First, Make a Plan



“Please.”



Dawn’s big blue eyes contain a note of desperation that I’ve come to recognize even though she’s managed to keep it from her tone of voice. I recognize it because I see it reflected in my own eyes every time I’ve looked in the mirror since Willow and the others brought me back from death.



I glance at Spike, tucking a strand of my now short blond hair behind my ear and mentally kick myself. After all, he just goaded me in the kitchen a few days ago about the way my hair bounces or something.



Spike’s equally blue eyes glint back at me. “So, pet, what’ll it be?”



I take a step closer to Dawn and sigh. When had I started feeling so disconnected? When had I started feeling like I didn’t have a family anymore? My mind races back in time, but I can’t pinpoint an exact moment.



Before I realize words are coming out of my mouth, I hear myself saying, “Okay” without a trace of anger or resentment. Dawn squeals with delight, bouncing and flinging her arms around my neck for a brief instant before dancing back to her original spot. Then, I add, “But there are going to be some rules.”


Spike smirks at me. “There always are with you, Slayer.”


Planting my hands on my hips, I shoot daggers at him with my eyes. “That’s because you don’t have any boundaries unless I set them for you.”


He catches and holds my gaze, jamming his thumb in the waistband of his jeans. “Whatever you want to think to make yourself feel better.”


I ignore him and flick a finger out. “One. This does *not* mean that you and I will share a bedroom.”


“So, I’ll be sleeping with Dawn.”


Dawn lightly punches him with her unbroken arm. “I got the bed; you got the floor, Mister.”


I roll my eyes. “Willow will be moving in with her parents for a while. She mentioned it to me last night.”



“Good,” Dawn says, cradling her cast in her left hand.


“Just until this mess is straightened out. Besides, even though her parents are pretty much oblivious to her life, I think she could use some chicken soup and home loving to help her adjust to losing Tara and staying off the magic.”



“Do you think they’ll get back together?” Even though Dawn is obviously angry at Willow for almost getting her killed and breaking her arm, she still loves the idea of Willow and Tara. . . her ideal of love and romance, and she misses Tara a lot.



I stroke her shoulder. “I’m sure they will. They just have to sort some things out. Sometimes that just takes time.”


Spike interrupts our sisterly moment, “So, that’s the only rule, huh? Think I can handle that.”


Raising my voice again, I continue, “Rule number two. No blood in the kitchen refrigerator.”



“No blood? What the hell am I going to eat?” A thoughtful expression colors his features. “Of course, if I can have hot running blood anytime I want, I won’t have to worry about. . .”



“No!” Dawn and I protest together.



Spike opens his mouth to make another comment, but before he can unleash the words, the doorbell rings.



Dawn jerks a little in surprise. “Shit! They’re here!”


“Rule number three. No cussing in front of the social worker. I had a hard enough time getting rid of Mrs. Whats-her-name. . . you know, the last social worker that stopped by.” I glare at Dawn and Spike. “No thanks to either of you.”



“Hey, now,” Spike protests. “I tried to help; I can’t help if the bint got the wrong idea.” He raises a finger at Dawn. “And the Bit here was just exercising her right to be a bit of a grump after what happened with Red.”



“Right.” Dawn nods. “I’m prepared to do better this time. And it’s a different social worker, so we can make new impressions. I really, *really* don’t want to go live with Dad.”



“Could have fooled me,” I murmur under my breath as I shake my head and hurry to answer the door as the bell rings a second time. I turn my head to give the eager pair a final warning as I grasp the doorknob. “Be good.”


Straightening my shirt over the waistband of my skirt, I fling open the door, plastering a huge smile over my face. Although the smile feels more than a bit forced, the grin allows me to bring a happier note into my tone of voice. “Good morning!”


I try not to grimace at the social worker standing on my doorstep. Taking a deep breath, I meet his steel grey eyes with my green ones and extend my hand in greeting. The social worker’s large meaty hand nearly swallows my fingers against his palm, and I have to remind myself not to squeeze too tightly when he purposefully hangs onto me a little too long. After all, I am supposed to be “a meek little girly girl” as Willow once told me back in high school.


“Welcome to our home, Mr., er. . .”


“Helmunde is my name.”



There’s no other word for him. Mr. Helmunde is huge. He’s over six foot tall and almost as wide, but he’s by no means overweight. The muscles in his arms, legs, and neck look like they might pop out of his shirtsleeves, khakis, and collar any second.



His clothes are almost too neatly pressed, and his skin is paler than Spike’s. Still, his flesh is warm, and he walked up the sunny sidewalk from his surprisingly tiny car, so he’s definitely not a vampire. His nose is narrow and pinched, and it doesn’t quite fit on the broad expanse of his face. A set of the smallest glasses I’ve ever seen perches over his hard eyes.



He pushes his way through the door before I have a chance to invite him into the house, his large frame coming more in contact with me than I would like.



Mr. Helmunde stops short in the small foyer by the staircase and surveys Dawn and Spike without moving to let me around him. He bends his head forward and studies his clipboard, roughly flipping a few pages. He clicks open his ballpoint pen and jots a note on the paper.



I still can’t see what’s going on, and Mr. Helmunde’s not moving any time soon. I resist the urge to shove him forward and squeeze up next to my sister, stuffing my hands in the back pockets of my skirt. Ever the polite hostess, I ask, “So, would you like something to eat or drink? We have soda and juice and milk if you like. And I think we may have some protein bars left over from when my friend, Xander, went on the Atkins diet a few months ago. And you can come into the living room and take a load off. I’m sure you’re tired from all the running around to different houses all day.”


Continuing to click his pen open and closed, Mr. Helmunde regards me with an “are you insane, lady” look. Ignoring my offer of hospitality, he states, “First of all, I’d like you to begin by telling me who the hell this young man is, why Dawn’s arm is broken, and why Dawn is living under the care of such a young woman as yourself.” Before any reasonable amount of time has passed, he demands, “Well. Is anyone going to explain this to me?”


I step forward and try to peer at the papers on his clipboard. Talking over the sharp noise of the pen, I attempt to explain our situation, “Well, sir, I think the paper work should say that I’m Dawn’s older sister even though I look younger. I mean, I know I look young; I get carded all the time. Well, not to say that I drink a lot. . .often. In fact, I rarely do. . . drink. . . except when I’ve had a bad day or something.”


Mr. Helmunde raises his thick black eyebrows at me, and Dawn nudges me, so I finish weakly, “And our mom died last year?”


The beefy social worker “You still haven’t told me who this young man is.”


I blink. Young man? There is no young man here.



Sighing, Spike opens his mouth, “I’m her boyfriend.”


Somehow even though that was the plan, I still feel uncomfortable with the idea. To settle the fresh butterflies in my stomach, I remind myself that Spike took care of Dawn all summer while I was gone. . . that he had kept his promise to always protect her. That’s what we were doing now.


“Yes,” I pipe up, feeling Spike’s eyes flicker to me in surprise at my acceptance of his words. “He is.”


Mr. Helmunde starts writing with even greater vigor, simultaneously asking, “Do you really think you should be dating someone so young?”


Oh, shit. These social workers are tough. When will they get with it and realize it’s the 21st century. . . that people live together and raise children all the time without being married? Doesn’t matter that Spike is over a century older than me. He certainly doesn’t act his age. . . or look it.



Spike’s voice takes on the defensive tone that he always uses when one of us verbally attacks him, “Um, I don’t really see how you can make that judgment. . .” He catches the alarm on my face and backs off. “. . . sir.”


I didn’t think Mr. Helmunde’s muscles could bulge anymore, but now he’s flexing them, and his face is turning various shades of red. “It certainly is my business. It’s against the law for someone *your* age to date a minor.”


Dawn’s half-hiding behind me now, but she interjects, “Buffy’s not a minor.”


Mr. Helmunde’s color immediately drops to pink. “Oh, you’re Dawn’s sister’s boyfriend,” he says, more to himself than anyone in the room. He rather dramatically draws a line through the lines he’s just written and keeps scribbling this new information down. “Still.” He gives Spike and me a disapproving look. “That’s a little questionable. Exposure of *that sort* might have a negative impact on impressionable minds.”


Spike flares. “Look here. Dawn’s not a little chil. . .” My hand falls on his forearm, and he stops, startled by my voluntary touch.



Luckily, Mr. Helmunde ignores Spike’s edge and seems to notice only what he wants to notice, no matter how skewed it is.



A beeping noise fills the air as Mr. Helmunde’s writing. Dawn and I look at each other and around the room to see what might be going off. For all we know, it could be any one of several things like the smoke alarm, my pager, or some sort of magical alarm set up by Willow or Tara to protect the house.



Mr. Helmunde reaches for his hip without taking his eyes from his clipboard. Not even glancing at the beeper in his hand, he says, “Looks like you’ve lucked out for a few more hours. I got an emergency. I’ll be back to check the house to see if your story checks out.”



“Um, check out our story? What will you be looking for?” Dawn asks innocently, and I’m glad she’s the one who’s voiced a question.



The social worker manages to offer my sister a small smile, albeit a patronizing one. “Well, if I told you that, it wouldn’t really be a check, now would it?” Without another word, he turns to leave. Pausing in the doorway, he throws back, “Think about it.”



The door slams behind him. Dawn, Spike, and I stare at the closed door.


“Wow,” is all I can manage.


“He’s a nit,” Spike mutters with just as much fluency as me.



I nod, a giggle in the back of my throat at the irony of how screwed we are. “Definitely. A big ole jerk person. . . with beady little bird eyes.”



“Can you imagine him and his wife in bed together?”



Dawn and I make faces at Spike.


“Gutter brain,” I fire at him.


“What?” Spike objects. “You gotta admit that the git was ugly.”



“A git with a funny name. Isn’t Helmundes a type of mayo?” Dawn asks with an expression of such pure sincerity that Spike and I dissolve in laughter.



We are so screwed.

TBC...

Second, Stock the Shelves



“I don’t shave, Pet.” Spike pulls the shaving cream can from out of the shopping basket and plunks the metal container back on the shelf amongst the other products.



I snatch the can back and thrown it in the so-far empty cart. “I know, I know. The dead don’t need to shav. . .”



“Undead,” he corrects me for the millionth time.



“The *undead* don’t need to shave. But you need it. We’re trying to make it look like you’ve been living with us for a while.”



Spike crosses his arms and follows me up the aisle, pausing as I stop to peruse the razors. I’ve never bought guy razors before.



“He’s not going to buy it, you know.”



If I’m not allowed to control whether I’m alive or dead, I’m determined to control whether I get to keep my sister. “He *will*. That’s why we’re at the grocery store, shopping for you some stuff.”



“Yeah, and I almost died in the process of getting into this bloody place. . . *in the middle of the daytime*.”



Spike punctuates his complaint by throwing his ratty old blanket into the shopping cart. At least, he’s stopped burning. We don’t have time for him to be a fire hazard.



I bite my lip as I try to decide between a package of two razors and one of three. I’ve never been good at figuring out which size package of the same product is cheaper. “If you’re going to help us, you have to pick things you like.”



Spike rolls his eyes. “I *don’t* like razors and shaving cream.” He reaches for my hand before I drop the package of two razors in the cart. “Save your money for more important things, pet.”



I shake off his touch, pushing down the confusing feelings I have every time he’s gentle with me. As usual, I cover up the emotions, “Think what we can do with them later.”



Spike growls and moves in closer so that his breath laves over my ear, sending tingles down my spine, “What do you have in mind?”



Proud that I’m able to ignore Spike so well, I circle the cart to the next aisle and study the condoms, running my fingernail over my lower lip in thoughtful contemplation. “So many to choose from. Hmmm. Which are cheap but look like a good brand?”



