8.

She could smell his skin. Warm and salty with just a hint of soap to it. And over that, the faintest touch of washing powder from the linen shirt he was wearing.

She tried to remember how he'd smelt before. She thought faintly of earth, damp earth and leather. Occasionally there was something else too, a dry iron-filings smell that made her skin creep, set her teeth on edge, a scent that clung all over him. The smell of blood.

She drew a breath, slowly, filling her lungs with it. The new smell of Spike. Closed her eyes. It smelt like sunshine, like newly-washed sheets hung out to dry in a breeze. Better than fresh coffee or warm bread, better than ... she opened her eyes and he was looking at her with the ghost of a pure-Spike smile.

"Are you OK?"

Oh my God. Had she ... was she just sniffing him? She felt colour rising up through her face, fought to keep it down, below the top of her polo-neck.

"No ... I mean yes, sorry. Getting one of those ... summer cold things."

His eyes widened a fraction, the smile turning to mock-serious concern. "In October. You have to watch those. Could turn into ... you know ... the fall variety."

Damn him. Him and his stupid Spike-ability to tell when she was lying, when she was thinking ... stuff ... she shouldn't be thinking about. It didn't mean anything anyway, she was sure. That other night, with the cheesecake-finger thing, that was just ... it was just a silly joke. The sort of thing friends do all the time. Although obviously not the sort of thing she'd ever do with Willow ... or to Xander. It was just, they were just kidding around, although ... she felt an involuntary shiver as she remembered the feel of his lips closing over the tip of her index finger, the soft touch of his tongue as he ... jeez. Get a hold of yourself. She snuck another glance at him, saw he was smiling again.

"Are we almost there?" God, when had her voice developed that intensely irritating nasal quality? She sounded like Dawn. Xander turned his head, gave her a look of incredulous irritation.

"Will you quit asking me that! I told you. About another five minutes."

He turned back to the road, shook his head.

"For Pete's sake, it's less than ten miles! You're acting like you've been back there all day."

It felt like it. She'd wanted to spend time with him, she'd told him that. Time to get to know each other again, feel each other out. Without the feeling part. But this? This was too much time. And too little space. Cramped together in the back seat of Xander's car surrounded by lumber, her thigh crushed against his hip and every bend forcing them closer still. Her hand slipping on the sweaty vinyl, sending her sprawling into his lap every five minutes.

"What do you need all this wood for anyway? Don't we still have the other wood ... the wood that we got last week and also the wood ... that was the shop and the shelves?"

"I've used it all. Besides I wanted to add a few things, you know ... improve on the original. Anya wants a new area for talismans, plus the whole black arts section has to come out and that wall shored up. Then there's the new counter and..."

"Hey, look! World's Largest Onion!"

And then silence. She thought she heard Xander softly grind his molars. Spike continued to point until the sign was long out of sight.

"So ... much wood needed is what you're saying. Good. Wood is good."

She'd just make it worse, trying to cover for him. The tension was there again, always threatening whenever it was just the three of them. Xander forever acutely aware of the residual Spikeness, the possibility of a sudden lapse. And you'd think the addition of a soul might have effected his intuition, help him to sense when he'd over-stepped the mark. She watched him with narrowed eyes. That innocent look was so studied. Who did he think he was kidding? Xander cleared his throat, signalled, took the next exit labelled Sunnydale. Spike rolled down his window.

What was this all about anyway. No one had asked him to come. Xander needed some help loading the car up? She was there, she was all the help he would ever need. But Spike? What was his story? Xander might be dealing with his reappearance in a startlingly adult fashion but he still wasn't exactly hankering after his company, and she knew the feeling was entirely mutual.

Was it a ploy maybe? An excuse to spend time with her? They hadn't seen much of him this week, what with his trying to organise somewhere permanent to live and their visiting Willow. Maybe he'd missed her. She glanced over again. He had his head fully out the window now, eyes closed. Maybe not. Maybe he just liked cars.

Thank God. They'd passed Sunnydale High. Almost home.

"You guys want to come in? Dawn'll be back soon, we were going to order pizza."

She thought she saw Xander waver, his eyes flicking to the rear view, seeing Spike's interest, "Ah ... you know ... thanks, but I won't. I promised Anya I'd massage her ankles tonight."

Was that a snort? She wished to God he'd try a little harder to control himself.

"OK. Well ... I'll see you tomorrow then. Bright and ... reasonably early."

He pulled into the curb, "Yeah. Put those Slayer muscles to work."

Silence. The engine idled. They looked at each other. Blank.

"You'll have to get out. This side ... I can't get over the wood."

God, what was wrong with him? It was like he was in a coma or something. Was he on medication or something?

"Oh ... sorry..." He opened the door, climbed out, let her out after him. Stood with door open. More silence. He looked back inside the car, back at her. Did she have to say it? She could see Xander's face in the side view, a look that spoke of brotherly concern and more than a just smattering of teenage jealousy. Was she really going to invite him into the house? To be alone ... with just her ... and him? Together? When she knew where it could lead? She saw him start to open his mouth, ask Spike where he wanted to be dropped.

"So do you want ... are you coming in? I mean ... Dawn'll be back in a while ... but we could ... do ... something ... until she ... does?"

God, that sounded ... wierd. Xander rolled his eyes. Stow it, Xander. This is my life, my house. I'll do what I want. If I want to ask an ex-vampire into my home, I can. And if I want to feed him cheesecake, let him suck my fingers. Jeez, what was this? She knew what it felt like. Like she was asking him on a date or something. What was the deal here? And now he was frowning as well. Confusing the hell out of her.

"OK, well ... I'll see you ... both," and Xander was gone, pulling away a little too hastily, leaving them both a touch self-conscious. She found her pockets, stuffed her hands into them.

"Right. OK then."

Shit. Was he just going to stand there now? This was insane. One minute he was there on her doorstep, wanting to go for a ride, anywhere with her, the next ... he looked like he'd rather go have root canal work. Maybe it was Xander he wanted. That was it. He wanted Xander. She shook herself out of it, started up the path. And now he wasn't following. She turned and saw him looking at her. Unreadable. He was always unreadable these days.

"I always used to know what you were thinking."

And sometimes she just forgot who he was now. She couldn't just say this sort of thing to him anymore. He smiled a little, quizzical.

"Now?"

God, he was making this hard. Couldn't they just talk about normal stuff? TV, Dawn. Did it all have to be like this still? The questions? The soul-searching? The tortured love?

"Now ... I can't tell. I wish I could."

He inclined his head slightly, "I could tell you, if you like."

Did she want him to? Did she really wish that? And she knew that wasn't the question he was really asking. He was asking for her permission, permission to feel something for her again. She could sense his wanting to just let go, in exactly the same way she did. Forget everything that had happened in the past between them and just go with this, the thing between them that had been there ever since that first night he returned, human. Different from what they'd had before, but so powerful, even more so than the dark thing, the raw thing that had meant so much to her. And that was what had been stopping her, the strangeness of it, the dizzy sick feeling she got whenever she even thought about kissing him now, letting him touch her, taste her skin. She wanted the new Spike, but ... God this was hard to admit to herself. She was still a little in love with the old.

Could she tell him that. Could she? And if she could, what would that mean? He wanted the old Spike gone. He'd burnt the coat. He'd told her to call him William. And she'd called him ... what was it ... 'a souless, evil creature'. And now what? Tell him that's what she wanted? He took a step or two towards her now and she wondered if he sensed her confusion or was that another vampire trait that had fallen by the wayside, along with the super-strength, the incredibly acute hearing? What else was different about him?

