When even Harmony wouldn’t shelter him, Spike realized that there was no quarter coming from demonkind.

His options were fewer than few. He couldn’t fight, or bite, or kill, which meant he couldn’t eat. Even self-defense was off the menu. He was a bit discombobulated from the drugs he’d received in that bright, white hellhole. Drugs which unfortunately weren’t the fun kind. His fuzzy tongue and eyeballs, and the unpleasant tingling in his finger and toe nailbeds didn’t scream “dance all night”, for one thing. More like, “dig a hole in the dirt with your bare hands and lay in the dark, shivering all day.” If he’d thought being cast off by Dru for a fungus demon was the lowest point of his unlife, he’d been sorely mistaken.

He could run, which would at least get him out of range of the hideous labs, but the basic fact remained that whatever they had done to him made it impossible to survive for long anywhere. He’d have to gather intel about just what had been done, and find some way of undoing it. Which meant sticking around.

He needed a bolt-hole that would keep him out of the sun, but safe from other vamps. It hadn’t occurred to Harmony — the ditz — but if word got around about his little handicap, there were plenty of vamps that would line up to take him out, just for the bump to their rep. Dusting William the Bloody was something a vamp could dine out on for decades, and in his present condition even a fledge could conceivably do the job. It wasn’t bloody right.

He racked his brain, trying to think of any possible allies that wouldn’t sell him out. Maybe Willie? Nah, the guy was the very definition of “sell-out”. His sire? Heh. Even if he hadn’t had him stuck with hot pokers recently, Angel would sooner dust him than look at him. There would be no help from that direction. At least Spike had the memories of Angel suffering — for once — to keep him warm.

Thinking of Angel gave Spike an immediate solution to his little dietary restriction problem. It sounded disgusting, but bagging it certainly beat the alternative, which was nada. He crawled out of the deserted building he’d stopped in, and taking careful note of his surroundings, headed for the hospital. He’d stock up on some nosh, and then figure out where to lay his weary head.

There were some lady demons with soft hearts and brains larger than walnuts that might’ve offered Spike a hot and a cot, but they weren’t in the vicinity. When he’d been here two years back, he’d spent half the time tending to Drusilla and the other half in a wheelchair, so he hadn’t the chance to cultivate the locals like he normally would. Too bad things weren’t more like the Depression, when hobos marked the fences of kind-hearted women to let you know where to find the soft touch (and hadn’t that backfired in his favor a time or two?). A system like that would be right helpful about now.

He stealthily broke into the blood storage area of the hospital, and filled his pockets with packets, drinking two pints down while he stood there in the cold storage. Filthy stuff, full of anti-coagulants, but in his condition it might as well be slayer blood. Just thinking about slayer blood helped get the wretched swill down. Thinking of the Slayer suddenly reminded him of a kindly cup of cocoa connected to a sympathetic ear over a kitchen island. He hardly dared to examine the idea. Getting within range of the Slayer in his present condition was suicidal, clearly. But there was a chance …

He was about to toss the empties on the floor, when it occurred to him that it might be best to leave no trace, in case he needed to use this source of food again. It wouldn’t do to put the staff on notice if he could help it. He hated the streak of caution his problem was dredging up. What was the point of being a vampire, if you’re going to tiptoe around all the time? Still, he stuffed the empty bags in a biohazard container on the way out, cursing under his breath the entire time.

He headed directly for Revello Drive. He halted in the shadows of the tree in the yard, and tried to suss out what was going on inside. Joyce was home, listening to some dreadful cool jazz, occasionally turning the pages of a book. He moved closer. He could smell her all over the house and the porch, the ordinary scent of habitation. What he didn’t smell was any recent sign of the Slayer. Looked like he might get lucky. Once off to college, she wasn’t visiting home often. Hmmm. Joyce might be lonely. He smiled for the first time in days.

He knocked. She opened the door. Hadn’t the Slayer taught this woman the first thing about home defense?

“Spike!” said Joyce.

“Hullo, Joyce. Mind if I come in?”

“Well, I don’t…” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “You know, I can’t keep track. Are you evil?”

“Of course I’m evil. It’s what I do. Except when I’m not actually ‘doing it’ as it were.” He attempted one of his shy, flirty expressions. “You’re in no danger from me, though.”

She laughed.

“I doubt that. I suspect you’re a scoundrel when you want to be. The charming ones always are.” She gave him a penetrating look, one he recognized from the arsenal of mothers everywhere. “You don’t look so good, Spike. What’s going on?”

“Yeah. See, I’ve had a run of bad luck lately.” He thought of something. “I’m off the sauce entirely, now. I’ve brought my own.” He fished out a bag of blood and showed it to her. She didn’t look impressed. He started to worry. “I know you’ve got no reason to trust me, but I just need a little help.”

She looked hard at him, and he fought the urge to shuffle his feet like a schoolboy in the headmistress’ office.

“You’ve never been taken off the guest list,” she said, finally.

Now, that was interesting.

She stepped back from the doorway, and brandished the cordless phone at him. “But I’ve got Buffy on speed-dial.”

He stepped across the threshold with relief, closing the door behind him.

They looked at each other. Suddenly, he didn’t have the energy to put up a front. “Noted. You won’t need it, though.” He sighed. She relaxed.

“Can I get you anything? I was thinking of having a drink, but if you’d prefer hot chocolate…”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, so long as it’s scotch, neat. Thanks.”

She smiled and busied herself with fixing their drinks. “Funny you should stop by tonight. I was just reading a vampire romance novel that a co-worker recommended, and it was putting me to sleep. I kept thinking about Buffy’s experiences, and how much more exciting real life is than fiction.”

“Oh, I doubt that the Slayer’s vampire romance was all that exciting,” he muttered.

Joyce snorted.

“Oh ho. Not a fan of the great and powerful Angelus, are you?” he asked.

Joyce waved her hand airily and handed him a glass. She picked up her own and went to settle on the couch. He followed and sat in the wicker armchair. Seemed to be his spot.

“Done is done,” she said. “Buffy’s better off knowing early if he’s the type to cut and run. I won’t miss him.” She took a sip of her drink. “I ran him off, you know.”

“Did you, now? Knew I liked you.”