Spike snorts and attempts to circle his arms around my waist. “Since when do we need contraceptives? I’m dead, remember? That means all my little swimmers are dead, too.”



“*Undead*, I believe is the correct term,” I say as I expertly step out of the potential embrace and flip over a condom box to read the back. “And if you and I are going to be ‘good ‘role models’ for Dawn, we have to demonstrate the practice of safe sex.”



“Demonstrate, eh? Wouldn’t that actually make us *bad* ‘role models’? I mean, not that I mind being thought of that way, but c’mon. Even I know that’s a little over the top. Look at what Angelus and Darla did to poor Dru when they role modeled in front of her.”



I wrinkle my nose and toss a box next to the razors I chose. “I so *don’t* want to know what you’re talking about. And by the way, these condoms are for display only.” At Spike’s look, I add, “In case Mr. Hel-mouth asks. . . or takes a look in the cabinets.”



“Ah. And if he doesn’t, what will you do with the extra condoms then?” Spike leans forward possessively, a trace of jealousy in his voice. . . as if I even have time to date what with the slaying and coping with being alive in general.



Dawn comes skipping around the corner then, and I elbow Spike backwards. He grunts softly, and I fasten my hands tightly around the handle of the shopping cart as he hovers near me momentarily and then backs off.



“So, Dawnie, what’d ya find?” I ask with forced brightness.



Dawn dumps an armload of food and other stuff from her hand-held basket into the large one with the shaving goods. She points to each item with her undamaged arm as she speaks. “Well, there’s cereal, more bread and meat for sandwiches, chips, popcorn, granola bars, peanut butter, a few other things, . . . and cigarettes. . . that you have to smoke outside cause well, eww.”



“How much are those cigarettes?” I ask, snagging the carton from Dawn’s fingers and taking the opportunity to slide the razor package over the condom box. No need for Dawn to get any ideas she shouldn’t have yet.



“Expensive,” Spike interrupts. “We won’t be needing these.”



“But you like this kind. I remember,” Dawn protests. I wonder how she knows what cigarettes Spike prefers.



“I haven’t smoked these since. . . .” he trails off, glancing at me before staring away at nothing.



“Since before I died,” I finish for him. Before my stomach was filled with the hollowness of desire; now it’s filled with hunger for the calm and peace of death. I close my eyes and sway with the sudden overwhelming longing for eternal sleep. Neither of them can understand, and I hope they never will until it can’t be taken from them. Well, at least, that’s how I feel about my sister. Spike’ll probably end up in some hell dimension somewhere, enduring some eternal torture.



Trying to be a peacemaker for once, Dawn scoops the proverbial elephant-in-the-room from my hands and tosses it onto a nearby shelf between two bottles of Herbal Essences shampoo.



“Okay,” she says with something akin to a forced smile. “Don’t we need to go by Spike’s crypt and grab clothes and stuff now?”



“Yeah!” Spike is now enthused. “And to the butcher’s to get me some blood.”



“He can keep it behind the can of pig’s feet that Xander hid in the back of the fridge. It’s so old that even Mr. Hel-ish won’t wanna look back there.”



“Well, I dunno bout that, Nib.” Spike casts her a grin, and I marvel at the brother-sister-esque chemistry between them. Why hadn’t I noticed before today? “Not sure I’d want to look behind it either. Then, what’ll you do with a ravenous walking vampire skeleton? Might not be to good to look at around the house, and you know I’d scare away all your little school girl friends.”



“Ewww. I’ll just hide you in the closet when I invite people over. That should do it. Either that or I’ll tell them that you’re my wrinkly old grandfather who’s demented.”



Dawn shrieks and jumps back as Spike makes a fake grab for her. “Better watch it, little miss, or someone will eat you while you sleep.”



“Ha! You can’t! You have that chi. . .” Dawn dissolves in a fit of giggles as Spike tickles her ribs, and she almost stumbles into the shelves of band-aids behind her, her cast knocking several of the almost weight-less boxes to the floor.



The muscles in my face barely recognize one of my as-of-late rare genuine smiles. I clear my throat and tap my watch to get their attention. “Let’s go, you two. We’re on a timetable here. We’ll figure something out for the blood.”



The brightness drains from Spike’s face as he resumes his nonchalant slouch, and Dawn gives me a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”



God, am I always such a downer lately?



* * *



“This makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.”



“What doesn’t, Dawnie?” I ask, shifting the cardboard box from the surprisingly dust-free floor of Spike’s crypt to my right hip.



My little sister tugs down on the edge of the box I’m holding and emits an essential repeat of her protest after Tara moved out, “We have to get rid of all the candles in the house and tons of mom’s stuff, and now Spike gets to bring in his candles?”



I shrug. “That was when Willow was living with us.”



“Yeah, two days ago.” Dawn spreads her legs and cocks up one hip, topping it with her fist.



“That was before you came up with your plan to fool the new social worker. And before Willow decided to move out for a little while.”



“And now we can’t get our stuff back,” Dawn whines.



I’m starting to realize that she’s doing an awful lot of whining lately. . . something she never used to do. I wish she’d stop.



But instead of saying anything to her, I try to placate her. “Look, we can’t. But, at least you’ll get to borrow some of Spike’s,” I say, blowing a strand of hair out of my eyes. “Get busy. You’re supposed to be emptying Spike’s fridge.”



“I already finished.” Dawn points to another box in the shadows under Spike’s window. “There wasn’t much in it, and Spike won’t let me help him downstairs. I don’t know why; it’s not like I haven’t seen everything down there before.”



I fight to keep the flush of embarrassment from staining my cheeks. I know for a fact that the last time I was here, I left behind at least one torn negligee. Can’t have Dawn finding that. “Well, you know. It is his space.”



Dawn makes a noise of annoyance. “Not like I’ll have my own any time soon. Gonna be weird having a vampire camped out on my bedroom floor.”



Slinging his box onto the main floor, Spike walks silently up the ladder from the lower level of his crypt. “Never complained about it last summer, Bit.”



Now it’s Dawn’s turn to blush as my eyes widen. She studies the ground and tries to gain my understanding, “He was watching over me. I had a lot of nightmares after. . .”



My gaze shifts away from her wide eyes, and she shuffles her feet uncomfortably. I’m not sure what Spike’s doing. I do everything in my power to fight the tears that are threatening to surface. They know I’m in pain, but they don’t need to know how much.



To avoid the discussion that seems to keep coming up at unexpected times, I duck my head and pick up a stray pair of Spike’s jeans that’s been balled up in a corner of the crypt. Brushing off the spider webs that have accumulated on the denim, I surreptitiously glance at my sister and my lover who are hastily going opposite directions and following the change in conversation I’ve invoked.



My sister is attempting to pull her long dark hair into a loose bun at the nape of her neck with her one working arm, and Spike is picking lint off of his recliner, his blond hair a light against the afternoon shadows of his crypt. He really can be an okay guy when he doesn’t open his mouth too much. Maybe he can change. Maybe he is an enigma among vampires. Maybe the chip did something to his brain chemistry. . . something for the good.



I shake my head. I can’t keep letting myself lower my guard. . . lower the walls of my heart. Gotta remember that he’s evil. He’s not like soulful Angel who slept on my floor and never touched me. Spike’s capable of anything, and if he can do what I let him do to me, who knows what all he’s filled Dawn’s head with.



“Maybe Spike better sleep in Mom’s room,” I suggest under my breath. I know both sets of ears in the room have heard me.



* * *



“This is *so* not going to work.”



“Sure it will. Just do this. . . and. . . move this. . .”



I hear Dawn and Spike’s words as I’m trying to empty half a can of shaving cream into the bathroom sink. I remind myself that the goal is to make it look like Spike has been living here a while. Hence, we’ve been emptying bottles of all sorts of stuff, including aftershave, ketchup, and whiskey. Now I’m working on the shaving cream. Dawn and Spike sent me out of the room. . . my bedroom. . . while they take a stab at cramming Spike’s wardrobe in next mine. They said I would just slow things down.



But damn it! It’s my closet!



Setting the shaving cream aside, I flick the extra foam from my hand and try to scratch the itch in my nose with my one clean finger. “What’s going on in there?” I shout.



“Nothing, Buffy!” Dawn shouts back, her voice slightly muffled because she’s in my closet.



“Be careful!” I return to my shaving cream task, turning on the water to try to get the mountain of foam in the sink to disappear faster. I crinkle my nose up and down because it’s still itching.



Then, I hear something crash that sounds suspiciously like something big and probably something valuable. This time, I don’t wait for an explanation.



I dash down the hall and burst into my room to view the damage.



My eyes must be huge, and I must look pissed because Spike and Dawn look like two deer caught in headlights.



“What the *hell* are you two doing?”



“Hanging up Spike’s clothes?” Dawn asks weakly, shrugging her shoulders.



Rubbing my nose vigorously and not caring that I now have shaving cream all over my face, I rush forward and pick up the clothes rack that’s fallen out of place, dumping my carefully hung clothes all over the floor amidst Spike’s things. . . laid out for the world to see.



Can’t have that, can I?



“Damn it! We don’t have time for this.” I pull up the broken rod, attempting to keep as many of my clothes in place as I can. Hurrying forward, I jam the pole back into the closet. Spike and Dawn just stare at me. “Come on! Get your clothes in there! And good god, some of this is dirty! Don’t you ever do laundry?”



The doorbell rings before Spike can respond.



I run toward the stairs as Spike and Dawn step up the pace of their reluctant movements. My legs fly down the stairs, and I barely pick up Dawn’s mumbles, “No way he’s gonna believe us now.”



Spike’s British grumble adds, “No way he’s gonna believe Buffy and I both sleep on that little bed.”



“Well, if you snuggle real clo. . .”



I even have my little sister talking about Spike and me. . . if she only knew the real status of our relationship, she wouldn’t be joking about it like that!



Inhaling deeply, I straighten my shoulders and fling the front door open, plastering the fake smile back on my face. I’m getting really good at the fake smile thing. For some reason, that doesn’t bother me at the moment.



“Hello, Mr. Helmunde.”



I didn’t think Mr. Helmunde could be grumpier than he was on his first visit, but he definitely is. He must not like emergencies. I mentally cross my fingers and hope that he won’t find any surprises upstairs.



He doesn’t even bother with a greeting. “Miss Summers. You need to clean up your face. What *is* that stuff all over it?”



Oh, no. The shaving cream!



I rush to the downstairs bathroom and take in my appearance. To my dismay, shaving cream has managed to work itself across my cheek and into my hair, which I forgot I clipped back sloppily at Spike’s crypt. I rip the clip out of the strands, wincing as I work the tangles out with my fingers. A mass of sticky spider web clings to my fingers and I let out a small cry of dismay, wiping it on the edge of the sink. I grab the hand towel from the ring and wipe down my face, smoothing out my wrinkled skirt and swiping at the dirt stains on my once white shirt.



Am I so far gone that I don’t even notice what I look like now?



When I return to the living room, Mr. Helmunde is already writing. Not a good sign. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, Miss Summers, but you could at least make sure your appearance is appropriate for an in-house visit by a social worker.”



“Right,” I agree. New golden rule: when in the presence of someone who can greatly affect your life, agree with whatever they say. “Well, I apologize. We’ve been doing some cleaning.” I grimace as another crash comes from above.



Dawn’s voice shouts, “Sorry!”



I smile at Mr. Helmunde. “It’s okay, Dawn!”



Mr. Helmunde returns my smile, but it’s not out of kindness. “I think I’d like to see the upstairs first.”



