edge, sometimes literally. Together they were her rock, her twin compasses, her Cowardly Lion and Tin Man, her Curly and Moe. She frowned. That last one didn't work so well.

Willow caught her, frowned in reply, "Got a cramp?"

She shook her head, smiled, resumed the hair smoothing. "Nope. Just thinking. What would I do without my Willow?"

Cartoons mumbled, somewhere a vacuum hummed into life. A sound of laughter. The door slammed inwards and they both jumped.

Xander's dark shock of hair fell into his eyes as he hefted a bulky VCR under one elbow, a stack of tapes under the other. He froze, sweating, looked at them both, raised eyebrows. "Little help?"

Guilty, they both leapt to grab something and he sank to his knees with relief.

"God, I'm so out of shape."

He gulped air as Willow re-seated herself cross-legged, went through the tapes.

"This is so great, Xander! My own VCR! I can't believe I finally get to watch something other than Bullwinkle & Rocky."

"Bullwinkle's on?" He was up and on the bed in a second, eyes pinned to the screen, a grin stretched from ear to ear. The girls exchanged a look.

"Xander, is that the only reason you come here? I thought you had cable?"

It was no good, they'd seen it all before. He was gone to them now, into full Xander-mode, reaching for a handful of the popcorn, munching, laying back full length on the bed, making himself comfy with his head in Willow's lap.

"Hmmm?"

Willow shifted, balanced her cereal bowl on his forehead, made with the Cheerios.

"So what's been going on? Any new nasties on the Slayer circuit?"

And they were here. She could dance around it but she knew they'd both see it in her face, a little surprised they hadn't already. Best to just get to it, yank it like a tooth.

"Spike's back."

Xander choked on popcorn, went first red then blue and suddenly all eyes were on him, hands slapping backs. Then the wheezing, the glass of necessary water, the questioning, more patting and all the time she could feel their curiosity, knew they'd just have to know everything. All the details she wasn't ready to give them yet, wasn't even sure if she was allowed to. Finally Xander managed to speak, still teary-eyed, his voice husky, "And this happened when? While I was putting another hour on the car?"

Small sigh. Why did he always have to have it all, the times, the dates, who threw the first punch?

"Last night. I was going to call you, but..."

"You thought you'd wait until my mouth was filled with tiny chokeable objects? Buffy ... I thought we agreed..."

The accusation in his voice was there already and she hadn't even done anything yet. And wouldn't. Definitely wouldn't. There would be no doing of anyone, anything.

"Xander..." God, sometimes she sounded just like her mom. "It was late. I wasn't even sure you'd still be up."

He rolled his eyes, fell back flat again. Why bother. Willow moved hair away from his brow, stroked his fringe back, left her hand there.

"Buffy, it's your business. If you want to ... forgive him. I mean if you feel OK about talking to him again, we're both fine about that. Aren't we?"

A stream of protests was halted by a single Willow-glare, no more discussion. It was Buffy's decision, right? She saw Xander bridle, ready with the vitriol, and her head began to hurt. She didn't know what she wanted to do yet. Forgive him or let him just disappear like he said he wanted to, but she knew one thing. She didn't need the patented Harris-two-penny-worth. Not now.

She saw him looking at her, beneath the righteous anger his eyes full of concern, and she watched him slowly relax, saw it miraculously dissipate. His reached for her hand, held it, "Sorry, Buff. I'm sorry. Will's right. It's up to you."

She hoped the surprise wasn't as evident as she thought it was. Xander, giving her the benefit of the doubt? What was this? Wait, she knew this. Was there another Xander, outside, all full of vengeful jealousy?

"Wait ... 'it's up to me'? So what's the catch here?"

He turned over, eyes back on the TV again. "No catch. I just have ... confidence in your decision-making."

Willow shook her head, handed him back the popcorn. "So what did he say? Did he tell you where he's been?"

Her curiosity was infectious and she noticed Xander turning the sound down a little, to facilitate the eavesdropping.

"He was in Africa."

"Africa!! Like Africa, with the lions and the tribesmen and ... the heat, Africa?"

Willow's amazement mirrored her own of last night but Xander wasn't ready to concede his just yet, "Had to see a demon about a dog?"

Buffy couldn't stop the smile, "Actually, you're not far off." Their confusion was evident and she finally caved, "He went to find a demon someone told him could remove his chip."

Willow's face contorted with horror, "Oh my God! He didn't ... I mean ... did he...?"

Her friend shook her head, "No. He didn't. I mean ... he changed his mind."

This time it was Xander turn to gape and she found herself enjoying it a little, on Spike's behalf. You see, you don't know his as well as you think you do, do you? The disbelief was all over his face, along with the suspicion and dislike.

"You're telling me that ... Cujo chose ... the leash over din-dins?" He eyed her, made the face, the one that had always made her want to smack him. Like she was a fool for ever believing anything Spike had ever said. "Who told you that? Did he? What else did he tell you? I caught a fish and it was THIS BIG!"

"Xander..."

Willow's voice had the edge of ice to it, the one thing always guaranteed to silence the Harris-sarcasm-machine. Buffy folded her arms, studied the quilt.

"So, he didn't get the chip out? Well, that's good ... I mean we're all agreed that's a good thing? Right?"

Always the peacemaker, cutting through to the core, Willow drew them back together, allowed her to continue. But she couldn't find the words yet, didn't know how to say it right. She could feel their eyes on her again, knowing there must be more.