“Oddly enough, I like you too, Spike. Why don’t you tell me what sort of help you need.”

He told her. He didn’t leave out the part about not being able to bite Willow, though he knew it didn’t make him look like an ideal houseguest. Sometimes the truth was a good bit of camouflage, and she’d find out anyway.

She mostly made sympathetic noises, though not about Willow. That bit had her giving him a very disappointed look. It gave him the oddest sensation. How did she manage that?

It turned out that she was leaving to visit her sister for the holidays, and would be gone most of a week.

“It’s fine if you stay here while I’m away, Spike, but I’ve got to let Buffy know. Anything to do with you she’d automatically think was Slayer business. I know she’ll want to know about the demon experiments. Maybe she can even help.”

He snorted.

“When I woke up in there, my first thought was that she’d got some funding, that the Council had decided to crawl out of the 19th century. That they’d got serious, and taken a page out of Himmler’s book about final solutions.”

She bristled.

“I know you’ve worked with her before, so you probably think you’ve got her all figured out. But Buffy is not the kind of girl that would be involved with torturing harmless demons. She’s no Nazi. And she certainly hasn’t got any ‘funding’, from the Council or anyone else, as my bank balance will attest.”

“’M sorry, Joyce. I know that. I’m just not used to anything but the Slayer getting the best of me. I wish you didn’t have to bring her in on this, but I know you do. I’ll take my lumps.’’

He stowed his blood in the fridge. Joyce got him settled in the basement. “It’s not the Ritz,” she apologized.

“Suits me fine. Anything that keeps the sun and unfriendly vampires at bay looks mighty cozy right now. I’m much obliged.”

“I’ll probably be gone when you wake up tomorrow. I’ll try to smooth things with Buffy, but, well, you know all the exits, I suppose.”

“Thanks, Joyce. You’re a hell of a woman.”

She laughed and went upstairs to pack.

+++

At twilight, he woke to the cellar door being thrown open. The Slayer herself barged in and stopped halfway down the wooden stairs.

“Buffy.”

“Spike. Comfy?”

“Oh, hell, Slayer. Can’t we get through this without sarcasm?”

“Says the King of Sarcasm. I’m thinking probably no, but stranger things have happened. I’ll start. Why are you in my mom’s basement, Spike?”

“Well, see, your mum’s a nice lady, and she took pity on a defenseless creature. You probably wouldn’t understand.”

“I knew you couldn’t do it.” She stood and stalked down the stairs. He slowly sat up, and made a show of arranging the blanket around his waist. She halted.

“Are you naked in my mother’s basement?”

“No,” he said, reaching for his tee shirt on the floor next to the cot, and shrugging into it.

“Ugh. Next question. Since when are you a ‘defenseless creature’?”

“Since the soldier boys tasered me and took me on a little trip to the vet. Haven’t been able to feed for over a week.”

She flipped on the overhead light.

“You look like crap.”

“Thanks.”

“See? You say you don’t like sarcasm, but that’s a big lie. What else are you lying about? To my mother?!” She came closer, her hands opening and closing. The itch to apply fists to face must be powerful. She finally crossed her arms and waited.

“Nothing. I’ve been nothing but honest with Joyce.” He held up his hand and began to tick off each item on his fingers. “I was attacked. Woke up in an underground holding cell. My head hurt. Some fellows with lab coats came to fetch me, I broke out and was chased by a lot of burly types in fatigues carrying big guns. Tried to bite your little witch friend, and it nearly killed me. Can’t even throw a punch without having my brain blasted to bits.”

“Gee, that’s too bad.”

He lowered all his fingers but two. The gesture was lost on her. He gave up.

“Fine. Sarcasm all around, then. Just imagine if it happened to you, Miss One Girl In All The World. If you weren’t able to murder so much as a hamburger, maybe you’d have a little sympathy for the afflicted.”

“Really don’t, though.” She gave him her sunniest smile. God, he hated her.

The smile vanished in an instant. She shot him another baleful glare and sighed. “Giles wants me to get info on the soldiers who attacked you. We don’t know much, but enough to know that they might be poaching on my territory.”

“Is that right?” It was his turn to smile. He’d been dealt a card. It might be a deuce, but it was the only card he held at present. Aside from the queen that was Joyce’s sufferance. “What does the Watcher want to know, then? I’m more than willing to cooperate, of course. I’ll just need a few guarantees, is all. Maybe some creature comforts…”

“What you’ll get for your ‘cooperation’ is not staked. God! How can Mom put up with you for more than five minutes?”

“It’s my old world charm, sweetheart. Something you kids just don’t appreciate anymore.” He reclined languidly and let his knees fall lewdly apart beneath the blanket. Her eyes widened.

“You are so gross, Spike!” He smirked at her.

“Anyway, I don’t have time to dance around with you tonight. I’m meeting Willow to shop for Thanksgiving stuff. I’ll be back in a couple of days, and you’re going to tell me everything you remember. Got it?”

“Ja wohl, mein Slayer.”

“Arrgh!” She stomped up the stairs and out of the house, but closed the front door with care. Well brought up girl, most days.

He rose from the cot, tossing the blanket aside. His feet were bare, but he wore his jeans. As if he’d sleep in the nude with all the possible things that could necessitate a quick escape. It was ridiculous. The girl had a very dirty mind.

He wandered upstairs to experiment with heating up the packaged blood.

+++

He had the place all to himself for a couple of days. He dirtied every pot in the house before hitting upon the solution of coffee mugs in the microwave. It took a few tries to get the time right, and there was still the occasional spatter of blood on the ceiling of the thing, but the boilovers were a thing of the past. It gave him a sense of accomplishment completely out of proportion to the barely edible results of his trials. He moved on to adding various spices to small quantities, until he ran out of cups and glasses and the cayenne was almost gone.

He found Joyce’s backlog of Passions videos, and that had killed a couple of afternoons, evenings, and early mornings. He read the Slayer’s diaries — twice — and tucked away a couple of embarrassing early-teen photos for future use as bargaining chips. There were very few books in the house, but loads of magazines. Artweek just didn’t do it for him, though. He thought he might try the vampire romance, just for a laugh, but Joyce’d taken it with her, apparently. He ran out of smokes.

