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A/N: See Part 1 for disclaimers and other info. This one is actually the first part of a way-too-long chapter, so I've split it up, even though there's really no good place to do that. I think I was suffering from OKS (Overactive Keyboard Syndrome) when I wrote it.


Chapter Two

Two days later, Buffy was no closer to answering any of the questions that had plagued her on the walk home from Spike's crypt. Probably because she had actively avoided thinking about them. She had told Giles about the attack, at least as much as he needed to know, and he'd made the usual noises about looking into it. So far, nothing had turned up.

In the meantime, Buffy had done a little digging herself, visiting a couple of the more popular demon haunts, including the demon bar where Spike had taken her to play kitten poker. She hadn't uncovered any useful information, but she had liberated another batch of kittens, much to the dismay of the outraged poker players in the back room.

Too bad. She'd said it before, and she'd say it again. Kittens were stupid currency.

She had halfway wondered if Spike would be there and didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he wasn't. She hadn't seen him since she'd followed him to his crypt. Giles had felt it would be "prudent" if Buffy skipped patrolling for a night or two, so except for her quick field trip to the demon bars, she'd stayed close to home.

Now, it was mid-morning on a Saturday, and Buffy was growing restless. Not to patrol since that, like everything else, held little appeal for her. But she was tired of the house and of making the effort to appear normal when all she wanted to do was find a little peace and quiet, far away from worried eyes and listening ears.

So she'd plastered on a fake smile and escaped to the grocery store. A far cry from heaven, but it was the best she could do at short notice. Now she was back, brief respite over. Pausing on the steps of the back porch, one hand clutching the small sack of groceries while the other dug around in her purse, she searched for the elusive house key. It stubbornly refused to show itself.

"Come on," she muttered. "I can decapitate a training dummy blindfolded, but I can't find a stupid little key? How lame is that?"

Giving up, Buffy shifted her grip on the sack and moved to the door. She sighed when the knob turned easily in her hand. So much for her recent epiphany, which she had quite pointedly shared with Dawn – that maybe a town hosting a Hellmouth and an unending stream of ooglie-booglies was not the best place to practice an open-house policy. Old habits were apparently hard to break.

At least vamps were obliging enough to wait for an invitation. Unless you were talking about a bleached-blond, leather-coated, pain-in-the-ass, mortal-enemy-turned-confidante type vampire. In that case, it would probably be easier to install a revolving door and be done with it.

And there she was, thinking about Spike again.

Buffy shook her head, struck anew by the difference four years could make. Who would have thought, when Spike had first threatened to kill her, that he would eventually wind up as her patrolling buddy and a semi-regular fixture in the Summers household? Not to mention her sister's protector and someone Buffy could actually trust to guard her deepest, darkest secret.

Because he loved her. Or said he did, and somewhere deep inside, Buffy thought it might be true. She'd tried not to think about it. Didn't want to think about it. If she did, it would make it real, and she so wasn't ready for that. Not where Spike was concerned.

He wasn't like other men. He wasn't even like other vampires, at least as far as Buffy could tell considering the whole not-thinking-about-it aspect. When she did let herself dwell on it, a part of her realized that Spike's love would be every bit as determined, passionate, and impossible-to-kill as he was.

It worried her. But, as much as Buffy hated to admit it, it also comforted her. She needed the quiet support and undemanding acceptance he seemed all too willing to give these days. And she needed the feelings his presence had begun to stir in her -- the little frisson of anticipation whenever she heard his voice, the vague longing for something beyond her reach every time he smiled. And that really worried her.

When you leave a door open, you just never know what might come through it.


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The kitchen was empty, but the sound of muffled voices wafted in from the living room. Since Willow and Tara were out for the day, attending a weekend seminar on campus, and Dawn had long since outgrown her imaginary playmate, that could only mean one thing – company. Buffy sighed. Random surprise "visits" from Social Services had been taking place sporadically even before her return from the dead. On the other hand, spot checks from the caseworker of the week – like everything else in Sunnydale, the turnover rate was quite high – almost always took place on a weekday. Besides, it was way too soon after the last one. Which brought her back to square one – if not Social Services, then who?

Frowning, Buffy abandoned the sack on the kitchen counter and went to investigate. Passing from the dining room into the foyer, she stopped, surprised to see not only Dawn, Willow, and Tara gathered around the front window, but also Xander and Anya.

Dawn knelt on the sofa, gazing out the window toward the street. No one had noticed Buffy yet since they were all too busy watching her sister.

Xander leaned down, peering over the teen's shoulder. "You know what they say, Dawnster. A locked pot never spoils."

"Huh?" Dawn's head whipped around.

"He means 'watched,'" Willow clarified, giving Xander a wry look. "A watched pot never boils. Not spoils."

"Really? That's what it is?" Slapping his forehead, he made a "duh" face. "Now it all makes sense!"

Rolling her eyes at Xander's antics, Dawn spotted Buffy standing in the doorway. "Oh…hey. I'm glad you're back. Giles called just after you left. Said he wanted everybody here right away. He didn't say why, just that he'd be over as soon as he stopped and picked up something. Sounds like there's big trouble, huh?"

"Isn't there always?" Buffy started into the room but stopped again at the sound of a car pulling up outside.

Dawn turned back to the window. "Oh! He's here! Wait…uh-oh." Dropping the edge of the curtain, she bounced off the sofa and bolted to the front door, almost knocking over Buffy in her mad rush to get there.

Xander looked around. "Uh-oh? He's not even through the door and already there's an uh-oh? This can't be good."

Yanking open the door, Dawn jumped aside to make way for a blanket-covered figure that came barreling into the house, trailing a cloud of smoke behind it. Buffy coughed a little, waving away the acrid smell as Spike shrugged off the smoldering blanket and tossed it carelessly over the staircase banister.

Straightening, he looked around. "Hey, there, sweet pea," he said to a grinning Dawn. "Much obliged." Turning to Buffy, his voice softened. "And, hey to you , too."

Buffy glanced briefly at the others then back at Spike. "Hey, yourself. What's up?"

"Dunno. Have to ask your Watcher. He dropped by my crypt and offered me a ride in his death-mobile. Bloody thing doesn't even have a decent-size trunk, so I'm stuck smokin' away in the back seat. Said he'd explain when we got here."

"And so I shall."

Buffy turned to find Giles standing next to Dawn, holding a book in one hand as he closed the door behind him with the other.

"I see we're all here. Excellent." He continued talking as he moved into the living room, Buffy and Dawn trailing after him. "We haven't much time, I fear."

Still standing by the stairs, Spike snorted. "Typical. Why is it every time an apocalypse rolls around, it has to be 'the world ends at midnight tonight' or some such nonsense? Don't they schedule these bloody things in advance? They can't all be last-minute."

"This is not an apocalypse, Spike, as I have already told you," Giles replied, his long-suffering tone giving Buffy a good indication of how many buttons Spike must have pushed on the drive over to the house. "It is, however, a matter of dire urgency."

"Dire, huh?" Xander sighed. "Not lovin' the sound of that."

"Nor should you." Giles nodded toward the sofa and chairs. "Perhaps we should make ourselves comfortable and I'll start from the beginning."


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TBC in Part 3





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