A/N - I never really bought that Spike was looking for a soul in Africa. I know they said so in season 7 but really in grave it looked like he'd been tricked.

So this is a post grave fic however it's not a soulful but a chipless Spike that emerged from that cave.

Enjoy. And anytime you want to review, good, bad, indifferent your only a click away :)

Thanks as always go to April who fortunately shook off some disturbing temporary blondness to get this proofed. xxx

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"I just can't" It's a plea and Xander can almost see his resolve to be tough on her slipping away. Buffy, always so strong and defiant has been reduced to pleading and that is surely enough to melt anyone's heart. "I want to, really I do. But it hurts too much"

"You make these bad choices Buffy" Anyone at least it seems but Willow, her voice is firm and only tinged so very slightly with sympathy and understanding. "Now you gotta live with the consequences"

"I know" the slayer sighs, deep and regretful. "Just let me sit out a couple of songs okay guys, even my blisters have blisters" she shoots an accusing glare at her new strappy heels. "And I am never wearing these things again, I think a demon may have made them"

"Speaking of demons" Willow's nudge drags his attention away from the suffering slayer and he lets his eyes follow the direction of her inclined head to the door.

And there she is, striding confidently into the bronze, mesmerisingly beautiful as ever. Anya. Her eyes scan the crowd casually and he finds himself in a sudden panic. "You think I should go over?" he demands urgently. "I mean I saw her yesterday. I don't wanna be pushy."

"Definitely go over. It's not pushy, it's friendly. You wanna be friendly right?" Willow nods enthusiastically, keen as ever to encourage her loved ones in the persuit of happiness.

Unconvinced he turns questioning eyes to the slayer. "I'm definitely gonna come down on the side of being friendly" she agrees with a nod. "Plus Anya. Never been much for the subtleties"

It's all the reassurance he needs. "Right then. I'm going over" With a roll of his shoulders and a deep breath he heads off purposefully in his ex-financee's direction. .

"Does he remind anyone else of a puppy?" There is a light sheen of sweat over Dawns shoulders as she steps up alongside Willow, evidence of the energetic dancing that she enjoys so much. She has come of age this summer and Buffy gratefully finds herself proud and smiling far more often than she is angry and disappointed in her sister. "You know the lost kind that just follow you around till you give in and take them home"

"Dawn" The feigned shock in Willow's admonishment is belied by the scant success she has in hiding her amused smile..

"Whatever. Oh wow great tune. Who's for dancing?"

Even the thought causes her feet to relay urgent pain laced warning messages to her brain. "Worlds of no" she looks down again and twiddles her toes experimentally. "My new shoes are trying to eat my feet. You guys go dance I'm gonna drink my soda and watch the world go by"

"The world? Or the hunky college boy over there that keeps giving you the eye?" They laugh at her as Dawn drags an unresisting Willow to the dance floor and she is more than happy to bear their mockery it's just so good to see everyone smiling again.

She smiles too as she watches them. Finally after such a horrible year things are falling into place. Especially now that Willow is back from England clean and eager to make a mends for her little trip to the dark side. Sure she's sad, how could she not be? It's bad enough for the rest of them. Funny how it is only now that she is gone that they truly understand the importance of Tara's gentle maternal presence. They all miss her so very much and the world is undoubtably darker without her in it, but it isn't black and Willow was beginning to see flecks of light and colour in it again.

As for Xander. Well Xander has a mission and just lately operation win-Anya-back has begun to look like it might not be an unmitigated failure after all.

Yeah things are definitely getting better. She scans the room again and does a mental lists of all the goodness of the moment. Dawn absorbed into the group and bonding happily with big sister and big sisters friends. Check. Xander and Anya having a civilised conversation by the bar. Check. Willow beginning to learn how to live without magic and Tara. Check. Hot college guy checking her out. Double check.

She gives him a flirtations smile and enjoys his obvious interest for a moment. But when he makes a questioning gesture with his head that she takes as an invitation to join him in a drink she finds herself shaking her head in response. Yeah he's cute enough—sandy hair, open handsome face, built like a quaterback. Just not really her type.

No. No. Absolutely her type. He's exactly what she likes. Really well built. "I think you mean lumbering and bulky" a sarcastic part of her brain that she doesn't recognise as belonging to her interjects with a mental sneer. Handsome and honest looking. "Vanilla". And now she knows the amused sarcastic voice in her mind belongs to Spike.

She turns back to her drink with an annoyed huff and attacks the ice viciously with her straw. This is no good at all. No good. Her type is bulky and vanilla, it's what she likes in a man. Yep Buffy likes 'em big and nice and boring. Not lean and dangerous. And she definitely does not like her men sardonic and sexy and dead!

Right. Good. Now that that’s all cleared up she'll prove it by dancing with the cute collage boy. Or at least she would if her feet weren't hurting so damned much.

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There is always good hunting in a city like this. A city full of isolated friendless people and over confident youth. Easy pickings. Down and outs too by the score just waiting to be picked off and no one to miss them, no one to care even if they did. Yeah New York is like the old south in summer. The cotton is high and the living is easy.

But at the weekends—that's when you can really have some fun. Saturday night and a demon can trawl the city's myriad of clubs and bars as if they were sweet shops. Loud anonymous places packed to the rafters with happy oblivious people pumped up on drugs, alcohol, lust and adrenaline. Just Delicious. Oh yeah a demon, a vampire, can have a whole lot of fun on Saturday night in New York.

He could be out there too, nothing to stop him now. He could eat every pretty girl in town and snap their boyfriends' necks just for the fun of it. Might do it too. Maybe later on.

"Give us the bottle mate" he throws a handful of dirty crumpled bills down on the bar. Stolen money it was yeah. He'd flashed a bit of fang at some poncy bastard in an Armarni suit, scared the git witless and took his wallet. Yeah he was still bad.

A glance around the half empty demon haunt tells him there's not much in tonight.. Couple of pathetic looking vamps playing pool and talking big, A M'lik demon with an arm missing propping up the bar and a small group of what looked like holy men. Four of them, dressed up like humans but smelling like demon.

No there wouldn't be much fun to be had out of this lot tonight. Not that he ever did his killing near the bar that was a sure way to get yourself barred. But if there was anything challenging in he'd follow 'em. It wasn't a white hat thing he just enjoyed the violence couldn't get a good fight out of a human anyway, demons were much more fun. Yeah right. "Pathetic wanker"

Three months. Three bloody months since he dragged his sorry carcass back over the Atlantic in the bottom of a cargo ship from Africa. Ended up in New York couldn't tell you why except it was pretty much the opposite side of the country from her. Not that that made the slightest bit of sense. He'd been on the other side of the world. Could have headed up through North Africa and back into Europe. He was free now. No chip, no problem. Except it wasn't bloody working. Getting the damn thing out was supposed to stop him feeling like this. About her, about what happened to her, about the whole of man-bloody-kind.

"They say there is a slayer on the Hellmouth" his ears prick but his posture remains unchanged. He's good at this, eves dropping, it's a vamp thing. He can hear a mouse taking a piss at two hundred yards listening in on a hushed conversation a few feet away isn't too much of a strain, even over the bloody awful music pathetic vamp number one has tortured out of the juke box.

"Then we deal with her. Once she's dead nothing will stand in our mistress' way" he could almost laugh, just another group of high and mighty ponces all puffed up and styling themselves slayer slayers. Like it was that bleeding easy, Buffy'd kill 'em all right dead and proper without breaking a sweat.

"She is powerful father, we have not the strength to destroy her." Ah not as stupid as all that then, maybe he'd just keep listening. Not that he cared or anything just interested was all.

"Don't worry my son our mistress has already planned for this. Tomorrow she will awaken Slavrock the Slayer Eater and when he wakes he will hunger for fresh meat." And it isn't the demons cruel chuckle that chills the already icy blood in his veins. "This Buffy Summers won't be a problem to us at all"

The Slavrock, he thought it was a myth a demon holy grail. The Slayer Eater. Yeah he'd heard of it, wasn't a demon on the planet hadn't. They said it could be summoned, brought forth to destroy that one girl in the whole bloody world. Not that he gave a shit, wasn't like he cared what happened to the bloody slayer. Bitch deserved whatever was coming to her for reducing him to this.

The whiskey burns his throat as he takes a long gulp straight from the bottle. How the hell was he gonna get her out of this one?


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A/N remeber what I said about reviewing. Go on, it really helps to get me going on a fic

A/N As always April must be thanked over and over for her indespensible herlp in proofing these shoddly written chapters. She mends them so well.

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"You know what the trouble is with a dead Slayer?" The demons look up, startled by his interruption, and he effects his cockiest pose as he searches his pockets for his smokes.

"Who are you?" The leader seems unperturbed by his presence, perhaps just mildly offended by the interruption.

"The trouble is…" He cocks his head and studies them with the air of deciding whether or not they were worthy of his words. "You kill one, and that's all good and fun—a real riot—but all you end up with is another one, brand spanking new and eager for the killing."

A long drag on his cigarette gives him a moment to assess their response. Curious but unconvinced; just what he'd expected. "So if you got some big nasty going down on the hellmouth, what you really want is to keep the slayer busy, distracted." Another pause and a sly twitch of his lips. Damn, he's good. Coulda been an actor. "Weak."

"Who are you?"

"And suddenly this conversation is so terribly boring." He turns away—bluffing, of course, but then he's always been a gambler.

"Wait." Hook, line and sinker. Bleeding idiots. "You know of a way to do this? To weaken this slayer?"

"I know a lot of ways." He leans his weight on one hip and studies the chipped nail polish on his left hand. "You see, me and the slayer, we got what you might call history."

He drags a chair over to the end of their table and turns it round to straddle it, elbows resting on the back, every inch the archetypal bad boy. "Tell me, you heard of William the Bloody?"

……………………………..

"Can I watch?" There was a time not so long ago when she would have dismissed her sister with an eye roll and an unequivocal "no," but those days are gone and Dawn is no longer the clumsy child who could always be relied upon to at best annoy and distract and at worst break something valuable.

"Sure." Still, they are sisters, so the law dictates that she has to give her a hard time. "But be quiet and don't touch anything."

"Right then, Buffy." Giles indicates vaguely toward the mats at the rooms centre. "When you're ready."

Twenty minutes later, Dawn slips quietly from the training room. Talk about boring. She’f thought there were going to be punches and backflips and stuff, but no, just Buffy doing a one-armed handstand, which was cool for like ten seconds, and Giles droning on and on about "reaching into your centre," which, when she thought about it, actually sounded kinda gross.

If she'd known what they would talk about just minutes after she left and Buffy finally finished her meditation, she would definitely have stayed a little longer.

"Excellent, Buffy." There is so much affection and admiration in his voice, and she can't get enough of his praise these days. "You've really progressed amazingly this summer. I can't tell you how proud it makes me."

"Oooh. Proud watcher." She grins impishly as she wipes her damp palms and turns to rummage through her kit bag for her antiperspirant. "Go me."

"Proud father," he corrects with a sincere smile, and she turns to him, touched and serious.

"I know." It comes out at little more than a whisper. It's so good to have him back, to feel like a family again.

"I'm so glad you're here," she tells him softly after a short, warm silence. "Last year was just…" There's no need to finish that statement; he knows how last year was, has apologised so many times for leaving her and not realising how very badly she had needed him.

"Yes." It's enough. They understand each other.

"But this year's going to be a doozie." He nods, and she continues candidly. "You know, people-missage aside." And if she hadn't tensed, if her eyes hadn't widened guiltily with the realisation of what she'd said, then he would have believed she was talking only of her mother and Tara.

…………………………………..

"Don't look like much," he comments, running disinterested eyes over the tiny shaking thing cowering grubby and silent in the far corner of its cramped cage. "You really think it's worth brining along?"

"The child does not concern you." His name is Renon, the demon priest he met at the bar. "Your only concern is the slayer." He huffs out a noncommittal sound through his nose. "Got that right," his mind answers silently as he turns again to study the child.

"Wait here while I inform our mistress of your offer." The limousine into which he disappears has blacked-out windows and polished chrome over its satin black sheen. No one sees her, apparently. Only Renon, her high priest, is permitted audience—usual demon hullabaloo: "not worthy,” blah blah blah, “sacred visage,” blah, “strike down,” more blah. Sort of thing that's always pissed him off.

"Are you a monster, too?" It's barely more than a squeaking whisper, but when he looks back at the child, its eyes are huge and curious, sparkling blue in a dirt-streaked face. Wide and innocent, so like a child's eyes he remembers from not so long ago. That coltish, trusting child he'd wanted so badly to take care of but hadn't known even how to begin.

"Yeah, biscuit," he tells it softly, but his voice is gentle and, emboldened by the sound, it raises its head. A little girl, with filthy, matted curls that are probably blonde and tiny, delicate features. Pretty little thing under all that muck. "I'm a monster."

"Oh." She bites her lip nervously. "Do you want to be my friend? This place isn't very nice."

So simply a child sees the world, so easy for her to make her first impressions of him based on his deep, rich voice and gentle eyes rather than on the monster he cannot deny being.

"All right." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "But it's gotta be a secret, okay? Can't have these nasties knowing I'm on your side, now can we, Hob-Nob?"

"Okay." She sketches a cross over her heart, face unnaturally solemn for one so young. "Promise."

The sudden fear on her face confirms what he has already sensed: Renon is returning, and he brings the verdict that will determine his fate, and with it, the child's and maybe even Buffy's.

"Your name is known to our mistress and she sees merit in your proposal." He eyes the vampire in what Spike assumes is supposed to be a threatening manner. "You will weaken this girl, use your knowledge of her and her loved ones to frighten and distract her, and you will be well rewarded when she whose name is great reigns again."