It was four full days before Buffy finally returned. When he heard the key in the lock, he was so excited by the prospect of something new that he almost forgot his loathing. He carefully sprawled so as to take up the largest amount of couch space possible and made sure to rest the remote in a way guaranteed to draw the Slayer’s eye. He’d love to get a rise out of her. He was so depressed he wasn’t even getting a rise out of himself, lord knew.

She paused at the opening to the living room, looked at him without interest, and trudged on to the kitchen. Well, fuck. That was completely unacceptable. Then he heard a shriek. That was more like it.

“Spike!”

He turned up the volume on the telly.

She thundered back to stand in front of him. “You’d better not be planning to leave that mess for Mom to see!”

“Course not.” He’d left it for Buffy to see, naturally.

“Go clean it up.” He ignored her. “Now!”

“Make me.”

He was tumbled off the couch before he even registered her movement. Her speed was truly admirable when she was steamed. She hauled him to his feet and encouraged him toward the kitchen with a none-too-gentle boot to the backside. He felt the stirring he always felt when facing a worthy opponent, and whirled to engage in the fight. As he drew back his arm for the blow, the warning buzz in his head reminded him almost in time that winning would mean losing. His fist went wide and crashed into the mantle instead. A picture frame tumbled, as if in slow motion, to crash on the hearth. Buffy and Joyce smiled up from the shattered glass, and Buffy burst into tears.

He crouched on the floor holding his aching head and tried to make sense of things. He’d seen her laid low by Angelus and that ridiculous puppy of a college boy, but she’d never lost it like this. Certainly not in front of him. Not that he didn’t enjoy seeing the Slayer in pain, mind, but she didn’t seem the type to be thrown by a bit of broken glass.

“Stop looking at me, Spike! Go clean up the kitchen and just…leave me alone.”

She knelt to pick up the photo and he reluctantly did as she asked. Rather, he left her alone. He stood in the kitchen surveying the damage. When he thought about what Joyce would see, it did take on a different complexion. Not that he cared, obviously. He picked up a pan and tried to figure out what to do with it. If he just chucked it all out in the yard…

He heard Buffy dialing the phone in the dining room.

“Hey Willow. Yeah, I just got back. It was weird. So, situation normal, I guess. Listen, I know we had a girls’ night planned, but I stopped by the house and Spike has totally trashed the place.”

Now, that was an extreme exaggeration. What was she on about?

“Mom’s coming back tomorrow, so I’m going to have to stay over here for a few hours until it’s fixed up. It’ll probably be late. I’m sorry. We’ll make it up tomorrow, okay? Well, then how about Thursday? Great! Sorry, Will! See ya!”

She marched into the kitchen and began filling the sink with sudsy water.

“Avoiding the witch, are you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“There’s barely a pillow out of place around here. Your mum wouldn’t be fussed.”

“You don’t know Mom very well, Spike. She’ll be very, very ‘fussed’.” She began loudly piling pots into the suds. Ah, that was the other option to chucking everything, he supposed.

“Even so, you’re avoiding your roomie.” He looked around for something to make him look busy.

“Which is your business how exactly?” She opened the door to the dishwasher, which was completely empty. Oh.

“Just making conversation. Don’t mean to trod on the toes of my betters. Oh wait, they’re not here.”

He picked up a mug and watched as she swiftly inserted a dozen glasses into the top tray of the machine. He added his mug. She automatically flipped it the other way down. Bitch.

“Keep it up, Spike. I’m already this close to ripping off the head of the next vampire that looks at me funny.”

He tilted his head to take in her flushed cheeks, wet eyes, and reddened nose.

“Well, you do look a bit funny, even for you.”

Instead of ripping his head off, she looked at the ceiling. “Why did I tell Mom I wouldn’t kill you?”

“No idea.” It did seem odd.

She shook herself and finished loading the dishwasher. She started it up, and turned just as he fell to one knee before her. He stared up into her beautiful face and took her little hand in his.

“Please Buffy, I’m begging you to marry me.”

End Act One.

It figured that the one time a woman had been completely his, had fully returned his affections, it would be a bloody spell. To have that woman be Buffy Anne Summers, the woman who should by all rights be the third notch on his Slayer of Slayers Champion belt, was the unkindest cut of all.

The hours after Willow returned everyone to normal were worse than finding Drusilla with a Fungus demon. Worse than the wheelchair. Nothing could compare to the pain of knowing, really knowing, what it would be like to have the kind of connection he’d yearned for his entire existence. Knowing what he was missing. Knowing it would never be real for him.

After her over-the-top display of disgust when the spell broke, he had dusted himself off and with a cutting remark about her scrawny ass, had headed for home. Since he hadn’t been provided with an escort, he made a detour through a liquor store window. Nice to know that property damage wasn’t on that scold of a chip’s list of no-noes. Stocked with smokes and a couple of fifths of bourbon, he made his way back to Joyce’s house. At least she hadn’t been around for the whole humiliating show.

Entering the house brought it all back in olfactory sensaround. He slid to the floor of the foyer, his back against the firmly shut door, and started in on the first bottle.

“I only want to make you happy, Buffy,” he’d said. “Never want to see you crying again. Tell me what I can do to bring out that beautiful smile.”

She’d snuggled onto his lap. “You’re doing it. Just being here. Letting me be myself. Just being you. It was an awful day, and now it seems so silly that I ever bothered. Angel will keep doing whatever he wants to do without cluing me in. He’s never going to change. As long as he does it away from us, I’m good.”

At the first mention of his grandsire’s name, he felt the jealousy squirming through him. What was it with these bints and that ox? He held his tongue though, and let her talk. At least she didn’t seem on the verge of tears anymore.

“Did you know he was skulking around town for days? He wanted to protect me from that vengeful spirit guy. Me! And to do it, he talked to everybody except me!”

“Well, he didn’t come around here. Guess he didn’t think to check if your mum needed any protecting.”

She thought about it. “You know, he never did seem to care about her. I’m so happy you get along with Mom.” She snuggled in closer.

“Well, I like her. She’s good people. And mothers like me.” He smirked. She slapped his chest.

“You’re so bad.”

“Better believe it, baby.” He gave her sweet little arse a firm squeeze, which earned a delighted squeak.

