When he heard the call-out for arson and homicide at Revello Drive, Detective Paul Stein flicked on his sirens and lights, pulled a handbrake turn, and headed straight there.

He had been waiting years for another crack at Buffy Summers.

This time it was a dead fireman with a broken neck – no robots or “neck trauma” or other weird circumstances, and no Chief Munroe or Mayor Wilkins to cover it up. He grinned to himself. The prosecutor’s office would have to believe him now. Even in Sunnydale, innocent girls weren’t involved in four murders in as many years.

------------------------------------------

Giles and two firemen were squashed into the archway where the front door used to be, staring. The walls were streaked with red, and the floor was slick with blood.

The patchwork front door had exploded into the hall and partway up the stairs, leaving debris scattered throughout. Tara was still trying to extricate herself from under a particularly large section that had thankfully shielded her from most of the spray.

Buffy and Spike were standing near the dining room side, staring down at the felled giant. She had caught the bulk of the arterial spray, and her once-white sweater and cream slacks were now mostly a damp and sticky brownish-red. Spike had escaped with macabre freckles on his face and arms, his black clothing hiding everything else.

“What the hell happened in here?” the younger fireman asked, shocked and looking more than a little green. He was very young. Giles thought it unlikely he’d ever seen a dead body before. The older fireman did not react at all.

Buffy was still on her feet – just. The knowledge that she’d killed a man to save a vampire was reverberating so loudly in her head, it was blocking everyone and everything else out. She felt so cold she could barely feel her fingers and even the most basic sort of thought process was beyond her. She thought there were voices – maybe Tara and Spike? – but they were far away and muffled.

“He tried to kill us, but I killed him first,” she said abruptly, trying to answer the fireman’s question – the last thing she’d heard clearly.

Everyone turned to her, shocked.

Spike’s head ached and he wanted to go tear Willow into itty-bitty pieces and it had taken his last reserves of energy to force his eyes to turn blue for the nice firemen. And now Buffy was interrupting his and Tara’s attempts to convince them he’d killed the guy. Crazy bitch!

Buffy started visibly shaking. She wavered on her feet, and Spike put out an arm to steady her before he realised what he was doing. “Don’t touch me!” she said, slapping his hand away.

He jerked away from her and half-collapsed against the doorframe to the dining room, laughing bitterly to himself. Two steps forward, whole bloody mile back. Although even he was reeling slightly. His body remembered hers, and it was hard to separate out John's sense-memories.

“Buffy….” Giles started towards her but stopped. She’d regained control of herself, and he could see she was shutting down, locking off her emotions. Best not to approach her when she was like this – not in front of strangers, anyway.

The second fireman had been watching all of this attentively. Finally, he spoke: “Fire definitely started at this house. And it’s definitely arson.” He looked up towards the empty doorframe. “Obvious signs of a break-in.” Bending over the corpse, he added, “He reeks of kerosene.” Straightening, he said, “Seems someone don’t like you-all for some reason.” He paused, giving Spike a long considering look. “Any of you three leave the house in the last half hour or so?”

“No,” Tara said, looking confused. “W-why?”

The fireman nodded, satisfied they knew nothing about his dead colleague. “You’ll find out,” he said darkly. He turned to Giles. “And where were you, sir?”

Giles considered his options, and decided there was no harm in telling the truth. It was a novel experience.

The fireman nodded through his story, then seemed to come to some decision. “No fire here – not my business. Police’ll be along, I imagine. You-all live at this address?”

Buffy flinched.

Spike laughed.

Both firemen stared at him.

“Don’t mind me,” Spike said, smiling grimly. “Been a bit of a day.”

“Yes, w-we all live here,” Tara said quietly.

The older fireman nodded, and then he and his partner left.

It took a lot for Detective Stein to keep his impassive cop face in place when he glimpsed a blood-drenched blonde through the open doorway of number 1630, past the two firemen leaving the house. He figured his chances had doubled, maybe even tripled, of getting Buffy Summers in a jail cell by the end of the night.

“Why the fuck didn’t you let me tell ‘em I did it?” Spike whispered fiercely.

Buffy snorted. “Have you looked at yourself? I’m covered in blood. You barely have a drop on you.”

“Right,” he snarled. “How stupid of me. Why would you ever let me help you?” Spike shut his eyes and tried to take deep, calming breaths. It only made him more aware of the scent of still-warm blood suffusing the room.