He was just inches away, but still safe. No threat here. But she could smell him again, that clean, new smell that made her face heat up. Was the Slayer blushing now? Trying desperately to retain some of the cool poise he was exhibiting, while her hands mashed the lining of her pockets to a sweaty pulp.

"Most of the time I'm thinking how much I want to kiss you."

She felt her stomach twisting in knots, wanting to shut him up, shove him away, pull him close, all things at once.

"But just then? I was wondering ... how much longer Dawn was really going to be."

And that was it. Even if her brain couldn't make up her mind for her, his mouth would. She leaned into him, found his lips and then the rush, crazy blood pounding its way up through her temples, making her legs buckle, her whole stomach filling with warmth as his hands found her hips, pulled her in.

Fleeting thought. They were on the porch, in broad daylight.

And then the rush again as his hand came up to her breast, pushed her back again the door. He broke, breathing hard, eyes vivid blue like the sky behind him.

"Want to know what I'm thinking now?"

They were half way up the stairs now, he was underneath, hands under her t-shirt, sliding over her back, her breasts again, pulling her down to him.

Another thought. They were right in front of the door. Dawn could walk in any minute.

And then he was on his feet, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands locked under her, her hands in his hair, down between them to his fly. Against the wall, knocking the pictures sideways. She started to laugh, found he was too, found his lip, pulled it into her mouth, tasted salty blood. Shoved him down to the floor with her whole weight, ripped the shirt open, the buttons off.

Were they going to do it right here? On the rug? In front of her Mom's room? In front of Dawn's? And then up again, backing along the hall, still pulling at each other's clothes, his shirt off, hers, and then bare-breasted against his chest, dragging at his jeans, dragging at hers, his mouth hungry on hers, her whole body going into a full-on melt down as she pushed him back onto her bed. One arm looped up around her neck, bringing her face down to him again, a hand on one hip, pulling her on top and then ... god in heaven. Staring down into his beautiful face, as his eyes closed, her mouth came open wordlessly. Fingers catching in her hair, finding her hips again, thumbs pressing down as the unmistakable sound of the back door opening reached both their ears.

"Buffy! You back? Is it OK if I come up and use your CD player?"

And the sound of teenage feet on stairs and both scrambling for the door, like a bizarre naked wheelbarrow race, his hand going for the handle, her foot kicking out, simultaneous shouts,

"No ... Dawn ... no ... you..."

And she knew she must have seen, because that look on her face, in the split second, caught in the inch wide gap just before it slammed shut. They lay on the rug, limbs twisted impossibly, her legs still firmly locked around the small of his back. Panting.

Small voice on the other side.

"Or I could ... you know ... come and ... play my CD later."

A couple of footsteps. Her own door opening.

"When you aren't having crazy naked sex with Spike."

9.

How were they going to play this one?

He perched on the edge of the bed, knit his fingers. Listened to the water running in the shower. Was this a good sign? The look on her face after Dawn's inopportune appearance had told him, unequivocally no. Shame. Of the totally crippling variety and then, straight into the shower, as if the smell of him on her skin suddenly repulsed her. On the scale of one to ten he'd have to give it ... sod all.

He'd known it was a mistake, had from the second he'd gotten out of the car, stood in front of her house knowing he wanted her, that she wanted him just as much. Knew it. God, in the car, he'd caught her sniffing him, the exact same look on her face as he had on his every time she came within ten yards of him. Wanting to taste her skin. Had only just managed to stop himself throwing her down then, taking her on Harris's clammy vinyl seats while the idiot watched them goggle-eyed in the rear view mirror.

He'd wanted her with every breath, felt the gut-crunching ache ever time he had to see her. But now ... like this? This was too fast, too soon, and too much like the old thing, the insane need thing. What the hell had happened? One minute they'd been talking, the next thing he knew he had his mouth clamped over her nipple. Had he even asked her permission ... to do that? What had happened to taking his time? Building something with her, before ... he heard the water shut off.

Finally. She'd been in there a long time.

******

How was she going to handle this?

She leaned her forehead against the cold tile, let the hot water slide down her neck, between her shoulder blades. Her skin still felt like it was vibrating, hyper-sensitised by his hands, the feeling of his thumbs pressing down into ... god, enough! Every time she thought she had this under control, the thoughts slipped out of her, making her spine feel as if it was made of silly-putty. She could be doing the most mundane things, turning the burgers at work and suddenly ... the feeling of his lips as he crushed his mouth against her, his hands gripping her upper arms, pinning her ... and then ... there was the burnt meat. Sophie had told her she looked as if she was comatose, "Your eyes sorta shut and then your pupils start going like you're in r.e.m sleep or something. One time ... your mouth hung open and you actually drooled."

"I ... drooled? I did not drool!"

"You did. It went on the hot-plate. That's against Health and Safety."

What the hell was wrong with her? That first night with him ... it was like he'd flicked a switch inside her, found a setting she didn't even know existed. Right above one for 'fantastic' and two for 'earth-shattering'. She doubted it even had a label ... possibly something unpronounceable. Remembered that line from 'Spinal Tap', smiled a little and ran a hand over her tingling belly, shut off the water. Spike was definitely one louder.

******

And it wasn't as if he hadn't been making an effort.

The cold shower had become a twice daily occurrence. He tried to avoid eye contact as much as possible, had even taken to wearing restrictive underwear in a vain attempt to keep himself under some kind of physical restraint. This week, he'd deliberately started pulling the phone out of the wall before he went to bed, knowing that the temptation to call her was always strongest in the middle of the night.

When he thought about it he couldn't honestly imagine how he could have taken it any slower, been more circumspect. Everything he'd done, had said, had been purposely engineered to let her feel safe from him. To let her know that he was willing to take his time, was capable of patience.

He mashed his knuckles into his eyes with sudden despair. Although ... the sucking the nipple thing ... that might have given her the wrong impression.

God, he'd fucked it up.

******

Christ, and now ... she'd really fucked it up.

She wrapped the towel around her hips, palmed some moisturiser, smoothed it onto her upper arms, her throat. He'd been so guarded, so quiet ever since he'd been back. The human part of him so pink and new, so vulnerable to pain. She'd sensed his trepidation, his need to take it slow, be gentle with her and how had she responded to that? By tearing the buttons off his shirt and shoving him into the carpet.

He was right. She was an animal. The switch he'd thrown, it'd changed her forever and now she wasn't sure, didn't know if she could ever be satisfied any other way. And what if that wasn't what he wanted now, what William wanted? After all, he hadn't instigated that ... display before. He'd wanted to make love to her and what was that? She had always thought she knew, that she wanted tenderness. But safe, warm human sex ... versus insane thigh-inflaming vampire love? Her eyes snapped open. God ... Sophie was right ... she did drool.

******

He lay full length on her bed, buried his face in the indentation her head had made, breathed deep, tasted her. God, now there was drool on her pillow. He turned over, put his hands behind his head. Looked around.

Such a girly room for so experienced a woman.

He rolled over to her bedside table, inspected the pictures of Willow and Xander, her Mom, the tiny passport sized one of her, aged six, and her Dad. Git.

A silver pocket watch he recognised as having once been Giles. He held it to his ear, solid tick, good quality British craftsmanship. Put it back. Her crucifix nancy-boy had given her. And under it, a folded sheet of cream paper that seemed strangely familiar, a little singed at the edges. He slid it out, opened it.

His own hand-writing sprang out at him from the page, unmistakable with it's black spiderweb hand, his favourite pen, long-since lost in the unfortunate grenade incident. He felt his face heat up as he recognised the poem.

Bloody hell. Where had she found this?

******

"It was in your crypt. Clem found it when he was sorting through ... stuff. He thought ... he asked me if I'd like to have it."

His voice sounded strange, strained, "Did he now. How thoughtful of him."