“I wonder if it’ll always be this much fun?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” he said, trying for another squeeze while she wriggled around in a most distracting manner.

“Well, we’re going to be together for, what, the rest of my life, right?” He started to pay attention.

“Right.”

“Even with a Slayer lifespan…” He growled. “…it’s still a pretty big step. But it doesn’t feel all heavy and super serious. It feels fun.”

“I’m very serious about fun,” he pointed out. She kissed the tip of his nose.

“I just never knew it could be anything but a heavy drama, I guess. With Angel it was all angst, all the time. He just kept going on about what we could never have. Did you know he had the nerve to tell me he couldn’t give me anything a ‘real girl’ would want. ‘Real girl.’ How insulting is that?”

“Gotta agree with him there. He couldn’t. But I’ve got a few ideas…”

He cradled her face in his hands, intending a playful kiss and getting instead her entire soul expressed through lips and tongue. This was the stuff. It was so much more than physical. He felt outside his body, as if he were floating. He was warm, inside and out, and — except for the weird glimpses of formal wear that flashed briefly through his mind — completely immersed in her. Once they were both breathless, he broke away to murmur into her hair.

“Doesn’t get any more real than you.”

She smiled softly. “Stop.” She bent down to kiss him again.

Then the phone rang. It was Giles. Xander was in trouble.

He still couldn’t believe all that passion and easy camaraderie sprang whole cloth from a witch’s imagination. It had seemed like coming home, like a key in the proper lock. It had seemed right. He knew in his head that it was several kinds of wrong, but he couldn’t seem to get his heart to believe it. He felt out of synch with reality, which made no sense, as it was the spell that was outside reality. Not that he had feelings for the Slayer, of course. He just seemed to have feelings for the feelings he’d felt. And now, he was officially a woman.

He took another slug from the bottle and thumbed the lighter in the pocket of the coat wrapped tightly around him. He didn’t feel the cold, at least not physically, but he needed protection from…something.

He managed to make it downstairs before the dawn crept through the living room windows. He tumbled onto the cot, fully anaesthetized.

+++

He was still there, face down, when Joyce found him the next afternoon. She shook his shoulder and he turned his head to give her a bleary look. She seemed worried. He opened his mouth to tell her he was okay, when she pushed a pad of paper into his hand.

IT’S HAPPENING ALL OVER TOWN.

He asked what she was talking about, but no sound came out of his mouth. She smiled ruefully and pointed again to the pad of paper.

Awake now, he tried again. Nothing. Joyce shook her head and leaned over to write on the pad.

IT’S NOT JUST US. COME SEE THE NEWS.

He nodded and followed her upstairs to see the story on mass laryngitis, Sunnyhell-style.

SHOULD WE FIND BUFFY? Joyce wrote.

SHE’LL BE AT THE WATCHER’S IF SHE’S NOT IN HER DORM. YOU CAN GO WHILE IT’S LIGHT OUT. I CAN FOLLOW ALONG AFTER DARK.

ARE YOU SURE?

He thought about it.

PROBABLY CAN’T GET IN: NO INVITE.

She nodded.

I’LL GO CHECK IN AND COME RIGHT BACK.

He felt a little relief at not facing another whole day alone. Even if the conversation was bound to be sparse.

BE CAREFUL, he wrote. WELCOME HOME.

She laughed silently and headed out the door, pulling on her coat.

He took a shower and went down to the kitchen for breakfast. He was surveying the dishwasher full of clean dishes when Joyce bustled back into the house.

IT’S MONSTERS, she wrote.

WHAT KIND?

THE KIND THAT CUT THE HEARTS OUT OF LIVING PEOPLE.

AZTEC DEMON?

She shrugged. THEY’RE DOING RESEARCH.

SURE YOU WOULDN’T FEEL SAFER WITH THEM?

MR. GILES HAS A ‘GUEST’, SO IT’S CROWDED. BETTER TO BE HOME.

‘GUEST’?

A WOMAN FROM ENGLAND. NOT A WATCHER.

She shrugged, but he wasn’t fooled. He raised a brow. She waved her hand dismissively.

WE’LL BE FINE. STAY INSIDE. CLOSE ALL THE DOORS AND WINDOWS. THOSE ARE THE ORDERS FROM ON HIGH. POPCORN?

As the early evening slid into night, they had a companionable evening with the telly. When Joyce went to bed, Spike took up a vigil at the living room windows.

A little after 3 a.m., he saw them. Horrible, scampering little creeps, looking like escapees from a lunatic asylum. They ambled down the street from side to side, dragging their long straitjacket sleeves on the ground. If they had been capable of uttering a sound, Spike knew they would be jibbering.

Then, more horrible still, two floating monstrosities came after them. Wearing high-collared, pinstriped suits and smiling like undertakers, they resembled the directors of the workhouses Spike remembered from the bad old days. It had been a singular pleasure back then to bring those self-satisfied pillocks to a doom they thought themselves above.

The floating demons paused at the foot of the walk, and seemed to confer. One gestured toward the house, while the other placed a finger to his temple. The little lunatics hurried back to circle them, waiting. Unable to watch any longer, Spike stormed out onto the porch and glared at them in full game face. Both of the undertakers raised their hands in genteel surprise. The one who had been pointing up the walk now shook his head and made a sweeping gesture down the street. The other nodded and they floated away, though not quite swiftly enough to satisfy Spike.

When he was sure they were gone, he went to the kitchen to heat the last of his blood. His hands shook as he poured it into the mug. What would he have done if they had called his bluff? He had no illusions that they were after his dried up old heart. Joyce’s, however, was just the sort of tender treat demons went for in a big way.

Why should he care? She’d been good and generous with him, true. But he was a vampire, however hobbled, and vampires did not offer themselves up to protect the indigenous population. They did not form alliances with the food. Even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie, at least for him. He’d allied with this woman’s daughter, and now he found himself offering what little help he could to her mother. There was something seriously wrong with him.

Dru had known. She’d seen the weak spot, clear as day, and banished him for it. He drank down the blood, not even bothering to add paprika, and headed downstairs to the remaining bottle of bourbon.