"Bugger that." He knows how to play this, how to make them believe he is what he told them he is: a slayer killer with a reputation for impudence. They'd bought his story, lies and twisted-up truth spun to make the last five years sound like running battles and cunning infiltrations rather than the great cosmic joke his life had actually turned out to be. Still wouldn't do to let 'em get suspicious. "The deal was twenty grand."

Such unsavoury mercenary creatures these vampires, but the mistress chooses him and so Renon must bite his tongue and do her bidding. "Of course."

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A/N Thanks to Niamh for my one and only review for the first chapter. Kiss for you, rasberry for everyone else.

A/N thanks as always to my wonderfull beta April

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"Seriously, is this all I get?" she asks the clearing cloud of dust. "Not that I'm one to complain, but come on." She raises her face upwards as if addressing some higher power. "Girl needs something to work with, and that was just pathetic."

The stake slides easily back into her waistband and she sighs. Had patrol always been this boring? Hardly. Last year, patrol was usually way too eventful. She remembers how she'd feign annoyance at the interruption. "Go away, Spike." How often had she said that? How many ways? Angry, resigned, bored, and always with just enough invitation in her voice and eyes to keep him there.

No, patrol's no fun anymore. No fun without him. She shouldn't say it, shouldn't even think it. The words on her lips are a betrayal even of herself, and yet they spill quietly into the night air. "I miss you."

And then her senses are tingling with recognition and the slayer in her rises, pumping adrenaline into her veins and sending her hand lightening fast to grasp her stake. "Vampire." Her body sends its warning in spider tingles up her spine. "Spike," her brain corrects, and her movements turn to treacle slowness.

"He should not be here," the fish inside her mind declares, with rising Dr Seuss hysteria. "He should not be about." And yet here he is, looking just as he always looked. Lithe and handsome and so obviously self-assured.

She knows she's staring at him. She can almost hear Dawn in her mind: "Buffy, you're such a freak." God, and her sister is right, because she really should be able to say something—do something—but she can't. All she can do is stare.

"Hi, honey." And the honey is his silken voice. "I'm home."

"Spike?" What a stupid thing to say when he's right there for her to see, just yards away from her. Two strides and she could raise a hand to touch him, to answer her own question and know that he is real.

"That would be me." He smirks and drops his weight over one hip as he regards her with casual amusement. "Been a while, slayer. Tell me, how you bearing up?"

She feels her forehead crease into a frown. This is wrong. He shouldn't be smirking and casual. Not after what he did. If he comes to her, it should be on his knees, begging her forgiveness.

"What are you doing here, Spike?" she asks, her voice hardening with sudden resentment.

"Just come to check in on my favourite super hero." His grin is unpleasant and challenging, sickeningly reminiscent of the bad old days ("what happens Saturday?"). "See how you're doing. Traumatic experience that. Could leave a girl a bit the worse for wear."

He can only be talking about one thing. Can only be referring to the night that has taken its place as one of the worst nights of her life. How can he? He who claimed to love her best in all the world. How can he stand there, cocksure and arrogant, and talk about that awful night as if it were nothing but an amusement to him?

"Or maybe not." A step closer and her body clenches with visceral disgust at his nearness. "We both know you got off just as much as I did. Not like you couldn't have chucked me out your bedroom window easy enough."

Her brow furrows. Bedroom? But he's talking again, so there's not time to wonder. "I wonder, did you get yourself cleaned up in time for the whelp's wedding or were you too busy with the after glow?" He laughs and she can't say anything, can only stare her hatred at him. "Maybe that's what really pissed you off: knowing you liked it."

He sways back out of reach of her flying fist laughing. "Spike." Her voice is acid and bile is rising from the well of anger in her stomach. "Get out off my town."

"You sure that's what you want?" She has never hated anyone with quite the intensity she hates him with now. She had always known he'd come back, and in her weakest moments, yes, she has pictured his returning. She had not pictured this. In her mind he had been penitent, suppliant to her righteous anger. He is talking again and her lip curls at the rough silk sound. "If you gotta have some William the Bloody type waking up and gobbling you down, I know you want your old pal Spike. You know I do you best of all, baby."

"What?" She spits the question like cobra venom. And then the pain hits her like an express train in the chest and her voice is low and teary. "God, why are… how can you…" She trails off, what exactly is she asking. How can he say these things? How can he treat her this way?

"Ahh, poor little Slayer." And the bastard's laughing. Laughing at her confusion, at the disbelieving hurt she knows he can see in her eyes, and it's like Angelus all over again and she hadn't thought that it could ever be this way with him. "'Nother boyfriend turned bad?"

"You are not—" She wants to say it, feel the familiar denial on her lips but he cuts her off, no longer willing it seems to hear her refuting.

"See, that’s your real gift, Slayer. You could screw the love clean outta any man." He steps in quickly, surprising her into stillness, hands grasping her upper arms roughly. "See you soon." One hard jerk and he has her flush against his body, fingers digging painfully into her arms as he slams his lips down on hers. He stills just for an instant as his thumbs skim lightly over her bare skin and his lips soften on hers. "Buffy." It's a breath and a prayer, and she doesn't understand. Then she is flying backward, shoved hard enough so that when she connects with the tomb behind her, pain shoots through her skull and he is gone.

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"Giles." His slayer's voice is loud and urgent as she enters the house. "Giles, are you here?"

"Buffy?" His answer brings her into the living room, waking Dawn where she had fallen asleep as only the young can, folded uncomfortably in her chair, her supple body unconcerned at the unnatural angles that would have pained his aging bones.

"Buffy." The girl's concern matches his own because the slayer's eyes are wide and distressed and her body hums with agitation. "Buffy, what's wrong?"

"Spike's back" It's all the answer they need. They both know what happened in the bathroom the night he left Sunnydale, Xander saw to that. Both know that they cannot imagine how hard it would be to see him again.

"Did you kill him?" It's a surprise to hear Dawn's girlish voice so icy cold, her hate a living, crawling thing slithering over her skin and making Buffy shudder.

"What?" The slayer's voice is shocked; she had not known that her sister could hate with such intensity. "No, of course not, I…"

She breaks off because Willow and Xander are back from their movie night, looking questioningly at the tension in the room. "Spike's back." And thank you, Dawn. Let's not even consider thinking before we speak, now shall we. "Buffy didn't kill him." Blue eyes level on hers in a steely, accusing glare. "She was just about to tell us why not."

"Dawn, please, it's not that simple." It sounds weak, even in her own mind, and she closes her eyes, hands held out palm down to keep them silent while she gathers herself. They're gonna think she's crazy. She's actually pretty sure she is crazy, but somehow she can't shake the idea. "It was weird. He was like old Spike, before…you know." Its probably not the best time to bring up his obsession with her, so she concludes with a lame, "…everything," then rushes on before she can be interrupted. "He was saying all this stuff, but it didn't make sense, and some of it was just plain wrong. I think…" Oh, she is crazy. They're really not going to buy this. "I think he was trying to tell me something."

"Something like 'I'm obsessed with you and want to rape you,' or something like 'I hate you and I want you dead'?" Xander's so angry now she can see it in the harsh set of his jaw. Spike is back and there is no one in the world that Xander hates more—for her sake, for Anya, for just being what he is. He won't listen—not tonight or any other night—but she has to try because her instincts are telling her something and she's learned not to ignore them.

"No, something else. Like a warning or something, but with clues. Like code." Sceptical doesn't even begin to cover the way they're looking at her, and she feels a sudden desire to run.

"What did he say?" Thank God for Willow-shaped mercies.

"Lots of stuff. Stuff about before he left, about what happened—"

"Son of a bitch." Her sister cuts her off, voice violent in its hatred.

"Dawn!" An automatic scolding; she really is turning into a mom. But now isn't the time because she has to get this out while she still believes it herself, and she can feel her resolve melting away in the harsh light of their scrutiny. "But what he said was wrong, wrong time, wrong place. And he said something else that didn't make sense. I think it was a clue or a riddle or something…" Her voice dies off, taking her conviction with it.

"Buffy." Giles' voice is gentle and she knows what's coming. "Buffy, do you think that maybe you could be mistaken? That maybe some residual feelings fo—"

"No!" The volume of her vehement denial startles them all, and she drops her eyes along with her voice. "There are no feelings. I just…" Were they right? Was she so desperate for him not to have gone evil that her mind had produced this oh-so-unlikely justification for his actions? Embarrassed and suddenly exhausted, she wants very badly just to go to bed and forget about everything. "I'm just tired and kinda freaked. We'll talk about it in the morning, okay guys? I gotta go to bed."

"Buffy."

"No." She shakes her head and holds up a defensive hand. "I can't deal with this now, and it's not like he can hurt anyone, not with the chip—"

"He can hurt you." Does Xander even know how right he is, how easy it is for Spike to hurt her now? And she's not thinking about his standing invitation to her house or the indisputable fact that the chip doesn't work on her. She's thinking about his cruel, mocking voice: "real gift, slayer…screw the love outta any man…"

"Tomorrow, Xander." And she's gone. Tonight she'll sleep with one eye open, and she'll deal with everything else tomorrow.


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A/N Thanks to all these lovely reviewers (SpuffyRealm currently leading B/S central 10 to 7)

Hey pin, how you doing? Hope I can live up to expectations :)

chritenenj - hey I made you squeal hope this story pleases aas much as P&W

Hello cordykitten, hows you? I know everyone does Spike with kids but it's too cute a proposition to ignore :)

Hope things chill out soon ProphecyGirl, in the mean time hope Ican give you a few moments distraction with my story

Hey niamh my kisses aren't good, they're all sloppy and my big rough bear hug migh suffocate you. Still your welcome to them xxxxxxxx

Nice change of name dreamgirl4 eva, but wern't you soemeone else before songal eve? was it beth?

love to all xxxx

A/N Slight delay on this one, even April, miracle worker that she is can't proof a file I don't send her. Still I got it to her eventually andhe presto it was done. Hugs and kisses therefore go to the lovely April.

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He drops the cold body to the floor with a satisfied, "Ah," rolling his shoulders in pleasure. He can feel them watching him, just like they've been watching his every move since they got here. Guess they're smart enough not to trust him after all. He gives the body a light kick and wanders off into the night.

They follow, of course, so the strong compulsion to vomit will just have to wait. God, that was disgusting. Nothing quite as nauseating as drinking blood from another vampire. Still, he had to do something; the demons weren't gonna buy that he just didn't feel like feeding. So he'd picked her up in the bar, hoped the demons wouldn't know the difference, and drained the vile, congealing blood from her body. Yuck. It was making his stomach churn, but what choice did he have? Start leaving dead bodies all over Sunnyhell and the bloody slayer would definitely be staking first and asking questions later.

And he needs her asking questions. He needs her listening. She's smart, she'll get it. The high cemetery wall provides an ideal vantage point from which to watch her when she gets here, and she'll be here all right. She's got a new baddy to fight, after all. He just hopes she'll realise it isn't him before she drives one of her pointy wooden things through his chest.

He has info for her, too, having done a bit of sneaking when he got back to the abandoned warehouse that the demons had claimed for their base. Found a hidden alcove behind the Mistress' curtained chamber from which he could just make out the voices inside.

Something about the hellmouth, that's what he'd heard. That and some ritual. Didn't take a genius to work out what they were up to. Same old story. Just another bunch of wannabes thinking to unleash hell on earth. Tossers. Didn't they get that they'd be swept aside with everything else on the miserable sodding planet?

He's had to deviate from his original plan—the nice tidy one where he'd convince them to take him rather than a unstoppable slayer killer to Sunnydale, then give them the slip, give Buffy the heads up, and get the hell outta Dodge before she and the super friends introduced him to Mr Pointy.

Hadn't been that simple, though, had it? There'd been that bloody kid, reminding him of his little bit. Damn thing couldn't have had brown eyes. Oh no. So now he's gotta look out for Biscuit, make sure she didn't end up demon dinner. And the bitch - no way he'd refer to her as "The Mistress" not even in his head - had to have a small army of followers, and if Buffy were going to stand a chance, she'd need all the info he could get.

"Well, well." He drops down in to her path and grins salaciously, eyes trailing a lusty path over her body. "Looky who showed up." He touches his tongue to his lips and smirks at the anger in her eyes. "Miss me?"

She's not in the mood to play, it seems, because she's suddenly on the attack. And she's glorious. God, he'd almost forgotten. It's been so long since he's seen her like this—so ablaze with life—and he can tell, even now through the swirling thunderstorm of her anger, that she is healed, that her soul has finally caught up with her body and come back to life.

Later, when the sun is high in the sky, his dogged mind will refuse sleep in favour of replaying that thought: she is healed. He was gone and she healed. But now is not the time; he has things to tell her and a demonstration for the less-than-stealthy minion that believes itself hidden in the bushes. And it'll have to be a hell of a show after what he'd overheard earlier.

"Mistress." It had been Renon's voice. "The vampire, this Spike, I fear he may not be able to contain the Slayer. She is far stronger than we first believed, too strong by far for a single vampire."

"Has he fought her then?" her lilting other-worldly voice had asked, and he'd had the strangest feeling of de ja vu, just a niggle in the back of his mind that warned him that he knew a power like this. A power that was ancient and destructive, something to be feared.

"No, mistress, he avoids confrontation. I believe he fears her."

"No matter. I still have it within my power to summon Slavrok." And he didn't doubt it—not for a second—that she could easily unleash that mythical scourge of slayers on his own chosen one. "You will have him followed tonight, and if he does not hurt her and hurt her well, then we will look to the alternatives."