Oh God, was he pissed off? She couldn't tell but she thought she recognised the trademark huffiness, the fake-nonchalant arch of his brows.

"Don't be mad at him. I mean ... he thought ... I mean, you did write it for me?"

No, it wasn't anger. God, he was embarrassed. Really squirming. She should have thought. Stupid Buffy.

It had been private. Just like him reading her diary. Knowing all her most intimate thoughts, about him, stuff that she'd never ever utter aloud to a living soul, the things she'd thought about after she left him naked, came home in the dark, crept into bed. She felt her own colour rising as she remembered phrases she'd written, glanced at him, her face mirroring his own. She sat down on the edge of the bed,

"I wouldn't have read it if I'd known it was ... private. I'm sorry."

A small nod, he knew. Didn't really help though. Couldn't unread it. She frowned, reached a hand out, caught his fingers, took it back. Unfolded it.

******

God, she wouldn't!

Please don't let her read it aloud.

He didn't think he could stand that, thought his head might implode. Bad enough that she'd read it at all without having to listen to his mawkish syllables on her own lips. Bloody Clem. He didn't buy the 'clearing stuff out' bollocks for one second. He'd known exactly what he was doing. Knew how Buffy would feel about a poem.

Big loose-skinned bloody stirrer. He might be a old romantic but he knew nothing about poetry, if he had he certainly wouldn't have done it. Wouldn't have put her in the position of having to suffer his diabolical couplets. Pretend to like them. So stupid, so clumsy...

******

"It's so beautiful."

She let her eyes skim over again it for maybe the hundredth time, then looked back at his face. Why did he seem so surprised? She flushed, "Sorry, I mean ... no one's ever written anything like this ... for me before."

He cleared his throat, managed to summon enough energy to take it back. "It's just ... a ... it isn't finished really. I didn't mean anyone to ever..."

His gaze locked with hers and there was real fear. What was he so afraid of? Did he think she would laugh at him? Tell him he was a sentimental idiot? Make fun of his beautiful words, the sincerest most flattering description of herself she'd ever read? What sort of person would do that? She reached a hand to his face, traced his cheekbone.

"Read it to me."

God, if he'd looked terrified before, now he looked as if he about to crawl out of his skin. Folded the paper tight, four times, crushed it into his pocket. But she took it from him, prised his fingers gently, smoothed it, flattened it out. Placed it in his lap.

"Read it to me."

She let herself slide forward onto her elbows, rested her chin, sharp, on his thigh. He was staring at her now as if she was insane, but he didn't fold it again, didn't put it away. She reached out, touched the sheet with one finger.

"Read it."

He blinked twice, gave a little shake of his head. She thought she heard him grit his teeth just before he cleared his throat to begin.

"Filled with light, my dark beloved,
Tho' still my heart, my love uncovered.
Her beauty bright as sun forgotten,
Her eyes to gems, as silk to cotton."

He stopped, his expression excuisitely pained. "Buffy ... it's..."

"The next part ... I like the next part."

He swallowed audibly, read on,

"Miraculous the sound of feet
could cause this empty heart to beat,
that lips could spell, each kiss a letter,
end to a life that death made better.
That wondrous touch on silent chest,
Could bring at last, eternal rest.
That love could change that quiet place,
that hope be written in a face."

He glanced at her, saw her eyes close, lashes fluttering as he said the last part from memory,

"The balm to lonely, cold damnation,
My sanctuary, my one salvation,
Her body — altar, her voice my prayer,
My one. My love. My own. My Slayer."

He folded the paper slowly, deliberately, put it back on her night-stand. Watched her now, warily. She drew a deep breath, opened her eyes,

"Has anyone ever told you that you write beautiful poetry?"

Caught off guard, he nodded. "Dru did once. But I don't think she was entirely impartial at the time."

She raised her eyebrows, a question mark.

"Just before she killed me. ... Not quite the response you were after?"

Was this OK now? Was he going to be all right about this? She caught his eye, saw some residual discomfort.

"It's OK. Really. I'm glad ... you read it. Glad you liked it..."

She buried her face in his thigh, let his hand rest on the nape of her neck, warming it.

"Didn't like it."

She risked a glance at him, saw his pained face, the William face, the one that made her heart hurt, would always.

But it was Spike too. More Spike than Spike. And it was all right. The part of him, the part she recognised, it was still there. She hadn't lost him at all. He'd just been misplaced ... under all that newness. Smiled, buried her face again, muffling her voice,

"Loved it."

10.

It was nice out here still.

No winter chill just yet, though it hadn't exactly been an Indian Summer this year. Not that she would know. Hadn't seen much of it cooped up in the land of the nut job. She chastised herself silently ... no, that was unkind. The land of the ... mentally unavailable. She sighed, turned the next page of the book she wasn't exactly reading.

God, she wanted to go home. She wondered how much longer it would be before she could convince them that she was ready now, that she was no longer 'a danger to society and to herself'. Of course if they knew the real truth, the real extent of her actions, she was sure that time would be never. But she had been saved from all that, about the only time the intervention of The Watcher's Council had been a welcome one. She had Giles to thank for her impending reintroduction to society, Giles who she had always looked up to, regarded as the father she would rather have had, Giles who had saved her life, Giles who she had almost killed with a variety of serrated weapons. She shook her head in sudden anguish, flipped another page. She shouldn't think of that, he'd told her not to. It only made things worse, things that could never, would never be changed now. Besides, those memories weren't hers. They didn't belong. That was the other Willow.

At times she felt as if her whole personality had been fractured, all the dark thoughts, the badness, the spite and jealousy that she had so often felt but refused to allow herself to externalise, had been channelled into the other Willow. As Xander had so adeptly put it, "Like Superman ... in Superman III, when he goes all bad and grimey 'cos of the tar in the kryptonite that Richard Pryor makes?"

He'd tried to make light of it and, ironically, it was the only thing that did. Xander and his constant, all-abiding cheerfulness and expansive love. She smiled sadly, he would always loved her, had proved that to her in the most spectacular fashion possible, but no matter how hard he tried, he would never understand how it felt. How the guilt and grief ate at her still, despite Tara's forgiveness. Sometimes she didn't think there was anyone who could.

"Is this seat taken?"

She shielded her eyes from late afternoon sun, surprised that anyone else would want to be out here. The young man dropped onto the bench next to her and she started in surprise as she recognised the angular profile, so incongruous in direct sunlight.

"Bit chilly. Wouldn't you be better off inside?"

She turned back to her book, uncertain what to say. Had he come hoping to bump into Buffy? Or maybe he was thinking she'd be grateful to him for bringing her the stone, that it would mend some bridges.

"I could fetch you a jumper?"

All right, this was just weird, "If you're looking for Buffy ... she left about two hours ago."

He was watching her, squinting a little at the brightness of the sunset, "Oh. Right then."

She looked back at him, studying his face now, trying to see if there were any visual clues, anything physical that marked a difference. He'd put on a little weight, but that was hardly surprising, he'd been living on a meagre diet of pig's blood and Weetabix for almost three years, calories in that had to be pretty low. Nice though, added a bit of bulk to him, this last year he'd begun to look tired, almost haggard. Although that was probably more due to emotional torment rather than a lack of fresh haemoglobin. And his hair was brown now. She screwed up her nose, didn't like that as much.

"What?"

"Your hair ... I think I preferred it before."

He rolled his eyes, felt for his cigarettes, seemed a little irritated to find them gone.

"They don't let you anyway."

She indicated a 'no smoking sign' nearby, settled back for a good, long stare. He didn't seem to mind anyway, smiled a little, stared back. Buffy was right, he was wholly different and not just in a surface way. There was something in his eyes that she was certain had never been there, although she had to admit she'd never made a habit of staring deep into them before. Was it his soul she could see? Or just the absence of something else?