“Sure!” I start leading the social worker up the stairs. To my annoyance, he follows too closely for my taste. I can almost feel his breath on my neck, and it’s not nearly as pleasant as Spike’s. He’s also somehow managed to continue writing with his clipboard pressed into my back. I shudder.



“Something wrong?” he breathes at me.



Just got to get through a few more minutes. “No, of course not!”



Dawn and Spike are grinning fools at the top of the stairs. . . like cats who ate a canary. I’m too worried about what Mr. Helmunde will do next to glare at my sister and her vampire pal.



Spike immediately senses something is amiss with the way Mr. Helmunde is acting around me, and his expression of compliance melts into one of anger. I shake my head almost imperceptibly at him. He gives me a look that says, I don’t like this, but I’ll do what you want. . . for now.



Just what I need right now. . . a possessive vampire on top of a perverted social worker.



“Stay here,” Mr. Helmunde orders.



Without permission, he stomps toward our mother’s old bedroom first.



“Um, no one stays in there anymore,” I inform him, my arm automatically rising as if I can slow him.



“So,” he states.



He flicks the light on and clumps through the room, and I tremble, feeling like he’s raping my privacy. It was one thing for Willow and Tara to occupy her room; it’s quite another for a complete stranger to walk boldly through what had been my mom’s sanctuary from all the horrors of Sunnydale.



I feel an arm around my shoulders and another slip around my waist. I blink. I’m sandwiched between my sister and my lover, my two pillars of support since coming back from death. For the first time, I have I clear realization. They, not including Giles, are the only ones who let me rest in peace. Without thinking, I allow my arms to go around them.



When Mr. Helmunde returns to the hallway, our arms disengage, and I sway a bit before the world stabilizes again.



“Looks all right,” he says. He seems annoyed that he isn’t writing anything at the moment. “Ah! The bathroom.” He takes one glance, not bothering to enter the tiny room. “What’s with all the shaving cream in the sink?”



Stupid, stupid foam. I have half a mind to write the company that manufactures that particular brand of shaving cream and tell them where they can stick their extra foamy crap. Who needs all that foam?



“Well, um, we learned at school that shaving cream cleans stains off basins, so I told Buffy about it, and she was trying it out,” Dawn says quickly, standing a bit on her toes.



“With half the can,” I add.



“That’s interesting!” Mr. Helmunde actually sounds genuinely interested. “My son, Billy, said he learned the same thing the other day.” He fixes his attention on me. “It work?”



I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding and say, “Well, I wasn’t quite through with it yet, but I can tell you one thing, don’t use the extra foamy brand when you try it!”



Mr. Helmunde makes such a funny noise that several seconds pass before I am aware that he’s laughing. Belatedly, Dawn, Spike, and I force a chuckle.



Abruptly, his laughter is gone. “Dawn. Show me your room.”


Dawn loops her arm around mine so that we’re connected at the elbow. Her face drains of color.

TBC...

Third, Draw Some Boundaries



My sister usually keeps her room neat, which is a big deal for a teenager.



I never kept my room that neat when I was a teen. I had to give up my disorganization when I became the Slayer though. Messy bedrooms are not conducive to hiding a secret identity from one’s parents. Because Mom ran an art gallery that had to be perpetually neat, she had a tendency to clean my room when I wasn’t home. Wouldn’t have been good for her to find wooden stakes and holy water in my underwear drawer or in the back of my closet when she hung up the clothes I used to pile on the floor.



Usually, I tease Dawn and tell her she got Mom’s neat-freak genes.



Not today.



Mr. Helmunde stands with his mouth agape.



And no wonder! Dawn’s normally spotless room is littered with all the candles we confiscated from Spike’s crypt, and most of them are covered in dust.



But that’s not the worst thing.



In fact, the dirt and candles are pretty minor.



Whenever she goes shopping, Dawn likes to drag the packages up to her room and dump them on her bed. She studies each purchase with the scrutiny of an antique dealer. After she’s had her “alone” time with each item, she puts them away.



Let’s just say that today she didn’t get to the putting away part.



And the giant box of condoms that I purchased for Spike and me is sitting smack upright in the middle of her bedspread.



My stomach plunges.



Mr. Helmunde doesn’t even bother to say anything in response to what he’s seeing; he just starts scribbling.



He expected this; I know he did.



Then, he clips his pen on the board and says, “They say that a young minor who is having sex is also probably engaging in other types of behavior that would be considered radically inappropriate for her age group. Don’t mind me while I take a look through your things, young lady.”



“But I’m not having sex! I-I don’t even have a boyfriend,” Dawn insists.



“Just wait a minute.” Spike is defensive of his pseudo-little sister. “Leave the girl’s stuff alone. She’s telling the bloody truth.”



I’m too upset inside to say a word.



“And just how long have you been in this country, *mate*? Should we be investigating you as well? And how long have you been dating the elder Miss Summers?”



Mr Helmunde does a terrible rendition of Spike’s accent.



“Two years,” Spike and I say simultaneously.



Hey, at least, we got that part right. We just weren’t very clear about which of the questions we were answering.



Mr. Helmunde looks over the rim of his glasses at us, making sure we are all paying careful attention. “What I have seen here today, kids, could get you in a lot of trouble. I think it’s in your best interest to let me do what I have to do.”



Spike snorts and shakes his head, and Dawn’s face is stricken.



The social worker takes a moment to examine the room, and then, he chooses the boxes on Dawn’s desk. He talks almost to himself as he works, opening lids and sifting through Dawn’s things.



“You know teenagers these days. They don’t respect adults; they think the world owes them something, and then, they whine about it if they don’t get what they think they should. It’s like I tell my son, if he doesn’t buck up and take the hits as they come, he won’t survive in the world because in the real world, things aren’t handed to you. You earn them, and people will screw you over before you can say. . .”



* * *



Screwed.



We are so very very screwed.



Have I said that enough yet?



Dawn took mostly jewelry, makeup, and other shiny baubles, but she also took a few things that I can’t quite fathom.



Why does she need a toothbrush with rhinestones in the handle or half of three different pairs of earrings?



I can’t believe Dawnie is a shoplifter, a thief.



Well. . . maybe I do kind of get it. She’s been through more hell than any kid should have to. I’m sort of surprised that she’s doing as well as she is. When I was her age, I’d just become a Slayer and if I’d lost my mom, dad, and sister, I’d have gone over the edge. It’s only with time and ever-increasing loss that I am able to cope without completely running away or losing myself.



Oh, wait. I did that a time or two in recent memory.



So, in reality, Dawn is doing better than I ever did in response to the losses she’s had to endure. In some ways, I attribute her adjustment to my friends’ unceasing presence in her life. And those friends include Spike.



Spike, who is sitting by me on the sofa now, rubs my back in soothing circles, and I let him. The social worker is gone, and we have a brief respite from the invasion. Dawn is crying in her room. I sort of lost it and told her to stay there until I call for her.



Except, I didn’t say it very nicely.



I have to talk with her. I know I do. Sometimes I think it’s one of the reasons Giles left. . . so I’ll be forced to talk with my sister. Aside from my absent father, she’s my sole blood tie in the world now, and we haven’t exactly connected since Willow and company brought me back.



“So, you have to talk with her, pet.”



I lean into to his touch slightly but enough for him to notice the change. “Yeah.”



“I could do it for you, but I don’t think that’d really help you much.”



The corner of my mouth can’t help but lift a little. “You’re getting good at reading my mind.”



“That’s cause I know you. . . we’re more alike than you’d care to admit.” How many times has Spike told me that now? “I know I keep saying it, but I only do because it’s true.”



I stand up to rid myself of his touch and change the subject, “I can’t believe they’re going to put video cameras in the house! That’s like totally messed up. . . an invasion of privacy!” I look into his blue eyes that are steady on me. “Do you really think what they’re doing is legal?”



Spike takes a breath and waits a heartbeat or two before speaking, “I don’t know what’s legal and what isn’t. I’m not exactly a law-abiding citizen.”



He closes his mouth deliberately although I can see there’s more he wants to say. Something I can’t quite understand flickers across his features.



Then, he speaks again, “Why don’t we just go along with it for a while. . .” I open my mouth, but Spike holds up a finger. “And let Red do some investigation on the computer. Isn’t that her gig?”



I hesitate, not sure if I want to bother Willow with anything too taxing right now. “Maybe. She did seem to benefit from searching out the truth about my disappearing trick. A-and she uncovered who had been messing with me of late.”



“Right. The distraction from her magic problem’ll probably do her good,” Spike encourages. “I mean, she’ll probably hurry it up anyway with me in the house posing as your s.o.”



Something lurches in my gut. None of my friends know about our scheme to fool social services. Xander and Anya are lost in the world of planning their wedding, Tara is living in the dorm and avoiding Willow, and Willow is avoiding life. . . kind of like me. If things go off right, they’ll never have to know this little scenario even took place.



“Right,” I say with wavering confidence. I must have been insane to agree with a scheme that Dawn and Spike cooked up.



Spike slaps his palms against his thighs and stands. “We have to discuss how we’re going to do this.”



“Wanna pretend that we have to go out of town until they take the cameras away?” I ask in half-jest.



He strides toward the kitchen.



“And hey, where are you going?”



Spike’s voice is faded in the next room. “Avoiding them won’t work. And I’m going in the next room to get me something to eat. I’m hungry and I have to have a bite before I have to sneak around to do it.”



“Sneak? Everyone here knows what you are.” Do we really?



I follow Spike into the kitchen as he replies, “Yeah, but the sodding cameras don’t know.”



I perch on the edge of a stool and watch the vampire in my kitchen. The microwave beeps and begins to hum as he chunks in a fresh pint and slams the door. When his meal is heated, he pops the machine open, pulls out the plastic bag, and takes a big swig.



I wrinkle my nose. Still haven’t gotten used to seeing that.



He nods at my expression. “Nice, pet.” He finishes his meal and hurls the blood bag into the garbage. Leaning on the countertop across from me, he grins. “So, let’s discuss sleeping arrangements.”



* * *



“So, you and Spike are going to share your room cause of the cameras?”



Dawn sits on the edge of her bed with her hands clasped in her lap. Her long hair is a curtain across her shoulders, and her nose and eyes are puffy and red from crying. She looks so innocent that I’ve avoided the needed discussion in favor of an easy discussion. . . well, an *easier* discussion.



I emulate her position on the bed. “Yep.”



“He’ll be good. He was really good to me while you were gone.” She ducks her head and sniffs. “He took care of me.”



Stroking her hair and studying the floor, I acknowledge her experience, “I know. And he’s helping out now. I don’t know how ‘good’ he’ll be with me, but I won’t let him step over my boundaries. He *is* a vampire and no Angel, at that.”



“If he does. . . step over your boundaries. . . I’ll set him straight,” Dawn says with a trace of pride and protectiveness that makes me look into her unwavering eyes. There’s definitely a unique brand of strength there. “Vampire or no vampire.”



I smile. “Thank you.”



If only she knew how far I’ve let him cross my boundaries.



“Speaking of boundaries,” I say.



Dawn shifts beneath my touch as I did with Spike a few minutes ago, and she jumps the gun on what I’m talking about. “It won’t happen anymore. I promise. I’ll return the stuff. I don’t know why I did it. I just took one thing, and it sorta kept happening whenever I saw something I wanted. I tried to stop, but I-I couldn’t.” Tears begin streaming down her cheeks.



I convey what I thought about in the living room with Spike, “I know. You’ve been through a lot, Dawnie. And we’ve all been too caught up in our own. . . stuff to see how much it’s impacted you.”



Dawn dismisses my understanding, “What stuff have I had to deal with compared to all you guys? I mean, compared to Willow and Tara and mom a-and you. I haven’t had anything on my shoulders. You guys all shield me. . . from stuff.”