His blood had run cold at the implication. The alternative: the Slayer Eater. No way in hell he'd let them loose that thing on Buffy, even if it meant he had to hurt her himself. So here he was trading vicious blows, quid pro quo with a woman he'd willingly die to protect. And all the while these same words a running mantra in his mind. "So sorry, love. So sorry."

It strikes her as he deftly side steps her ragged punch and uses her own momentum to propel her head first in to the cemetery wall that maybe she has underestimated him. The others had wanted to come with her on patrol. Xander, especially, had resisted her going alone, but she'd steamrolled them. "Guys, it's just Spike. Not like I haven't kicked his ass a million times." She'd tossed her hair, let that slayer confidence shine through, and they'd conceded the argument.

Just Spike, she thinks ruefully as his heavy booted foot comes down hard on the small of her back, knocking her face first into the gravel path. Just Spike who's spent most of the last five years watching her fight. Spike who's always watched her so much more closely than she ever watched him, who knows her every strength and weakness, who knows she drops her right shoulder when she gets tired. Who knows she favours her right hand and her left foot and is always open under her left arm when she spins.

She drags herself up and turns to face him, her back protesting painfully at the movement. He's leaning against an old yew tree, already half way through a cigarette. "Having fun, slayer?" he asks conversationally, then chuckles at her angry glare.

"Oh, don't be that way." He play-acts a pout, but his eyes are anything but soft. "Me and you always have fun."

She doesn't want to respond, but she's a wily enough fighter to know not to attack while her back's still shooting agony up and down her spine. Keep him talking for a few minutes, then she'll be ready to go again. "I think you and I have very different definitions of fun."

He arches an eyebrow in cynical amusement. "Is that right? Don't you remember the high school—um, our first time?" His tongue curls behind his teeth. She used to find it sexy, in a creepy kinda way, but now it makes her want to pound her fists into his face and just keep hitting till she's driven all the innuendo out of him. She says nothing. The pain's fading already; just a few more minutes and she'll be ready to do just that.

He grins wickedly at her obvious disgust and continues almost conversationally. "Shame about the interruption. Whatever happened to old Valious anyway? You take his head of with that fire axe I saw you waving around?"

She's not listening. Let him talk in his riddles. Not like he ever made much sense, and her back feels much better and she hates him; she really, really does. With his hard, pretty eyes and his honey and poison voice. She hates that he can hurt her, hates that she's scared enough of him that she has to stand here and listen to his mind games.

"Buffy?" His voice drops to an uncertain whisper, and when her eyes settle on his face again it's a portrait of bemused love. Love that has been his oblation to her for so long, and the sudden lump in her throat has nothing to do with the fading pain in her spine. "Buffy, luv." He looks confused, lost, like Angel kneeling before Acathla's swirling portal. "Buffy, I…what's happening?"

Hope, wonderful, terrifying hope blossoms uncontrollably in her chest and she steps towards him, unthinking, unguarded. "Spike?" He swallows hard and shakes his head as if to clear it. Another step and she's so close to him she can taste the smoke of his forgotten cigarette and her hand is moving of its own accord, searching for his cheek.

"Spike." Her fingers settle on the cool familiar skin guiding his head so she can turn his face towards her and look into his fear filled eyes. "It's okay," she whispers, and her body is almost sagging with relief. He's here, he's not changed. It's okay.

His eyes flash suddenly and the realisation that she's been had hits her just before his forehead connects with the bridge of her nose. She doesn't need to hear the sickening crunch to know it's broken. Blood streams down over her mouth and her head spins as she staggers backwards. She needs a moment to regain her equilibrium, but she won't get it. Playtime is over, it seems, and his follow up is merciless - punch after punch sending her down, grasping desperately at the intangible threads of consciousness. She expects him to follow her down, go for the throat like all vamps do, but he's not about to make that mistake. He knows far too well that even now she's got an arsenal of moves to get out of that one. Instead, he opts for landing a hard kick in her side, making her curl up helplessly in the gravel.

Another follows, and another, until she's choking on her own blood and the pain is enough to make her retch. And when he stops, she's crying from more than the pain, because when he'd said her name in that treacle-soft voice of his, she'd been ready. Ready to forgive him, ready to let him back into her life. One soft word and all her caution had taken to the wind and she'd been ready to offer him things she's never offered before.

"Pathetic." There's a disappointed disgust in his voice that should make her angry but just makes her sob. "Poor little Slayer can't even manage one little vamp."

He pushes her hard with his foot, rolling her on to her back so she can look up at him through blood and tears. "You're not even worth finishing off." He squats down beside her and tenderly wipes the blood from her lips letting her harsh warm, breaths waft across his finger tips like a promise of life and he wants so badly to tell her he's sorry that he'd never hurt her if he had any choice.

"Don't try to find me." It’s a wonder he can keep his voice cool and even, can think straight over the internal chant of, "So sorry, love. So sorry." "Wouldn't be able to even if you searched all the days you spent sleeping."

His hand flutters over the bare skin of her shoulder, tracing letters of apology he knows she won't be able to decipher. "Gotta run, pet. Be seein' ya."

………………………………………………………….

"Our mistress is well pleased." It pisses him off. Really pisses off. Pompous, sycophantic git. Like he gives a fuck if the bitch mistress is doing an Irish jig and singing, "I'm H-A-P-P-Y."

"Smashing," he replies sarcastically. He doesn't want to deal with this ponce now; he just wants to curl up somewhere dark, preferably with a couple of bottles of Jack, and try and forget the image of his beautiful slayer beaten and bloody at his feet.

"She requests that you take charge of the child until sunrise." He turns, obviously expecting the vampire to follow.

"Do I look like the bloody nanny?" No need now for Spike to feign the sarcastic irritation, not when all he can see in his mind is Buffy's tear-filled eyes and bleeding lips, when all he can hear is her angry, betrayed sobbing.

"Our mistress' followers have other services to perform this night." The demon's tone is uncompromising. "You will watch the child, and if you do not…" He trails off at the look on the vampire's face, the one that tells him threats will not be well received. "And for your trouble, an extra two hundred dollars," he amends with a grimace of a smile and a slight bow.

Spike lets a lazily-raised eyebrow do the bargaining for him, and Renon concedes quickly enough. "In advance."

"Right ho." He claps once and gestures for the demon to lead the way.

"All you need do is ensure it does not escape," Renon tells him when they reach the locked room that houses the child's cage. "A waste of your talents, I'm sure." And with that he's gone, locking the door after him and leaving Spike to stare at the bundle of motionless rags in the corner of the cage.

"Hey there, Crinkle-Crunch.'' His voice is feather soft in the silent prison, drawing her out slowly from her filthy burrow of tattered blankets.

"Hello." It's little more than a squeak, but at least she doesn't seem afraid of him.

"Hello, pet." He sits down on the floor alongside her cage, his posture and expression deliberately unthreatening. "How you doing?"

Sitting up fully, she gives a determined nod of her head, childish features set in an expression of adult resolve. "I'm okay."

"Hang on." He gropes around in his pockets for the chips he bought at the bar. "You hungry then?"

She accepts the offering with a solemn nod. "Thank you."

"How long you been here?" His question draws her attention from her chips, and she swallows repeatedly, scrunching up her face and closing her eyes, until her mouth is empty.

"Don't know." Her little forehead creases in thought, and she's silent for a while before she manages to come up with an answer. "Ages."

His lips tug upward and she smiles cautiously back. "That long, hey?"

"Hm-hm." She takes another mouthful of chips and this time talks through them. "Why are you here? Why don't you run away?"

He feigns outrage. "What, and leave a little crumb like you here all on her lonesome? Not bloody likely."

She bites her lip with tiny gappy teeth and looks so uncertain—reminds him so much of that leggy blue eyed girl whose affection he has long since lost—that he finds himself groping for a way to reassure her. "Say, Shortbread, do you believe in super heroes?"

A moment's serious consideration and then she nods. "Yep."

"Right then." He lounges on his side one hand supporting his chin. "Get comfy and I'll tell you a story."

He watches as she makes a production of getting comfortable, eyes wide and expectant. Then he begins. "Right. This ain't just any story, you know. This is a true story about a girl, and not just any girl, either. This girl is so brave and strong, nothing can hurt her."

………………………………………..

The water pounds, hot and soothing, against her aching body, washing blood, tears and dirt from her face. She'll have to get an ice pack for her nose before she crawls into bed or it's gonna be like a balloon in the morning.

God, everything hurts. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have forgotten exactly what he is, exactly what he's capable of? She's never felt so foolish, with her ridiculous theories. She'd just wanted so badly to believe that one way or another he still had her back, that under the threats and taunting there was still just Spike looking out for her as always.

A wash of patheticness brings tears to her eyes, and she lays her head on her cool tiles. "Bastard," she breathes quietly against the wall. "Bastard."


……………………………………………………

A/N The biscuit is a great British tradition and a natural accompaniment of a nice cup of tea. Try not to confuse a biscuit with a cookie, although cookies (if not too soft and chewy) can be categorised loosely as biscuits. I believe in the states there is some kind of breakfast known as a biscuit. Do not be confused by this.

For anyone interested in the truth about biscuits, you will find information here
http://www.nicecupofteaandasitdown.com/biscuits/index.php3 and for detailed instructions to guide you through the healing and gratifying process of "Dunking" your biscuit, see this wonderfully informative guide:
http://www.biscuit.org.uk/dunk/index.html.

It is important to note, for the purposes of this story, that the British have honed the baking and eating of biscuits to such a fine art that there now exist literally thousands of types and brands of biscuits—whole supermarket isles are dedicated to the purveying of fine biscuits and they are enjoyed by everyone, from the dust man to the Queen and back again.

The many names that Spike will have for the child in this story will be based mainly on the great British biscuit in all its wondrous variety.

Thanks to all the lovely reviewers

Mg - Glad you like (and P and W too) Extra Bad big bad for you here, but have faith things'll work out.

Mari - Buffy a bit more than flustered this time. She'll be okay though I promise.

Pin - They are annoying, although bearing in mind he did try and rape buffy they might be the tiniest bit justified.

Cheers Steph, glad you like.

Jenny Mae - I'm afraid it's Spike, he has his reasons but it is him. Don't hate him for this he has a plan, as do I

Hey Beth (DreamGirl) - Course I remember sweetie, i remember all my darling reviewers.

CordyKitten - Didn't mean to confuse you babe, I'm sorry.

Naimh - Ah you wrote origins excellent stroy I keep missing updates and getting left behind. I see yo've upadted again, and a new story too, I'm off to read em now.

A/N - I won a prize. Me, a prize, can you believe it? Porphecy and Warmth won Best Saga at Loves Last Glimpse. It's the reviews that I really enjoy getting but an award is pretty special too. I dont know who nominated me but thanks to them. An dof course to April, no one gives awards to badly written fic so without her theres no way i'd have got it.

Anyway thanks to all the people who read and reviewed that one it kept me writting when the stroy got really long and now; pressies Yay.

...................................................................




"Oh my God, Buffy." Dawn is up from her stool in a flash, fussing around her sister. "Are you okay? You look terrible."

Even the derisive snort hurts her side, where deep purple bruises have bloomed like rampant flowers over her hip and lower back. She's lucky his kicks hadn't connected a bit higher up; her ribs would have been splintered. She'd thought briefly about trying to cover her battered face with make-up to spare Dawn a little worry, but she hadn't even known where to start, not with the twin purple bruises under her eyes from where he broke her nose, and her lip swollen enough that it slurs her speech slightly.

"I'm okay, Dawn." There's not much conviction in it, and it’s a relief for just a little while to let Dawn guide her listless body to a chair and fuss over her, brining her orange juice and a pop tart, the scalding filling burning her mouth.

"Did he do this?" The quiet question is enough to stop her blowing on her breakfast and lay it down on the counter.

"Yes." She can hardly sugar coat it now and it's for the best that Dawn realise just how dangerous Spike is; even with the chip in his head, she should be wary of him. "He got me real good."

"Why didn't he kill you?"

"Because he'd rather see me suffer." She can't believe she'd ever been stupid enough to believe there was more to it than that.

She's so caught up in her own self recrimination she only catches the end of Dawn's reply "…can't believe it's the same guy who looked after me all that time you were gone."

Gone, all that time, her mind whirrs. There's something here she should know. Something she needs to remember from last night. Images and sounds flash across the screen of her mind, his cruel mocking words and bruising fists, his gentle fingers on her face and one line muffled through the ringing in her own ears. "…search all the days you were sleeping."

"Dawn, you’re a genius." She stands up quickly, and her body protests the sudden burst of enthusiasm.

"I am? I mean, of course, but—" The blare of a car horn interrupts her, announcing that her ride to school has arrived.

"I'll explain later. I'll get Xander to take you to the Magic Box after school and we'll work on it.

…………………………………………

She hadn't realised she'd be afraid of him. She'd known that she'd be angry. Really, seriously pissed, and right to be so. But she hadn't bargained on being afraid.

She had a vague memory—fake, of course—of glimpsing him calling out her sister in the old high school while she hid and clung to her mother’s hand. She'd been scared then, terrified, but somehow later she'd never managed to match that same fear with the cool guy who had helped Buffy defeat Angelus, or with the funny, caring Spike who'd told her stories and taught her poker cheats.

She's afraid now, more afraid than she's been since Glory. He has Xander by the throat, one deceptively elegant hand holding the larger man suspended and gasping in the air. "Stay where you are, poppet." She freezes mid-step. He hadn't been looking at her. She'd thought maybe she could run for help. He turns to her, the cruel mocking smile on his demon face giving her a chilling view of fang. "Why'd you wanna go running off now, flower? Don’t tell me you're scared of me."