+++

After it all returned to normal — or what passed for it in this shite town — things got even worse. At least, worse by vampire standards. Joyce asked for his help down at the gallery for some heavy lifting one evening, and paid him for his time. She insisted that she was relieved not to have an entirely empty nest, and urged him to stay awhile longer. She offered to do his laundry and picked up blood from the butcher for him. He had to admit that the butcher’s blood, while still disgusting, at least didn’t have the chemicals of the hospital blood. Still, all this domesticity was making him fall deeper into a funk. He kept thinking about how he’d taunted Angel by calling him housebroken.

Buffy stopped by every few days to check on him, which usually meant strong-arming him into doing some sort of housework. The resulting arguments were the high points of his miserable existence. The Watcher started coming around in the afternoons to question him about the para-military men who’d imprisoned him. Baiting the old guy only held so much allure. Besides, he didn’t really have all that much information to share. He’d love to be able to find a way to make every person involved in the whole bleeding enterprise die swimming in their own entrails, but he was — as the Slayer loved to point out at every opportunity — impotent. He got the tiniest satisfaction out of reminding her that she had reason to know otherwise — having spent so much time in his lap — but his nose could only take so much abuse. Not to mention, he didn’t really like to think about what happened during Willow’s spell, either. Though when drifting off in the morning or swimming up toward consciousness in the afternoon, his mind was often full of little details of their encounter. His subconscious was clearly a masochist, insisting as it did on prodding the sore spot. Maybe Buffy had the right idea when she mumbled about investing in a forgetting spell.

Joyce called him down to the gallery one Tuesday night, needing help with a new shipment. He trudged downtown and caught wind of something very specific. Vahrall demons, unless he was very much mistaken. They were true believers, which made them even more dangerous than their already considerable size, weight, and reach would indicate. He took off at a dead run for the gallery.

Turning a corner, he nearly ran into a cluster of enormous college boys, but used his momentum to leap to a second story window ledge before they noticed him. Which was good, because even in America they didn’t make college boys quite that uniformly huge. He watched and listened as they conferred over their walkies and their tricorders and what all, thinking they were so subtle. They seemed to be after the Vahrall, as well. Good luck to them.

He headed for the rooftops, hoping to get a bead on the demon, without alerting the soldier boys to his presence. He had to get to Joyce and warn her. He leapt from rooftop to rooftop, heading west while the soldiers headed south. He saw Buffy leaving the magic store, and dropped down in front of her. If the situation weren’t so serious, he’d have been thrilled with the start he gave her.

“We’ve got to get to Joyce. There are Vahrall roaming about and it’s no good tempting the fates with those blighters. We need to get her to safety.”

She took only a moment to turn and run for the gallery. She called over her shoulder, “Giles’ is closest. We’ll take her there.”

When faced with their unified front, Joyce decided to let the new shipment wait until tomorrow. They piled into the Jeep and drove for Giles’, Spike’s nose sticking out the window to try to pinpoint the location of the demon. When they pulled up in front of the apartment complex he took a good whiff.

“It’s everywhere in this burg. The scent is just as strong here as it was downtown.”

They cautiously climbed out of the car and Buffy led the way through the courtyard, Spike bringing up the rear.

The Vahrall burst from Giles’ front door and found itself faced with the Slayer. It swept her aside with its long arm. Joyce was frozen in its path.

Spike knew he couldn’t fight the thing, but he could at least provide a sorry shield for the woman who had tried to be one for him. He couldn’t see much point to prolonging his pathetic existence, in any case. He might as well go out with purpose, his last sight that of his mortal enemy, the only girl to ever fully love him, even if it had been nothing but an illusion.

He bounded in front of Joyce before the demon had even had time to fully turn back from knocking over Buffy. While it was the slightest bit off balance, he kicked toward its knee while grabbing its long arm and yanking it down into a tremendous head butt. He figured he’d only get in one blow before his head exploded anyway, so he might as well inflict maximum damage. Maybe Buffy would get back in the fight before it recovered.

Ow. Christ, his head hurt. It hurt exactly as much as could be expected from head butting a Vahrall, which he belatedly remembered had extremely thick skulls. He was dazed, but it started to sink in that the electric shock he’d expected to fry his brain had not materialized.

The Vahrall tottered with its knee blown out. Joyce had unfrozen and backed toward the Jeep. Buffy rounded on the demon with righteous Slayer fury. Spike straightened up and threw an experimental punch. No pain. His head was fine. He followed with a fast combo to the demon’s torso, and a spinning kick to its head. Right as rain. Buffy joined in and together they took the demon down. He didn’t stop until he felt the satisfying snap of the demon’s neck beneath his boot.

He roared his joy to the sky.

Windows slammed shut all around them. Buffy put a hand on his arm. He threw it off and grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in for a fangy kiss. She pushed him away, spluttering and pulling a face while he spun and laughed. Catching sight of Joyce’s shocked expression, he melted back into his human guise. He threw his arms wide and announced:

“I can kill demons!”

End Act Two.

Spike was sitting on the back porch early one evening, having a smoke, when the Fyarl blundered into Joyce’s yard.

Things were really looking up. He felt he was earning his keep in an honorable fashion. This would make the second demon he had saved Joyce from. Whatever would she do without him? He stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot and placed it in the covered can she had provided. He stood, cracking his neck in preparation for battle.

“Well, what do I spy with my little eye? A demon. That would be...oh right... one of the things I can kill.”

“Spike. Wonderful. The perfect end to a perfect day,” said the Fyarl.

“Giles?”

“Yes?” answered the Fyarl.

“Oh, this is bloody brilliant. Stay right there.” Spike opened the kitchen door, and hollered into the house. “Joyce, you gotta see this!”

Joyce appeared at the door a moment later. She startled at the sight of the enormous demon standing in her yard. “Oh my god. What is that thing?”

“That is your lovely daughter’s Watcher, pet,” said Spike.

“Mr. Giles?”

The Fyarl, who was indeed Rupert Giles, slumped against the oak tree, making it sway alarmingly.

“Hey! Watch the shrubberies, mate,” called Spike, grinning madly.

“I’m calling Buffy,” said Joyce, disappearing back into the house.

“I do wish she wouldn’t,” sighed Giles.

“You know the Summers’ gals, Rupes. They’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

“I rather think I should be capable of fixing myself ,” grumped Giles. “I’m a grown man, after all.”

