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Author's Chapter Notes:
OK, I needed a kick to get writing again, so this chapter is especially for Dark River tempest and Katkin who reminded my muse about why we really do this. Thanks guys you saved my sanity
It had been a full month since the horrific happenings in LA. Whatever ‘big bads’ were around now were hiding, afraid of what a group of angry slayers and an equally pissed off master vampire would do to them: whatever it was they knew it would be painful and permanent. Evil was on holiday, for a long time; it had crawled away, with it’s tail between it’s legs and pulled it’s blanket over it’s head. The heads of the evil powers had been shocked that humans could take down a Demon Lord like Eyghon, even with help. They were now husbanding their resources and hiding.

Unfortunately for Buffy, good wasn’t on holiday: good was working overtime to catch up with what had happened. She looked at the piles and piles of paperwork on her desk and the fireplace in her office, and she was so tempted just to burn the lot…but she couldn’t, could she? She could hear soft laughter and music coming from one of the salons downstairs, tempting her away from going through the register of watchers left. The noise sounded like Dawn and Spike having fun; Buffy took one look at the pile of paperwork and used slayer speed to escape from the monster sitting on her desk.

She needed someone who was better at paperwork than she was, she knew it. Someone who could plough through the reams and reams of papers, the mountains of reports and make sense of it all. Buffy smiled to herself: the watchers who had hidden from Giles and from The First were heading home. They could take over this job, they could deal with the requisition forms and the stock control. But they would find a new regime and a regime that was weighted in favour of the slayers. Maybe she could get Anya to take over the books. The vengeance demon loved figures and numbers. She would be in her element here, and Xander was bound to find a place in the organisation somewhere.

But now she wanted away from the mountains of wood pulp that were threatening to overwhelm her: give her a good fight any day over this monster. She headed down the broad wooden staircase three at a time, earning a frown from one of the staff for her unladylike behaviour. The music got louder and louder as she approached the bottom of the stairs and Buffy headed for the music room across the large, open lobby. That had been a huge surprise, and one that had been very hard to deal with. The watchers’ council was rich, exceptionally rich: they had fancy houses and offices all over the world, they were like a slayer version of Wolfram and Hart, and Buffy had been left with bills, a teenager and no money at all. She would have had them all work long shifts in any burger house in town, if they hadn’t all already been killed off. Or taken by Egg On. She still felt bad, still had nightmares about Ethan and Giles being dragged off to hell screaming at her to help them. At least poor Andrew was at peace.

Buffy took a deep breath to calm herself down from the fight with the paperwork and opened the huge wooden door that led into the music saloon of the large Victorian house they had taken over. They had transformed the servant’s quarters into offices and the cellars into training rooms. They finally had a good use for Quentin Travers’ home.

When Buffy entered the room the sight that greeted her eyes made her laugh out loud. Spike was sitting at the piano playing a waltz with great panache and skill, while Dawn was spinning around the room in Martin’s arms. She couldn’t believe that Spike was actually playing the piano, and calling out the steps. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing as well. Buffy’s interruption distracted Martin so much that he fell over his feet and would have pulled Dawn over if she hadn’t let go quickly. Dawn laughed good-naturedly at the man on the floor, who was cursing his two left feet.

Spike sprung up from the piano stool and swooped Dawn into his arms before continuing to spin her around the floor. He never missed a step as he guided his niblet in the steps of a very complicated spin and twirl, dip and bow waltz. Morgana sat down in Spike’s place at the piano and picked up the beat, turning the waltz into a fast polka.

‘Spike, let me go, I don’t know this one!’

‘Then learn, pet: the steps are the same, it’s just faster,’ and he proceeded to Polka her around the room.

It was only then that Buffy noticed that the chairs had been pushed back around the edges of the room and the carpet rolled up to clear space for the lesson.

‘Where did you learn that?’ Buffy had to know.

‘Was born a gentleman, pet, and Gentlemen danced at balls. Even saw Chopin play once when he came to London,’ he answered with a sad smile. His memories of such occasions were not happy ones: he was never on the inner circle, always on the outside, and Cecily’s comments still held the power to hurt. He led Dawn formally back to her chair and bowed low over her hand.