"I'm not." The courage comes from somewhere deep within her, some well of strength she must have gotten from Buffy. Maybe if she can piss him off enough, he'll drop Xander and come after her. "I've never been scared of you. You're nothing." It's stupid; the chip is obviously gone and she saw what he did to Buffy, but suddenly all that anger and resentment she's been nurturing since he betrayed them just has to be let out. "You were a pathetic good guy and you're even more pathetic as a bad guy. You’re a coward and a bully and I will never be afraid of you."

And he laughs. The son of a bitch just laughs. "Is that right, sweetkins? Well, we'll see about that." And with that he has Xander clamped helplessly against his chest, one hand squeezing hard around the side of his neck, fangs buried in his exposed throat. And all the while, his golden eyes hold her watering blue ones.

By the time he drops Xander's limp body carelessly to the pavement, her whole body is shuddering with the force of her fear. "Always knew the whelp would taste rotten," he sneers, as he wipes blood from his lips with the back of his hand

Oh God, he'd killed Xander. Killed him right in front of her. She looks down at his still body and her stomach threatens to empty its contents on to the tarmac.

"Got a message for big sis." Her eyes swivel up to meet Spike's, blue again now but no less cruel. "You run and tell her what happened to the boy. And tell her it woulda been you only I found me smaller nibbles with just as much juice." He holds her eyes and for a second she flashes back to the night Buffy came back, when demons had ransacked Sunnydale and he'd held her firmly by the shoulders and told her that he would look after her. "You tell her that, Niblet."

………………………………………………….

"Giles, I'm telling you I'm on to something." She's so certain now, and she has to convince the others because she needs them on board. "I know it. More than that, I feel it." She shakes her head. How to make them understand the ethereal certainty of her intuition? "This morning, Dawn said… No, wait, last night Spike and I fought—"

"We can kinda see that, Buffy," Willow interjects, her pretty face creased with concern.

"Right. Yeah, okay, he did a real number on me last night. But I'm not dead, am I?" It's not sympathy on their faces now; it's pity, and she knows it has more to do with her crazy insistence that somehow Spike's not really the bad guy than her black and blue face. It irks her, damn it. She's the one with the bruises. "I'm not even really that badly hurt…"

"Buffy," Giles begins, but she stops him with a raised hand and an uncompromising look.

"Spike knows a thing or two about hurting." Her swollen lips quirk ruefully at the truth of that statement. "So why was he kicking my hip, not my ribs, when I was down?"

"Buffy, isn't the point kinda that he was kicking you at all?"

"Thank you, Willow." Giles is in head master mode, exasperation at her stubbornness beginning to win out over his sympathy. "Buffy, really, you have to stop this…this foolishness." The annoyed authority of his tone reminds her of being in high school. "You're putting yourself at great risk with this ridiculous notion."

"Buffy." Willow’s hands are wringing nervously in her lap, and she knows she's lost that last bastion of support. "I don't want to be all Doubting Thomas, especially with me being Jewish and all, but Buffy, have you looked in the mirror today?"

Suddenly their attitude is pissing her off. "Yes, I looked in the mirror." She's on her feet now and she's aware she might appear a little hysterical, but she can't help it. Her voice rises and her arms wave in overwrought emphasis. "I saw the broken nose and the oh-so-attractive black eyes. I was the one washing blood out of my hair last night. I was the one who had to take four Advil just to dull the pain enough to go to sleep." They look ready to interrupt but she's on a roll now. "I was the one lying face down in the gravel while my boyfriend kicked the shit outta me…" She breaks off then, a trembling hand coming up to cover her battered face. "Please, guys, can you just humour me on this?"

"Of course, Buffy." Willow is at her side, guiding her gently to the Magic Box table, exchanging troubled glances with the watcher.

"Buffy, why don’t you write down everything Spike said that you think might be of relevance?" Giles suggests gently, and Anya appears magically with a pen and pad.

"You can write on this," she declares with her usual enthusiasm and a broad smile. "I won't charge you because you're obviously crazy."

The statement should irk her, but lately she's come to appreciate the vengeance demon’s bluntness, so she just laughs and smiles back affectionately. "Thanks. I think Spike—"

She's cut off by the urgent clanging of the bell as Dawn and Xander stagger into the shop, Dawn's slender frame bowing under the young man's weight. "Oh my God, Xander!" Anya's voice is shrill with worry as she rushes to support her ex's other side. "Xander, what happened?"

But it's fairly obvious what has happened. There's blood soaking into his collar, contrasting deep crimson with the pale blue cotton of his shirt. She can feel it building in her gut; a rising crescendo of noise. "Your fault. Your fault." Repeated over and over until she can barely focus on anything else. Her with her ridiculous theories, her cowardly hesitation. Hadn't she learned this lesson with Jenny Calendar, laid out dead and beautiful among the roses? And it could have been Xander—their own Xander—dead tonight because of her weakness.

They're talking, Dawn urgently recounting the sorry tale. She hears his name and tears spring to her eyes. And still the noise inside, drowning out their voices until all she can hear is, "Your fault. Your fault."

"Buffy." Dawn's voice, insistent and irritated, breaks through. "Buffy, did you hear me? I think you're on to something."

……………………………………………….

A/N thanks for the reviews for the last chapter

christinenj - Wish i could feed you faaster but teh bastards at work actually want me to work. Its very unreasonable

MG - OOh is a wagon wheel a bischit? It had a biscuit base but its kinda soft, no it is a biscuit your right..

Steph - Buffyll get there in the end. Nice girl, not too bright though

Hey DreamGirl - Did you get my little monarchist rant?

Hey CordyKitten - You can understand Buffy being a bit not noticy after taking a nasty beeting like that. Soon though theyll start thingking clearly

A/N works a right pain in the arse! makes writting that much more difficult. Still my neighbourhood nag the lovely slaymesoftly (Patti) got on my case about this one and I sprang into action and finally finished this chapter. Hope to have more up soon the next couple of chapters are written in rough draft so this week or begining of next.

Apologies for the long wait and thanks as always to teh fabulous proofing skills of April who like the star she is turned this round over night for me (teh time difference is actually a bit of a boon)

Kisses for her and for anyone who takes up this story again xxxxx

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"It was horrible." Dawn's hands are still shaking slightly as she gratefully accepts the sweet, milky tea Giles hands her. Stuffy they may be, but the Brits do have one thing right: there is no trouble or upset that cannot be soothed by tea. "I was so sure he killed Xander."

"He had a damn good try." The carpenter's neck is already a mass of purple bruises, forming on the side opposite the twin punctures covered now by one of Giles' extra-large band aids. Anya's hand plays soothingly in his hair as he shakes his head in angry disbelief. "Son of a bitch."

"Dawn." Buffy ignores his outburst in favour of focusing on her sister. "You said you thought I was on to something. Explain."

The teenager pulls herself together with remarkable aplomb, and once again the slayer can feel that ever-growing respect and pride in her little sister’s strength. "It was like you said. The way he acted…the things he said were wrong somehow. Like you'd have to know him to realise, but somehow he was just off."

Buffy nods pensively; maybe Dawnie has a little supernatural perception of her own. Or maybe they just both know Spike far too well for either of their own goods. "It was weird; he was calling me all the wrong names—"flower," and soppy stuff like that. Those aren’t his names for me." She says that last with emphasis, as if his choice of pet names is fundamental, and perhaps it is. "I think he gave me another message. He said—"

"God, what is it with you Summers women?" Xander seems to think about standing, but from the look on his face a wave of nausea prevents him and he flops back down with a surly grunt. "Can't you just accept that Spike's a bad guy?" He waves vaguely at his own neck. "Exhibit A," he intones sarcastically.

"You’re alive, aren't you?" Dawn had obviously heard this more than once on the walk back here, and has grown impatient. "I think it was some kind of sleeper hold, but he made it look good. I was so sure…"

"Why would he want you to think he'd killed Xander?" Willow asks. Funny how just recently Dawn has been so completely accepted into the group. No one talks around her anymore; people listen and Buffy realises that she's earned that, with long hours at the research table and growing common sense.

"I don't know. To scare me, I guess." She shakes her head as if irritated with her own conclusion. "But it doesn't make any sense. I mean, I'd realise soon enough he was alive."

"Why's he alive at all?" They look a little taken aback, and Buffy adjusts her tone before she continues. "Not that that's not of the good. But if Spike's in Sunnydale for a good old fashioned killing spree, he's got more reason to kill Xander than anyone else, after the way you treated him."

Anger seems to fortify Xander and he braves the sickness and gets to his feet. "The way I treated him?" he demands, rage and disbelief colouring his voice in equal measure. "So somehow this is my fault for not being nicer to poor widdle Spikey? Sorry, but I didn't realise we were wooing the mass murderer."

"That's not what I'm saying, Xander." She tries to placate him.

"Shoulda known you'd take your boyfriend’s side."

"I think what Buffy is saying—" Oh wonderful Giles, calm and rational, bringing oil as always to troubled waters. "Is that there is little love lost between you and Spike. So why did he spare you? Why not just kill you, Dawn, and Buffy last night?"

"And why pretend? Why would he want Dawn to think he did kill him?" Willow's natural inquisitiveness would be enough to ensure her participation in further debate, and the slayer can't help but be grateful at least for that much.

"Maybe it wasn't for Dawn," Anya suggests without looking away from where her own hand strokes Xander's shoulder.

"Someone else," the slayer muses aloud, brow furrowed in thought. "And last night when he was kicking me, I'll warrant that looked a lot worse than it was. Although…" She shifts a little in her seat and winces at the stiffness in her body. "Not exactly a picnic in reality."

"Someone's watching him." It’s Dawn again, full of ideas and input. She’s so quick, little Dawnie, and so eager to help. "Who? Why?"

"I don't know, Dawnie. Maybe there's some kind of clue in the things he's said."

As clues go, they're pretty obscure. Her pen scratches over Anya's pad, disjointed random statements written in her schoolgirl bubble print. Lines squeezed in here and there, arrows and crossings-out turning the page to a spider’s web of confusion as she tries to get her memories into order.

"Right. From the top." She rolls her aching shoulders and gives the page a challenging look before beginning. "The first thing he said was stuff about before he left, but I think that was kinda a heads up, just to get me listening. So the first one I got is
'Some William the Bloody type waking up and gobbling you down.' At first I thought it was just Spike being gross." She curses the blush that accompanies the implication and presses on. "But he hates being called William, and what's with the 'waking'?"

Seconds tick by with laboured slowness as the they glance dumbly at one another, until she can’t take the silence anymore and lets them all of the hook. "Ok, that one might be a bit obscure." She tosses her blonde hair and turns her attention back to the page. "Ok, how about last night? He was talking about the first time we fought."

"Oh, parent teacher night!" Willow bounces and raises her hand then gives them a chagrined look and clasps her hands together in her lap.

"Yep. He said the high school, but then he asked, 'What happened to old Valious?'"

"Valious? Wasn't that the name of that amulet Giles got knocked out for?"

"Thank you, Xander." He's not wildly keen on reminders of his penchant for spending his time unconscious.

"That was the one those scary 'eyes like daggers' big end of the world suicide jump guys were after." Willow's so glad to be able to help, as if she feels the constant need to atone, and maybe she does.

"So, apocalypse?" Dawn asks, with a rueful sigh.

"Maybe, and high school, which means hellmouth." Buffy flops back in her chair; she could admit to being a little bored of—

"Oh, god."

"Dawn?" Something in her sister's voice stills the room to nervous attention.

"A kid. I think they've got a kid." Her eyes are big and wild and her voice cracks under the implication.

"What? Why?" And mentally she's begging that her sister's wrong, even when her stomach is sinking with the instinctive certainty that she's not.

"'Smaller nibbles with just as much juice.' That’s what he said to me. He said it was a message for you and then he called me Nibblet and I knew he was trying to tell me something."

"Did it occur to you he was talking about lunch?" Xander, of course, but even his vitriol seems a little forced, more hopeful than genuine.

Dawn shoots him a withering look before turning urgently to her sister. "'Smaller nibbles.' That’s got to be a kid, someone younger than me. And the juice thing, well, I am the key when it comes to Apocalypses—lypsie, whatever, I'm packing some serious octane."

And isn’t that the truth? If Dawn’s right—and she probably is because for all the hours Buffy spent screwing Spike she understands that she doesn’t know him half as well as her sister does—then a child could die, and somehow that is more disturbing than the ensuing apocalypse. Well, not on this slayer’s watch.

"I need to patrol." She's up and halfway to the door when the objections begin: "Do you think that's wise, Buffy?" "But, Buffy, we're not sure of anything, and if Spike…" "You shouldn’t go alone, Buff. Not with that murdering bastard out there. You’re kidding yourself with this, and we both have the bruises to prove it." "Buffy, are you sure?" And so on and so on.

"Guys." Her voice rises above the oh-so-concerned babble. "You're right, we don't know anything for sure, and I need to know." Her cool gaze washes over each of them in turn like a chill autumn breeze, not cold yet but you know it's not far away. "I need to know," she repeats emphatically. "And right now the only person who knows anything is Spike. I'm going to patrol, I'm going to find him, and I'm going to get some answers. You guys keep working on the riddles. Giles, do your watcher thing; find out if there's anything due to go down." And with that she's gone and the troops have their orders.



……………………………………………….

Renon obviously doesn't know a great deal about vampires. If he did he'd realise that he'd left Spike to wait just within earshot of his mistress' chamber.

"So our plan succeeds? He weakens her?" That voice—like a hundred voices speaking as one, ancient and resonating with power. Whoever this bitch is he can't help but understand why the others follow her; there is something even in just the tone of her voice that lures and subjugates, that makes the demon in him want to crawl to her and serve. It pisses him off.

"Yes, Mistress. All is as you desired. The girl thinks only of her battle with him; she does not see the other pieces moving."