"Buffy? He isn't ... I mean he didn't try..."

Her head came up, eyes wide. "No, no! God! He's so...." She knew what the reaction to this one would be. "He's so sorry about ... everything. He never meant to ... I know he didn't really mean to hurt me, before. He was just...."

"A vampire."

There. He'd said it. Without even knowing he'd put his finger on it, the one thing that could make the difference, between now and then. Between Spike and this unSpike, this William. The one thing she'd hadn't stopped thinking about for the past eleven hours. He was a vampire and now ... he wasn't. He was her natural enemy and now, he wasn't. He was an evil, soulless creature and now...

Well, she didn't know. She didn't know him. She knew Spike, yes, she knew every inch of him, every nasty little twist and bend in his psyche, every thought about her that had ever entered his gloriously perverse imagination. But, William? Who was that? Not a stranger, he had Spike's brain, his memories, his face, but he was human, he was alive and her mind reeled again. How could this be? How could the two exist in one body? It was like vamping someone in reverse!

Xander watched her, gauging her reaction, testing the waters. Willow asked the question she could tell he was unable to, was afraid of. "Buffy, you don't still ... I mean ... you're not still ... attracted to him, are you?"

"I don't even know him."

Xander let out a breath slowly, nodded once to reassure himself, "And you don't want to ... you know ... get to know him?"

"Who?" She was confused now, what did he know? Had she been thinking out loud a minute ago?

"Who?!? Spike!!"

She shook her head, suddenly remembered the real reason she'd come, felt in her pocket.

"Spike's dead. Willow, he told me to give you this."

4.

It was difficult to look at her now.

Willow's expression hurt her heart, made her eyes prickle with hot tears, thinking about how she must be feeling. That stone, it was like a direct link to Tara, a conduit between wherever she was now and here, this room, this place ... between her and her Willow, whose face was radiant now, awash with tears, as she silently said everything she'd held inside ever since they'd been parted. There was no need for words in that place. She remembered that much.

She felt a little uncomfortable, as if she walked in on her, on them, in a private moment. Maybe they should leave? She motioned to Xander with her head and they got slowly to their feet, moved quietly to the door.

"Will she be OK? What's it doing to her?"

His voice was just above a whisper, as full of emotion and wonder as she was. To see Willow this way, so luminous with hope and grief, was wonderfully terrifying. For months now, since her return to consciousness, she had been detached, dipping only very occasionally into the darkness they knew must still threaten to overwhelm her. The deep well of sadness growing ever deeper, ever more unfathomable within her and nothing either anyone could say or do to help ease it. No one except Tara herself.

She could come to terms with loss, eventually, but the guilt ... In the aftermath of her complete meltdown it had come to her. Terrible, soul-destroying guilt that had overridden her raw anguish over Tara's death almost entirely. How could see have desecrated her memory so completely? By taking everything that she had despised, the black arts, magic for pure evil, for revenge and embracing it, drinking it into herself as if it were some kind of balm for what she had lost. The second that Tara's life had left her body. That was how she had remembered her, not with tears and beautiful memories, but with hate and blood, and that was what she needed to be cured of. Not the addiction to magic or the suicidal impulses. She needed Tara's forgiveness. She needed absolution.

The stone glowed with a pure white heat and Buffy felt it. Tara was healing her, answering Willow, cleansing her, assuaging. She gently pushed Xander outside, closed the door.

"It's helping her. More than we ever could."

He nodded shakily. One touch of it had convinced him of its power, its ability to heal Willow, as it had Buffy. They crossed the hallway, leant on the sill to look outside.

Fall was almost over, the grounds of the clinic a carpet of russet and scarlet. They watched the birds for a while in silence, the to and fro of the hospital staff, patients and day visitors.

"So ... where did you say he got it?"

Buffy opened her mouth to answer, stopped. One particular visitor had caught her eye. Scurrying across the front lawn, clutching a bunch of flowers, it was his halting, self-conscious manner that made her notice him, rather than the familiar forehead and greying hair. She grinned, banged on the glass with a little too much force.

"Buffy! Hey there!" Xander was flushed with embarrassment, as every eye in the day room turned to them. She groaned, grabbed his arm, steered him towards the stairwell,

"Didn't you see him? Giles is downstairs!"

Their entrance into the foyer was less than dignified. Buffy forced to straddle Xander's back in her efforts to get past him, bringing him to his knees at the foot of the stairs, ending up in a tangle of arms and legs, slapping and shoving at each other as if they had never left the library.

"And the raising of your own children? When does this begin again?" His voice was faintly imperious, tinged with humour as always, his question directed at Xander who was scrambling to his feet to embrace him in a bear hug. Buffy joined him, careful not to break any ribs, burying her face in the comfortingly familiar aroma of his tweed jacket.

"Yeah well, we're a few months off yet." Xander was grinning now, full of pride in his accomplishment, getting Anya pregnant. "I'm gonna cram at the last minute. They do study guides for Dr. Spock?"

Buffy, too full of joy, continued to hug until the moment had long passed. Giles cleared his throat conspicuously and she opened her eyes, let him go.

"Oops, sorry!" She dusted him down, "Too much with the whole needy for affection thing."

They stood apart for a second, forming three corners of a familiar quadrangle. The forth member notably absent. Giles was the first to speak, "How is she?"

Xander drew breath, looked at Buffy, held it.