"Is it quiet in there?"

He raised his eyebrows, evidentally no one had asked him that before. "Sometimes. Other times..." he shook his head, "There's stuff to deal with, you know?"

She nodded. She did.

"I mean I'm not saying I'm going to go all Dark Avenger or anything and I still think he goes way overboard on the whole smouldering martyr bit, but I am starting to understand what he was talking about. About feeling he had to pay, to suffer..."

"Angel?"

"Yeah." It was almost as if the sound of his name caused pain. "When the gypsies did that to him, he tried to pretend it didn't make a difference at first. He came on the hunt, you know, like always. At first he was worse than ever, he'd kill anything that moved, that tried to speak to him, but gradually ... he changed. One night I caught him crying over this young girl he'd killed, he just couldn't do it anymore. Being a vampire, it's as if the whole world is yours, everything is offered to you on a plate, you can take what you want without ... Being given a soul..." He focused, trying to understand. "It's like someone suddenly tuned it in. Like a radio. All the pain, the grief, all the blood and the terror. Everything I ever did, it's there whenever I close my eyes."

She swallowed hard, found herself wanting to reach for his hand.

"But that wasn't you! I mean not the real you, the now you. It was the demon that was ... inside you. It's not as if you could have..."

"Stopped myself? Isn't that what I'd been doing ever since they stuck that thing in my head? Sure, the headaches were a bitch, but in the end, that wasn't what stopped me from feeding."

"It wasn't?"

He seemed weary now, as if just talking about it had put himself back there. Into the mind of the demon that had inhabited him for so long. "I knew there must be something else. Something better than being dead."

She couldn't stop herself from smiling at that one. "Well, you know ... many things are."

"What things?"

She stared at him again. What was he trying to say? That being a demon was preferable to being alive? That he wanted out already?

"Spike ... there are hundreds of things! Hundreds!"

He crossed his arms, fixed her with that razor blue stare. She frowned, angry at him for being so darned obtuse.

"Well, for Pete's sake! There's..." she looked around, "The sky! I mean ... look at that sky, you can't tell me that's not worth something. The sun ... you're telling me you don't love waking up to see the sun every day now? And saying 'Hello Mr Sunshine'?"

He snorted, "Who are you? Pollyanna? Gimme something I can work with here."

"Okay, Mr Negative!" she knew she was hitting a home-run with this one, "Food! You're not telling me you don't love how everything tastes now, I mean, compared with the blood?"

He shrugged a little, grudgingly, "I'm not denying that my life has been enriched by certain ... name brands, but you have to realise, to a vamp ... blood is filet mignon washed done with the finest cabernet."

She grimaced, did he have to be so ... descriptive? And was he saying that he'd done this whole 'getting a soul' thing for no good reason? That it was a bust? Being evil was better? Because if he was, she knew that wasn't strictly true. There had been a reason. Was one.

"And Buffy?"

His gaze was steady now, "What about her?"

"I mean ... didn't you do this for her? Isn't being with her better than ... you know ... grrrrrrr?"

She had him there. He looked at her, questioning, "And if I can't be with her? What then? What else do I have to live for?"

Willow studied him with growing concern. Where was all this coming from? Had he talked to Buffy about this, because, from the vibes her friend had been giving off lately, it seemed that she was completely captivated with the new Spike, albeit in constant denial. Everything seemed to be going so well in the crazy realm of romance ... but maybe that wasn't the case. Maybe they'd tried to mend the fences and it had failed and Spike, William, had walked away. His heart broken. His thoughts turning, once again, to ... oh, this could be bad.

"What ... else have you got?"

Her mind raced, how to help him? What to say? He'd lost the reason for his existence, he suffered night and day for the pain he'd inflicted. Was he right? Was death the comfy alternative? She didn't believe that, couldn't, and then it came to her with sudden clarity,

"Then I guess ... you just have ... you."

He seemed to take that in, nodded slowly.

"And eventually, when you can forgive yourself, you can try to make a difference. Not like Angel maybe, but you can help people. You have ... many skills. And there's Dawn! She really loves you and she needs you. And you have a lot of people who rely on you, not all friends..." she saw his face, "...yet, but someday, who knows. You matter. You're a person now, William. Perhaps you can even be a good one."

He smiled and after a second or two got to his feet, stared off into the sunset, "Maybe you're right."

She watched him narrow his eyes a little, thought how kind his face seemed now, how much more relaxed. She was glad she'd been able to help him. It had been a long time since she had felt so valued, so understood.

"So you think ... you'll be OK?"

He pulled on his jacket, brushed the dead leaves off the back. Looked back at her, frowned, "Oh, I'll be fine," and set off across the lawn towards the trees, his shadow, cast long and narrow by the setting sun, gradually disappearing amongst them. His last line, said so soft, she didn't even hear it.

"Just wanted to know if you would be."

11.

"What do you think about Azazeal?"

"Ah ... don't know. Does it come with extra cheese?"

Xander's brow furrowed but his gaze didn't waver. He'd been firmly attached to the latest edition of the 'Justice League' for the last three hours. She wondered what on earth he found so fascinating about all those brightly coloured pictures of overdeveloped men in spandex, she wondered and she worried. He hadn't looked at her all morning and that in itself was grounds for divorce, if they'd ever actually gotten married that is. Which of course was his fault as well. In fact she wouldn't put it past him to have avoided marriage simply so as she couldn't divorce him at times like this. Yes. Very clever. Very, very clever, Xander Harris. She buttered an English muffin venomously, trying to make the sound of the knife as intrusive as possible and when that didn't work, threw the utensil at the wall. Finely attuned to her moods as always, he raised his head, "I'm sorry, Honey ... did you say something?"

She smiled tightly, "No."

And that was just typical. Any life-partner worth his salt would have realised that she was just covering. Trying to be nice when what she actually wanted to do was...

"I feel like screaming."

The head came up again, this time a slightly more nervous look, "Well, I ... ah ... guess that's natural. Pent up emotions and all that. Although, obviously not something I'd enjoy ... a great deal of."

"And I miss Giles." She slumped over the table. "Why did he have to go back so soon? It rains there, constantly. And he always so kind to me. And he says such nice things about how pretty I look and ... and how I'm 'glowing'."

"You are glowing, Honey. Sometimes I think you actually strobe."

She fixed him with a look that made him want to grab his coat and head for the nearest exit, "It's not funny Xander. Pregnancy makes me feel all ... weak and needy. I hate it."

********

That did it. The guilt gate was wide open now and he was getting it full force. All the stuff about her ankles and her back and the way her nipples chafed so badly all the time. And the sickness and the nausea ... well, strictly speaking that had mostly been on his side. The moods were the worst, if he'd thought she was 'temperamental' before? If he actually used the word 'temperamental'? He firmly believed that it would be the last thing he would ever hear.

But he could take it. In the end it seemed like a small price to pay for so much of the good stuff in between, not to mention what was ahead. He watched her leafing through the baby name book again, one hand resting on her forehead, the other idly dangling half a muffin, dripping butter on his security-deposit ... sorry ... rug. And she was a dream come true. All golden curls and rose-bud lips...

"Aha! And you told me 'Alexander' meant 'stallion'! Another Harris fabrication!"

and razor tongue. He stifled a sigh, knowing how it would be construed, made for the bathroom.