“Just keep telling yourself that.” He lit another fag. “So, how did you come to this pretty pass, anyway? Don’t leave anything out. I could use a good laugh.”

“Why is it that the only person who has been able to understand a word I say today is the second most likely to torment me?”

Spike was affronted. “Only second? Knew I was slipping. Anyway, you’re speaking Fyarl. Don’t think the kiddies get it in school around here.”

They had a talk about demon linguistics, which sounded funny as hell in Fyarl. Buffy showed up in a towering whirlwind of worry, relief, anger, and Slayerly impulse to action. Spike was thankful that his translation services were needed, which kept Buffy from popping him in the nose as he knew she wanted, just on general principles. God, he wished he could get this chip out and really give her what she needed. Which was a good arse-kicking, of course. From him. He would do it properly this time, without getting distracted.

What she thought she needed was a shot at some fellow named Ethan Rayne, who Spike had to admit had a great sense of humor. It seemed he’d been behind that Halloween excitement a few years back, during which Spike had nearly bagged Buffy. He’d hesitated at the crucial moment, which still bothered him. It had probably been out of some misplaced sense of sportsmanship, he told himself. While Buffy and Giles hatched their plan to save the day, Joyce told Spike about Rayne’s involvement in an incident with enchanted chocolates that had led to the whole town reverting to age sixteen. From her chagrin and the glances she threw toward Giles, he finally had the missing pieces to the puzzle of why she and the Watcher were so skittish around each other.

Buffy pressed Spike into service driving her to the bar where Rayne had mojo’d Giles. She commiserated with the cocktail waitress until she got the name of the fleabag motel where Rayne (a.k.a. Roger Moore) was holed up. Buffy hustled Rayne out of his room and into the Jeep, and they headed back to Joyce’s. Spike admitted that he enjoyed hearing Buffy threaten the rascal. She was cute when she was directing her ire elsewhere.

Presto, chango. Rayne worked the reversal spell in the backyard, and Giles was back in his own body in no time. Buffy started up again on Rayne as soon as it was done. Joyce was charmingly flustered by Rupert’s lack of a shirt. Spike couldn’t see the appeal himself, but long unlife had taught him that there was no explaining the mysteries of attraction.

Take Buffy, for example. There was no one less suitable in all the wide world for him. She was the Slayer, first of all. They were predisposed to kill one another, which was only sexy in an extremely abstract way. She was full of moral certitude, while he scoffed at absolutism. She was a fiery blonde, when everybody knew he preferred cool brunettes, Harmony notwithstanding. She was an irritating, ignorant California girl, willfully so, while he was a well-read, well-traveled man of the world — though he wasn’t in the habit of advertising it. He could go on, but the bald truth was that she fascinated him, however wrong for him she might be. Being near her brought everything into sharp focus, made him think faster, made him feel…alive. None of that mattered, of course, since they would never be anything but enemies, but it was best to recognize the attraction, so as to not give in to it.

Buffy and Giles settled on having Rayne bound by a shaman the next county over until the Council could come retrieve him. Buffy ordered Spike to drive. It was heaven fighting with her over the radio all the way there, and glancing over to see her drowsing all the way back. She really was his favorite enemy.

+++

Spike’s night was going great. He’d won a little at poker down at Willie’s, and had been given reason to snap the earstalks off a Gravlach, which would fetch a pretty penny on the occult black market. He was going to check on Joyce before heading out for a late night sweep. With any luck, he’d run into Buffy in one of the bone yards and get in a little verbal sparring before bed.

He walked in to find Joyce sitting in the middle of a scene of chaos and destruction. The French doors to the living room were hanging by their hinges and the glass was scattered everywhere. The coffee table was in splinters. His wicker chair was flattened. A quick look showed similar signs of violence in the dining room. There was an unfamiliar scent in the room. An earthy girl sweat, not Buffy's usual bright, fruity potions or Joyce's spicy perfume.

“What happened?”

She looked around at him. He saw the side of her face was bruised. “Faith happened.”

“I’m going to need a little more,” he prompted.

“Faith. She’s the other Slayer.” Ah, the bird called after Kendra had kicked it. That…still didn’t make a lick of sense.

“Why would one of the White Hats do this? Joyce?” She seemed a little shocky. “C’mon, love. Let’s have a cup of tea and you can tell me what’s going on.”

He pulled her to her feet. She let the pieces of coffee table she’d been holding drop. He led her to the kitchen and got her settled on a stool, then busied himself with getting the kettle on. He thought he remembered that sugar was good for people in this condition, so he pulled out a packet of biscuits and put them in front of her. She reached for one and automatically ate it. Things must be serious if she was going to eat sweets without talking herself into it first.

“She came to the door and knocked me out. She tied me up and said all these awful things about Buffy. I think she was going to kill me. Buffy came in and they fought. I called 9-1-1. She’s wanted by the police. Buffy finally knocked her out. They took her away. Buffy’s upstairs. She wanted a bath.”

Except for the part about Buffy knocking out the chit, he didn’t really understand any of her explanation. The idea that Buffy would leave Joyce to face the mess alone was perhaps the unlikeliest bit of all.

The kettle whistled, so he made them both a mug of tea. When he put her mug down in front of her, he saw her staring at the countertop, tears running down her face. Oh hell. He stepped in to wrap an arm around her shoulders and wiped the tears away with his thumb. She leaned into him, shuddering.

“Way to go, Joyce,” came Buffy’s voice from the door to the hall. “Looks like you’re getting more action than I am, these days... Mom.”

Spike turned to stare in astonishment at Buffy. She looked gorgeous. Wanton. She gave him a long up and down and a knowing smile. Something was very wrong.

“So, I’ll just leave you to it, then. I’m going to stop by Giles’ and then, um, patrol. See you around.”

“Okay, honey,” said Joyce. “Please be careful.”

“’Cause if I can’t be good…” said Buffy, waving casually as she left.

“That isn’t Buffy,” said Spike as soon as the door shut.

“What?” asked Joyce, more confused than ever.

“Never mind, love. Just dial Rupert’s number for me, will you?”

Giles picked up on the first ring, and he took the cordless into the next room.