"She's good. She's better."

There it was. The obligatory removal of the glasses, the slow polish which spoke of worries too many and varied to voice. Of his affection for Willow, his concern for them and, as always, the uneasiness, the guilt for having left them to deal with this alone. Buffy's hand went out, touched his, "We're all good."

His head came up, met her eyes with gratitude. She saw Xander shift on one foot with anticipation, knew he was eager to share, could never keep a secret for long, especially from Giles. He gave a small cough, gesturing less subtly with his head to the coffee room.

"Why don't we have a ... Giles you look as if you could do with a...?"

This was bad. He'd only been back in the country five minutes and already he was being confronted with stuff, asked to deal with stuff. It didn't seem fair. Just for once she wished he could find everything peachy, maybe come round for a nice dinner, enjoy a refreshing break from his duties in England, play a couple of hands of poker with her and Dawn. But always with the death and the portents and the horror, the horror. She sighed and felt his eyes go to her, wary.

"What is it? Is it money?"

What was this? Did everyone think they were on the verge of bankruptcy? "No, really. We're fine. Money is fine." She could see the disbelief being suppressed by them both and chose to ignore it. "No, it's..."

Xander urged her on with a look and she went for it. Better out than in.

"Spike gave me this stone for Willow and it's Tara. It's not Tara ... I mean I think it's a link to Tara or a message and we've given it to her and she's crying now, but good crying we think, but we don't really know what it is."

She sucked air, swallowed, bit her lip. Giles' face was a picture. Total confusion. You could almost hear the cogs, smell the oil as the motors whirred. She dreaded the look, the slow raise of the eyes, the clipped, hushed tone that let her know just how thoughtless, how stupid she had been, but it never came. Instead he cocked his head a little, frowned.

"A stone? What sort of stone?"

She breathed soft again, her mouth losing it's dryness.

"Shiny, green. Bit like kryptonite." Xander supplied the details with his usual reference to pop culture, luckily one that Giles understood.

He nodded, needing more though, "When you say 'shiny', do you mean...?"

"It's all glowey-inside. Like that sphere thing we found to repel Glory was?"

His expression changed to one she couldn't entirely fathom. He didn't seem worried at all, just surprised. "And where did you say ... did you say Spike? Where did he find this?"

She rolled her eyes. So not ready for this one just yet.

"From an African demon, some big noise over there who's got a handle on the whole dimensional thing, he said. Tall guy, glowing eyes, lives in a cave. Tardis ... or something?"

That was better, she could read that look. Interest and a little pleasure. "T'sarnis?"

She nodded once, relief. "That's it. I couldn't do the whole tar-snar sound."

The glasses were off again. One day she'd start counting, see how many times he did that per hour. Make a graph or a pie chart or something.

"T'sarnis. He's a Graff'la demon. They have the ability to travel between dimensions, different planes. As easily as ... er ... we can travel to the next room."

"Handy! I mean if you've forgotten something, your boarding pass or your flight bag." Xander's desire to inject humour always overruled his need to know,

"Spiritual planes. Demon dimensions and..." his eyes flicked to Buffy, "er ... heavenly ones."

She knew he was trying to protect her, but she let him know it wasn't needed any more with a slight raise of her eyebrows. She was an adult, things changed, she had dealt.

"So Spike got this ... stone from T'sarnis? What business did he have with him?"

No need to mince words. She could tell him this, even though she could still hardly make sense of it herself. But she needed to keep it short, clear, so he didn't ask too many more questions, questions she didn't know the answers to yet.

"Spike's been humaned."

Damn Xander and his flair for the dramatic. Now the cat was well and truly out of the bag. More than that, the cat was up and dancing, waving flags. Giles' stared at him, at her, trying to glean something, before sputtering in a totally uncharacteristic manner, "What on ... earth are you talking about?"

"Spike's alive. He made him alive." She gulped, her eyes wide, willing him to understand, so he could explain to her, but all she saw was more disbelief, confusion and more than a touch of alarm.

Xander spread his hands wide on the table top, looked at the fingers, looked at them. "So who's for coffee?" and he was gone. Out of the blast radius. He'd thrown in the grenade and was now retreating to a bunker. She saw him steal a glance over his shoulder as he joined the line by the coffee machine and she froze him with a glare. Harris ... you have a big mouth.

"So let me get this right? Spike turns up, gives you a glowing orb from a powerful inter-dimensional African demon to give to Willow ... oh and by the way, he's now human?"

"Everything apart from the orb thing. It's more of a big rock."

She watched him shake his head, try to take it in, fail miserably, settle for a partial solution. "Well, I'd have to see it, of course, but it sounds as if it might be something called a Seraph Stone. A very rare object. Demons use them to communicate, pass messages between dimensions. Saves all the messy porthole-ripping."

"Sort of like a demon-beeper?"

He rolled his eyes indulgently, "No, not really." he paused, reconsidered. "More like a spiritual mobile phone."

"A-ha!" Xander rejoined them with a beatific smile, "So that's good, right? Willow can talk to Tara now?"

Giles pursed his lips, "A Seraph Stone is er ... a very powerful object. It links the spirit, the essence of one person with another. If Tara had simply wanted to give Willow a message, I'm sure a good medium would have been a better method."

They looked at one another in silent understanding. A message wouldn't have been enough, she needed to see Tara, to be with her one last time. That was the purpose of the stone, why she had asked Spike to bring it all this way. Giles cleared his throat again, took a sip from his coffee.