I take her right hand in my left. “You’ve handled things better than I ever would have at your age. . . even as the Slayer. You’ve seen. . . done things that I never had to.”



She’s full of genuine curiosity now. “Like what?”



“Like Mom’s death. . . my. . .” I close my eyes and shift gears. Not ready to go there yet. “You know, I wouldn’t have been able to handle losing both my parents at your age. Even with all the vampires and scary monsters around me, I always had Mom and Dad. . . and a pretty cool little sis to go home to after I patrolled. . . even if Mom and Dad were always fighting.” I roll my eyes heavenward and tease, “And even if my sister could win the annoying sibling award two or three years running.”



“Hey!” Now she’s smiling at me through her tears. “I’m not always annoying. . . am I?”



“Isn’t it in your job description?”



“Well, I wasn’t always your sister.” Her hand goes limp in mine.



I hadn’t realized Dawn was still insecure about being a mystical dimensional key. Maybe we never really get over our insecurities. Have to file that one away for later thought.



I squeeze her hand back into place against my palm. “You were a sister to me then, you are now, and you always will be.”



“What about the stuff I took?” She tilts her head toward the pile of stolen goods behind us.



“Well, you’ll return most of it and pay the store owners back. I’ll go with you if you want me to.”



“Okay,” she says in a small voice. Then, “What about the stuff from the Magic Box?”



Hmmm. There’s quite a lot of stuff from the Magic Box. “We’ll wait until after the wedding. . . when Anya’s all happy after her honeymoon. Then, she’ll be in too good a mood to care. . . as much. How’s that?”



Dawn is doubtful. “Okay.”



The doorbell rings yet again.



Dawn jumps. “Shit.”



“Dawnie!” But I secretly agree with her. “Remember rule number three? No cussing in front of the cameras. . . er, social workers!”



“How long do we have to have cameras again?”



I pause in her doorway. “Three days. Then, the tapes will be reviewed by a special panel of social workers.”



“That’s forever! Will we have any privacy?”



I try to be optimistic. “Just in the bathroom. Oh, and the front porch.”



“Great. Guess where I’ll be spending all my time.”



My sentiments exactly.

Fourth, Smile for the Cameras



That bloody awful, stupid, no good, rotten, evil, godforsaken vampire!



I refuse to call him by name.



No good son-of-a. . .



He’s been trailing around after me all over the house this evening, asking for. . .



“. . . a kiss, pet,” Spike says, leaning in the doorway to my bedroom, trying to look. . . actually looking very sexy.



His arm blocks my path, and all I want to do is grab my pajamas and take a nice long. . . very long bubble bath. I think I deserve it after the day I’ve had.



“No!” I hiss with a smile on my face.



“But we have to show the cameras how much *in love* we are.”



“In love! Pffff!” I push his arm aside. “I feel weird doing couple-y things in front of the cameras. *Most* people would.”



Spike’s shoulder connects with the doorframe, and he watches me with an irritating sparkle in his eye. “I’m not most people, love. I adore the camera, and the camera adores me!” He flashes his pearly whites for the tiny black camera that’s been installed from the corner of my bedroom ceiling.



Have to admit that he looks nice when he smiles. Wonder why he’s never done it much before.



I open the drawer to my bureau and pull out what I hope is my least sexy, most frumpy T-shirt and shorts for sleeping. I tell myself I’m doing this for those stupid social workers who will be watching this evening.



Yeah, right, I’m doing it for them.



As usual, Spike calls me on my choice, “Sexy, very sexy. Then again, you’d be sexy in a potato sack.”



Coming from anyone else, his comment would be a compliment. “You probably remember when the fashion was to wear potato sacks.” With that said, I grab the front of his shirt and start to drag him toward the bathroom. Recalling the ever-present eye one us, I loosen my grip, fall behind him, and push him forward until we’re in the bathroom and the door is shut.



Spike snorts and leans against the bathroom basin. I still can’t get used to vampire’s casting no reflection. “If you’re going to insult me, you’ll have to come up with something a little better than that.”



“Too tired,” I admit. That’s true enough.



“So, what’re we going to do tonight after the lights go out? I’m assuming you’re not going pat. . . I mean, you’re not going out.”



“Nope. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow evening.” I can’t possibly muster the energy for patrolling right now.



Spike fingers the edge of my wrinkled sleep shirt. “Gonna take this off for me or what?”



“Or what,” I state flatly, jerking my T-shirt away from him. “Dawn’s in the house. I’m not doing anything. . . like *that* while Dawn’s in the house.”



“Oh, ho. So, you admit we’re doing something here. There’s something between us.” Spike likes to insert that little jewel whenever he can.



“That’s *not* at all what I said.”



He changes tactics, “So, anyway, I gave Dawn permission to go spend the night at Janice’s. . . soooo. . . we have the house all to ourselves.” He bites his lower lip in a way that’s maddeningly sexy. “*And* we can play rough if you like. I’d still like to know what you’re planning with those razors.”



“What?!” My jaw drops open before I can stop it from falling. “You let Dawn go to Janice’s for the night without consulting me?”



Spike shrugs and gives me a half-smirk. I just want to smack him.



“You know, pet, we have to share the responsibility for disciplining and raising Dawn. I figured that she might need a little break from the stress of social services. You know. . . time to adjust to the notion that she’ll be recorded every second of every day for the next three days.”



He has a point. Not that I’ll admit it. “And since when did we decide to share the responsibility?”



“Since forever!” He puts his cool palm against my forehead. “Got a fever or something? Fall and hit your head?”



My temper soars, and I bat his hand away. “Ha ha ha.”



He gives me a stern look with a twinkle in his eyes. “Buffy, don’t you wanna play nice married couple for the cameras?”



“Won’t it look suspicious if Dawn leaves within the *first* hour of taping?”



“Well, I figure this will be a good chance for us to show off our ability to work together and our sensitivity to Dawn’s needs as a teenager.”


Gah! I get so pissed when he starts talking logical when I’m already mad. I know that last thought makes no sense, but at the moment, I don’t want to make sense. So there. I cross my arms.



“So, no response to that, eh?” Spike asks. “Nice of you to admit when I’m right and you’re. . .”



“Wrong?” I interrupt, eyes blazing.



“Nope. Stubborn.”



Now I know I need some space. “What do you think they’ll think if we’re in the bathroom together for too long?”



He dives in closer until our lips are almost touching, and every fiber in my being begins to tingle. “That we’re a normal, healthy couple.”



“*This* between us. . . is anything but norm. . .” I’m cut off because Spike’s lips are just too tempting, and I groan because he knows just the right place to put his tongue and just the right place to touch my thigh and just the right place to. . .



And I may just lose myself yet again.



But then. . .



Brriiiinnnggg!



I almost jump out of my skin.



With the second phone ring, I pull myself out of Spike’s embrace.



“What’s that?”



Spike sighs. “The bloody phone.”



I tug the edge of my shirtsleeve back into place on my shoulder. “Go *away*.”



Now it’s his turn to be annoyed. “Can hardly do that, now can I?”



“The phone’s ringing. I have to answer it,” I state as if he’s the village idiot.



I stomp out of the bathroom, trying not to show how much I’m fuming. I snatch up the receiver beside my bed and say as calmly as I can, “Hello?”



“Buffy?”



“Dawn! Why are you calling?” I turn to see Spike standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.



Dawn doesn’t respond right away. “Because Spike told me to?”



“He did?”



“Um, yeah. He made me promise to call you guys when I got to Janice’s house.”



“He did?” For some reason, I’m repeating myself.



“Hello? Buffy, are you broken or something? I said he did. Listen, I’m putting Janice’s mom on the phone to ‘confirm’ my whereabouts.”



“What?”



Dawn sighs, and I hear the sounds of a phone being passed off.



“Buffy?” Janice’s mom has a pleasant, adult-sounding voice. Something inside me relaxes.



“Hello,” I say, restraining myself from calling her Janice’s mom because I don’t know her name.



“This is Linda, Janice’s mom. The girls are spending the night here.” She pauses and when I don’t say anything, she continues, “Don’t worry. They have plenty of soda and a pile of movies I’ve rented for them.”



“Sounds like they’re in good hands,” I manage.



“Okay, then. I’ll drop Dawn off at around 10 A.M. tomorrow morning?”



“Sounds great!” Gee, at least I’m saying a few more words at a time now.



After an awkward break, Linda says, “Okay. Have a good evening. Bye!”



Right as she’s about to hang up, I decide I want to appear at least halfway intelligent. “Oh! Linda!”



And it’s a rip-roaring success so far. . .



Lucky for me, she plays along, “Yes, dear?”



“Tell Dawn to be good.” Okay, so I’m a complete moron. Since I came back, I seem to have lost my ability to do a lot of things. . . one of them is the ability to converse with any semblance of sense.



Linda holds the phone away from her mouth and shouts to Dawn, “Your sister says to be good!”



So maybe I’m not the only one with conversation skill problems.



“Buffy!” Dawn complains from the background.



I grin to myself. “Thanks, Linda! Bye.”



“Bye, dear.”



I set the phone in the cradle and find myself drowning in the man’s. . . no, vampire’s eyes across from me.



In less than a second, my body is alive in every sense of the word. . . arms, legs, breasts, head, feet, hands. . . consumed with a fire that may very well char my soul. A tiny guttural growl escapes my throat, and I launch myself at him so that I’m enveloped in his cool embrace.



His hands are every where. . . touching all the places that are anticipating contact, and I hear myself moan in response. To get him back, I wrestle with his shirt until the bottom has escaped his jeans, and I run my warm fingers over his cool abdomen. He groans, and I smile with my lips covering his. He responds in kind by nipping lightly at my lips and then pressing them down over mine to erase the smile.



He breaks away so that air barely rushes between us. He doesn’t even bother to disguise the arrogance in his voice, “So, love, wanna go somewhere private or shall we shag here for the social wankers?”



Spike really needs to learn when to open his big mouth.



I shove him backward, harder than I intend, and he slams into the doorframe. “Shut up.” I push past him, deliberately hitting his arm with my shoulder. “I need to shower.”



The mask of pride melts off his face, and he steps toward me. “Pet, wait. . .”



“No waiting, Spike. I’m just doing this for practical purposes.”



He scoffs. “*Practical* purposes. Whatev. . .”



I whirl on him, holding an index finger up. “No, not *whatever*. *Practical purposes.*”



“Gee, and I thought you enjoyed sleeping with me.”



“I don’t,” I lie.



“So, I don’t even get brownie points for the way I dealt with Dawn?”



Ignoring the hurt in Spike’s tone, I slam and lock the bathroom door and lean against the sink. I just need some time to myself. Nothing untoward is happening between Spike and me.



I think I’ve convinced my brain. . . now I just have to convince my. . . body.



Yeah, right, my body.



I just hope I haven’t messed everything up by throwing that little temper tantrum for the cameras.



* * *



My body is warm, and my muscles are heavy from soaking away their tenseness in the bathtub. I turn the doorknob with confidence, intending to send Spike to sleep on the couch.



As soon as I open the door, a very sheepish appearing vampire greets me. “Hey,” he says with such a shy smile that I soften.



“Hey.”



“You have a nice bath?” He’s being surprisingly meek. What’s up with that?



“Yeah.” Gotta keep things short, or my resolve will break.



“Love, I’m sorry.”



Oh, crap. My resolve’s just been smashed to smithereens. “It’s okay. I-I’m on edge about the whole social worker slash camera fiasco.” I study my feet. I’m a little uncomfortable being nice to Spike. I can do civil but not nice. . . not with Spike.