“Giles, you’ve got whatever you call a Slayer May Day.”

“Yes, I am aware that Faith is a serious threat.”

“No, you berk! Something’s wrong with Buffy. She’s not herself.”

“Who do you imagine her to be, if not herself? Don’t flatter yourself that you know her at all, Spike.”

Spike dropped into an unbroken dining room chair and leaned on the table, one hand massaging his forehead.

“Look. Joyce is injured. The police just carted that Faith creature out of here. But Buffy is all wrong. I don’t know how else to put it.”

“Alright, Spike, I’ll bite. What exactly is it that you think is wrong with Buffy?”

He went with his first thought.

“Well, she left the house in a great mess for her mum to clean up, for one thing.”

“I see. You do realize she is a teenaged girl, Spike.”

Spike sighed. Did the Watcher know the first thing about his charge? He had more, though.

“She gave me the eye.”

There was a pause. “What sort of ‘eye’ do you mean, exactly?”

“Even you’re not that old, Rupert. It was the ‘hello, sailor’ eye. Does that sound like Buffy to you?”

“It does seem odd…”

“And she implied there was some hanky panky going on between me and Joyce.”

“What! That doesn’t sound like Buffy at all.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” said Spike. “She’s headed for your place. What're you going to do about it?”

“I don’t…there’s a Council wet works team in town to deal with Faith. Maybe we can…coordinate with them.”

“Have you lost your mind? Those heartless bastards would rather take out a Slayer than figure out how to cross the street. Look, I’ll tail her over there. You can check it out and hit the books. Don’t take anything at face value, yeah?”

“I’ll do what I can. Thank you for coming to me with your concerns, Spike.”

“Not doing it for you.” He rang off and checked on Joyce, who was still staring into space. He helped her upstairs, saw the state of her room with its broken window and made her promise to go to straight to bed in Buffy’s room, without picking up so much as a shard.

He made it to Giles’ place just as Buffy was leaving. He let her get down the block before knocking.

Giles opened the door. Spike took a deep sniff.

“Those Council wankers have been here?” he demanded. Giles nodded.

"How many?"

"Three that I saw," said Giles. "I'm still not certain you're right about Buffy, but she did seem a little...flip. More so than usual."

“Might be nothing,” Spike agreed, not really believing it. He shrugged and got the scent as well as he could from outside the apartment before setting off.

I occurred to him as he checked the police station, the hospital, and the docks, that he was putting an awful lot of effort into finding out about something that shouldn’t really matter to him. It was the memory of Joyce, looking so tired, hurt, and confused that kept him on the move.

Finally, near the old factory, he picked up the scent. Using all his stealth, he slipped into an abandoned warehouse through one of the clerestory windows. There was a large van inside, matching the description of the one that had collided with the squad car that had been carrying the girl they called Faith. The stop at the police station hadn’t been a complete waste of time, after all. The Council men were grouped on one side, near a portable communications center and the lone hot plate. They were hard men, just the type he would have expected.

He sidled up to the van just as a something inside began pounding away. He used the cover of the noise to creep into the cab. He slid the connecting window open and looked through at the dark-haired girl chained below him.

“Who’s this then?” he asked quietly. She stopped the pounding.

“Spike!” she hissed. “How did you find me?”

He tapped his nose and put a finger to his lips. She nodded.

“The question is, darling, who is it that I’ve found?” he breathed.

“It’s me!” she mouthed. “Buffy! Faith had some gizmo and switched bodies with me! Is Mom okay?”

Her concern for Joyce clinched it. It all started to make sense for the first time in hours.

“She’s in no danger at the moment, Slayer. You, on the other hand…” He looked toward the Council men, who were doing a weapons check in that way that military men always seemed to. “We’ve got to get you out of here. Let me see what I can do.”

He slipped back down onto the van’s seat and thought about their options. He could try to break her out of the van, but it would likely be noisy and take a little time. Their guns weren’t much of a deterrent to him, but they could hurt the girl, and — being from the Council — there was every reason to believe that they had crossbows and what all in their arsenal. The easiest thing would be to just drive right through the roll up doors, but then he’d have to hotwire the thing, which might be tricky. Unless… He checked under the floormat. The keys were lying there, just by the driver’s side door. Pikers.

He stuck his head through the sliding window once more.

“Hang on, Slayer. It could get rough,” he whispered with a wink. She rolled her eyes. He grinned.

He silently slipped the key into the ignition and checked all the possible brake levers and gear shifters. He watched the Council men to make sure they were where they were supposed to be. When they all seemed engrossed in something, he turned the key, put the van in gear and gunned it right through the doors. There was something ridiculously satisfying about property damage.

He wasn’t sure where to go. If the van had some sort of tracking device, he’d best ditch it sharpish. He headed for the edge of town, where he’d been storing the DeSoto. He bumped to a halt, jumped down, and ran to get his lock picks out of the glove box.

Rather than try to get in the back door, he slithered in through the sliding window and rolled out his tools. The girl — he still wasn’t sure what to call her — held out the shackles on her feet and hands. He went to work and had the chains off in a few minutes. She rubbed the raw places once they were off, and stretched her muscles. If he’d made a mistake, now was when he’d find out.

She looked at him with her big brown eyes and the determination in them could only belong to one Slayer.

“Thanks, Spike. Is there a plan?”

That was more like it.

“Well, I figure once you’re all done showering me with gratitude, we could call Giles and see if he and Red have come up with anything.”

“Sounds exactly like a plan to me. But…you’re sure that Mom’s alright?”

“I tucked her in myself,” he said with a leer.

“Oh, gross, Spike!” She slipped through the window into the cab. He gathered up his stuff and followed.

She hopped down to the ground.

“Just for the record, you’re not fooling anybody with that act. Everybody knows how you feel about Mom.”

He landed beside her. He put his hand on his heart and looked stricken.

“My dark secret is out? However will I go on if everyone knows?”

“You’re kind of a goofball, aren’t you?”

He looked sharply at this strange, beautiful girl who was smiling at him almost…fondly. He felt the ground shift beneath his feet, but noticed that she didn’t twitch even an eyelash.

“Get in the car,” he huffed.

“Ja wohl,” she shot back.