"So ... er ... getting back to the other matter?"

Both pairs of eyes on her now and she still didn't know what to tell them. "I know ... I know ... I didn't believe it either. But you should see him! With the pulse and the breathing and everything. It's eerie!"

"And this happened how exactly?"

Xander's in, "Don't tell me. Was it bad shrimp?" She eyed him with annoyance. Quit it, this is serious, I'm in deep here. Spend a year trying to come to terms for your feelings for a vampire, all the reasons you shouldn't be with him, want him, and then ... to have it all turned upside-down like this? How should she feel? Confused? Thrown? Try a double helping with cherries.

"Maybe you should ask him yourself, I probably wouldn't understand half of it all anyway. Why don't you give him a call?" She took a crumpled card from the pocket of her leather jacket, handed it to him.

Giles grimaced with revulsion, "He's staying at The Ramada Inn?"

"Room 504!"

She looked at them both, a guilty start.

"What? He told me the number!"

5.

Bloody nothing on TV.

Why didn't that surprise him? He tossed the controls on the bed, made with the Doritos, dipped one. Mmmm, salsa. Why hadn't anyone ever mentioned salsa to him? He double-dipped. Or guacamole? Maybe they were sparing him. Scarfed both flavours with a satisfied grunt.

If they'd had stuff like this in 1800s London ... well, let's just say Dru's offer wouldn't have seemed half as appealing. He leaned to the night stand, cracked another bottle of imported beer on the edge, took a pull. Ah, frosty nectar. Now that was something he had never stopped appreciating, even with the under-active taste-buds, but the difference, the multi-layered flavour now, gave him a head rush. Wondered what other things he'd forgotten, what else might improve with the addition of a pulse.

The thing was he'd tasted so little of life before that night, could barely remember it, although he was fairly sure that micro-brew and savoury snacks hadn't played a major role. He remembered his Mother's face, grey, pouchy, always so disappointed in him. Sitting down to Sunday Lunch in the parlour, always such a drab affair with the muslin doilies and the woefully overcooked veg. The grandfather clock it had been his duty to wind, twice daily. Remembered the choking smell of London in the mornings, the sound of hooves on cobbles outside his basement bedroom window. None of that seemed real now, like a dream he'd had. His years since that, on the other hand, were all too vivid. He chugged beer, wiped his mouth. But he wasn't about to go all dark and tortured on anyone. Start moussing his hair. He'd model himself on Anya. What was done was done. The creature that had inhabited his body, that was responsible for his actions and it was gone now. All that was left was him, the person he'd built around the demon, despite it, and he wasn't a bad man. He turned the bag of chips upside down. He was just really hungry.

A knock at the door and he cursed his depleted sense of hearing. Before, he'd have sensed someone at the end of the hall, now anyone equipped with sneakers, a hatchet and a need for retribution was free to take a swing. He killed the sound, looked around for a weapon, settled on a wine bottle. Moved up against the door, eye to peephole.

Oh.

Giles.

Bollocks.

He cursed silently, what did he want? Buffy must have told him. Buffy. Just thinking about her made him break out in a familiar cold sweat. He composed himself. Swung the door wide, greeted him with a not all together unfriendly smile.

"Rupert!"

God, and it was almost worth the whole trip back just to see the look on the old sod's face. His face stretched wider with a wicked grin of delight.

"Come on in. Make yourself at home. Have a beer. Sit down."

Glad to have been given some instructions Giles found the feeling in his legs, found his way to a chair, stared at him with burgeoning horror.

"My God, it is true. You're alive."

Spike cracked another beer, handed it to him. A second passed, while his eyes took it all in, the chips, the overflowing fridge, the empty mini-bar and then, more slowly, him. The hair, the face, the radical change of style, "Have you put on weight?"

He choked, suddenly self-conscious, drew himself upright. "Couple of pounds."

Giles snorted, "Try a stone."

"Easy, Dad! You're looking a little more ... comfortable yourself."

He saw him bridle, find a retort and then falter, feel the shift of attitude between them. No one knew how to take him anymore. It wasn't so much the change of outward appearances, he knew Giles felt the subtle absence, the lack of real bile. But he could still snipe it out with the best of them, of that he had no doubt. The row he'd had with the manager? Just yesterday? When the guy had tried to saddle him with a room without a view? He slumped, sighed, looked at his feet. Who was he kidding? He was a bloody pussy cat. And just as he was thinking that, who should appear in the doorway? If he was a pussy cat, what did that make her? Catnip?

No smile between them, just a look, but one that obviously made Giles feel out of place. Her ex-watcher had been thankfully completely unaware of their relationship, only learning the most skeletal details from an over-descriptive Dawn during one telephone conversation, but knew that it was supposed to be over. Buffy moved into the room, closed the door, perched on a dresser at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. Giles had never been a student of body language but something was being pretty definitely spelt out to him now.

Go to the bar.

He rose to his feet, knocked back the rest of the beer, "Sorry, I'm just going to go and ... er ... get something a little stronger. Won't be long."

So now what? He found himself wanting to go after Giles, anywhere he wouldn't have to deal with this. With her. With emotions. His undiminished sense of self-preservation took over and he leaned back on the bed, tres casual, cranked the sound up on 'I Love Lucy'. A moment passed and he could feel her watching him, measuring him up. Felt his gaze being inextricably drawn back to hers.