“Buffy Summers!” Detective Stein called out from the doorway. His resolve wavered slightly once he got a proper look at her. He couldn’t believe how thin and fragile she looked – a mere shadow of the girl he remembered. Then he saw the throat-less giant on the floor. “Two dead bodies this time?”

Giles’ snapped to attention. “Who else is dead?”

Detective Stein’s heart sank as he looked around the room. No one would ever believe a tiny girl like her was the aggressor against a thug like that – not even him, if he was totally honest with himself. And the thug seemed a far more likely candidate for killing the fireman. She was surrounded by witnesses, too. Damn! He sighed, and pulled out his notebook.

“A firefighter is dead. Broken neck. I’d like to hear everyone’s version of what’s happened tonight.”

------------------------------------------

Willow cast a blurring spell around her as she ran out of Buffy’s house and down the street. She was crying and she didn’t want anyone to see her.

She didn’t really notice the fire trucks or the multitude of people milling around. She was too wrapped up in her own misery.

Dawn nearly died, because of me.

Buffy did the nasty with Spike! Because of me.

Tara’s hurt.

Because of me.

She thought about going to a hotel, but realised that what with the back rent and everything, she was pretty much broke.

She’d have to go back to her parents’ place.

I really am a failure.

------------------------------------------

Detective Stein reluctantly left 1630 Revello Drive just over an hour later. There would be no charges filed tonight.

He supposed he ought to be grateful Barney Jones was dead. He was the prime suspect in at least ten murders, but no one had ever been able to get enough evidence to convict. He just wished he knew why a professional hitman had come to Sunnydale. It certainly wasn’t to kill a fireman.

------------------------------------------

When the last of the police and their techs had gone, Buffy ran for the shower. She hadn’t said a word beyond monosyllabic answers to Detective Stein’s questions and the necessary communication with the crime scene techs when they took her clothes for evidence, and the police doctor when she’d examined her for injuries. Buffy had never been so grateful for a dislocated shoulder in her life. This wouldn’t be like that time with Ted, when no one would believe she’d been hurt.

Throughout the interviews, all she could think was that she’d committed murder for a vampire. It didn’t matter that everyone was calling it self-defence. Only she and Spike knew the truth: whatever-his-name-was had given her an out back in the launderette. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her – hadn’t even fought back that first time. So she’d just murdered a man in cold blood for trying to hurt a vampire she—

I will not finish that sentence.

Spike could call it an accident all he wanted. Buffy knew what she’d been thinking when she’d lashed out with the poker. She’d wanted Mr Teeth dead.

She’d betrayed her calling – let her feelings get in the way of her duty. Again.

She didn’t deserve to be the Slayer. She should just start calling herself Buffy the Vampire Layer. It was far more appropriate.

In the shower, she scrubbed and scrubbed but no matter what she did, she could still feel the dead man’s blood burning into her skin – could still feel Spike’s lips and hands. She kept on scrubbing until long after the hot water had run out and her blood was turning the water pink as it went down the drain.

Maybe I came back wrong. If I didn’t, then it’s just me – my choices. I must have come back wrong.

How could I forget that I can’t be happy? So stupid! A happy Buffy equals people dying.

------------------------------------------

Tara was getting angrier and angrier the more she scrubbed.

She wasn’t ready to tackle the enormous knot of emotions associated with Willow right now, so she was mentally berating Spike for always forgetting that housework was more than just “the washing up”; Giles for somehow managing to be doing “important research” whenever there was cleaning to be done; and Buffy for being so traumatised it was impossible to ever ask her to do anything.

She knew it was petty, but she was exhausted and scared and it was the only thing that was giving her the energy to keep going right now. And someone needed to be cleaning, or they’d be breathing in fingerprint dust for the next week and need a new floor in the hallway.

------------------------------------------

Giles leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching Spike swallowing cold blood straight out of the bag. He could hear the microwave going – he assumed it was heating up more.

It was bizarre, really. Even with the Slayer Handbook in front of them, not one of them had recognised Spike as a vampire! Giles wanted desperately to believe it was because they had been befuddled by Willow’s spell. But even he had to admit that Spike had failed utterly to exhibit any signs of vampirism – even his aura was “normal”, according to Tara.

The self-control was mind-boggling – even more so because it was Spike, who Giles had always assumed had none.