“If you want, I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs.” His head is bowed, too, when I look up at him.



Something twists in my stomach. “No.”



“No?” he asks, confused.



“No. I want. . . . I mean, you can sleep with me.”



“You sure?”



I nod with a surety I don’t feel. “Yes.”



Another genuine smile breaks over his face, and for some reason I can’t fathom, I feel the tiniest twinge of guilt.



I’m just doing this for the cameras. . . yep, for the cameras.

Fifth: Uncover the Truth


He’s sleeping when I wake.


I know he doesn’t breathe, but it never fails to amaze me that his chest doesn’t rise and fall when he’s gone to the world. Still, when he sleeps, his face is as smooth and placid as the rest of the human race. . . and he occasionally mumbles in the midst of dreams. . . bits and pieces which I don’t often understand and am too afraid to ask him about when he wakes.


I’m too afraid because asking about something so intimate implies a closeness that I’m not ready to admit to myself. Sometimes I admit this to myself, and sometimes I don’t.


There are a lot of things between us that I’m afraid to mention in the daylight hours. That would make *us* too real for me. . . and perhaps even for him.


Before I can look away, his eyes are open and peering deep into mine.


I purposefully shift my eyes away before he can see what lies there. I’m not sure I want him to have access to my emotions before I’m even aware of them myself.


He caresses my cheek with the back of his hand. His skin is warm from being wedged against my back, and to my surprise, I can’t help but lean into his touch.


Maybe I’m more open to him because this is the first, and only, time we’ve shared my bed. And if I have my way, it’ll be the last time.


“You okay, pet?” he asks, shifting his head so that his arm curls beneath his head. His eyes are smiling at me, and heat spreads over my stomach and inner thighs.


Denial girl, that’s me. “What do you mean?”


I glimpse a trace of hurt in the clear blue depths of his eyes, and they strike me in a way they never have before. Blue is the color of the sky. . . water. . . purity. . . all of the things vampire’s aren’t.


Now that I think about it, I’ve never known any vampire with blue eyes. . . black, deep brown, hazel, green. . . but never blue.


I’m not sure what that means.


“You cried all night,” he whispers, studying my face.


I close my eyes, and memories of the previous night wash over me. My teeth find my lower lip, and I chomp down hard to blot out the images. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head.


“Don’t shake your head like you’re okay,” he says.


“It’s *nothing,*” I hiss, tasting the tang of coppery blood on the tip of my tongue.


Spike sits up, disturbing the safe cocoon of sleep to which I’m still desperately clinging. I scramble to emulate his stance, not wanting him to get the upper hand on me. . . on my emotions. My knees are inches from his thigh, and I allow myself to watch him as he stares forward with his forearms perched atop his knees.


After a few seconds of contemplation, something unusual for Spike, he says, “No, pet. This time that. . . well, sod it, I’m really not going to let you get away with avoiding this.”


He punctuates his claim with direct eye contact.


I lift my chin in defiance and stare back.


He continues, “You think I haven’t seen others go through what you’re going through? It’s not exactly the same. . . it never is. . . but it’s similar enough.”


I glare at him, but inside I’m trembling like a mouse. . . hiding in a hole and being dug out by a very hungry cat. “Oh, yeah? When have you come across someone like me?”


His stern expression softens, and he chuckles, almost without humor, “No one’s ever been. . . ever affected me exactly like you.”


Although my heart is thumping and my mind is whirling with thoughts about what he’ll say next, I refuse to let him see. Instead, I roll my eyes and bring my arms across my chest. “Bet that’s what you tell all the girls. Really winning me over here, Spike.”


“I’m not trying to win you over, love. I’m trying to talk with you about what’s happening here. . . you know what I’m talking about.” That said, he lifts his eyebrows at me, and when I catch a glimpse of his sincerity, I fall into my regular routine.


I run.


“Wait!” He tries to grab the edge of my pajamas but fails, and I keep going.


I’m an expert at running. . . but usually, I’m running after the vampires with a pointy stake in my hand. . . not the other way around.


My bare feet thunder across the hardwood floors and down the stairs, down the hall, through the kitchen, and out the back door where I collapse just outside the back door with my back to the house. The normally bright morning sun is blotted out by a cluster of grey clouds that are heavy with potential rain. . . kind of like me.


I manage to hold back tears.


And I opt for heavy breathing. . . not sobbing. I make a short little jog down the stairs, and I’m out of breath. What kind of Slayer does that make me? It makes me a Slayer who’s out of step with her life. . . it makes me vulnerable.


Pesky thing. . . vulnerability.


When at last I begin intentionally inhaling one second and exhaling the next, I hear the still ajar door squeak open. “Buffy?”


I ignore him, raising my knees to my chest and tucking my chin in the resulting valley.


I sense him poking his head into the daylight, but I wait in several seconds of angry silence before I say, “Don’t do that, Spike. It’s morning.”


“I don’t see sunlight,” he replies with indifference.


I offer an olive branch with my tone of voice, “Still, any second now, Mr. Sunshine could pop a shiny beam from out behind one of those clouds, and poof! No more snarky Spikey.”


Spike snorts in vague amusement and slips out to sit beside me on the doorstep. “Don’t know if it would be exactly ‘poof.’”


Although he’s not touching me, the physical presence of his shoulder next to mine is a comfort, so I continue with teasing, “Don’t like to think of yourself as a mere vampire, huh?”


“I’m not a ‘mere vampire.”


I shrug, throwing off his claim of distinctiveness. Again, denial is easier than admitting what I’m beginning to believe about what exactly Spike is. In a psychology class, I once read that individuals are the sum total of what others believe them to be. . . that they are defined by spoken and unspoken interactions with others. If so, does that mean that Spike is defined by how other people talk about him? Am I?


(Who says Slayers are all brawn with no brain? I earned my high SAT scores, thank you very much.)


Spike is quiet again, and I wonder if I’ve hurt him. I decide to wait for him to speak. When at last he does, I listen. I have a sudden need to know if what I’m saying to others and myself about Spike is accurate.


“I understand why you run,” he says. When I lift my head in alarm, he adds, “At least, I partly understand. You’re going through a lot.”


I start to deny, but then, I whisper, “What have you seen before?”


He cocks his head to the side with genuine curiosity, “What do you mean?”


I struggle to say what I mean without actually saying anything about myself, “Before. . . when you said. . .”


“What did I say and when did I say it?”


I’m doing good to answer one of those. “This morning.” He waits for more. “That’s when you were talking about it.”


“It?”


I sigh heavily. Do I have to spell everything out? Isn’t he supposed to be so in tune with me that he can read my mind? “You know. . . the ‘similar’ things you’ve seen in other people.”


Recognition lights Spike’s eyes. “Oh. . . that.”


“When did you see it before?”


Spike leans his head back against the doorframe. “Long time ago before I even came here.”


“Here?”


“America, California, Sunnydale.”


“Oh.” I’m contradictorily impatient. Who says I’m predictable? “Who, what, where? Details please.”


“Oh, so now you want to talk.”


My heart sings. “Maybe. I’m confusing?”


“Bloody hell, woman. . . you’re more than confusing.”


“What does that make me?”


He regards me without lifting his head from the doorframe. “I’m not sure.”


“So?”


“So what?”


“Now *you’re* being all avoid-y,” I observe.


“Easier for me to talk inside with the cameras rolling.” Spike notes my expression. “Contradictory, I know. But I think that maybe you won’t be able to completely ignore me or run away if I have you where you’re under scrutiny by outsiders. . . outsiders who are evaluating you. . . or that you *perceive* are evaluating you.”


Several choice phrases rush through my mind before I choose, “I feel better talking out here.” I pause and then ask, “were you with Angel when you saw that ‘similar’ stuff?”


Spike has never been good with the poker face. He wears his emotion on his sleeve. . . either that or his emotions rule him. . . I’m not sure which saying fits him best. “Maybe.”


“You can tell me.”


Now he closes his eyes to me. “Not sure I want to bring your ‘soul mate’ into this thing we got going here between us, pet.”


“I *want* to know.” I find myself in possession of a desperate wish for understanding. . . understanding from Spike.


Some of the tension melts out of his shoulders, and I realize that he’s trying to find the best place to start his story. “Dru wasn’t the only vampire that Angelus created.”


He pauses here, letting his words penetrate my mind. His obvious uncertainty about telling me calms me.


Spike keeps speaking, “And he continued to like tormenting the ones he brought over. Before he ever actually laid a hand on them, he lined up horror upon horror for them to witness. . . things that would make even your Slayer blood go anemic.”


“Like what?” Do I really want to know the answer to that?


“You don’t want to know.”


That was easy. “Okay.” My hand finds its way to touch the top of his thigh.


“So, Dru and I were recruited to perform some of his more complex schemes. . . schemes that involved more than one vamp. I witnessed first hand what such events had on his victims. Never liked it much. To me, it took the fun out. . . drinking blood is no fun if you have to work so many weeks for just a sip. Me? I preferred taking on a tavern full of people, supping from all of them and then, setting the bloody place on fire. Now *that’s* f. . . ”


I hold a hand up and wave it in front of his face. “Way, way too much information.”


I don’t need to be reminded that my boyfr. . . the guy I’m sleeping with is a dangerous killer without that nifty little government chip in his noggin.


“The point is, that I saw what those people went through. I saw how it impacted them. Quite often, Dru and I were sent to watch these people for hours during the night. . . and during the day.”


“The day?” How the heck had they done that?


Spike stares into the vastness of the backyard. “We’d break into their homes or the hotels or wherever they were staying. And we’d just watch.”


“For hours?”


“Yep.”


“Can’t picture you doing that. You don’t have the patience.”


Angling his head slightly toward me, he arches an eyebrow. “Pot, kettle, black.”


“Whatever.” I can’t suppress my smile.


“And I *do* have patience. . . when the situation is important enough to me.”


“When the situation is a challenge. When you can’t get what you want when you want it,” I correct. I recall him standing outside my bedroom window, leaning against a tree, and staring.


A bit of hurt flashes across his features. “All a matter of semantics, pet.”


Guilt hits me. Here I am falling into the familiar routine of labeling Spike. I’m not exactly sure why I’m starting to care about that so much. “Right. You’re right.”


This time both eyebrows raise. “First time I’ve heard you admit that.”


I ignore him. “So, what’d you see?”


His voice softens, “Lots of things, pet. I saw them have nightmares all night and sometimes into the daylight hours. I saw them cry themselves to sleep, wake up in the middle of the night crying, and wake up in the morning crying. I saw them hallucinate and re-experience their experiences. I saw grown men. . . men others thought of as impenetrable huddled in the corners sobbing and hiding their heads. And nothing and no one was even there.”


I feel completely naked. . . as if my armor has been stripped away. My stomach hurts, and I bow my head to break the connection I have with him. Can’t afford to have him see too much. . . not my hiding has ever stopped him.


He lets me hide. “And I’ve seen them do all sorts of things to compensate and try to appear as if everything was unchanged. Sometimes they’d throw themselves into their work, sometimes they’d withdraw from their friends, and they’d always throw on a happy mask for the people in their lives. I’ve never seen more religious conversions and spiritual renewals than among those Angelus chose to have tortured.”


A mantra comes to life in my head. . . a mantra that I’ve had to repeat many times, especially over that summer I spent alone in L.A. after I killed Angel. Angelus is not Angel. Angel is not Angelus. Got to remind myself of that, or I find myself slipping into a vicious cycle of guilt and anger that leads me to tear myself down.


Spike tucks his hand against my inner thigh and brings me back to my reality and another source of guilt. . . guilt for what I’m doing with him. . . and he doesn’t even have a soul. “What do you think of what I’m telling you?”