"What do you want me to say?"

And here it came. The lead in to the all-too-familiar Summers tirade. He closed his eyes, tried to let it wash over him, like always. But this time it was different. There was a note in her voice that he didn't recognise. Anguish. He looked at her. She really didn't know.

"What I want and what you feel are two different things. As we both know." He couldn't stop the desperation from creeping in, hated the sound of it and he didn't want to go there again. He sighed softly, turned off the TV.

"I told you last night. I didn't come back for ... this. What happened to me out there, it wasn't my choice, it wasn't what I asked for. But I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry it turned out this way. I realised something a while ago, but I couldn't admit it, not to myself. Becoming a vampire, it was a cop-out for me. Real life ... was just too hard. All the pain and the ... it was all so complicated, so when I was offered a way out, a way to rise above it all, I took it. And then I didn't have to worry about anything any more. I was free of it. Free of life."

He took a long pull on his beer. "All these years, pretending I was someone I'm not, making out like I was the Big Bad? It was all just fake. I was just too scared to be the real me."

Her eyes were cast down now, not in disbelief but because she was listening to him. He could see her lean towards him slightly, her hands move to rest on her knees. God, he wanted to hold her so much, it was like a physical pain. It was everything he could do to stop himself from getting up, taking her hands, brushing her hair away from her eyes. He swallowed.

"I'm sorry." And for the first time he felt it, really felt it in his gut and his heart, worse than any regret he'd known. That pain on the night he'd left, after he'd hurt her so badly? The time she'd told him finally "it's over"? That was nothing compared to this. He felt sick with it, realised for the first time that this was the real difference, the change he'd made in himself. He'd wanted it to hurt, wanted to suffer, because then he could start to heal, to, how had she put it? Move on. Like Willow was doing right now. But to come here, to drag her back into it? He didn't want that. He'd never wanted her pain, only his own. He stood, went for the door but she raised her face, stopped him with a look. So sad and tired, her eyes rimmed with red.

"What for? What is it you're sorry for?"

Her voice was calm but he could hear the tremor she hid so skilfully beneath and it cut him deep. There had been a time when nothing was hidden between them and he had treasured that. Their bond, although her affection was always absent, had been so very close. She had let him in, into her arms, her life, her bed, into her and he had found something there that, until then, he didn't think could exist. He loved her, before with his mind and his body, now with all his heart and he could barely look at her now, the guilt making him shake. Thinking it's my fault. I'm hurting her just by being here. So sorry Buffy. So selfish of me and before he could stop it his hand went out, cupped her cheek gently, stroked, soothed her.

"Everything." Fuck, it was in his voice too now. "I swear I never meant..."

"I know. I know you didn't. I'm sorry too."

She blinked, closed her eyes, rested against his palm for a second and he leaned in, breathed the scent of her hair.

Have to go, have to go now. Feet, move, please, because now she was taking his hand, soft, small fingers pressed into his palm, holding his wrist, gentle, pressing the palm to her lips. He felt his breath catch in his throat as she turned her face up to him. Feet, move. Please, feet. Now would be a good time.

"How about this? We start over."

That was another thing he was going to have to start getting used to. Swallow. Remember to swallow. What had she just said?

"I mean you being a ... new man and all? Willow being on her way to recovery, Xander and Anya with the ... new life bringing. I mean, this feels like fresh start material. Don't you think?"

He could nod, he knew he could do that. So do it! Nodded.

"Good. That's good. Then that's ... what we'll do."

And there it was, just a flash, but it was something, enough. That look in her eyes as she gently let go his hand. Just a trace of ... was that reluctance? He sensed she'd noticed him noticing, the stir of self-conscious surprise and suddenly she was on her feet too, chin up, slayer-cool restored.

"So, hey, I'll just go back out now and then..." she motioned into the corridor, "I'll, you know, come back in again." And she did. Went out. Closed the door behind her.

He stood motionless. So, this was it? Is this what he wanted? A new start, a fresh start in good old Sunny-D? His head told him no, shouted it. He needed more time, a long time alone, he needed to think and this wasn't thinking. This was doing. This was too much like Spike and he wasn't Spike anymore, didn't want to be. Spike was hardness, coldness, hurt, pain and death and he was done with that. It tasted like ashes. So what? What did he want? Peace? That was a joke, if he'd wanted that he should have gone with Tara. A home? Did he want a home now, to find his place, take a number? Friends? Real life? Did he know anything, really want anything?

The door knocked and he opened it. She stood there, stuck a hand out, straight.

"William, right? Hi there! Buffy Summers!"

He knew.

6.

"So which one?"

Dawn frowned, head on one side. What a cutie she was sometimes. "I'm not sure," her brow knitted, "Did you say you want slutty or just...?"

She sighed, threw the top to join the others on the floor. "This one?"

Her sister's mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. God, sometimes ... it was wierd the times Dawn reminded her of Mom. Or was it herself? She couldn't differentiate.

"That one's so ... grey."

Was she colour-blind now? "It's purple!"

Another face, "You know what I mean. Don't you want to look ... you know ... sexy?"

God, how was it she was growing up so fast? She raised her eyebrows, enough already. "Did I say that? Sexy does not enter into the equation. I want ... capable."