And this was pretty much the routine these days. They got up early on Saturdays to enjoy a rare breakfast together and ended up in a mild sniping match, Anya always the victor, with him slowly bringing up the rear, yet again crushed beneath the boot heel of the mighty 'impregnation guilt'. It was his seed that had made her this way, his overzealous need to have 'make-up sex' at least three or four times a day that first week. His total lack of concern when he'd discovered they were out of prophylactics. She still threw the words back at him sometimes...

"Hey ... you've only just become human again. What's the likelihood?"

But they were happy. He knew they were ... really ... underneath all the .... well, he was happy anyway. And he knew she would be too. When she held that little baby in her arms, felt the joy of motherhood, the reality of the new life they had created, the twinge of pain as they stitched her up. See ... that last part was hers, he was sure. God, she was started to infiltrate his brain now. In a really disturbing kinda way.

********

He was hiding from her again, she could feel it. Sometimes she felt like hiding from her too, but that was impossible unless she drank gin. Gin had always been a very effective means of self-denial. But now that escape route was closed to her too. Nothing to do except grin and bear it. And scream. She experimented with a small one. Not particularly satisfying. Maybe she'd go down to the bottom of the stairwell later, really let one go. She flicked through the book of names again, looked up Buffy, felt an involuntary spasm of horror at just the sight of the words.

"Oh my God .... Xander! Did you realise that ... that Buffy is derived from ... 'Bunny or little rabbit'? That's hideous! Like being called 'succubus' or 'entrails' or something? Do you think she knows? Xander?"

He wasn't answering, too involved in his manly shaving ritual no doubt. She shuddered again and riffled through to the boys. Bound to be less rodents there.

Rupert: Bright Fame. That was nice, sort of fitting. He was intelligent and, although not a household name, was pretty well thought of in certain circles. Not the sort of title you'd give a child though. Maybe a Pug or a Golden Retriever. She found William. Hmmm ... resolute guardian. She wondered how Buffy would feel about that one. Less the guardian ... more the stalker maybe? Although, being fair, that didn't really seem to be his bag these days. What with the all-new soul and everything, he'd changed a lot. The hair being one of the less attractive alterations. He seemed kinder, more thoughtful, her brow creased as she remembered the way he'd taken her bags off her in the street the day before, insisted on carrying them all the way home. Xander could do with a little more of that. Plus the abs. He could really do with the abs as well. She frowned at the book and threw it down, stomped over to the bathroom, opened the door, scowled and dropped unceremoniously onto the toilet.

********

"Anyanka isn't even in there. It's not even a real name. That stupid book doesn't even have a demon section. How are you supposed to find anything suitable?"

He perched on the bath next to her, kissed her nose.

"How about Xanya ... or Anyander? Like when old people name their beach houses?"

She rubbed her face with the back of one hand, wiped away the kiss, but the scowl was gone. "Anyander Harris. I don't like it. She sounds like a romance novelist."

"She?"

She shrugged, "Or he. I'm easy. As long as he has my eyes ... and your upper arms..."

He kissed her again, resumed shaving.

"Of course it could be a Quantecaust."

"A what-e-what?"

She raised her eyebrows, surprised at his lack of knowledge, "A Quantecaust. A changeling child placed in the womb of a slumbering woman by tiny hedgehog-like demons with big hands. It's quite common."

He felt the blood draining from his face, good, that meant less for the razor. "And do you think ... that might have happened?"

She looked blank, felt around for the toilet paper, "You mean did I experience a sharp prickling sensation just prior to conception?"

He nodded. Had he just nodded?

"No, I don't remember anything like that. Just ... the usual pleasant numbness."

Gadzooks, so why did she torture him like this? All the talk about changelings and reptiles, all while he was still reeling from the sight of true demon-face, that weird red skull thing. And he was almost sure he hadn't let her know how much that one had really freaked him out. And it had ... really. Still freaking a little here. And the idea of his baby, of their baby, coming out with that face on? That one had been playing in Screen 1 of his mind-multiplex for weeks, sometimes twice nightly. He lathered up again, watched her watching him in the mirror. But who was he kidding? Any child of theirs would be set for life. She was gorgeous. Those big eyes, the elfin face ... she belched suddenly, covered her mouth. Yeah ... she was pure gold.

********

"Do you think Buffy'll ever settle down?"

It wasn't a trick question, she really wanted to know what he thought. She saw his eyes flick to her, just checking her intent, and then back to the mirror.

"I dunno. Someday ... yeah ... I suppose. Don't forget the Buffster hasn't exactly been what you might term 'lucky in love'. Relationships with the Slayer are essentially doomed on account of the whole superpower issues, dark-side stuff."

"Men are afraid of strong women." She could see he wasn't going to be rising to that one again.

"Not all men. Some men like a gal who can tote an axe."

"But let's face it, most of them would want naked with that axe. With a side order of skinny and stupid."

That wasn't strictly true. She knew that. Men liked women in all shapes and sizes, as the top shelf of the local paper stand bore witness. But they did all seem to like them naked ... and on their backs. And sometimes with large inexplicable black circles over their private parts. Although maybe that was just a fetish thing of some kind. Poor Buffy. She didn't stand a chance with a normal guy. Far too busy with the running and jumping to spend too much time clothesless.

"I wonder what she looks like naked? Do you ever wonder that?"

She saw his hand judder and a satisfying spot of blood appear under the foam, "Can't say as I have."

Oh right. We know that was the truth. She'd seen his high school note books, the many and varied drawing of a certain person's frame hidden in the back covers. She could see him looking at her, waiting for her to call it and when she didn't he ventured another answer, "I suppose ... I mean I'm guessing she's in pretty good condition, what with the slaying nightly. What ... you think she should make a bit more of an effort? Put herself out there?"

"Out where?"

OK, now she was just being obtuse. "Weren't you just saying ... that she needs a man?"

"A man? Honey, I think you're missing a plot point here. She's already got one of those."

She widened her eyes and he spluttered, fucking up what little was left of his shave.

"What? You mean Spwilliam? The all-new Spike? You've got to be kidding me? That's got the kiss of death from the get-go!"

Tilted his head, looked at himself in the glass, looked at her as she snorted, got to her feet, shuffling her toes back into her hippo slippers.

"You're right, Xander. Of course. What was I thinking of?" She flung open the door, stalked back to the bedroom. "An ex-demon and a human in a meaningful relationship? I mean, how long's that going to last?"

12.

They were in her bed, limbs entwined, his flesh warm and sticking to hers under the sheets, fingers tangling in her hair as his lips drew on her, his tongue soft in her mouth, making her dizzy. Her hands cradled his head, pulling him into her, hooking her chin over his shoulder in an effort to hide her face, hide the feelings she was afraid to tell him of ... and then ... there he was. Standing in the shadows at the foot of the bed. And suddenly she was gasping with the reality of it, the horrible tearing guilt of her betrayal. That he could find her in this bed, making love to William, the bed she had always denied him access to? Her sanctuary, her private place. She felt the tears start to her eyes as she saw his expression, filled with total disbelief and grief, the gravity of what she had done slamming into her like a fist.

"Oh ... Spike ... no! It isn't ... like that ... he's just..."

And then scrambling to reach him as he turned with a swirl of black leather, gone into the dark, his figure receding as she desperately fought to free herself from William's gentle grasp, his voice soft and insistent, "What's wrong? What is it, love?"

And then she was awake again, sweat beaded all over her body. Alone in the darkness.

Every night now for a week the dream had come, sometimes tacked onto the end of a longer one, sometimes in the few seconds she allowed her eyes to close before getting up for work. Always the same dream, always the same expression on his face, always the same feelings of guilt and horror at what she had done, feelings that stayed with her when she awoke, colouring her whole day. She didn't understand it, but she couldn't shake the sensation that she had done something terribly wrong, had caused him pain. It didn't make any sense. William was Spike, Spike was William, there were differences, that was certain, but essentially they were the same person. Why was it that she just couldn't seem to marry the two? The vampire and the man.