Morgana picked up the music again and started playing another waltz. Spike bowed to Buffy and held out his hand. ‘Would you do me the honour of this dance?’ He asked very formally.

Buffy smiled up at him, she loved the juxtaposition of warrior and poet in him, it was very hot.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ she said smiling and placing her hand in his.

The music started up again and Spike guided her skilfully around the room, a slight pressure on her back moving her body in perfect time to the music that soared from the grand piano in the corner. Buffy was laughing and enjoying herself so much. She looked up into Spike’s laughing blue eyes; he looked down into hers which were shining like green emeralds, full of laughter and they were filled with so much love. Part of her heard the door open and Septamus come in, but she ignored it, she was having just too much fun.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you Sir William, but I have found a letter in our archives addressed to you,’ Septamus said timidly.

Buffy stopped dead in her tracks and stared at Spike. ‘Sir William?’ she stuttered.

Spike ran a hand through this hair, how had the old coot found out his name? He had no idea. All the watchers’ books had him down as a thief from the east end, running out of the Mock Beggar Pub in Whitechapel. He had hidden his real name and identity completely when he was turned, to protect his two sisters from Angelus, and from the shame of what he had become. Then he remembered his Bit using his full name when she was cross with him. That’s where it must have come from.
Septamus left the little family to their privacy, Morgana and Martin joining him for a walk in the gardens.

Spike looked at Buffy as she made her way across to where Dawn was sitting quietly on the sofa, panting a little after all the dancing. He could hear them talking about Dawn’s upcoming birthday and he turned his attention fully to the envelope in his hand. The script was firm and neat, nice in its original meaning. The fist seemed familiar to him and he tried to recall whose it was.

“My Dearest William,

It feels most strange to be writing to you like this, but I have been assured by your man of business that this will be delivered to you at the appropriate time, and we have always trusted Mr Honey.

My first task is to assure you that Stephen has done all you asked. The London house has been sold, and at a fine price, as have your estates in Ireland and Yorkshire. We have kept Willowstone Hall for our own use as you requested. I am most grateful for your consideration in that. Stephen has passed on your list of instructions to the solicitors, though how you know when stocks will rise and fall I fear to ask. But as you desired, we have taken a copy of the instructions and will abide by them. And I will ask no more questions of you.

It was a delightful surprise to see you at Lady Wheatmore’s ball last week, and I do so hope you enjoy your new life in America. Buffy is a wonderful woman and I am delighted that you are so happily wed. My regards to my new sisters and I hope God may see fit to allow us to meet again.

Your loving Sister,

Louisa”


Spike, William Pratt, Baron, looked at the signature and felt the tears damp against his cheek. His darling sister, Louisa, had written him a letter. He thought about it again for a minute: he hadn’t been to the Wheatmore’s ball, and how had Louisa met Buffy?

Buffy watched Spike thoughtfully. His shoulders were hunched: something had upset him. She hoped it wasn’t too serious, she wanted to question him about the ‘sir’ bit.

‘Well what do you think, Buffy?’ Dawn had been asking her something.

‘I’m sorry Dawnie, I was watching Spike.’ Dawn laughed at Buffy’s honesty.

‘Well, what I would really like is to go to a proper ball, a real Victorian one, with dance cards and gentlemen all dressed up and everything, horse drawn carriages, the works.’

‘And that’s what you’d like for your birthday?’

‘Well, yes, there are loads of slayers who can protect the world while we take a proper break and what’s the use of all this power if we don’t indulge occasionally?’

‘I’m not sure Dawn, I mean I’m game if you are, we can find a dressmaker to make the proper gowns and all, but I don’t want to use the powers to cause problems… we’ll check with Cordy to see if it’s OK for us, and if it is I’ll work on Spike to take us all, seeing as he knows his way around the dance floor.’

‘Thank you Thank you Thank you,’ the younger woman gushed: she’d wanted to do this since Spike had first taught her to waltz the summer Buffy had been away and she never believed she’d have the chance. Dreams really do come true.





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