The retching sound, God, how she hated that. Had she been this obnoxious as a teenager? She refused to believe it, tried the last one against herself in the mirror. This didn't say capable, but it did say ... flat chested. She sighed. Why was that even an issue? Was Dawn right? Did she want to look sexy tonight? She reached around in her head, tried to get a hold on her feelings about having him here, in her house, with Giles and Xander and Anya. God, Xander and Anya. This was going to be a tough one.

"How 'bout this one?"

She was in her closet now, going through her things with the smooth practice of someone who knew their way around. Held out the white lace one. Hadn't seen that in a while. She shook her head firmly.

"Why not? It's pretty!"

And now she could felt her face heating up. "Remember that night ... the one I wouldn't tell you about, no matter how many times you asked? When the ... building fell down?"

Dawn's eyes went wide, saucers, flushed scarlet, shoved the blouse to the very back. "Right. Go with the purple one. Good choice!"

This was wierd. Everything felt so ... what was that term Giles used ... 'off kilter', and everyone was feeling it. When she'd gone round to Xander's, found the two of them kneeling on the floor, deep breathing together, practicing their le mars thingy, she'd tried to make it sound really casual. Just a little get-together, to celebrate Willow's breakthrough, Gile's visit, no biggie. But she had felt Xander's discomfort when he'd asked, "And is he going to be there?"

Was there any way out of this that wouldn't involve the shouting and the probable bloodshed? "Yes, I asked him to come."

Xander's head went down, slid Anya off his lap. "Look, Buff, I meant what I said before. If you want to forgive him, well ... that's your decision. But you can't expect us to just..."

Involuntarily his eyes flicked to Anya, it was enough. She threw down Dr Spock, "Oh, I see! So when you said it was all behind us ... what you actually meant was 'I won't mention it unless I happen to think of it'. Well ... thank you very much, Xander, now I have to pee again."

She stalked away in the direction of the bathroom, her grand exit only slightly marred by the fluffy hippo slippers, and slammed the door so hard it made the frame jump. He sighed, got to his feet, putting the exercise mat away. Buffy felt a stir of guilt. She hadn't meant to bring up painful memories, now Anya was mad and it was all her fault. The bathroom door swung open again and a sweetly smiling face poked out,

"Honey, could you get my robe? I'm going to take a bath now."

"Sure thing, cup-cake."

The door closed and he saw her looking at him, eyebrows raised.

"It's a mood thing. This morning she made me waffles for breakfast and burnt one..." He indicated the ceiling above their heads, a gelatinous mess of honey and waffle batter. "My mom says it'll wear off in ... eighteen years or so."

He sunk down into the sofa. So very tired and, after a second or two, she joined him. Listened to the water running in the bathtub, Anya's singing, was that, the Carpenters? Wouldn't have guessed that one. They risked a look at each other. Contrition on both sides. So, cut me some slack, Xander, this is hard for me too you know? She saw him feel that, the kindly big brother part of him start to kick in.

"So how is he ... you know, so different?"

She hadn't known how to answer that one. Only knew that he was. Different. Now she looked at herself in the mirror again, for at least the twentieth time that night, pulled at the strap on her haltertop. The question was, how was she.

The doorbell went, followed by the thunderous sound of Dawn's feet on the stairs.

"I'll get it!"

And suddenly she felt queasy, like sea-sickness but without the pleasant holiday associations. Was this really such a good idea? Maybe a public place would have been safer, with lots of people, somewhere bright. Bright. So strange to think of seeing him in sunlight. She glanced out of the window, saw the sun wasn't quite down yet, moved to the dresser, selected a lipstick that said 'pretty' rather than 'take me now'.

"So you're not planning on jumping his bones tonight then?" Anya stood in the doorway, an earnest look on her face, one hand resting on her barely noticeable bump.

Buffy flushed, "Not tonight or any time. Really." She couldn't tell what she was thinking. "It's just dinner. I thought ... I said we could just try to make a fresh start."

Anya studied her, folded her arms. "So the being human now thing? That's not ... like a big deal to you?"

This was a mine-field, she could feel it. Discussing the semantics of reanimation with a moody, pregnant, two-time-ex-vengeance demon? Really not the best way to get the night off to a melodious start. She considered lying, but if there was one thing that Anya knew, it was the truth.

"It's a big deal, Anya, it's a very big deal. I'm just saying ... everything doesn't change just because he can ... see his reflection now. We all have stuff to talk about."

She thought she saw her nod, seem about to go, but then she was walking over, closing the door behind her. Oh God, was she going to end up like the waffles? Her eyes darted around for a means of escape. But suddenly, oh too wierd. This was ... too wierd. She was hugging her. Not just a cursory squeeze, really hugging, with actual warmth. Hormones were so strange. She pulled back a little, saw she was a little teary-eyed.

"It's not just the hormones. I want you to be happy, Buffy. Because I'm happy!" She shook her head, surprised at herself, "Isn't that odd?"

She choked, tried not to laugh, "It is. Thanks. I'd like that too."

She wasn't letting go though, "I mean, I don't like anyone any more than I did before, but suddenly I don't want to kill them all. At least," she grinned, a little crazy now, "not tonight anyway!"

She suddenly realised that they'd been hugging for a little longer than was necessary, stood back, smiled, more normal now. "That halter makes your boobs disappear," and with that, nodded, satisfied and let herself out. She could hear Xander downstairs now, messing with Dawn, squeals and Giles' familiar intervention. Was this for the best? Really? Maybe she should have waited, let them all adjust to the idea first. Then the bell again and suddenly her time was up.