She lay back on her pillows, blinked her eyes in the gloom, making out the dim outline of her clothes on the chair. The shape of the doorway. It had been so real. A second ago he had been there, just as he had before in the long distant past. A feeling jerking her out of sound sleep to find him standing motionless, at the foot of her bed, always with some excuse, some terrible news or crisis that had to be dealt with and even then she had known. Long before she felt anything but irritation in his presence, the sexual charge between them, so insanely heightened by his ability to enter her bedroom silently at night. Even before she had wanted him.

And to give in to that? To allow the vampire into herself, entirely, that had been the most terrifying, the most erotic thing of all. Giving in to every one of her dark, night time fantasies, feeling herself sinking into him, losing herself in his cool, pale body, letting him absorb her. It had felt like dying and at the same time as if she was being born, every night. She had craved it and loathed it in the same instant. Needed him and hated him, but occasionally ... there had been the moments of peace. Just a few times when she had felt the two halves of herself, of him, find their perfect balance. The girl and the slayer, the vampire and the man. She had loved him then. Felt the knowledge enter her as easily as he did, completing her. And then it was gone. He was gone. Lost in a terrible storm of events that had forced her to admit that she had been wrong, that she had been such a fool to ever think they could be together.

She rolled over, let her feet find the rug, padded across the room to her clothes, still a little unsteady. She couldn't go back to sleep, didn't want to think about it anymore. She needed to clear her head and as far as she knew there was only one sure-fire way of doing that. She pushed the sash up, slid herself through the open window, down the porch roof, landing both knees bent in a crouch, catlike. What she needed was some late night slayage, a few circuits of Sunnydale's demon hot spots would wipe away any worries she might have. Every bit as effective as hard drugs and without the unpleasant addictive side-effects.

She took off at a sprint, her sneakers making virtually no sound on the tarmac, her breathing rhythmic. Let the muscles in her legs carry her effortlessly and, as a light, humid drizzle began, she lifted her face to it. No sound but the fast, soft pad of her feet on sidewalk, the soft cadence of her heartbeat, the warm dark night enveloping her like an old friend. Took a left on Oakland, heading for the playground, made the length of the road in fifteen, maybe sixteen strides or more.

The swing-set was empty, silent, the seat drifting slowly at the end of its chains, she slowed, came to a stop by the roundabout. No action here tonight. Usually there was always at least a vamp or two hanging out here, reliving past glories. She trailed a hand along the railing, remembering the night they had come looking for Dawn here, one of the first times she had chosen to be alone with him. Also the first time she ever remembered noticing how human he could seem, so concerned for Dawn's safety, guilty over inadvertently leading her to the truth about herself.

She had apologised to him, told him he had been right, she had been wrong to hide things from her sister and he had shouldered half the blame, said all the things he knew would make her feel better, assured her that Dawn would be fine. That had been the first time he had seemed real to her, a person. It had been the start of the change in her feelings for him. She snatched her hand back from rail. Bad move coming here. Set off again running, pressing herself a little this time. This wasn't what she'd wanted to do, a tour of their haunts, reminisce. She needed not to think. She needed to kill something. Took a left on Kennedy, heading in towards town.

And what about William?

She let her pace slow again as she recognised the stretch of road leading down to the Ramada. He was down there, just two blocks away. Probably up late, reading, he hadn't quite got his whole biological clock thing sorted yet, still found it hard to get to sleep before dawn. Sometimes, towards the end of a patrol she let herself take a detour, spend a few minutes outside before heading home. His room was on the ground floor, near the back and easy to see from the bushes. Twice she'd thought that he had sensed her, saw his head turn slightly in her direction, but then she reminded herself that that was an impossibility now. He wasn't like her in that way. Not any more. No sixth sense that could tell him when his mate was nearby.

So often, she'd watch him, sometimes for up to an hour, as he slowly turned the pages of the paperback he was reading, took the occasional swallow of beer. Sometimes he wrote in a black notebook, but she couldn't see what. A journal maybe? More poems? She considered breaking in when she was sure he wouldn't be around, but uncertainty about his reaction stopped her. She invaded his privacy once, wouldn't make that mistake again. She felt drawn to him, like a magnet to metal, wanted to enter that room, his bed while he slept, be with him, understand the person who was so familiar in some ways, so completely mysterious in so many others.

But she held back. Something always held her back. She turned away from the hotel, headed back along Roseland at a slow jog. He was Spike ... and yet, he so wasn't Spike. He was a man now, a human man, no vampire there at all. The occasional fleeting glances of the creature she'd known before came so few and far between, she'd begun to realise that it might all be her imagination. Like when parents see the resemblance between a new baby and themselves. Barely there at all ... just wishful thinking.

She shook her head, quickened her pace. There it was again. Wishful thinking? Had she really just thought that? Wishful thinking that William might actually become ... the monster again? That the kind, thoughtful man she was growing to care so much for, would suddenly turn on her. She felt a sick feeling in her gut. Spike had told her once that she was addicted to misery, yet another of his astute observations. He had been a part of that misery. William was not. So had he been right then? Did she only want the Spike that caused her pain?

She couldn't believe that of herself. Didn't want to. There'd been a time maybe five years ago when she might have thought it. After Angel, when it seemed that torture and passion would always be inextricably linked for her. Her love for him had been rooted in danger and fantasy, sometimes seeming almost theatrical. She had been so immature then, but the feelings she'd had for him weren't. They overwhelmed her, swamped her with the understanding of what it meant to be the Slayer, to understand her power and acknowledge that most private part of herself. With Angel she had merely tasted it. With Spike, she had welcomed the darkness in.

But it was wrong. She had known that. Balance was needed ... otherwise the result was chaos. His lack of a soul had always been the sticking point, the one obstacle she could never allow herself to circumvent. But in the months after his departure, the weeks since his, since William's reappearance, she had begun to suspect a terrible truth. She had recognised the man in Spike, had loved him, but, although she had never allowed herself to trust the demon, the vampire half that had so disturbed and reviled her at first, she had loved him too.

The drizzle began to subside, creating a soft mist that hung over the ground and she realised with only the smallest start of surprise that she had reached the cemetery again. Strange how her Slayer auto-pilot always brought her here if she lost her bearings or if she allowed her mind to wander for more than a few minutes or so. She made her way between the familiar shapes of the gravestones, heading for the crypt.

The door hung open now, the wind making itself at home inside, stirring up the scattering of autumn leaves that covered the floor. She stepped down, let herself drop onto the last stair, smoothed back her damp hair. Why did she keep doing this to herself? Keep coming here like the place might hold some kind of answer for her? She covered her face with her hands. Why couldn't she allow herself this chance of happiness? Why couldn't she move on?

The sound came in the darkness, making her heart leap, made her lose her breath with the sudden onrush of associations that went with it. The sound of a Zippo lighter being flipped open, being lit. A tiny light flared in the furthest corner of the room, illuminating a face, a figure achingly familiar to her, dressed from head to foot in black, a long leather coat drawn close around his narrow frame. Her throat tightened as his hand cupped around a cigarette, brought his head down to light it, revealing the pale shock of his blonde hair that seemed almost to glow in the light of the flame.

"Spike?" Her voice sounded like a little girl's, a slight quaver. She saw his head come back up, close the lighter with a snap.

"Slayer!"

He took a step or two towards her and she found herself scrambling a little in her haste to get to her feet, her back firmly against the wall.

"What are you ... doing here? I mean ... I thought you'd be at the Ramada..."

She saw his head cock in the darkness, his eyes narrow a little. The cigarette glowed.