"Good, and then we will be ready." He can even hear her soft, satisfied sigh from here. "The signs are in place. The world readies itself for the coming of my kingdom."

"Yes, Mistress." The worship and wonder in the priest’s voice made Spike sneer, pillock. "Just one more day, glorious queen, and the midnight will see you crowned again in blood and fire."

"It is well." At least the bitch has the class to dismiss her priest's sycophantic fawning. "This world, it wearies and sickens me. I have been prisoner here for far too many a century."

"Soon, mistress."

"Send the vampire again to the slayer, but tell him nothing of our plans except that she must be incapacitated tonight. The death of her friend will have shaken her; he must act now."

So Renon, pompous and superior as ever, sent him back out to see exactly the person he needed to see.

…………………………………………………..

It's not as cold a night as she'd expected, and her heavy Paddington Bear style duffle coat has been relegated to a neatly folded pile on the cold marble of the tombstone next to her. She kicks her heels against the stone and stares distractedly out into the night. She'd seen a program once, years ago, on the TV when she'd been poorly and her mom had ensconced her on the sofa under a duvet for the day, remote in hand to keep the tedium at bay. Anyway, these two overly-cheerful kid TV presenters had been doing an experiment to see what was the quickest way to find each other in a supermarket. It turned out that the best way was for one person to stay still and wait to be found, but of course you had to agree beforehand who was the looker and who was the stander. She remembers insisting that in the event of separation on their next trip to Walmart, her mother should stand still and wait for Buffy to find her.

She has no such agreement with Spike, but she thinks that she has always been the stander and he has always been the one doing the searching. It's a bit philosophical of her to ponder the significance of that—it was only a stupid daytime show anyway—but she can't help but wonder if there's a life metaphor in there somewhere.

He does find her, of course, just like always. Even when they were playing their twisted games of hide and seek, she never really hid all that well. She just stood about waiting to be found. He looks bad. Not hangover bad. He looks bad, as in evil bad. "Slayer," he greets in a cartoon villain drawl.

"Spike." This is it, time to put her crazy theories to the test. She feels stupidly nervous like a high school girl who's thinks a boy likes her but can't be sure. Of course, if she's wrong, she's risking a hell of a lot more than her dignity. "You killed Xander." She's like ice over granite, hard, cold and treacherous, but she hopes that he'll know her at least as well as she knows him and he'll see the questions in her eyes.

"That I did. Boy tasted rotten. Surprised he didn't give me indigestion." He's laughing as he speaks, and she can only describe it as an Angelus laugh and then she's certain he's acting.

She flashes him the briefest of looks, eyes widening fractionally in conspiratorial communication. Then she attacks, kicks and punches finding their targets with unerring viciousness. He's bleeding by the time they come apart again, bleeding and laughing and looking at her like she's the most pathetic joke in the universe. "That the best you got, slayer?" Give the man an Oscar because, God, she feels small in the face of his derision. "Killed your pup and all you got for me is a bloody nose?"

"For now." She locks eyes with his. "But really, Spike, how long do you think you got before I get to you?" She doesn’t change her expression but she knows he'll get it.

He grins. Clever, clever Buffy. He knew she'd catch on, and now she's come looking for answers. "What, you giving me twenty four hours to get the hell outta Dodge? Very wild west of you, slayer."

"I'm not letting you go anywhere, Spike." She rolls her shoulders and levels a grim stare at him. "This is over. Tonight."

"Oh no, Darkling." It sounds like some kind of twisted endearment, but she knows she's heard the unfamiliar word before. "It ain't over till the fat lady sings." He cocks his head as if listening and flashes a feral grin before attacking. "Or maybe the nightingale."

And now she's on to his game her punches too look far worse to Spike's constant voyeuristic shadow than they are. Hell, they've damaged each other so much more and called it foreplay in the past. The thought and the careless ease with which it slipped unchallenged through her mind are enough to make her lose her rhythm, and he lands a kick she should have dodged with far more force than he intended. For a second his eyes hold apology, then he's sneering and goading her again and she has to clear her spinning head quickly and pay attention because he might just have something to tell her.

"You think I'll stop with the boy?" He circles her with lazy, big cat strides, and she follows the languid movements with hard, wrathful eyes. "Can you watch them all tonight, slayer? 'Cos soon as the sun goes down, I'm coming and you better be ready."

She launches herself at him again with impressively convincing venom until he goes to ground and she can close for the kill. "You won't touch them," she hisses vehemently as the stake comes down just a fraction too slowly to stop him turning the tables on her with a flick of his hips. And with her pinned beneath him like this, he can barely maintain the charade because it could so easily be cold, white tiles beneath her bruised body in place of damp winter earth.

The shudder that goes through him is so powerful that she feels it along every inch of her body and understands immediately. She can't see his eyes, or his open book face, but she doesn't need to; he's quiet, but the strength of that uncontrolled tremble speaks more loudly than any eloquent petition of regret. They always spoke this way anyway, with bones and skin and push and pull of muscle.

The desire to comfort is completely twisted; she isn't so far gone she doesn't at least recognise that much, but still it's there and it's not within her power to resist it. Besides, when the inevitable need to justify her own actions hits her, she will be able to tell herself she couldn't afford for him to lose it, not when they were being watched and there was a child's life at stake.

"Hush." It's barely a breath against his cheek as she lets her thumbs brush a fleeting gossamer caress across his collarbones. "Hush."

It's not forgiveness but it's not condemnation either, and though it only lasts a second before her tiny hands are flinging him off her, it's precious to him. A gifted treasure of gentleness from a woman whose only interest in him should be righteous bloody vengeance, and he understands, perhaps only now for the first time, how much better than him she is, how right she had been that night she called him beneath her.

He rolls as he lands and comes to his feet with a dancer’s grace just in time to block her full frontal attack and spin her round so she's pinned against his chest.

"Scream." The whispered command confuses her for a moment; then he brings her awkwardly- twisted arm down across his own forearm and the cracking of bone is sharp in the silent graveyard. She screams, bracing herself for the agony that doesn't come, as he tosses her aside; and only she who knows him so well would be able to see the pain behind his mask. Stupid, masochistic vampire; she can't even imagine how he did it or what self-inflicted break he's hiding so well, but now's not the time to find out as she turns and flees the cemetery, right arm clutching at the left where it flops uselessly against her side.

A/N Thanks of course to April for proofing this grammatical monstrosity for me.

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"Keats," Dawn answers with almost negligent certainty. "Ode to a nightingale." Willow and Giles are giving her matching looks of surprised respect, and the part of Buffy that isn't busy being proud and impressed is a teeny bit jealous. "So we know what time, but we still don't know where."

"We know what time?" She's pretty used to Giles and Willow leaving her feeling stupid, but now with Dawn getting in on the act she finds herself wishing Xander wasn't at work so she could have someone to share her ignorance with.

"Darkling I listen; blah blah. To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad blah blah." The affected disinterest with which she quotes the lines is a dead giveaway that they must mean something to her. "We had to write an essay on a nineteenth century poet for summer school," she explains at Buffy's questioning look. "Spike was all, 'Well if you ain't doing Byron it'll have to be Keats. The rest were a bunch of poofs. 'cept Blake, of course, and that's boring. I mean who doesn't know The Tyger?'"

She's never once asked about that summer; not because it was too hard, but just because she never really thought about it. Self absorption, thy name is Buffy. She hadn't even considered what their lives had been like without her, who'd packed Dawn's lunches or washed her clothes, who'd helped her with her English assignments and gotten her through summer school. And now suddenly she's full of questions and doesn't have a moment to ask them.

"But I think we have a clue for that." Willow's scanning Buffy's page of Spike riddles with sharp, efficient eyes. "Ah, here. 'Couldn't find me if you looked all the days you where sleeping.'"

"One hundred and forty seven." Her eyes drop unfocused to the floor as the vivid memory of that night floods her mind. She's led a pretty damn scary life, but that night she was at her most afraid, her most lost. It's dimming now; with time she's healing just like he promised her the night they all sang out their secrets, but she still remembers the opium haze of numb hysteria, the sinking, suffocating dread of returning to life. His hands had been cool that night and soothing, and his voice had been low and soft. Even now she can't smile at the irony that he of all people had been the only one who hadn't seemed harsh and sharp and violent. "Hundred and forty eight, but that doesn't count, does it?"

"Buffy." They look worried, their eyes full of questions and concern. She must have zoned out for a minute.

"That's how long I was dead," she tells them solemnly, and then more softly as if realising for the first time the significance. "He counted."

"Spike?" Dawn's hand is firm against her arm, and the strength of her supple grip is comforting.

"Yeah. Spike."

"Willow." Giles quickly turns their attention to the matter in hand, though whether he does it out of a sense of urgency or because he's uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, she can't be sure. "Get on the, uh, net and see if you can find any likely addresses. Buffy, you may also be interested to know that Anya deciphered our first clue."

"Eh? Oh, the gross eating reference. Gotta tell ya, not that interested." Buffy gives a theatrical shudder and equilibrium is seamlessly restored.

"Quite." There's almost relief in his long-suffering sigh; he's far more at ease with Buffy being flippant and irreverent than shaken and introspective, especially when that vampire is the cause of it. "She believes he was referring to the mythical Slavrok known as the slayer eater. Legend has it the creature can be awakened once in every few centuries by a sufficiently powerful individual for the sole purpose of destroying the current slayer. The beast is said to be completely unstoppable. Once it has devoured the slayer, it returns to its slumbers until it can be summoned again."

Her face scrunches up. "Eeugh. You know, you really think someone would tell a slayer about something like that." She levels a mock accusing look at her watcher, but her lips are quirking and there's so much affection between them in that moment that he has to look away.

"Got one." The redhead looks up from her screen with a triumphant grin. "A warehouse. Surprise surprise: One four seven Docklands. It's been abandoned for years, and guess what? The police have had a couple of reports of strange comings and goings in the last week. Haven't done anything about it, of course."

"They know better than to investigate anything in Docklands." Buffy's on her feet now, ready with orders. She really does find leading so natural these days. "Spike said he'd make his move at sunset. Giles, you and I will take your car and be ready. Willow, can you get Xander and Anya to watch Dawn?"

"Of course, Buffy. What do you want me to do?" She's still so uncertain, still always wondering if they trust her to help them after what she did.

"Willow, I need you to get some supplies. If these guys are powerful enough to summon mythical slayer munchers, then I'm guessing we might need some extra security." The slayer's eyes meet her friends’ and in them the witch can only see belief. "I need wards, maybe a barrier spell; enough to keep us and the kid safe till after midnight."

Willow's so afraid it's written all over her face. Her eyes burn with uncertainty and she swallows repeatedly under the slayer’s heavy gaze. "Buffy, maybe…" Giles tries to intervene on her behalf, but it only takes a raised hand from the slayer to silence him and then it’s time for her to make a decision. Say she can't and spend the rest of her life afraid of herself, or step up and take control of her own destiny.

"I’m sorry, Buffy." She's trembling slightly and her eyes are wide with the paralysing fear of what the magic could once again make of her. "Maybe Anya could do it. I could help her get set up."

The annoyance at her friend's recreance makes her face pinch tight, but she doesn't let it colour her voice. "That's okay, Wills."

…………………………………………….


That there are far too many of them becomes almost immediately apparent as he slips into the main area of the warehouse. The space between him and the little one’s prison is swarming with her bitchiness' robed minions; the wankers may have looked like Benedictine weaklings, but even so he couldn't take a hundred of them. He needs a distraction and it needs to be big.

"This is not a good plan, Spike," he mutters, even as he touches the flame of his Zippo to the whisky-soaked curtains of her ladyship's chamber. The whoosh of quick burning alcohol sends him leaping back with a stifled yelp. A fire. What in the name of all things buggered up possessed him to light a fire? And the place is going up fast, old wood and plaster dried out for years in the Californian heat is only so much kindling, after all. But at least it's working. Panic spreads quicker than the flames, sending minions dashing in every direction, yelling instructions to save their precious mistress. Another voice gives the order to fetch the sacrifice. And with that the door is open to the Biscuit's prison and it's now or never.

………………………………………………..

She turns the paper through a hundred and eighty degrees and frowns accusingly at the neatly-drawn lines and arrows. "I think Willow's losing her touch, Giles," she tells her companion without looking up. "This map makes absolutely no sense."

At the lack of response she turns her face to regard his side profile and gives a little huff. "I think we're lost, and this map—not really helping."

"I think the map is actually rather redundant at this point." He doesn't turn to face her as he replies and she follows his riveted gaze to the false sunset of flames colouring the twilight from just a few blocks away.

Her eyes close for a moment as if trying to rein in her temper; then she gives an aggravated shake of her head. "Argh—Spike!"

…………………………………….

Ah, at last some action. The first guard's neck snaps beneath his practiced killer's hands, and then the element of surprise is gone and it's just him and the group of jailers and the little one cowering in the corner of her open cage. He's outnumbered and unarmed—well, except for the short, jagged blades he carries always in his mouth and the iron of his fists—and he's having a blast. The skin of their throats rips as easily as any human's, but their demon blood is bitter in his mouth and he spits it out onto the floor in great brown-red globs.

"Come on, you bastards!" His fist breaks through a brittle chest, and inside there's hot pumping blood and something roughly the size and shape of a human heart. Whatever these creatures are, they're pretty watered down, barely different from the humans they're so hell bent on destroying. And they call vampire's half-breeds.

It doesn't take long, even with the barely healing break in his forearm shooting pain up to his shoulder and the dagger still skewering his thigh where one of the bastards got a lucky hit in before he tore its head clean off its scrawny shoulders, and soon there's just him and a pile of mutilated corpses and a small terrified child.