Homemade black pudding, indeed!

He’d spent hours alone in a bedroom with Buffy – exercising, Giles insisted to himself – showing no desire to taste Slayer blood. Then he’d stood even longer in the hallway watching at least sixteen warm pints of fresh human blood cool and congeal right in front of him, and the first sign that it had affected him in any way was that he was now drinking cold blood – something he had refused to do even when he was near-starving in Giles’ apartment.

Utterly, utterly bizarre.

Spike finished draining the bag and looked up. He was in game face and there was blood smeared around his mouth. He licked it off, which Giles thought made him look oddly cat-like.

“I stand by what I said before,” Giles said quietly. “About not … interfering.”

Spike’s eyes widened. He wasn’t sure how to respond.

They stared at each other in silence until the ping of the microwave broke the moment.

When Giles looked back from the microwave, Spike was wearing his human face again.

Spike picked up his mug and crumbled Weetabix into it, followed by a generous pinch of some herb from a jar on the counter.

Giles repressed a shudder. The sight of Weetabix in blood still made him nauseous. “Did you see the ring?” he asked, as Spike took his first sip.

Spike nodded. “We both did.” He put his mug down on the counter. “But the Order of Taraka’s not after her.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Giles scoffed.

“They can’t go after her,” Spike said firmly.

Giles raised one eyebrow, his disbelief evident.

“What, you thought they just gave up and went away last time?” Spike’s look turned incredulous. “Christ, you really did!” He hooted with laughter. “How the fuck have you lot survived a Hellmouth this long?”

“Enlighten me,” Giles said, his tone clipped and slightly offended.

Spike shrugged, still smirking. “Only called ‘em in to keep her off-balance.”

“Off-balance?” Giles barked. “The most feared assassins in the underworld?”

“Most feared my arse!” Spike scoffed. “Sods’re almost all human these days! An’ I only paid ‘em to keep after her ‘til I started the ritual.”

Giles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “How stupid of me not to realise the assassins you hired weren’t actually meant to kill her.”

Spike looked sheepish. “Was gonna kill her myself after, yeah?”

“But of course you were,” Giles said drily, re-opening his eyes to glare. He looked sharply over at Spike. “Wait – you said can’t. Surely your underpayment didn’t give her lifelong protection?”

Spike squirmed. “I might’ve possibly paid ‘em never to accept a contract on her.”

Giles’ eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Why?”

“One fine evening, Angelus asked me how to contact the Order. I took steps.”

Giles opened and closed his mouth several times before blurting out: “But you were actively trying to kill us!”

“Not by then.” Spike snapped. “Had a truce with the Slayer, didn’t I!”

They stared at each other in shocked disbelief. Giles couldn’t believe they’d started working together that long ago; Spike had always assumed Giles knew.

Finally, Giles said, “At least that means they can be called off.”

He wished desperately he was doing anything else but trying to figure out how to keep Spike alive. The whole scenario made his head ache. “Do you have any idea who called them this time?”

“Might be a bloke called Jenoff,” Spike said slowly.

“This is the thing you refused to tell me about, isn’t it?”

Spike shrugged. “Didn’ think it was important.”

“It bloody well is now!” Giles snapped.

“Fine,” Spike said sulkily. “S’pose I’d best tell you about the business, then.” He looked across at Giles slyly, a grin playing across his lips. “You’re pro’ly due half of Anya’s take, anyway.”

------------------------------------------

By the time Tara heard Buffy leaving the bathroom, she’d done as much as she could with the hallway and was really looking forward to getting clean and going to sleep. Despite the fact that she’d only been awake for nine hours – and out of bed for less than seven – she felt like she’d lived ten lifetimes.

Buffy’s hair was wrapped in a towel and she was wearing flannel pyjamas and a full-length robe when they passed each other on the stairs. She smelled of soap and lotion.

Tara’s clothes were lightly flecked with blood and water and she smelled of bleach and sweat.

Buffy knew she should say something kind and meaningful – give Tara comfort in a situation that had to be both awkward and painful for her.

At least she should say ‘thank you’ for cleaning up.

But it was taking everything Buffy had to keep her emotions contained. She was chilled to the bone and needed a hot drink. After that, she was planning on going to bed and crying herself to sleep. Then maybe she’d get a couple hours of rest before the nightmares started.