"And why would I be there? Convention is there? Annual Vampire Dinner & Dance?"

She frowned, "No ... I mean ... you still live there ... don't you?"

His laugh was cold, abrupt, "Live there? What'd I want to live there for? Got this place fixed up pretty good now. Sweet little pad as far as Sunny D goes."

What the hell was going on? Had he snapped, had William snapped? Or worse still? Had he been re-vamped? Since ... yesterday? She screwed her eyes shut, shook her head. No, his hair ... and then there was the coat. He had the coat on, his coat, and she'd seen him burn it, watched as he'd doused the leather with petrol and flamed it. No, it had to be her. She was going mad. God, this was as bad as the asylum thing ... so real, not like a dream, like a full-on auditory, olfactory hallucination. She took a breath, opened her eyes again.

"What's up?"

He was looking at her with real concern now, stubbing out the cigarette on the edge of the door. God, please God don't let him touch me. And then his hand came out, stroked the length of her forearm and his touch was cool, sending prickles of ice shooting up her spine. God, why had he done that? She felt her knees starting to give, wanting to let herself go to him.

"So this just a business call? Or will pleasure be involved at some stage?"

He'd moved back a little, pulled himself up to sit on the nearest sarcophagus. She blinked, trying to make sense of everything that was happening. It had to be another dream, like the one she'd been having about ... and then it came to her.

Of course, this had to be her mind helping her to come to terms with everything, giving her a chance to see him again, to explain. She gasped with the relief of it. Of course, clever Buffy's Brain! She'd realised subconsciously that she'd needed to see Spike, the old Spike and now here she was. In her own tailor-made illusion. She drew a breath, forced herself to look at him again.

"Spike. There's some stuff I need to tell you."

She saw his eyebrows come up a little, sudden discomfort and she remembered. He had always been so ill-equipped to deal with complex human emotions. She moved towards him and saw him lean back a little, wary of her.

"Hey ... look ... if it's about the egg thing again..."

She took his hands in hers, felt his surprise as he relaxed a little.

"It's not. There's something I've needed to tell you for a while but ... well, you haven't been around and I've been ... pretty preoccupied with ... other stuff."

He smiled, "Yeah, well, a Slayer's work is never done."

She nodded slowly, "Right."

He slid off the plinth, bringing himself face to face with her, "So ... what, you come for a bit of time-out?"

She searched his eyes, "No, I came to tell you." God, this was so hard. "Spike. I love you."

His eyes widened, the mouth dropping open a little in amazement, "You...?"

"I love you. I don't know ... but I think I might always have. You make me feel like a whole person, like I'm really alive for the first time in my life. I look into your eyes and I see the other half of myself. I'm so sorry I could never tell you before now, but there was some stuff I had to work through first, things I had to ... come to terms with. But I'm sure now. I just ... wanted you to know."

She reached up, let her hand trace his cold cheekbone, kissed him softly on the lips. She felt a tremble go through him and felt herself wanting to hold him against her, wrap herself around him but instead, she turned, walked to the door.

"Buffy!" He looked utterly confused, awe-struck but at the same time completely elated. "Aren't you ... going to stay?"

She smiled, tried not to let her voice betray the uncertainty she felt, "No. There's somewhere I've got to be right now. Someone I've got to meet. Maybe..." hope seeped into her last words, "I'll find you ... in a little while?"

She turned away from him, walked out into the night, headed slowly back in the direction of her house. Back to the bed where she could end this, wake up to reality, the reality of her life, her future with someone she knew she could begin to accept now.

***********

Behind her the crypt door swung closed and a dark figure shrugged out of the clothes he was wearing, folded Tara's leather coat back into the hold-all that lay hidden behind one of the pillars.

"So, you think it worked? She didn't suspect at all?"

Clem's face appeared through the hole in the floor, a worried frown creasing his already heavily rumpled face. William gave a small laugh, "No, I think it was the hair that did it. Bloody crap's going to be hell to dye out."

Clem hauled himself up, tipped out the bucket of ice-water William had asked him to bring along. He shook his head uncertainly, "And what was the point of all this again? I mean you did explain to me but..."

His friend shouldered the bag, gave him a gentle slap on the back, "It's called closure, mate. One of things you need before you can move on ... you know, with your life, with someone else?"

He made his way to the door, opened it a crack to check that she had really gone.

"And that was ... what just happened?"

God sometimes, for a thick-skinned demon? He could be a trifle ... thick-headed.

"That's right."

"Only ... I mean ... it seemed to me ... that she was saying ... I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't she say she was ... in love with ... you know ... Spike?"

His friend frowned with exasperation. Was he really this dense? "I am Spike, Clem. But I'm William too. That's the whole point."

And with a smile he turned, headed out into the darkness, just as Buffy had done a minute before. Turned left onto Roseland, heading back towards the Ramada. Probably a good idea to get a good night's sleep tonight. Try to look his best. After all, he was expecting a visitor tomorrow.

13.

This morning felt different.

She stretched herself slowly, luxuriously, between the clean white cotton sheets. The sun was already pretty high she could tell. Must be at least nine. She rolled on her right side, tucked her elbow under her pillow, brought her knees up. Downstairs she could hear the familiar rattles and bangs that announced Dawn's preparation for her traditional Saturday Waffle Fest, followed by a few slightly off-key notes. She was happy. So good to hear.

She closed her eyes again, let the sunlight warm her face. Yes, today was different, she could feel it. The same sort of feeling she used to get the first morning of summer vacation or just before one of her Dad's road trips. Excited, filled with happy expectation of the day ahead. She frowned, let her eyelid open a chink. So what was it?

An alarmingly loud bang and a squeak of alarm from the kitchen forced her out of bed and into her jeans and a t-shirt. Padding down the stairs, she picked up the mail, bills, bills ... a handwritten letter? Pocketed it as she heard another bang, Dawn squeal again,

"Dawn? What the heck are you making in there? Semtex?"

She rounded the kitchen door to see the miraculous Key desperately trying to lever a mess of charred batter and what looked suspiciously like hot jam from their newly acquired waffle iron. "I tried to make them with fresh strawberries, but they kinda ... exploded?"

Her sister pursed her lips, managed to suppress a smile. "Tell you what, how 'bout I take you out to breakfast today!"

She didn't need to ask twice. Dawn racing for their coats, at the door in a second. "We could call for Xander and Anya?"

She pulled on her jean jacket as Buffy locked the door. They walked out into the hazy summer morning.

"He said they had to be somewhere this morning." she shrugged, "Probably baby stuff. Picking out little Xander-shaped babygrows."

She looped an arm through her sister's, "Besides, I fancy a bit of alone time with my Dawnie."

They set off towards town, letting the yellow warmth wash their faces, laughed and chattered over nothing, everything, stopping occasionally to pet a stray dog, say hi to one of Dawn's friends and as they neared the Expresso, talk turned to food, specifically the Pump's famous Iron Horse Breakfast. They seated themselves in the open, loathe to give up the miraculous sun for shade, ordered the works.

Dawn squinted at her over the top of her sunglasses, smoothed her napkin out with a sly grin. "So you haven't really told me ... what's going on yet ... have you?"

Her sister pushed her golden curls back with one hand, "We can do whatever you want ... movie ... go to the mall?"

Dawn gave her the withering look, the one that she obviously practiced in front of mirrors. "You know what I'm talking about Buffy! You've been avoiding the subject for days!"

"Umm hmm?"

She picked up the menu, used it to hide her expression. Dawn reached over, pulled it down. "You and William?" she pronounced his name carefully, emphasising the syllables. "You're all like ... nothing's happening."

"Nothing is happening." she put on her own sunglasses, turned to look at the street.