"It's okay, Hob Nob," he murmurs as he moves cautiously towards her huddled form, wiping away the worst of the blood from his face and hands. Wouldn't do to scare the poor little munchkin any more than necessary. "Come here, pet. We gotta get outta here."

She comes in a rush into his arms, burying her little head in his shoulder and clinging to his chest, stubby arms and legs wrapped as best they can around his body. She's shaking with fear but there's no time to try and calm her because he can hear the pounding of feet—maybe twenty, maybe more—coming this way. He can hear Renon shouting orders. "The sacrifice!" His voice is loud and urgent, and the running feet speed up in response sprinting towards them. "Quickly, the sacrifice must be retrieved!"

He doesn't stop running, knocking demons out of his way with a spinning kick or one-handed punch as he goes, the other arm busy grasping the feather-light child to his chest as he runs. He takes the stairs three at a time, head butting a minion at the top and sending it barrelling back downward into his pursuers. But the fire is licking up the walls and that way is blocked, so it's back along the high iron walkway, dodging grabbing hands and slashing blades. But the fires ahead of him are feeding on the boarded windows blocking off his escape, and they’re closing in from behind, and poor little biscuit can barely breathe for sobbing. Shit, this is gonna hurt.

…………………………………………..

She's out of the car as soon as they round the corner with a laconic bark of "Stay!" Then she's off and running towards the burning building with no plan except her own strength and an illogical faith in an untrustworthy man to be doing his bit on the other side of the scorching wall of flame.

She's barely out of the car when she sees him crashing through a third floor window like some comic book hero or daredevil circus performer. The burning wood shatters around him and sparks fly along with flaming chunks of debris around him as he falls, twisting his body that had been curled protectively around whatever he clutches against his chest, so that he lands hard on his back with a sickening thump.

She's at his side in an instant and she can hear Giles gunning the engine behind her and the angry shouts of the small army of demons exiting the burning building to her left. The car screeches to a halt beside them and she uses all her strength to drag the damaged vampire and his stolen hostage into the back seat with her, door left swinging open as they make their escape.

"They're following us," Giles tells her with the composure of a man well used to drama, as he watches the rear view mirror and presses the throttle to the floor.

"What?" She glances out of the back windscreen as she leans across the rapidly recovering Spike to slam the swinging door shut. "They have cars? That's not fair—they never have cars! Lose them!"

Giles raises an eyebrow incredulously at the order; then with a swift jerk on the handbrake, he's doubling back up a narrow alley in a squeal of rubber.

……………………………………………………………..

The child in his arms is still trembling, even after they lose their pursuers and Giles slows the frantic pace of the car as Buffy barks urgent instructions into her cell phone. "Get everyone to Giles' place. Tell Willow and Anya to do their thing," she orders in her best “don't question me” voice. "We'll meet you there."

She hangs up and leans forward into the front. "Xander's getting the guys to your place; swing round the long way just in case and then head there."

He keeps his head down when he feels her gaze turn on him and the seat shift slightly as she settles back. "Come on, Biscuit." Her body feels small and delicate as a bird’s under the soothing caress of his big, rough hands, and he wonders if he should give her to Buffy. He's not sure he's doing this right and she's so tiny he could break her so easily.

"Spike." Her voice is barely a whisper, and he knows the slayer won't even hear it. Her little hands worm their way under his coat and he understands that, for better or worse, the little one has chosen him as her protector.

"I got you, Crumb. I got you." He rocks her gently from side to side and croons senseless comfort in her ear to chase the shaking away, and in its wake comes exhaustion and her breathing evens out, the tiny wound-tight muscles in her arms softening as sleep comes nestled against his chest.

"Is she okay?" It's odd how when he had his mission, his part to play, he found he could look straight into those swirling courtroom eyes of hers without so much as a flinch, but now the show is over and all that's left is him and her and all his sordid opprobrium, he can barely touch his gaze to hers.

"Physically," he mutters without looking up. Then with more conviction and with his eyes focused on the small, fading bruise on the slayer’s left cheek. "She's pretty tough for a little one. She'll be okay."

"Good." And her voice is so gentle, so rich with genuine relief, that he dares risk a look into her eyes. He should say something; his throat is choked with inutile sorrys, a thousand worthless apologies that would be an insult to her after what he did, but the moment is stretching and her eyes are still on his and he can't find the hate-filled accusation in them that he was so certain he would see. He really should say something.

"Thanks for coming." It’s not much—it's not even a fraction of all he wants to tell to her—but it'll have to do. And maybe she can see more in it than even he can, because her eyes warm and she offers the smallest of sweet smiles.

"You're welcome."


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A/N Big thanks to everyone who picked up this story again after the long wait. Namely:

Pin - Cheers babe, your feedback as always makes me grin like a happy bear with all the honey.

Christinenj - Bear fic for breakfast will give you indigestion, best start the day with ceral or a nice fry up.

Cordy Kitten - I'm kinda on the outskirts of LJ looking in. Keep thinking I might get one but probably don't have the time to make it all nice and pretty and keep posting. I like dropping in on others though, you got one?

MG - Cheers me dears. I love writting Dawn and Spike's relationship it can be so much simpler tehn S and B. I've even (whispers) been reading Spwan. But of course my heart is always Spuffy.

Steph - For once i've made Buffy relatively perceptive, she'd caught on pretty quick (for her ;)

Thank you Carol, I shall do my bestest best

Ack dreamgirl, that sounded like a threat, is there an or else? Was this a good light for Spike for you? Hope you enjoyed kisses


Thanks to all who reviewed with kisses and a cherry on top. Each and everyone of you gets a hob-nob (a fine biscuit, oaty and delicious and an ultra tough dipper). Rich Tea for the rest you (tasteless and flimsy, the kind of biscuit that wilts in your tea and breaks off, you'll get a mouthful of biscuit sludge with your last gulp)

A/N Thanks as always to my lovely proof reader April for giving my incoherrent ramblings the once over before I inflict them on the world at large

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Anya's chanting when they get back to Giles', her pretty face distorted with concentration while Willow, hands visibly trembling, wafts sweet-smelling incense around the doorway.

"Bring her in, Spike," Giles commands, and the vampire can't be certain whether it's sufficient invitation or whether he's never been taken off the guest list. It's important, in a way, because if they know about what he did to Buffy… But now's not the time to worry about it because his little custard cream is waking up and she's bound to be afraid.

"You brought him back here." And now there's no need to wonder whether they know or not, because the venom in Xander's voice is due to more than their ever-present dislike or the bruises still visible on the boy's neck. Suddenly he's ashamed, in front of these people he never really gave a shit about, so shamed he has to drop his eyes and pretend to be studying the slowly-waking child in his arm.

"Not now, Xander." There's weariness to the command that tells him she'd faced this before, and the guilt just keeps growing. He almost growls in frustration—he's not even supposed to feel guilt—but he holds back because he wouldn't want to scare the little one; what a poof he's become.

"Spike?" Her timid question silences the room, and he bounces her a little to calm her as she raises her head to glance nervously around before retreating again into the safety of his shoulder.

"Well, hello all." He summons the extent of his brittle bravado and looks at each one of them in turn. Their mistrust is palpable, but then that's nothing new and it's a shame about the watcher because in all honesty he did quite like the old bastard, but he doesn't care if Xander's glaring at him and Anya's looking awkwardly away. Or even if sweet little Willow is looking at him like a trembling mouse about to bolt for cover.

But then his eyes meet orbs as blue as his own, and he's never seen such ice-cold hatred in those youthful chameleon eyes. And he can't even swallow his shame anymore and play the part because, she had loved him, loved him as he'd always wished her sister would, and while it had been Buffy that he'd hurt, it was Dawn that he'd truly betrayed because it was only her who ever believed in him.

He feels water gathering in the corners of his eyes as she stares him down and has to turn his whole body away from her and focus all his care into the little one he holds, because no one else here would take a scrap of it.

"Come on, penguin." He gives her another encouraging bounce. "Come on and say hello to the scoobies. Remember, I told you they'd look after you right proper when we got you out."

Her little head rises slowly and she looks around with frightened, curious eyes before turning back to Spike and asking in a loud whisper, "Which one's the white witch?"

The silence is truly deafening and it only takes an instant to see it all in Willow's suddenly-devastated face when he turns to her questioningly. "Shit." It's just a breath, and for a moment he has to shut his eyes. Of all the bloody scoobies, it had to be Glinda. He'd never met a sweeter girl, and it had to be her that bought it.

Biscuit looks like she's about to ask again, and Willow's face is beginning to crumple, so he cuts the child off gently. "'Fraid Glinda had to go away, pet, " he tells her with solemn gentleness. "She'd be right sorry to miss looking after you, though, luv. She'd have been real good at it 'n' all. " It's the closest he can get to telling them how sorry he is, probably more than he has the right to be, even at that.

"Now," he continues with a bright smile for his little charge, "Red over there's a witchy one 'n' all. You gonna let her take care of you?"

A vigorous shake of her head sends dirty curls bouncing before she answers decisively. "You."

"Hey," Buffy tries, touching her frail shoulder. "I'm Buffy, what's your name?"

Her bright blue eyes widen in her grubby face and she gives a little awed gasp and shrinks back deeper into his arms. "Hey now, what's up, little one?" Spike asks after giving the slayer an apologetic look.

After a few moments silence and a few abortive attempts to get words out of her opening and closing mouth, she manages, "I never met a real super hero before."

She is simply adorable with her big blue eyes and awed expression, and Buffy finds herself smiling stupidly at her. "Sure you have, Ginger Nut." Spike gives her a cocky grin and she smiles broadly at him in response. "Met me, ain't ya?"

Xander makes a disgusted noise but he doesn't get a chance to voice his opinion before the little one does it for him. "You're not a super hero," she says with a giggle. "You're Spike."

"That I am." He gives her an affectionate smile, pleased somehow that she sees him that way. "Now be a good girl and tell the nice slayer your name."

She twists her mouth to the side and watches Buffy warily for a moment, gathering her confidence in front of this fantastical creature. "I'm Sesha," she whispers, eyes riveted to the hero of her bedtime fairytales.

"Very pleased to meet you, Sesha," Buffy greets with playful seriousness as she shakes her tiny hand.

For a long moment, Sesha studies Buffy with a small frown drawn on her face before she turns to Spike and tells him with a serious nod of her head, "She is."

"She is what?" Buffy asks with an indulgent smile. Such a cute kid.

"Spike said you were the prettiest girl in the whole world," she declares, more confidently.

"Ah, now, biscuit—"

"And that you were the strongest, too, and the fastest and the very bravest of all the super heroes." The kid's on a roll now and Spike's embarrassed shushing is going unheeded. "Spike said that you'd look after me because you're an angel, and that you could tell you came from heaven because you're so beautiful. Spike says—"

"Bath." The vampire's voice is loud as he cuts off the child's innocent exposition. He risks a glance at Buffy and he'll be buggered if she isn't blushing and giving him a coy smile, and for a moment he's lost in the sweetness of her before he adjusts his tone and continues more nonchalantly. "She's right filthy. Reckon one of you ladies needs to give her a bath."

"I'll do it," Dawn volunteers cheerfully, but as she steps forward to take the child, her accusing glare is for both Buffy and Spike.

"Need a hand?" Willow's offer is accepted with a shrug, and the girls disappear up the stairs to Giles' bathroom with the little one chattering happily as they go.

And with them goes his shield, his last defence against the righteous judgment of Buffy and her court. He should leave. He's done his bit; he should turn and leave before they send him away or stake him, but God help him, he doesn't want to go. Even now, after everything that's happened, he just wants to be there for her. A few scant hours of her company and he can't bear the thought of being without her again.

"Bitch had to have had at least a hundred minions," he blurts out before they get a chance to speak. Maybe she'll let him stay, just to help her fight the Mistress and her rabble. Maybe she'll let him watch her back again like she used to, just one more time before she sends him away.

She looks at him for a moment, quiet and unreadable, while the others wait silently for her to act. She holds his gaze for what feels like hours, and just when he thinks he'll have to look away, she speaks. "We figured out from what you said that they wanted to sacrifice the girl tonight, to open the hellmouth. Do you know anything else?"

He really wishes he did, because that might be enough to buy him a few more precious moments of her company. "Not much, 'cept that it was all for this 'Mistress' of theirs. I never saw her, but I'm guessing she's pretty powerful. They were talking about the Slavrok, it's—"

"We got that." She cuts him off abruptly and he starts mentally counting down to the moment she kicks him out. "It's still early. I think it's safe to assume they'll come looking for her. Giles, do you think the barrier spell will hold?"

"I doubt it. Anya did her best, but she's not a natural Wicca, and if they are as numerous as…" He pauses, as if saying the vampire's name is in itself distasteful. "As numerous as Spike claims, then it's likely they'll have mages of their own."

"Okay." She rubs her forehead briefly, then turns to the group again. "Giles, check the back's secure, barricade any doors and windows. Xander and Anya, you do upstairs. Take a weapon. Spike, you're with me." And just like that, she lets him back in, barking her orders in confident expectation that he will follow her.

And he does, of course—as if he were ever capable of anything else—and almost runs into her back when Xander's outraged voice brings her up short. "Great gods, Buff, what the hell is wrong with you?" She turns to face her friend, and he can see in her taut expression the dread of this confrontation. "You better be taking him with you to deliver a well-deserved staking."

"Please, Xander." She holds up her hands as if to physically ward off the fierce emotional punches he's capable of throwing at her. "Not right now. We don't know what's coming, but we know it's bad. Right now, we need Spike. Can we talk about everything else later?"

"We never need him!" The boy is virtually purple with rage and usually he'd find it pretty damned hilarious, but not when it's making Buffy's beautiful green eyes go wide and troubled, or when he's actually finally justified. "We can't trust him, Buffy. You of all people know that."