From the top of the stairs she watched Dawn gallop to the door, barely able to contain her excitement, swing it wide. God, this was so strange. He was standing on the porch taking in the sunset, hands in pockets, and it wasn't just the hair now, the clothes. It was all of him. His face as he turned to see Dawn, just lit up from inside. She remembered it before, always that mask of cool, reserved affection for the littlest Summers, so wary of appearing too soft, too human. Now, she thought he would have whooped with delight if he'd known how to. Grabbed Dawn, hugged her, stared at her in amazement, "Good God Niblet! Have you grown a metre?"

"Two inches since June!"

She was as thrown as he was, but completely overwhelmed by her happiness to see him. They took in the faces of the others and then her fingers were winding their way through his. Turning the tables on the whole thing. He glanced at her, grateful for her protection. She saw Dawn draw herself up, ready for the onslaught and felt a stab of pride. Dawn loved Spike, she believed in him and she was ready to stand up for that. Her little sister. So why couldn't she?

She took a step, craned her head around the banister. Not ready just yet, though. Need to see how this is going to play out. Uncomfortable silence was an understatement, somebody say something, anything.

"So, the whole breathing thing? How's that working out for ya?" It was a start and for Xander, a miraculously polite one. She could see Spike struggling for an answer that wouldn't tip the whole evening into chaos.

"It's ... ah ... fun. Yeah."

More silence. Giles sipped a brandy a little too casually. God, this was like watching a car crash, an incredibly lo-speed car crash involving inflatable clown cars. God, now Anya, "Are you finding the sweating a problem? I've found zinc based products..." she caught a look from Giles, got a little indignant, "Well, what would you know? You've been a constant ninety-eight degrees your whole life."

This was going to turn ugly unless they changed the subject and now she could sense Giles coming to the rescue, "So, I ... how was ... Africa?"

Dawn's eyes were dancing, gripping his arm, "Did you see any lions?"

They were on safe ground here. Animals.

"No, but on the way across the desert? I saw them setting up for Star Wars: Episode Three..."

And then Xander was in, "Subtitled: Computer Generated Grimace: Death Of Any Kind Of Interesting Plotline."

And suddenly she knew it was going to be OK. There would be always be the friction, distrust, but she knew now that she had underestimated the changes in both of them. Xander was giving Spike the benefit of the doubt, perhaps for the first time in their long and bitter assocation. When had he suddenly grown up? In the twenty minutes she'd been fussing with her hair in the bathroom? She looked from her friend to his radiant girlfriend, her arm looped through his, smiling up at him and suddenly she knew. The change had been there for a while. It wasn't when Anya had forgiven him, it was when he'd forgiven himself.

With a deep breath she straightened up, adjusted the straps beneath her white lace top. This wasn't going to be easy, but as her Mom had always told her, nothing worthwhile ever was. She took a step down the stairs, felt his eyes on her, full of surprise and delight. Then Dawn's, noticing her outfit, understanding the implication, breaking into a knowing grin.

"That's much better!" Anya beamed, "And your breasts look magnificent!"

7.

And now he had them all exactly where he wanted them.

The idiot Xander just standing there, nowhere to go, so alone, all escape routes neatly sealed off. He could almost smell his fear, at least he might have been able to had his nostrils still been of the demon variety, instead of the low-grade human kind. He was looking around for his Anya now, looking for any kind of help, desperate, but she was out of it, long since dispatched by a single masterful stroke. He could still picture her expression, total confusion, disbelief, followed by horror. God, this was sweet. This was what it was all about.

Then Giles had thought himself some kind of match for him, but how wrong had he been? It had taken exactly fifteen seconds for him to find out just how little he really knew about combat. Now he was down and out for the count too, fumbling at the carpet like a blind man. So, no change there. Just the two left to go now. The sweetest. The littlest Summers and then ... her, and he was going to enjoy this, savour it. He could almost taste it already, his victory, heady like a good wine, how long it had been in coming and now it was almost upon him, almost...

"Hey!" he frowned, suddenly furious. "Japan's mine! You can't have Japan!"

She grinned at him, all white teeth and golden hair, eyes sparkling with mischief, "Snuck up on you there, while you were busy pounding Xander in the Steppes! Herald the conquering Summers army!! We are victorious!!"

Then Dawn made the little blue horses dance, Buffy doing the trumpet. Bloody hell. Suddenly this game sucked.

"I don't think that's playing fair, anyway." He could hear the whine creeping into his voice, stamped it down.

"What? Kickin' yo' ass?"

The bit was getting too big for her boots now. It was bad enough losing to big sis, let alone having it rammed down his throat by Niblet here. She could do with a little discipline, show a bit of respect for her elders. He snorted, "The two of you ganging up I mean. This is a game of world domination. Lonely are the brave and all that!"

Buffy swept the pieces off the table not without a touch of triumph, back into their box, "What about the allies? World War II? Maybe I was America ... and Dawn was like ... England or something!"

"In which case you'd have spent the first hour hiding under the table pretending nothing was happening. Until the worst of it was over and you could come in, shoot a few dying Gerries and claim all the glory."

That was low. He knew it, glanced at Giles for support, saw him look pointedly at the curtains. Xander was shaking his head, full of disgust, "I see. So now it's not enough to beat everyone else. You want to insult our heritage too? You are walking a very thin line, my man."