I bite my lip. “What does what Angel did have to do with me?”


“What do you think?” Spike asks with more gentleness than I can stand.


“Buffy!” Dawn’s voice bounces from across the yard.


My head shoots up, I shake Spike’s hand off my leg, and I blink away the tears that have formed in my eyes. I was so caught up in my interactions with Spike that I didn’t even hear the car that was now pulling out of our driveway.


Dawn doesn’t wait for us to respond. “Spike! What are you doing outside? It’s daytime!”


“Clouds.” Spike’s response is short, which doesn’t allow me to determine if he’s angry at me for rejecting his touch in front of Dawn.


“Oh. Makes sense.” Dawn slings her overnight bag onto the porch next to my foot and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s for breakfast, guys? I’m starved! It’s already ten, and I haven’t eaten yet!” She taps the front of her watch.


I can’t help but smile at Dawn’s enthusiasm.


And I can’t help but feel relieved that I’ve avoided Spike’s confrontation once again.


So why do I feel so guilty about it, and why do I feel like Spike might be getting too close? Does living with him mean that I can’t hide anything from him anymore?


More importantly, do I want to hide things from Spike?


I don’t think I have an answer for that one.


TBC...

Sixth, Cook, Clean, and Eat Together


A happy family is one that cooks together.


Isn’t there a saying like that somewhere?


Dawn and I used to curl up with Mom on the couch and watch Julia Child. That’s the closest we came to actually making a meal together. Sometimes we paired up to cook breakfast or bake cookies, but never did we include all three of us. Major fights would have ensued, and we genuinely loved one other.


On the other hand, I don’t love Spike even if he does understand me. . . gotta keep reminding myself of that one.


He’s taken over in the kitchen. . . as if he owns the place. Boxes and bags are open everywhere, and ingredients cover every available surface.


“Buffy! Pay attention to the bloody pot!” Spike’s voice shakes me out of my reverie.


Crap! The liquid in the saucepan in front of me is boiling over, making sizzling noises on the stove. Grabbing the oven mitt from the counter, I grasp the pot handle with both hands and move the spewing mess to a non-flamey part of the stove.


Dawn has rushed over from her chopping position at the kitchen island, and the smell of onion follows her as she hovers over my shoulder. “Buffy, you made a mess.”


I scoot back from the stove a little, attempting to reach a semi-wet rag on the side of the sink. “Gee, Sherlock, what makes you say that?”


Rubbing her nose and sniffling, Dawn shrugs, waving the butcher knife she’s been using around to underscore her point. “The mess. . . and the *stench* of burning cheese.”


“Very observant.” I swat at her with the rag and attempt to wipe up the still bubbling fluid without burning myself. “Aren’t you supposed to be chopping onion or something with that thing?” I push the knife down, so the point’s not likely to puncture my skin.


Dawn gives me a watery smile. “Yep. I do whatever Spike tells me.” She gives Spike a mock bow and sneezes as she heads back to the work of awkwardly chopping food with a broken arm.


“What is this stuff anyway?” I ask Spike who has his nose buried in a dusty cookbook that he found at the top of a kitchen cabinet.


Spike doesn’t even bother to look up.


So I study him.


Somewhere, he’s found a little pair of glasses that he’s propped up on his nose to help him read the tiny print in the thick tome. He turns a page and runs a hand through his hair. Damn. He looks. . . cute. Who knew that a man with platinum-colored hair dressed in black could look cute wearing glasses.


“You’ll see, pet,” he says in an offhanded fashion.


“Wish I knew what we were making.” I sidle up to him and try to catch a glimpse of the text on the page.


Spike’s head jerks up, and I almost giggle because for a moment with those glasses, he reminds me of Giles with the glasses. “Pay attention to your pot!” he growls.


I glance at the lackluster little saucepan on the stove. “It’s not going anywhere.”


He buries his head in the book again. “Then, you can put stuff in the measuring cups for me.”


I roll my eyes; he’s taking this domestic diva thing a bit far for me. “Aye, aye.” Picking up a giant measuring cup, I glance at the plethora of supplies and don’t even know where to begin. I turn back to face him; he’s still lost in thought with one finger running over lines in the book. Part of me wonders if he’s treating me this way because we just shared something excruciatingly intimate on the porch. Or maybe I’m just projecting my own discomfort onto him.


Something’s definitely different between us, and I find myself in desperate need to cover that difference up. After all, we’re posing for the cameras. Why not have a little fun with the process?


So, suppressing an inane giggle that’s sprung up in my throat, I immerse my fingers deep into the bag of flour and sling a handful at the back of Spike’s head.


Upon impact, he jumps, spreading the shower of flour through the air. “What the f-. . .”


In that second where time stands still, he glares at me with fire in his eyes, the glasses askew on his nose. I’m hyper aware that Dawn has stopped chopping vegetables and is staring at both of us with undisguised shock.


I’ve never wanted a man. . . vampire. . . so much in my life.


And he responds exactly as I want him to. . . by flinging the glasses aside, lunging at me, and seizing a handful of flour from the nearby bag. For another second, we’re breathing heavily in each other’s faces, and then. . .


Spike whirls and hurls the flour at the still dumbfounded Dawn who raises her cast in a futile attempt at shielding herself.


There’s so much white powder in the air that I can’t see anything, and I know Dawnie can’t either. . . much less the cameras.


So I seize the moment and kiss Spike hard on the mouth, pressing my body up against his so tightly that I can feel my heart pounding against his silent chest. The fire between us sparks and sizzles, boiling over all my senses like the cheese in that stupid saucepan.


The moment lasts a mere heartbeat, and I barely catch the second shockwave in Spike’s eyes before I’m caught up in the food fight again.


Dawn has found her bearings, and I join her in pelting chopped food and other ingredients at the vampire in our house. He fights back with the same grace and effort that he uses in demon fighting, creating an earnestness to the kitchen battle that strengthens our resolve against him.


The food skirmish ends as dramatically as it began. . . with a giggle. This time, I can’t stop the sound from pushing past my lips and hanging in mid-air.


I can’t help myself.


Spike and Dawn look too funny covered in a conglomerate of food stuffs, and I’m certain that I look no better.


My laugh elicits mirth from Dawn who laughs so hard at Spike and me that she bends over, clutching her ribs. . . and slipping on the now slick floor. She lands on her butt but keeps smiling with tears streaming down her face.


Suddenly, all this playfulness feels good. I can’t remember when I last felt such joy at the thought of living. I know I don’t want to die, but feel happiness again? That’s a foreign concept of late.


“What are we making again?” I ask, brushing greasy strands of hair from my eyes with both hands and grinning at the pair before me.


“Can’t recall, love. And can’t read now either.” He nods in the direction of the cookbook’s goop-filled pages.


Dawn looks up at us with round childlike eyes, brushing food off of her cast. “Can we order a pizza?”


“That might be a good idea. Then, we should clean up in here and maybe shower,” I agree.


“Maybe shower? Sounds like a must to me,” Spike comments.


“Good plan.” I wipe my hands on a halfway clean towel and head for the phone. “What would you guys like on your pizza?”


Dawn clamors to her feet with a soft grunt. “Pepperoni!”


“Can we order one with extra rare steak? I know a couple of pizza joints in town that specialize in. . . you know. . . ” Dawn and I frown at Spike. “. . . with a little extra bl. . .”


Dawn and I respond with equal disdain and awareness of the cameras, “No!”


I knew we couldn’t cook a meal together.


Does that mean we’re not happy?


I believe that the jury is still out on that one, and that’s hard for me to admit.


Picking up the receiver, I dial the familiar number of the pizza delivery place. Knowing the number by heart has to be a bad sign.


* * *


Feeling quite fresh from the hot shower I just took, I skip downstairs and hear a distinct grumbling of the masculine variety coming from the direction of the kitchen.


Somehow, I can’t resist.


I lean on the doorframe and cross my arms, just watching. Spike is still covered in congealing goop and is struggling with rinsing off the mop in the cracked bucket Dawn must have produced from under the sink. His hair is a disheveled mess, and the scowl covering his face is classic Spike. He curses as the mop handle catches on something. Extricating the handle from its unseen trap, he raises up the water-laden mop and plops the wet tendrils onto the linoleum.


For some reason, the plop makes me giggle.


His head shoots up at the sound. “What are *you* staring at?”


“You. *Mopping.*” He gives me his most ferocious glare, and his eyes glow yellow-gold. “William the Bloody a-swabbing the deck,” I add in my best fake pirate voice.


“Being the resident maid is *not* what I signed up for.” Spike props the mop against the cabinet. “I’m not doing it anymore.”


“Awww. Didn’t you read the fine print in your contract? It was there. . . the whole mopping and cleaning and dusting bit. . . in detail.”


Spike smirks at me, sucking in his cheeks a little as he saunters over to me in the manner that makes me want him. “Oh really. And I thought you wanted me here for other reasons.”


I can’t help myself, “*Practical* reasons.”


He snorts. “Right.”


“Go shower,” I say, feeling amicable. “Dawn’s in her room drying her hair. I’ll finish up in here.”


To my surprise, he kisses the tip of my nose, ignoring my verbal attempt to push him back again. “Will do.”


In two words, he’s somehow manages to convey that things between us are not resolved. . . are most definitely unfinished.


And with one small sign of affection, he conveys that the chasm we crossed earlier has returned.


Sighing, I cross the room on tiptoe, grip the broom handle, and tackle the mess.


* * *


After Dawn prances downstairs with her hair still damp, I put her to work with me, and we finish cleaning the kitchen in no time. Then, Dawn pops a movie into the DVD player, and we snuggle up on the couch like two kittens, smelling fresh and feeling warm from our baths.


Spike takes an inordinate amount of time in the shower, and I’m beginning to wonder if he went down the drain when he appears on the stairs. Engrossed in the movie, Dawn ignores him, but I can’t help but stare. I’ve never seen Spike with uncombed damp hair, and I’ve certainly never seen him descending my stairs with such comfort. . . as if he belongs here. . . in my house. He locks eyes with me only briefly, and I feel the almost icy distance between us.


I’m not certain I like the hollow feeling that accompanies that distance.


As soon as he reaches the bottom of the staircase, Dawn disentangles her legs from mine and picks up her brush from the coffee table. “’Bout time.”


Spike grins at her with such genuineness that my heart sinks. How can I possibly feel jealous of my own sister when I’m the one sleeping with him? And yet, for some unfathomable reason, I do.


Spike accepts the brush from Dawn’s extended arm and settles on the couch. . . careful to stay apart from me. As I stare, Dawn kneels at his feet, places one hand in her lap, cradles her broken arm against her stomach, and continues watching the movie. Spike pulls her long brown hair from in front of her shoulders and arranges the strands artfully along her back. With the ease of having brushed hair in the past, he watches the movie and works the instrument through Dawn’s tangles, careful not to pull too hard on her scalp.


He’s so tender with her that my heart hurts, and I wonder just how many times he’s shared such an intimate moment with my sister. . . something I’ve been reluctant to share with him since we started having sex.


For some reason, I have to disturb the comfortable image of my sister being parented by my lover. “How long have you been doing that, Spike?”


As if broken out of a trance, Spike glances at me, stopping brush in mid-stroke. He shrugs and returns to his motions. “Always knew how, I guess. Brushed my mum’s hair. . . and Dru’s.”


Dawn twists her head and smiles at me, “He started doing it for me when I couldn’t sleep at night. . . after you. . . and I. . .”


“Was having nightmares,” Spike finishes, pushing her head back in place and resuming brushing. “We’d talk about you and. . .”


“It would be peaceful.” Dawn closes her eyes in memory, and I feel strangely detached as if I’m not supposed to be present.