She seems at a loss to articulate whatever justification she has found for not doing just as the boy says and ridding herself of him permanently. "Buffy," he ventures carefully. "I'll go. These buggers know me. Maybe I can get them chasing after me, lead them off on—"

"Shut up, Spike," she snaps. Her patience always was short for him.

"Yeah, shut up, Spike," Xander agrees peevishly before his brain catches up with what the vampire actually said and he changes his mind. "Actually, no, for once you were making sense."

"No." Her lips are pursed, eyes shut as she regains her equilibrium. "Don't be an idiot. They'll kill you."

"Well, yeah." Hadn't she always known he'd die for her? He might be a colossal screw-up, he might have broken a trust he hadn't even realise she'd given him, hurt her in the worst of ways, but surely she still knew that much.

"No." Her voice is more urgent this time, rising with just the faintest hint of panic, before she turns on the slayer and takes charge. "No. I need fighters here for as long as there's a threat to Sesha. Xander, Giles, make sure this place is secure. Anya, tell the others to hurry up; we need to get ready and we need a Plan B in case the barrier fails."

………………………………………………………..

Giles' t-shirt swamps Sesha's body, making her look small and fragile as Willow gently rubs her curls dry with a big fluffy towel. "So, Spike told you about us?" Dawn asks when the towelling finally ceases and Willow deposits the child on the counter top by the sink.

"Hm-hm." She fingers her damp hair and answers distractedly. "He told me stories with monsters and stuff and the scoobies."

"Is that so?"

"Yep. And that you all liked to look after people and that you'd look after me."

"Well, he was right about that," Willow answers, tugging playfully at a springy straw-coloured ringlet. "We certainly like to look after you."

"That's what Spike said." As if that in itself made it indisputable fact. "He said you all saved a little girl before from the monsters, and because Buffy was so brave and all, saving her, she got to go to heaven for a bit."

Dawn felt herself stiffen at the casual mention of her own so similar experience. "Yeah, she did."

"Was it you she saved?" A question asked so innocently it couldn't help but be answered truthfully.

"Yes, it was. The monsters wanted to kill me, but Buffy stopped them."

"Oh." She looks straight at Dawn, the matched pair of baby blues locked for a moment before she veers off on a tangent. "Spike said you were pretty, like a picture, but I don't know what that means."

"Spike says a lot of things, doesn't he?" Willow observed indulgently.

"Hm-hm. He says that I'm pretty, too. He says that when I'm bigger I'll grow up to be a 'right little heart breaker,' just like you." Her fingers find Dawn’s glossy hair as she speaks, and the guilelessness of her flattery is enchanting.

"I think he's right," Dawn agrees with a sad smile. In her mind she can almost hear him spinning his stories for Sesha, just as he used to do for her. Turning the horror of their lives into fairytale adventures in which they were all, with the probable exception of Xander, cast like mythic heroes.

The memory of one night in that awful summer without Buffy is vivid in her mind. Jacob Jefferies—he of the droolsome eyes and cool alliteration—had totally blown her off in front of everyone at summer school and she'd been all sad and weepy when Spike had made his nightly check on her just before she went to sleep.

"Hey there, Nibblet," he'd murmured, sitting down on the side of the bed and drawing her face round to look at him. "What's got you all upset?"

So she'd told him, because that summer it had felt like she could have told him anything at all, and he'd listened, head cocked to one side, attentive and caring. Then he'd shaken his head and made a dismissive snorting noise. "Bloke’s a pillock platelet. Not worth your tears."

He'd caught her face when she'd tried to turn away, and stroked his rough cold thumbs across her damp cheeks. "You're gorgeous, pet, and don't you ever go thinking otherwise. Pretty as a bloody picture you are, and mark my words, couple of years you'll be a right little heart breaker, giving all those useless gits wet dreams and what all."

That had earned him a laugh and a playful, "Gross, Spike!" before he'd kissed her forehead and she'd gone to sleep feeling much better. A lifetime ago now, and how she had loved him then. Imagined herself with foolish teenage fervour in love with him, until he'd turned his existence over to her protection and she'd known that this love was so much deeper, so much truer, than scribbled hearts on school books and plucking daisy petals. No "he loves me not," because it was beyond doubting that he did, or so she'd thought.

"Are you cross with Spike?" Children are so perceptive, she wonders why adults continually try and deceive them.

"Yeah, I am." Although "cross" barely begins to cover the tumult of betrayed anger and impotent hostility she feels towards her one-time hero.

"Why? Did Spike do something wrong?"

"He really did." And how can such a massively complex question have an answer so very simple?

"But he's sorry. I know he is," she insists with all the passionate certainty of a child. "He's always saying how Dawn and Buffy were the most specialest girls in the whole world, and how he'd do anything for them. You are Dawn, right?"

"Yeah, I'm Dawn," she confirms softly, mind drifting to Spike claiming even now to love her, to love them both.

"I thought so." There's something strange about her voice, something indefinable that makes them freeze and turn quizzical eyes on her, but there's no time now to worry about it because the enemy is here and Buffy's voice, loud and urgent, is calling them downstairs.
………………………………………………………….

"They're just standing there like they're waiting for something." Willow lets the corner of the curtain drop.

"How many?"

"Lots." The redhead shrugs to indicate more than she could count. "Maybe a hundred."

"We have to get Sesha out of here." She doesn't really have a plan; all that matters is getting the child to safety. She's supposed to protect the innocent, after all. "Spike and I will go out the front, take them on head on. Hopefully we can distract them. Willow, can you help?"

"No." She shakes her head, fear and regret written in the tense, jerky movements. "I'm so sorry, Buffy."

"Fine." She can't help but snap. They don't have time now for weakness. She needs fighters, and right now the only one she can count is at her back. She can feel him across the few feet of air that separates them, his body, like hers, tensing, primed and ready for the fight, and she's plain grateful that he's here because facing a hundred demons all by herself? Not so much fun. "You, Xander, and Anya are the decoys. You come out behind us and make a break for the car. Hopefully they'll chase you while Dawn and Giles slip Sesha out the back.

"I admire your courage, slayer, but that simply wont be necessary." The voice that comes from the child is clear and loud, the youthful tinkle replaced with the confident lilt of a woman's voice.

"Nibblet, get away from her." That voice—Oh, God, that voice, like a thousand ancient voices speaking as one. They still don't understand; they're looking at her in confusion, still seeing the tiny, innocent child, but he's heard that voice before and he understands that he's been tricked.


..........................................................................

A/N Thanks so much for the reviews for the last chapter

MG - Ooh a choclate hob-nob, my favourite. Did you ever have the ones with caramel on as well - sickly yet delicious :)

Wow thanks for the offer CordyKitten. I'm kinda scared of LJ's though can picture it sitting therre alone and unvisited and how depressing would that be?

Cheers steph, glad you liked.

Oh DreamGirl be patient my lovely, have i ever not produced the spuffy? IT's coming I promise it's coming.

A/N so sorry for the delay I truely hate work.

Love and kisses and ta very much to April for having this proofed a couple of days ago, but teh bastards at central services must have buggered about with the fire wall because I couldn't post from work
...................................................................................

"Dawn!" Panic makes his voice angry and harsh. "Get away from her now!" But they're all moving too slowly, as if he's the only who can see in real time. Frozen, confused frowns and distorted questions, but he can hear them coming—sharp vampire ears tuned to the drumming of feet—and he wishes they'd all just catch up already because his body isn't moving too fast either, and by the time he can make a grab for Dawn it's too late because the room is full of her minions and his little bit is already being hauled away from him by rough demon hands.

The magic in the air is a physical force, and it feels like he's moving through treacle as he tries vainly to reach for his frightened, screaming girl. He can see Buffy out of the corner of his eye, straining desperately towards her sister with a drawn-out cry of her name.

"Enough!" Tiny hands clap together, bringing sudden stillness to the room, and reality seems to tilt as time falls jarringly back into place. "Hold them," she orders, and magical bonds tighten around his body till Spike is sure his ribs are cracking and the humans begin to gasp frantically for breath.

"Let her go!" he demands, voice loud and angry. "Let her go you bitch or I'll—"

Unseen hands clamp over his mouth to silence his ridiculous, impotent threats, and he's forced to his knees before her. "Not a fool," she murmurs, while her warm delicate hands brush his face. Her infant fingers draw a sensual path down his chest to run intimately along the waistband of his jeans, and a shudder of disgust breaks out from somewhere deep inside his gut. Hell, he never claimed to be anything less than an unrepenting pervert, but that was just plain wrong.

"And yet so foolish and so easily fooled." Her fingers dip just below the denim, soft, hot and tiny against the cold skin just inside his hip, and his body recoils against the invisible prison that holds him. "You really did believe it was you who was playing us, when you had been my purpose all along." She seems relaxed, as if she knows she has all the time in the world. "But, in truth, I was touched by your caring, and when this world burns, that you burn with it will be my only slight regret."

"Who are you?" The slayer's low voice holds enough threat and power to intimidate the boldest demon. She has used that tone before of everything from fledglings to masters to gods, and anyone who's heard it has felt at least a prickling of fear. But the child merely smiles, unconcerned, and turns away, bright blue eyes now devoid of all that faux innocence, settling on Dawn's defiant gaze.

"I," she begins, and that single syllable sounds like a drum roll, "am Sesha. I am the serpent of time." And the lofty title seems almost humble compared to the infinity of her gaze. "I am the right hand of the last great triumvirate of power, eldest of the triplets and soon their saviour.

"I have no quarrel with you, slayer," she informs them casually as she wanders towards Dawn, her tiny form filling the room now with its unquestionable power. "I have merely come for my sister." The smile she has for Dawn is filled with a genuine fondness that softens the majesty of her, so that for just a second she looks again like the child she pretends to be.

"Sister?" It's little more than a croak, fear and uncertainty stealing Dawn's voice.

"You don't remember." Sesha gives a sad shake of her head and her gaze lingers softly on Dawn's. "How could you? They stole from you all knowledge of self, only because they feared you so."

She stops suddenly and her eyes glaze over with fury. "Those meddling powers," she spits, and such sudden anger is out of place in her tiny form. "And their snivelling monks. Trapping us!" She throws up her hands in disbelief. "Us! In the feeble bodies of children. Have you any idea how tiny this world is, how cramped?" She tugs at the baggy cotton neckline of Giles' shirt as if it were a garrotte, and her eyes glint manically. "We who are more vast than time and space, crammed into these disgusting, fleshy prisons."

She shakes her head and the curls fly in sympathy with her irritation. "I pinned my hopes on that slithering worm, Glorificus, but she proved even weaker than I imagined. No matter." Another clap of her petite hands and her demeanour changes to one of perky optimism. "Soon you will be restored, my sister, and we will all be freed."

"I am not your sister." Brave and terrified at once and so defiant. Spike feels how much he loves her balled up tight in his chest. So much of Buffy in her, so much of Joyce. He struggles fruitlessly against the invisible iron bands, straining useless muscle. So sorry, so desperate—he's done this, brought that bitch to them dressed up in her mockery of innocence with her Dawn-like eyes. How could he have been so stupid?

"You will thank me, Amita, when you are yourself again." She smiles and nods as if pleased by the thought. "When we are all three together again," she sighs, and her eyes close. "Oh, our poor brother. As if the indignity of this exile were not enough, to be so incapacitated so reduced. Still, perhaps he is fortunate to be anywhere but on his miserable plane of consciousness."

She lets out a sad sigh, and for a moment her face is filled with such distress that Buffy could almost have pitied her if she hadn't been a threat to Dawn.

"Kill them." It seems far too brutal an order to come from a child's mouth, even in her cold and ancient voice.

"No!" Dawn cries out desperately. "Please, please don't hurt them." Her begging is pitiful, bright blue eyes overflowing with terrified tears. "It's not like they can do anything to you. God, just please don't hurt them."

For a moment the little girl studies her with curious eyes and pursed lips. Then she laughs that husky adult laugh of hers and spins around to face her helpless prisoners. "Very well," she concedes magnanimously. "You live only because my sister asks it. But don't get too excited; you only have a hour or two before you burn with the rest of this miserable planet."

She steps over to Spike again, taking his face in her little hands and grinning wolfishly at him. "Goodbye, gorgeous, and thanks. Couldn't have done it without you." He can't even move enough to turn his head away when her lips press down hard on his, making him want to gag.

"Bring her." And with that barked order they are all suddenly gone, and the tears on Buffy's face might as well be knives in his side for the pain they cause him.

"Good work, fangless," Xander spits as they finally manage to struggle free from the fading magic of their restraints.

"Piss off, whelp!" Malicious little bastard. It's not like he needs reminding who's to blame for this. Doesn't help Dawn now if he feels even shittier about getting her into this.

"Xander, that doesn't help." She's remarkably composed, considering last time Dawn was taken she retreated into stupor. Still, life and death teach you a lot and she knows enough now to know that she has to keep her head now.

"We need to find out where they might have taken Dawn." She scans the room, eyes challenging each of them to knuckle down and help her. "Any ideas?"

"My money's on the brother," Spike suggests from where he has positioned himself a little apart from the group. "She seemed pretty keen on getting the family together."

"Agreed." She isn't conscious of stepping towards him, of moving naturally so that he flanks her. Perhaps it's the general in her subconsciously appointing her first lieutenant; perhaps it's the brawler looking for a strong ally. Whichever, it's too natural for her even to realise she's doing it, but in that she's alone because the body language is like a blaring horn to the others.

"And we'd trust you why?" Xander's first on the attack as always. "If it wasn't for you, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"Xander." But the unmistakable warning in the slayer's voice goes unheeded.

