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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)





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