“Oh,” my voice is smaller than I intend it to be.


Dawn peers at me from the corner of her eye. “Want a turn?”


“That’s okay. You guys go ahead. I’m watching the movie.” I try to focus on what’s unfolding on the screen. Like that’s going to work.


Dawn stands, grabs my hand with her good one, and tugs me up. “Your turn.” She pushes me toward Spike, and Spike smiles at me almost sheepishly. I lower my eyes but settle myself between his knees with as much nonchalance as I can muster.


I’m not sure I like where this is going. Surely, Dawn will suspect something is going on between Spike and me. I determine to grit my teeth and not react to his touch.


Boy, that plan is a complete and utter failure.


As soon as his fingertips graze my neck, my body tingles with a fire that I can’t deny, and I close my eyes and lean closer to him. The presence of his legs around my shoulders enshrouds me like a cocoon, and. . .


I feel safe. . . safer than I’ve felt since my return to life.


Goosebumps rise on my arms as he tucks the shorter tufts of hair on the side of my head behind my ears, and I can feel his vampire strength behind each stroke of the brush against my scalp.


Just as I’m about to lose myself completely in the brushing, the doorbell rings.


“Pizza’s here!” Dawn shouts, and my eyes fly open to witness her jumping up. “I’ll get it. You guys keep doing what you’re doing.”


I don’t even have the energy to fight her. “The money’s. . .”


“In the kitchen. I know,” Dawn interrupts. She scampers into the other room with the energy of a puppy.


Spike and I are left alone. He immediately sets the brush aside.


“What are you doing?” I protest, torn between wanting him to continue and knowing that it’s all a show for the cameras.


He leans back against the couch and away from me. “Stopping.”


“How come?”


I hear the lie in his voice, “Food’s here.”


I turn around completely to face him. “Spike. . .”


“What, pet?”


The words come out of my mouth before I can stop myself, “I want you to touch me.” I *need* you to touch me.


I can’t stand that he’s pulling back from me. . . and I have no idea why. Or maybe I do and admitting it to myself is too scary.


“Do you now?” he asks with such deep sincerity that my insides melt.


I decide to show him, and I touch his thighs with my hands, running them all the way back to his hips. “Yes. Please.”


He says nothing and doesn’t move to make contact, but the depths of his eyes say everything. He tries to hide his feelings, but I see them clear as day. He understands me. . . perhaps more than anyone in this world right now.


How can a soulless demon have so much empathy? If a vampire can show empathy without a soul, what does that mean about the rest of his feelings? Can he actually love me like he claims?


Or does the living arrangement make me project my feelings onto him. . . similar to the way we project feelings onto pets? Do pets have feelings?


And then, my off topic thoughts are disrupted.


“Buffy! What are you doing?”


My heart skips a beat as my head jerks up.

Willow stands over us holding a pizza box. Dawn is hopping up and down, doing a silent little antsy dance and making apologetic faces.

And Spike and I are. . . .

Oh, crap.

Seventh, Make Time to Go Out with the One You. . . Aren’t Sure if You Like

So, I try to play off the whole kneeling between Spike’s legs and rubbing his thighs in front of the whole world thing. . . well, world of Willow anyway.

“Didn’t know you were delivering pizzas now, Will.”

Okay, that came out harsher than I intended.

“M’not.” She tucks a scarlet strand behind one ear with a shaky hand. “Just saw the pizza guy driving up, paid him, and. . . Viola, pizza!”

Trying to act as casual as one possibly can when caught in an awkward position, I slowly bring my hands to the tops of my thighs and rise, ever cognizant of three sets of eyes watching my every move. My right leg has fallen asleep with a thousand little rubbery tingles, and I stumble a bit before I regain my footing. . . with Spike lurching forward from his slouch and grabbing my arm to steady me.

This was going from worse to well. . . worse.

“A-and I swear I didn’t cast a sp. . . ,” Willow protests.

Before she can finish the sentence, I seize her arm, taking the pizza box and practically flinging the pie on the coffee table.

I drag her onto the front porch, slam the front door, and release her. We both kind of sway as we catch our breath.

“I didn’t do a spell,” Willow says in a small, hurt voice. “No need to throw me out.”

Color me a-bright-rainbow-full-of-colors confused.

“What are you talking about?”

My best friend is even more flustered now and stutters like Tara used to when she was shy around the rest of us. “Y-you know. . . with you a-and Spike and the t-touching. I-I didn’t do that. . . this time. I‘ve been staying off the magic; I *swear.*” She raises her right hand as if taking oath.

I blink, and my eyes flicker sideways to Dawn who has opened the front door and joined us with her good arm crossed over her broken one. Spike has managed to follow and is leaning against the door frame with a smirk on his face. Smug bastard. He’s enjoying every second of this.

Quickly running over all the options in my mind, I decide to tell the truth. That’s simplest, right? “There’s no spell.”

“But then. . .” Willow stare shifts from me to Spike and back to me again. “Huh?”

Dawn seizes the moment to dance around Willow and interrupt her field of vision. Thank goodness. “So, Spike moved in with us.”

“What?” Willow sounds tired, and I notice the circles under her eyes. She‘s been getting almost as much sleep as me. With almost exaggerated slowness, she eases onto the floor of the porch, using one of the posts as support. “I-I don’t understand.”

As usual, I start my babble fest. “Well, there was that thing with the social worker. . . can’t remember her name, and she found some of your magic weed, and then, she saw Spike and his blanket and caught me lying about you living here. And then, this other social worker came, and he’s a real jerk. Anyway, now there are cameras in the house, and Spike and I are pretending to be Dawn’s parental figures, and. . .”

Willow squints at me. “But. . .” She points a finger at Spike. “But he’s evil.”

Raising both eyebrows at me, Spike straightens up like a dog whose name has been called. He nods at Willow. “That’s me.”

Dawn rolls her eyes. Apparently, her patience for the whole situation is gone, and somehow I can‘t blame her. “You guys sort this out. I’m hungry.” With that said, she breezes past Spike and storms into the house.

Spike tightens his jaw, bobs his head at Willow, gives me that classic head tilt that makes me melt inside, and trails my sister into the house.

In and out of the house we go, wearing our emotions on our faces like clowns.

We’re just doing so well for the cameras.

Bloody cameras.

* * *

“So, Will, what do you think?”

“Bout Spike living with you and Dawn?” Willow is teasing now that’s she’s heard the whole story. . . or my edited version of the story sans Spike sex and the uncomfortable talk I had with him on the back porch.

“No, about the camera thing.” I take a sip of lemonade and pick up my plate of pizza. Spike was sweet enough to bring Willow and me a plate of food. (Spike and sweet in the same sentence? Call me denial girl.) Now we’re watching the rain fall to the ground in a soft curtain and happily munching.

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think it’s legal,” Willow says after swallowing a bite.

Not legal? That means all the stupid little stunts Spike, Dawn, and I pulled in front of the cameras mean nothing! “That’s good news, right? If we can prove what they‘re doing is illegal, then, Dawn‘s case gets thrown out.”

“Not necessarily. And like I said, I’m not sure yet. I think I’ll do some poking around on the net and make a few phone calls.”

“Sure that you can handle that?” I’m worried about my best friend. Even though she’s eating pizza, she doesn’t look like she’s been gorging herself of late.

“Yeah. I can.” She catches my incredulous look and adds, “It’s not like when Oz left. I’m taking better care of myself this time. Promise.”

I accept her position without question. “Okay.” She’s my best friend; who am I to doubt her?

The wall of silence rules for a few seconds as we eat. Then, Willow asks, “So, the Spike thing is what?”

I set aside my empty plate, picking at the crumbs with my index finger. “A means to an end. A way to keep Dawn here with us and get social services out of our hair. . . for good.”

“So, Dawn doesn’t go live with your dad, and social services disappears. What’ll you do about Spike then?”

Even though she’s sitting right across from me, now I can’t look at Willow . . . not when she asks me about Spike with such directness. “He’ll go back to living in his crypt.”

“You don’t think this’ll lead him on? Cause, well, last year, breathing in his direction led him on.”

Last year was. . . last year. No one had died yet. Mom died. I died. That’s a whole lot of death between then and now. “It’s different now between Spike and me.” At least, that’s the truth.

I sneak a glance at Willow. The little crease between her eyes has appeared. “How different?”

“Well, he helps a lot more now instead of just skulking in the shadows. He’s an out-of-the-closet Scoobie now.” Willow doesn’t look convinced, so I tack on, “It’s not just cause of me either. He was helping you guys before I came back to life. He didn‘t even know what you guys had planned with the. . . resurrection spell thing.”

I flat out state Willow’s responsibility for my current situation in this world. She deserves to hear it. After all, she brought me back when I shouldn’t have returned. Plus, she almost got Dawn killed with her selfish abuse of magic.

Me? Resentful? Maybe just a little.

Willow shifts uncomfortably. “He’s still soulless.”

*Exactly* my point. That‘s what I keep telling him. He doesn‘t listen, and he’s not letting me listen. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t useful muscle to have around. I mean, a demon killing other demons is an excellent weapon.”

“Nice to know I fit in the ‘object’ category,” a gruff voice comes from behind me.

I freeze. Damn. I’m not even getting the vampire vibe off him anymore. Without turning around, I ask, “How long have you been there, Spike?”

“Long enough,” he mumbles almost inaudibly. Then, with greater volume, he adds, “So, Red. Thought I’d ask you to mind the Little Bit tonight while the Slayer and I go out.”

Suddenly, I‘m annoyed, and I twist to glare at him. “*We’re* not going anywhere tonight.”

His eyes narrow in return, but I catch the flash of hurt before he quickly buries it. “Don’t you want to get in a workout?”

My heart skips a beat. Please don‘t let Willow notice anything. “What? Eww. Get your brain out of the gutter.”

I expect a smart-ass line in response. Instead, he gives me, “I meant patrolling, pet.”

“Oh.”

Willow rescues me, “That’ll actually give me an excellent chance to check out their camera system and give Dawnie and me some time to maybe reconcile. . . or start anyway.”

“Oh.” I’m not getting out of this, am I?

“You may at least want to pretend it’s a date, Buffy,” she adds in a much less rescue-y fashion.

Spike is silent, and I hold my breath.

“For the benefit of the social workers, of course,” Willow adds as she pushes up from the ground, picking up her glass and plate.

Right.

Look at newly undead Buffy. She already has a date.

* * *

“You’re *not* wearing that out of this house!”

Balancing on the third step of the staircase, I teeter on the tips of my toes so that I’m taller than Spike. “Why not?”

“Because that is *not* an outfit for patr. . . a date!”

Shifting my weight in my highest high heels, I examine my short black skirt and cherry red blouse. My short blonde hair is freshly washed and styled around my shoulders. I’m actually quite proud that I’ve managed to hide two stakes beneath the flimsy fabrics. “What’s wrong with this? It’s what I wear all the time.”

Here I am caring about what Spike thinks of my appearance.

“The whole outfit’s not practical. You might fall in those bloody. . . ,” he waves his hand at my feet, “. . . insignificant shoes. . . and and di. . . get hurt.”

I ignore his reference to my recent passing. “I have very good coordination, thank you. And since when was this whole arrangement practical?”

Spike’s just wearing his usual black jeans and black T-shirt. For once, his long coat is missing. “Since you said so.”

Oops. I walked right into that one.

“So, on our date, I should dress in the same old thing I always wear like you do?”

Almost self-consciously, Spike touches his chest and turns his attention to himself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You always wear black! Don’t you like any other colors?”

Spike‘s lips quirk, and he spreads his arms to me. “Looks like you dressed to match me. We fit.”