"How do we know he's not in on it?" He gestures accusingly at the vampire.

"Don’t be ridiculous." For the moment he's happy to let Buffy deal with the whelp. She's not going to let him get them sidetracked, not when she's got a little sister to rescue.

"God, Buffy, don't be an idiot." He's virtually spitting with exasperation. "Can't you see he set us up? He sold Dawn out."

Xander seems to remember only at the moment when Spike's face morphs that the vampire is no longer impotent, and the pungent smell of fear is suddenly pouring off him as he takes two stumbling steps back from the advancing demon.

Her arm shoots out across his chest, a slender yet impassable barrier as she turns her eyes on him in calm reprimand. "Not helping, Spike."

"Fine." It comes out as a growl as he spins away. "I'm going for a smoke, and I still say it's the brother."

She slips into the courtyard just as he finishes his cigarette, greeting him with a soft "Hey," her voice a soft ripple of sound in the balmy jasmine-scented air. "Willow's doing her thing; we should have somewhere to start pretty soon." She counts time as she waits for him to respond, long resonating seconds until he finally meets her eyes, and his regret splashes against her skin like dirty water under the wheels of a bus.

"I'm so sorry, Buffy."

She'd been waiting for it, had wondered when it would finally come. She'd always thought it would be the first thing out of his mouth when he eventually came back, but they'd had their little game of charades to play and she'd missed the words.

"—for Dawn." His voice is loud and clumsy in his haste to correct the misinterpretation he sees so clearly in her eyes. "I'm sorry about Dawn. I'm not saying… not about…" He trails off, too much of a coward to actually say the words aloud.

There's a moment of blinking incomprehension before her face hardens with angry pain. "You're not sorry?" How can a voice so quiet hold so much bitter accusation?

"Shit." His pale hand buries, barely contrasting, in his bleached hair as he struggles with his ineloquent remorse. "Can't ever tell you sorry for that, luv. Too much like asking you to forgive me, and I'd never ask you that. Just gonna have to bloody live with it, ain't I?"

It makes sense, nonsensical Spike sense, but she must have spent too much time with him because she gets it. "Maybe I want to hear it."

"Can you doubt it?" His eyes are so intense when he fixes them suddenly on her that she finds she can't.

"No." Her answer comes hot on the heels of his question, immediate and unequivocal.

"Then why say it?" His eyes cloud with angry remorse. "Owe you enough bloody sorrys for getting lil' sis snatched, don't I?" He drops his head, eyes going down and away, jaw tense, one fist clenched at his temple.

"Hey." Her fingers under his chin are strong and surprisingly gentle as she raises his head so she can look determinedly into his troubled face. "Don't do that, okay. It is not your fault."

"Brought her here, didn't I?"

"She fooled us all. You thought you were doing the right thing."

"She just reminded me of the niblet, you know, and I thought if I could save her, maybe…" He trails of with a rueful shake of his head. She's not his bloody friend; why the hell is she listening to his pathetic whining? "Doesn't matter."

"I said don't do that. We'll find her, okay?" Her eyes are like a vice on his, keeping him still. "We'll go riding in right at the last second, and we'll save her." There's an almost smile on her lips that makes his heart ache. "It's what us hero types do, yeah?"


------------------------------------------------------------
A/N thanks to the lovely reviewers who are within their rights to spank me
for not posting sooner

Cordy kitten, DreamGirl, Steph and pin - get your spanking sticks out an
form a queue.

Hey too to Beth who kindly thought of checking up on me after the bombings.
Luckily I'm right out in the sticks far far away from anything worth
bombing.

"What we got?" Buffy enters the living room just ahead of Spike. It wasn't even like she was out there with him long; just a few minutes. Not really enough time for anything to happen, and yet there is a togetherness in their movements as she strides to centre stage with him standing confidently at her back as if it were his rightful place that makes Xander’s blood boil.

"It's mixed," Giles answers without looking up. "This book refers to the Unholy Trinity or—"

"Unholy?"

"Bollocks!" Buffy's outraged cry comes in perfect sync with Spike's vehement exclamation and startles the room into tense silence.

"No, Buffy," Willow interjects nervously. "I think its just one interpretation; this book calls them blessed. The triplets were worshipped by the ancient Babylonians as a benign triad."

"Ah yes, a trimutive of power." Giles tilts his head so that he can read the faded script. "Sesha, the serpent of time, we know. The left hand is the universal soul, Vivatma, and the godhead, Amita, who is without limits."

He gives them a moment to let that sink in before he continues. "I think it's safe to assume that that refers to Dawn. I wonder if perhaps we were remiss in not more thoroughly investigating exactly what she is."

"She is my sister." Hadn't it been Giles who had told her plainly the night they took on Glory that if the safety of the world required it, then her sister’s life should be forfeit? Hadn't it been he who had ordered her to put duty before love? So should he now look at her with such hurt surprise when she takes his words once again as a direct threat to her and hers?

"Yes, yes, of course. I merely meant we should have made more effort to properly understand her origins." He stumbles through the requisite apology as the others look on with worried faces and she stares him down, searching his eyes for something to trust.

"Amusing as all this desperate back-pedalling is, we haven't got all night." Surprisingly, it's Spike who effortlessly breaks the tension as he steps away and flicks his lighter open so that he can run his fingers teasingly through the flame. "Anything in your old dusties about how we kill the little bitch?"

"Yeah, Giles." Times like these she could kiss Spike for his tactless impatience, because in a shared moment of annoyance the hostility between her and her watcher is gone and she is looking to him as always for the guidance she so missed last year. "How exactly am I gonna fight my way to Dawn if Sesha can put the slow mo on me with a clap of her hands?"

"I'm afraid we haven't been able to discover anything regarding possible weakness."

"But we do think we know where they’re headed." Willow spins her laptop so that they can all see the image of a small boy, blue eyed and stern, staring back at them from the screen. "This boy looks like a likely candidate for the brother. He's been in a coma in Sunnydale Memorial Hospital for nearly six months, but before that there were some strange occurrences."

"Same eyes?" She turns to Spike for confirmation, and maybe it's logical because he spent the most time with Sesha, but seeing her accept the vampire's wordless nod sets off and angry churning in Xander's gut. It's not the time; even he knows to hold his tongue and settle for some unnoticed glaring.

"I have a book at my mom's that might help," Willow offers awkwardly. "Some spells. Maybe Anya could…" She trails off with a shrug.

"Right, let's go." She's the slayer in charge, confidently issuing orders, and Spike is struck once again by how much she's healed without him around to drag her down. "Xander, Anya, drive Willow. Get the book. Giles, you and I'll head to the Magic Box, see what we can find that might help. Spike, you run past my place—you know where the weapons are; get me all the pointy things you can carry. We'll meet up by the old movie theatre."

She expects him to jump to it, just like old times, but he's looking at her with an awkward half-questioning, half-expectant expression on his face and rubbing the back of his neck in that annoyingly cute way he sometimes does. "Er, slayer. Not right sure how an invite stands if you aren't in the house when you give it. Don't wanna be wasting time. Maybe I should play body guard to the watcher while you get the sharp stuff."

"What?" He's not making sense and she doesn't have time. "Oh, right. No problem, your invite stands." He doesn't seem to know what to do with his face, and she'd be laughing at his bemused hopeful pleasure if the situation wasn't so dire. "Giles, let's go."

And with that she's out of the door and Spike is vaguely aware as he stares at the closed door that he's grinning like an idiot. She didn't disinvite him. That has to mean something; at the very least it might mean she's not scared of him, and at best it might even mean she still trusts him, maybe even that she forgives him a little.

"Don't get excited, bleach boy," Xander spits as he ushers the girls out of the door. "Only reason she didn't disinvite you the second you left was that we’re short of a fully-functioning witch right now."

Xander moves in close, anger once again overcoming prudence around the de-chipped vampire. "She should have staked you as soon as you showed up after what you did to her, and as soon as Dawn's safe and she's thinking straight again that's exactly what she'll do. So don't go thinking that you can worm your way back into her pants with the good guy act."

"Piss off, doughboy." But there's less venom in it than there should be, because he can't escape the hateful notion that the boy is right on this one.

………………………………………………………………

A wave of Sesha's tiny hand is all it takes to see four hospital security guards swiftly disembowelled right in front of her. She fights the horror that's threatening to whip her fear up into panic, and chants her sister's name like a prayer in her mind. "Buffy, come on. Buffy, please." She has to keep faith that she'll find her, that she'll ride to the rescue like so many times before, making one of her grand entrances, all hell and righteous fury.

She's waiting to hear the inevitable sound of her icy threat. "Get the hell away from my sister," or—God, she might hate him right now, but she'd give her right arm for Spike's cocky, "Better let the chit go, mate." Hell, who's she kidding? Right now she'd settle for Xander brandishing that toy light sabre she totally knows he has hidden in his secret closet of geekiness along with all his comic books.

She's led into a private room where the darkness beats with the rhythm of a steady heart and the gentle sound of mechanically-assisted breath. He's so small, tiny as Sesha herself, lost in the large bed, fragile and human in the gloom. Beside her, Sesha's breath hitches with grief as she stands on tiptoes to run her fingers through his limp hair. "Sweet brother," she murmurs in a voice that holds all the sadness and tenderness in the universe. "Don't worry, my darling. I found her. I found Amita. She'll save us all, don't worry."

And despite what she has seen, despite the paralysing fear, she wishes in that moment that she knew how to help, because she has been sister to a dead sibling and she knows there is nothing quite as painful in the world as losing your own flesh and blood.

"I'm sorry." She's talking before she thinks to stop herself. "I don't know how."

Sesha turns to her and all that boundless love hits her like a tidal wave and her head swims. "But you will, Amita." The tiny hands clasp hers and the bright blue eyes bore into hers. "I will restore you, and when we are sisters again, then you will know, and we three will leave this pitiful world as nothing more than cinders. Soon, Amita. Soon we will be sisters again."

Oh yeah, that's why she wasn't supposed to feel sorry for the kid. She wants to destroy the world. She tugs her hands free of Sesha's childlike grip. "I have a sister." She grinds the words out with something like defiance and forces herself to meet her captor's ageless eyes.

"The vampire slayer?" She laughs indulgently. "Your mind is still full of foolish human notions. How can you, who was forged in ancient perfection, call this mere mammal kin? How can you name such a low creature sister?"

"Because she is!" She fights the onset of angry tears. "My sister would bleed and die for me—she has! And what have you done except kidnap me and hurt my friends? I have a sister, and it isn't you."

The ageless eyes harden and glint with suppressed rage. "Enough!" she barks. "I will wait no longer for my freedom. Renon!"


…………………………………………..

"Buffy." She doesn't need to see her watcher’s face, as they each scour the shelves of the Magic Box for charms and potions and the ingredients Willow scribbled down for them, to know that he's about to broach an unpleasant or difficult subject. And, really, no prizes for guessing what it's gonna be. "Do you really think it's wise to involve Spike in this rescue mission, after—"

"He a good fighter, Giles. We need him." She breaks in without looking up. Somehow she really doesn't want to be reminded of exactly why she shouldn't trust him.

"Undoubtedly he is. But if he can't be trusted—"

"He can." Why she is so certain she couldn't say, but she is and her instincts haven't let her down so far. Besides, his face when he apologised for getting Dawn snatched was enough to convince her of his sincerity. "He won't let Dawn down, Giles. I'm certain of it. He'd never let anything hurt her."

"You no doubt believed the same about yourself not so very long ago, Buffy." He's calm and she understands that she's not under attack, he's just concerned and full of love for her and he surely has a right to be heard.

"Yes, I did. And he did let me down." She fixes her eyes on her watcher and tries to make him understand. "But this is different, okay? This is Dawn. He's almost died for her more than once, and he'll do it again if he has to."

"You seem to have extraordinary faith in him, considering the circumstances of your parting. I can't pretend I'm not worried, Buffy. I am." He pauses, and his eyes scream concern. "I'm afraid that your relationship with him has distorted your perspective. It's not unheard of for victims of—"

"You're wrong, Giles." She keeps her voice calm; any glimmer of hysteria now would just convince him that he's right. "Look at me. I'm the slayer. I'm not some pathetic, messed-up girl with a victim complex. It was screwed up—I'm not denying that—and I'm not justifying what he did. God knows I can’t." It takes her just a second then to gather herself because, yes, the memory of that night still weighs like lead in her heart. "But don't lay it all on Spike just because he's got the fangs." She casts her eyes up to his for a moment before they drop again under the weight of her upcoming confession. "We hurt each other, Giles. I'd say in roughly equal measure."

"Buffy, I don't think…" Of course he doesn't understand, can't comprehend that his slayer with all her beauty and heroism could match the demon's wretched iniquity.

"Do you think it's ever okay for a man to beat a woman? An ordinary woman, I mean. Not a slayer,” she asks suddenly. He needs to understand the depths she fell to last year.

"Of course not, but Buffy—"

"Why?" She's quick again to cut him off, to steer him brutally towards the truth of where she lived last year when the grave spat her out like tasteless gum.

"A man is stronger. It's—"

"I'm stronger than Spike." She lets the inference hang in the air, watches the dawning understanding on Giles' face and smiles ruefully. "Like I said, 'equal measure.' Now we don't have time for this, and I need you to trust my judgment."

"Always."

Water fills her eyes with his emphatic statement, and she has to swallow hard because there's suddenly a lump in her throat. Then she gives him a curt nod and they're heading into battle again.


A/N big thanks to everyone who reviewd the last installment I'll try and speed the updates up a bit *looks sheepish*

A special Hello to buffyrat who seemed to gon on a reviewing frenzy in december, glad yo ulike them all :)