Dawn groaned, "But something did happen. I saw you, Buffy!"

She felt her face begin to colour up, "You said that you didn't see a thing!"

"I might not have seen ... a thing," she backtracked, hurriedly, "but I saw enough to know ... that you guys weren't in your bedroom reading poetry to each other."

Buffy felt the start of a smile, managed to disguise it with a cough. She looked over at her sister, so full of curiosity but also concern. She was right, she should let her know what was going on. And she would if only she could figure it out for herself. She sighed, rested her elbows on the table. "Dawn ... it's complicated."

Her sister snorted, folded her arms, "Complicated! Right! It's always 'complicated' when you don't want to tell me stuff."

"It's not stuff. Dawn, I've just been having a hard time with understanding it myself."

"What's to understand?"

God, she could be so infuriating sometimes. "Feelings! Feelings are sometimes hard to understand!" she took a deep breath, let it out, "I mean ... I care ... I really care about him. Spike. I mean ... William. But ... there's stuff that ... needs to be ... understood."

She realised that she was starting to make the sort of sense that doesn't. Tried again.

"We have to sort of get to know each other again. Find out ... what's the same and what's changed. Parts of him are still Spike ... you know? The other parts ... the William parts ... I don't know about yet."

"You don't know yet what? If you like them or not?"

She frowned, took a sip of the coffee the waitress had just brought her.

"No. I do. Like them, I mean. It's just ... strange."

Dawn shook her head, "No. I think you're the one who's strange."

"Thanks."

"No, I mean it." Her little sister was serious now, cross even. "Buffy, I really loved Spike, I still do, but I always knew there was a part of him we couldn't trust. He was always so funny and he treated me like a grown-up and I liked him for that, but part of me knew he wasn't like us, that there was something inside him that ... was bad, that could hurt us, even though sometimes I forgot it."

She looked her then, understanding so much for a kid. She knew Buffy had forgotten too.

"And then he went away and you were sad ... for so long. You thought I didn't notice but I did. Then one day ... he comes back and he's different. All the bad stuff is gone, there's just this nice guy ... who loves you and who'll do anything for you, and who's everything you've ever wanted ... pretty much. Your dream-come-true! And what do you say? It's complicated?"

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. God, and where had she got that from?

"Buffy, he loves you. You love him. What's so strange about that?"

She took a forkful of her eggs, popped them in her mouth with a flourish.

She was right. Her sixteen-year-old sister was right on the money. There wasn't anything complicated about it. She did love him. He was her perfect match. She frowned. What the hell had she been torturing herself about for the last three weeks? And it wasn't as if she didn't need someone, she'd been so long without a real boyfriend she'd almost considered buying herself an appliance in one of those slightly seedy adult-shops that Xander always seemed to be drawn too. The only thing that had stopped her was the thought of being seen by a creature from the underworld, news would travel pretty fast in the demon realm. She shuddered, it brought a whole new meaning to the moniker Mr Pointy. She looked over at Dawn, who looked back at her through a faceful of bacon.

"Maybe you're right. There's nothing really strange about it. Maybe, I'll just go over there and..."

Dawn's eyes widened at something over her shoulder. She got to her feet grinning, brushed herself down hurriedly, "I'm just going to go ... over there ... and get myself some ... er ... ketchup," she was backing away now, still smirking, "But Buffy! Hold ... that ... thought!"

What the hell had gotten into her? She didn't even like ketchup. Followed her as she made for the other side of the counter, slid onto a stool next to some guy. She narrowed her eyes ... oh, so that was it. See some cute guy and we ditch the un-cool sister?

"All right if I join you?"

Her head jerked round so fast her glasses fell off her nose, somehow he managed to catch them before they hit the sidewalk. Straightened up, slid them back onto her face. He looked, different today, which was sort of fitting and she squinted at him as he pulled the chair out, moved in next to her, smelling of soap and sunlight.

"Your hair ... you've done something else to it?"

He quirked an eyebrow, "You like it? Decided the natural look wasn't quite me, thought I'd go for something sort of in between."

He ruffled his streaky blondey-brown hair and she reached a hand, pushed a stray toffee curl back into place. Felt him move against her palm like a cat purring. She smiled, "Yeah. It's nice. Sorta like a Half-Spike-Moca-Latte."

He caught her hand in his, curled his fingers around it. "That suit you?"

Beautiful eyes searched hers and she felt her heart flip at the realisation that he was totally Spiking her! Leaned in for the softest of kisses, still taking it slow, breathed him in.

"Just right."

She let their hands drop to the table, felt his foot on hers, knee press warm against her leg as Dawn returned to them, all smiles and bouncing hair.

"Ketchup!! I have the ketchup now!!"

"Hey! Anyone wanna buy some prescription drugs?"

A familiar voice brought all three heads round, Buffy to her feet in a second. "Will!"

A huge grin stretched Willow's face, her hair glowing scarlet, throwing her arms around her smiling friend, her adoptive sister, Xander and Anya standing a few feet behind, Xander holding her small hospital suitcase. He smiled, "Sorry. She wanted it to be a surprise."

Willow unfurled a sheaf of documents, held them out at arms length for all to see, "Willow Rosenberg, now officially sane! Thank you very much!"

She bounced in tandem with Dawn and Buffy, all three barely able to contain their excitement at Willow's impromptu freedom.

"Sit down! You gotta sit down!"

They bundled her into a seat, made room on one side for Xander, Anya sliding onto his lap.

"What'd ya want? It's on me!"

"God, do they still do the hot-fudge brownie sundaes? Every time I'd trip out on the medication ... I'd always be dreamin' of them!"

Buffy hailed the waitress, ordered the hottest, browniest and fudgiest. Sat back to look at the people around the table, her people. Willow's face radiant with health and happiness, Xander's as he looked from at his pregnant girlfriend to his best-friend. Listened to Will tell how Giles had finally convinced the doctors of her sanity over the telephone using something akin to a Jedi mind-trick. Dawn's mad grin as she looked over at her sister, saw her fingers intertwined with William's on the table, his arm resting against hers. Perfect. Life was perfect.

The waitress dropped the bill on the table and her hand went to her pocket, automatically searching for her purse, closed over the letter she put there earlier. She pulled it out, glanced at the LA postmark, the unfamiliar handwriting.

"Who's that from?"

William raised an eyebrow, "Not a rare communiqué from the Pater?"

She shook her head, tore it open. Then as she started to read, her face drained of colour.

"What's happened, pet?" He prised it from her fingers, his eyes skimming down the page, leaping from one sentence to the next, felt his stomach drop to his boots.

"So who's it from? What is it?" Dawn voice had the edge of teenage hysteria to it, "Is it from Dad? Is he OK?"

Buffy felt for William's hand, but it was gone, drawn back into his lap, his expression suddenly unreadable again.

"No, he's ... it's fine, Dawn. It's from Cordy."

"Cordelia?"

Xander's voice was incredulous, Willow's face said the same thing, "Buffy? Why's she writing to you?"

She searched for William's eyes, but he'd turned away now, was staring up the street towards the station.

"She just wanted to give me a heads up. Angel's on his way here."

Why wouldn't he look at her? Didn't he know how much she needed him right now? Needed him to be strong for her, be her right arm. She felt her throat constrict, wondering what he must be feeling right now.

"Angel's coming here? Is there some kinda trouble?"

Buffy turned back to them, her friends, looked from one face to the next. Judging the moment, trying to distill Cordy's muddled, over-emotional syntax into a simple phrase.

"Angel's human. The Powers That Be ... they changed him back."

- The End -

Go to Treacle's website to read the WIP sequel, "Detour" (and while you're there, encourage her to finish it!)