He rolled his eyes, felt in his pockets for a cigarette.

"The trouble with you lot is ... Oi!"

What was she doing? That was his last one! And he hadn't even lit it yet! Watched her tear it up in tiny pieces, throw it into the empty fireplace.

"You're quitting. As of tonight."

Bloody great. First she stomped his ass all over Central Asia, now she was telling him what he could and couldn't put in his mouth. She flashed a warning look at him and he felt his anger melt, fast, like snow on a hot plate. God, she looked gorgeous when she got all self-righteous like that. He'd like to tell her what to put in her...

"So, who's for cheesecake? Dawnie made it!"

A chorus of spectacularly unconvincing voices, making yummy sounds until the cook interjected, quietly confessional, "I didn't really. I just said that. It's Entenmann's"

Dessert was suddenly far more appealing. Buffy counted hands, went for the plates.

"So ... who's for another hand of poker?" Hope was dancing in Anya's eyes as she rattled the box of chips. Xander prised them out of her fingers with difficulty, tossed them, kissed her hands.

"Another night, sweetie. You've had enough of everyone's money for one evening."

She sighed, petulant, sunk back into his arms, "It's not fair. I won't be pregnant for much longer ... and they won't let me win any more once I'm not."

Xander laughed, glanced round at their faces. Stopped cold, "You were letting her win?"

Spike studied his fingernails. Giles cleared his throat, "Well, she's very..."

"Delicate? She's not you know!"

"Actually ... I was going to say scary."

Anya nodded, stroked his arm. "I am scary. You should all be scared. The producing of new life is a ... terrifying and miraculous process."

Dawn reached her hand up, for at least the fourth time, felt the bump. "I still can't feel it kicking though. Are you sure it did?"

Anya grunted, "It doesn't kick. It writhes. I think it may be reptile."

Xander's face was a picture. Spike tried vainly to hide the smirk, couldn't, went to see how the dessert was progressing. She was in the kitchen, he leaned on the door frame, unnoticed.

He could watch her all night, sometimes had. From his night-time post by the fir tree, he could see her whole life, glimpsed through single yellow frames. Watching TV, reading, studying, brushing her hair at her night stand. It had felt so impossible then, that he could ever be there, in the picture with her. They had been separated, by light and dark, two distinct halves of the same whole, but he had so wanted it. To pass over, to move into the halo that surrounded her, become part of it. That had been his secret dream and his torment, for so long. And now?

"See, you're going to have to break yourself of that!"

He flushed, caught in the act. She'd known he was there all along of course. Stupid to think the Slayer could be crept up on.

"Sorry," funny how the word seemed to come so easily now, "I wasn't ... just seeing if you needed any help."

She smiled easily, "There was a time when you wouldn't even have asked."

Was she teasing him now? She wasn't smiling anymore but he could sense her enjoying this, making gentle fun of his newly sensitive side. She wiped the knife off with her finger, "You sure you don't want some of this? It's good! I mean not salsa good but..."

He might have misunderstood her tone, but he didn't think so. Risked a step forward, a hand on the counter top.

"I don't know. Is it sweet?"

He saw her falter, the heat rise in her cheeks, the eyelashes go down. Was she scared of him suddenly? He felt a miserable lump begin to form in his throat, moved back a little. But then there it was again, the tilt of the head, that sparkle in her eye that couldn't be misinterpreted, could it?

"Sort of. It's sort of ... bittersweet."

God, this was like fucking medieval torture. His heart felt like it was going to jump right out of his chest, hammering behind his ribcage like a wild thing. Was she thinking the same thing he was? He thought he knew but then he didn't, couldn't tell if it was just hope trying to make something out of absolutely nothing. But if she wasn't, if she didn't, what the hell was she doing now? The hand coming out to his face, the finger still coated with cheesecake and now finding his lips, softly parting them. He found he'd lost all control of reason, stood there watching her face, her eyes hugely brown and luminous as he gently, slowly, sucked the tip clean, let her draw it back, glistening. Found his voice again finally, but no words.

"Sweet. Am I right?"

Was she asking him that, because maybe it was the voice in his head, the one he could hear over the roar, telling him to start breathing again before he passed out. He was pretty sure it was her, tried to answer.

"Mm hm."

Were they even words? Was that intelligible at all? He felt the blood returning slowly to his legs, his vision become a tad less blurry. Was this even happening or had he fallen asleep with the 'Magic Fingers' going again? Dawn's perky little voice yanked him back to reality, "Is that everyone's? You not having any, Spike? Sorry, William?"

And how was it she could look so innocent now? All serene and blondie curls, as if butter wouldn't melt in her hot little...

"He only wanted a taste. He'll try some another time."

And not even a look with that last one. They swirled out, the two Summers, bearing heaped plates for their other guests, not a backward glance to see why he wasn't following, why he remained firmly pressed against their kitchen counter top.

"Hey, Spike ... I mean ... er ... Spwilliam ... is there any maple syrup left out there?"

Idiot Xander and his insatiable sweet tooth. He glanced around, desperately, dreading the moment when everyone would pour back into the kitchen, discover his predicament. He spotted the syrup. And now what?

"Ye...ah!"

God, did that sound as odd to their ears as it did to his?

"I'll be ... er ... right there."

He looked around again, frantically searching for a tray, oven mitt, anything, glanced back at his trousers. Bloody hell. That bloody sadistic little minx. How much longer before this thing went down?