They headed to the quickie mart near the freeway entrance, and she dialed Giles. As it started to ring, she handed it to Spike. Giles answered, clearly still awake.

“Hey, Rupert. Got your girl. Things are a bit wonky, though. She’s in the other one’s skin.” He waited for the initial outburst to subside. “Yes, I’m positive. I’ll put her on and you can get the details from her.”

He handed her the phone.

“Giles! Faith had this metal thingie and she…well, okay. Sure. Ask me anything. Oh come on, anybody would know that! How about, um, that time that I brought you the still-growing toenails of my demon roommate and you tried to tie me up? That was funny. Or, or the time you rescued us from the haunted house with a chain saw? That was really cool, by the way. I don’t think I mentioned it at the time. Uh huh. Are we good? Alright, so Faith had this thingie…”

He didn’t pay attention while they hammered out the details. The way she talked about all the Slayer hijinks, it almost sounded like fun. A life filled with all that purpose must feel, well, purposeful.

She hung up.

“Willow thinks she might have a lead on the magic used in the switch. They’re going to work on conjuring another gizmo. Once they’ve got it, I’ll need to find Faith to switch back. In the meantime, I’ve got to lay low.”

They discussed all the places and people she would need to avoid: Giles’ place, her mom’s, her dorm room and classes, the police, and the Council. Spike still needed to avoid the commandos. He remembered his poker winnings and suggested a motel that he happened to know had phone service. It just meant a quick stop by the house to get his money out from under the mattress.

They parked down the street. Spike instructed Buffy to stay low in her seat and pay attention to any movement. He got out of the car, lit a cigarette and strolled down the sidewalk to the darkened house. He let himself in and hurried down to the basement to grab his bankroll. While he was there, he pocketed a few more packs of smokes and tucked the Gravlach stalks into his coat for good measure. He headed back up the stairs.

When he was just at the top, he heard the front door open. Why hadn’t she waited in the car? He closed the basement door behind him and turned to see Buffy — the original model Buffy — heading up the stairs.

They were royally buggered now. A moment later, the new-improved Buffy barreled through the door in hot pursuit. Blonde-Buffy turned with a snarl and Brunette-Buffy charged.

In the near-darkness of the house, Spike watched one of the most spectacular battles he’d ever seen. Blonde-Buffy was fighting for her life, which you would think would give her the edge. But Brunette-Buffy was fighting for something more.

“I won’t let you hurt my mother!” she said, with the even tone of stating an established fact.

“How about we call her down here right now, and we can all rap about our feelings, eh, Faith!”

Brunette-Buffy threw Blonde-Buffy into the living room and stalked after her. Spike darted up the stairs. He met Joyce as she was coming out of Buffy’s room.

“You’d better stay put, love. It’s too dangerous down there.”

“What’s going on? Spike?” He didn’t answer, too busy working out a contingency plan. What if the Slayer in Buffy’s body bested the real Buffy? He didn’t completely grasp the complexity of the situation, but the bitch had already hurt Joyce, maybe tried to kill her. He had to get Joyce to safety if the unthinkable happened.

“Spike?”

“Sorry, Joyce. Listen, Faith’s back. Buffy will do what she can, but maybe you should grab your purse, yeah?”

“Faith? She’s back?” Joyce looked alarmed.

“It’s a bit complicated, pet. Just grab your stuff and be ready to come with me.”

She blinked at him but went to gather her things. He walked down a few steps, listening to the furious sounds of the fight.

“You can’t win this!”

“You're nothing! You’re disgusting! Murderous bitch!”

Finally, there was a sickening crunch. Then silence. He waited, hearing only heavy breathing. He took another few steps, bending forward to see what he could see.

What he saw was Buffy, Brunette-Buffy, staring horrified at the crumpled body of the false Buffy. Her eyes were impossibly huge and her hand covered her mouth, no doubt to hold in the scream that threatened to come out. She dropped to her knees beside the body, hand still over her mouth. She reached out with the other hand to touch the girl lying there. She touched the golden hair, and started to stroke it.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.” She began to rock, forward and back.

Spike felt a touch on his shoulder and jumped. Joyce stood behind him, dressed and carrying her purse.

“Is it safe?” she asked. Wasn’t that a fantastic question?

“There was mojo, Joyce. Bad stuff. You hear what I’m saying?”

She nodded.

“It made Buffy and Faith switch bodies. Are you with me?”

She frowned, but nodded again.

“It was Buffy that the police took away, alright?”

She shook her head. “That’s not right. Buffy was right here…” As the pieces fell into place, she nodded again. “Go on.”

“Buffy is still in Faith’s body, Joyce. Can you handle that?”

She stared at him, mouth open. She looked down the stairs and back at him. He nodded. They started down the steps. He heard her gasp as she took in the scene before her.

“My baby.”

“Mommy. I killed her. She was going to hurt you and I killed her. Oh my god.”

Joyce moved across the room to kneel next to Buffy. She took her in her arms and stroked her hair.

Buffy’s tears began to fall, and then she was retching.

Epilogue

Giles and Joyce circled the wagons. They decided to put it out that Buffy had gone to Europe after being repeatedly attacked by a deranged — and now escaped — criminal. Spike bundled the body into the trunk of the DeSoto just before dawn. He packed it with ice from the quickie mart and parked it in the shadiest spot he could find in February. Once he’d got a few states over he’d bury her in some out of the way place. A beautiful place, requested Joyce.

The real Buffy was going to be much harder to hide. Wearing the face of a wanted felon cut down on her options. Again, out of state would be ideal. Giles offered to take her on a grand tour of the lower 48, but Buffy pointed out that the two of them together were much more likely to attract Council attention than almost anything else.

Joyce thought of sending Buffy to one of the geographically distant relatives. Perhaps one of the ones in the mid-West who had the only house for miles around. Buffy smiled weakly at that, but agreed that it was…an idea.

In the near term, they decided she should go with Spike, just to get out of range of the authorities after Faith.

Which is why, three weeks later, she has rallied a little. She’s seeing a bit of the world for the first time. Her absolute certainty was shaken, though she’s still determined to do the right thing. She’s a beautiful, fiery brunette: just his type. He’s getting close to telling her so. But for now, they are driving toward Wyoming and fighting over the radio as they go.

FIN