Comfort was something that happened to other people.

Giles happened to be watching Spike when Buffy walked into the kitchen, and he saw every subtle shift in posture and carriage. It was like watching a flower opening up towards the sun.

When Giles looked back at Buffy, he was surprised to see her body language mirroring Spike’s.

They both completely ignored him, of course.

The first thing Buffy noticed was the flaring of Spike’s nostrils. Their eyes met and she knew he was scenting the patches of bloody skin she’d hidden under pyjamas and bandages. He could probably smell her tears, too. She could see the invitation in his arms – the offer of solace, of understanding.

She couldn’t bear the weight of the softness in his eyes – the knowledge. She’d worked so hard to be strong, to pull up her armour. Why couldn’t she ever hide anything from him?

“Stop seeing me!” she snarled. “You have no right.”

His hands clenched into fists and his arms went rigid at his sides. “Fine. Guess I’ll go patrol, then.” His eyes went flat and hard as he looked pointedly at her pyjamas and the towel on her head. “Someone ought to.”

Spike slammed the back door behind him hard enough that one of the boards covering the broken window slipped its nails and started swinging drunkenly back and forth.

Buffy’s eyes glittered, but Giles wasn’t sure whether it was from rage or unshed tears.

------------------------------------------

Tara nearly cried when she realised there was no more hot water.

She stood in the bathroom, naked, staring at her body in the mirror, while she passed a too-cold washcloth over herself.

She erased the smudges of slightly shiny black fingerprint dust and the streaks of dull brown blood off of her skin. It looked like she was magically healing cuts and bruises.

Her real bruises were not so easy to deal with. The wide stripes across her back from where she’d fallen against the stairs were making it increasingly painful to move any of her back muscles – which basically meant everything hurt.

Despite the pain, she felt like her body should be more marked up – like there should be physical evidence of what she’d lived through in the last few days. She got her wish when she found the love bite on her inner thigh.

Suddenly, and with almost brutal force, the question she’d been oh-so-carefully ignoring since she’d regained her memories thrust itself to the forefront of her mind:

Did Willow rape me?

------------------------------------------

Giles didn’t know what to say, so he started making tea.

Buffy was still staring at the back door when she spoke. “You don’t have to worry, Giles. I’ll never do it again. I’ve learned my lesson”

“I don’t understand,” Giles said, his brow furrowing. “Do what again?”

“I won’t let my feelings get in the way of my duty.” She laughed, brittle as glass.

He frowned. “Buffy….”

She finally turned to meet Giles’ eyes. They were so full of pain he could almost feel the ache. “I murdered a man tonight.”

“This is hardly the first time you’ve killed,” Giles said lightly, turning to fuss with the kettle. “And he was a professional assassin. Worse than a murderer.”

“I didn’t kill him. I murdered him.”

Giles frowned. “Buffy, you’ve killed human Taraka assassins twice before. Far be it from me to tell you how to feel, but … it never seemed to bother you.”

Buffy frowned. “They were human? Huh.” She shook herself. “It doesn’t matter. They were trying to kill me. It was self-defence.”

“So was this.”

Buffy laughed again.

It hurt to hear it.

“He was no threat to me. I killed him because he was a threat to Spike.”

The silence between them grew.

“Spike lives here,” Giles said finally. “And he’s Dawn’s primary caregiver. Isn’t a threat to Spike a threat to you?”

Buffy started to speak several times, before slumping in defeat. “I should have dusted him years ago,” Buffy said, finally.

“Perhaps,” Giles said.

He knew then that he would not be telling her about killing Ben anytime soon. He’d taught her too well to divide the world into demon and human and to equate that division with good and evil.

One day, she’d be ready to accept that it was just one of the many useful lies the Council had invented to help young Slayers overcome their natural reluctance to kill. The Slayer’s war was like no other – she was one girl against the whole of demonkind. There was no possibility of football at Christmas for her. It was safer if she believed the only good demon was a dead demon.

He hadn’t understood, then, that what kept her alive in battle might well make it impossible for her to be happy outside of it. If he had, he might have tried to find a different way.

Because she’d been happy. He’d seen a light shining out of her today he hadn’t even realised had been missing the last few years. And now she was going to sacrifice it to the altar of her sacred calling, like she’d sacrificed everything else she’d ever loved. Giles didn’t think he could bear to watch.