Okay. That’s it. Spike and I so do *not* fit, especially together! “Fine. I’ll change.”

Willow appears at Spike’s side as I start to stomp back up the stairs. “Buffy? Enough with the arguing already. You better get going on your *date* before it gets too late.” She taps her watch. “It’s already 10 o’clock.”

I pivot on Spike. “I can wear the heels?”

Spike snorts. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t tell you not to.”

I scamper down the stairs toward the front door, snatching my light leather jacket from the coat rack. Can’t have Spike getting too many ideas. I pull the coat over my shoulders, push my left arm through a sleeve, and hold the door open for Spike with my newly cloaked arm. “After you.”

Spike shakes his head at me before passing me and intentionally brushing his arm against my lone bare one.

I shiver in a cloak of deep, penetrating waves of desire.

Oh.

I’m a Slayer in big, big trouble.

With determination to fight my feelings, I shrug on my jacket and follow the vampire into the night.

* * *

Focusing my Slayer senses, I weave my way through the cemetery, dodging tombstones and stepping over flower arrangements with the deft grace of a huntress. The moon is full above, casting a hazy white glow over the graveyard and heightening the need for silent movement. A light breeze trips over the edges of the tree leaves and lifts the ends of my hair, making me feel light and somehow more powerful. My ears remain perked for any sound that is out of the ordinary. I cradle a wooden stake against each palm, ever ready for dusting.

No vampire better cross my path. That’s all I have to say.

Spike can’t keep up with me.

Well, that’s a bit of a stretch.

At first, Spike stalked along beside me, but when I ignored him, he disappeared behind, melting into the shadows like a ghost.

Good.

I want to shake him. I have to protect myself because if I’m alone too long with him, how am I going to focus on patrolling?

There are vampires out there who could kill innocent men, women, and children while I’m. . . handling Spike.

A scratching, almost like a rat climbing through the walls of an old house, resounds from my left, and I hone in on the noise, being silent as a whisper as I circle round and come at the noise from between two large bushes. I find myself on the perimeter of a grave secluded from the rest of the graves and surrounded by a few trees whose branches are blocking the moonlight. The ground next to the small marble tombstone is covered in freshly turned soil.

A new grave.

New soil coupled with scratching can mean only one thing. . .

A fledgling vampire is rising.

Squatting to the ground to wait in the brush, I grip the stake in my right hand and slip the other in the waistband of my skirt.

In an instant, the breeze changes, and the gust pushes aside the tree branches over the tiny clearing, illuminating the grave in a ghostly light. A hand thrusts forth from the soil, sending crumbles of dirt raining across the headstone.

Without warning, clumps of earth begin pouring from above, pummeling my shoulders, arms, and head. The light intensifies to an almost blinding white, and I spring forward to escape the onslaught only to crash into the emerging vampire. My high heels squish into the soft, damp dirt, and I vaguely think that Spike will be soon be pelting me with “I told you so’s.” The vamp grunts softly on impact with me, and his newborn strength pushes me so that I hit the icy stone behind me.

Using the energy from falling to lurch off the uncertain ground onto the firmer grassy areas around the grave, I hear more scratching sounds. . . like a thousand rats clawing under the ground. The noise increases exponentially with each second, mirroring the thunder of my heart and the unevenness of my breath.

Somehow, someone has buried an unknown number of vampires in this clearing, and I couldn’t detect them until they were all rising at once.

I blink rapidly in the sudden complete darkness, trying desperately to see the fledgling that I know is somewhere around me. My head is pounding with the almost thrum of approaching danger. Maybe I can at least dust him before the world around me is consumed with who knows how many other vampires.

Before I can do anything, the steady rock beneath my feet begins to rapidly melt away like a sugar cube in hot coffee. The stake drops from my hand as my arms fly out to grasp onto anything.

But I’m too late to find a grip.

I try to cry out for help. . . for Spike whom I know is out there somewhere, but no breath passes my lips. Like a fish out of water, I find myself gasping for air that’s not to be found, and my body is consumed by cold arms and bodies that are grabbing and pummeling at me from all sides.

Death wants me back.

* * *


I blink.

Yellow. . . all I see is a blurry soft-gold color over me.

And I can breathe again! Air is actually entering and leaving my lungs without effort.

“Shouldn’t have worn the heels, love.”

I turn my head toward the familiar voice and grimace as every muscle in my body cries out with a single motion. Funny, all my sexy Spike thoughts have gone down the toilet. “Ha ha.”

I wiggle my toes and discover I’m no longer wearing shoes.

Something soft and moist runs over my forehead. The touch feels wonderful. The voice that accompanies the feeling soothes me even though I don’t want it to. “You almost let that vamp kill you.”

My mind is having trouble focusing. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t remember?” The motion over my head pauses, and his surprise is unhidden.

“All I remember is. . .” I hesitate. Everything in my head is a blur. . . kind of like my vision right now. I shake my head, groaning at the pain.

“You saw something, didn’t you, pet?”

Flashes of arms and legs, blinding light, and showers of soil fill my mind’s eye. “Yeah. . . I-I think so.”

He says nothing for several seconds before he asks, “How many times have you seen something that wasn’t. . . like that?”

“Heard,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

A cool hand touches my forearm. “What?”

“T-there were sounds, too.”

“What kind of sounds, love?”

Rats. . . lots and lots of rats. That makes no sense. “Dunno.” I bring my hand to my head as if touch can shake my memories loose.

“How many times have you. . . experienced something like that?”

Irritation shoots through me. I wish he’d just leave me the hell alone. Isn’t he making this harder for me by constantly reminding me that something’s wrong with me? “*Don’t know.*”

Impatience highlights his tone, “You’d better figure it out.”

Abruptly, he leaves my side, and I re-open my eyes to find the world is slightly less fuzzy and bright. I determine not to speak again until he apologizes for being so intrusive. He’s the vampire; I’m the Slayer. For all intents and purposes, he should be a pile of dust right now.

I know I’m being irrational, but I don’t care at the moment.

Spike can’t stand silence for too long; he’ll come up with something to say.

What he chooses to say better be off the topic of me falling apart.

I have more important things to think about. . . like keeping Dawn out of the clutches of social services.

I’ve pretty much made up my mind to be stubborn, so I’m startled at what comes out of my open mouth, “So, this type thing is similar to what you saw with. . .”

His voice is muffled, “Angel. Yes.”

“*Angelus*,” I insist.

He emits a humorless laugh, “Whatever. Angel, Angelus. . . essentially the same being.”

Despite my brain’s better judgment, I sit up on what I realize is a pile of mats and face the now significantly less blurry form across whatever space we’re in, “No! Angel without his soul. . . he has no choice in his behavior.”

His volume doesn’t raise a notch. “That’s just what you like to tell yourself. Makes you feel better about how things turned out between the two of you. Makes you feel less responsible for what he did.”

I hate when anything he says contains a grain of truth.

I cross my arms over my sore midsection. “It’s common knowledge. Vampires are soulless. . . and therefore lacking in a conscience and therefore *evil.*”

He gets closer so that I can see the seriousness of his expression. He better watch himself, or I’ll clock him. . . despite the beating I’ve taken. “Won’t argue on the evil vampire bit. But in reality, all beings have a choice. . . soul or no soul.”

“Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants. You’ve lived so long; you’ve seen pretty much everything. Or you think you have. Name one instance where that’s the case.”

Then, he’s no longer in my face, and he turns his back on me. “If you don’t know by now, pet, I can’t help you.”

For reasons I can’t fathom. . . or let myself fathom, I stand in what I now recognize as the Magic Box training room. With a slight limp from pain in my knee, I reach out and place my hand in the small of Spike’s back. I can feel the strength of his back muscles through his cotton shirt. He’s so strong. . . . He could have let me die tonight, and he didn’t.

“What happened. . . out there tonight. . .” I hesitate. “I-it’s never happened before.”

Statue-like, he still doesn’t face me. “No? That’s good.” He sounds tired.

My heart rate accelerates. “W-what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure.” He steps forward away from my touch.

He’s not letting me close. My whole world feels like it’s falling apart. What happened in the graveyard tonight doesn’t make any sense at all, and now he’s rejecting me.

Hot tears bubble up from nowhere and course down my cheeks. My legs threaten to buckle as I start to shake.

“Spike. . . I-I’m scared.”

I’d forgotten my injuries until his arms are around me, and then, bright stars sparkle in my eyes. I groan despite my best efforts.

He whispers in my ear, “I’m here. I’m sorry. . . it’s just. . .”

I catch my breath and match his tone, “I hurt you.”

Boy, I’m admitting some interesting things to myself tonight. Must be because I’m feeling vulnerable.

“Yeah,” he acknowledges.

I snuggle into his embrace and bury my face into his chest. Figure that’s the only way I can hold myself up. “W-what did you see happen out there?”

“You were fine, and I was following you.”

I sniffle. “What else is new?”

“And then, at the grave when the vamp punched through the ground. . .”

“Everything went bonkers. . . so bright,” I finish for Spike.

“I just saw you start to fight him, and you staggered around like you. . .”

“Dirt was falling all over me. . . from somewhere,” I finish lamely. “A-and the rats. . .scratching. . .”

His hand twines in my hair. “The vamp grabbed you. . .”

“The ground. . . went away, a-and all these d-dead a-arms. . .” A sob escapes unbidden, and tears blossom and fall anew.

“Shhh.” His arm tightens around my waist. “You’re safe now. I dusted the vamp and brought you back here.”

“Was. . . did he?”

“He was beating you pretty badly, but I pulled him off of you before he could bite you. He met a dusty ending. I promise.”

I can’t seem to stop crying. Spike lifts me gently and carries me to the pile of mats. He slides on top of them and cradles me in his arms.

As soon as the sobs cease and the hiccups are under control, I ask a tentative question, “T-this is what happened to Angelus. . . his victims?”

Spike says nothing as he formulates an answer to my question. Then, “I believe so, love.”

I look up to search his eyes. “Why is it getting worse?”

“Explain what you mean.”

I stare off at the display of weapons on the Magic Box wall. “B-before. . . what happened tonight was just a dream. . . a nightmare.”

Spike shifts his weight slightly. “I think that it’s getting worse because you’re talking about it. . . or at least thinking about it more.”

“About what?” I already know the answer.

“How you came back.”

I feel like a child asking her parent too many questions. “B-but. . . what’s wrong with me?”

Spike changes position again so that I’m upright in his lap, but his arms are still supporting me. “Buffy.”

Now he’s got my attention. He’s using my name. I lower my eyes to avoid his gaze.

“Buffy, you were taken out of. . . a place where you were at peace and thrust into this world of death. . . of sacred duty. . . of unhappiness. You had to dig your way out of your own grave. You had to deal with the fact that your most trusted friends took away that peace and presented you with pain.”

I’m crying yet again.

He changes the focus off me, “Angel’s. . . Angelus’s victims went through something very similar. They were at peace. . . happy with their lives. The torture they endured. . . it was very traumatic. . . more than many of them could handle, including Dru. Their minds rebelled against such trauma. . . it couldn’t be happening to them. They denied it, but the memories of what they endured. . . were enduring remained bubbling under the surface.”

The picture is becoming clearer. “They. . . the memories. . . the trauma. . . c-came out.”

“Yes. They had dreams. . . they saw and heard things that weren’t there. I saw it all.”

I shake my head. “B-but I’m supposed to be stronger than them. . . I’m the Slayer. This shouldn’t be happening to me.”

“Dru was strong. Her faith in God was almost unbreakable, but Angelus persisted, and she broke. Poor woman was never the same again. She had nightmares for the longest time, and her mind. . . not always very clear. And little things stressed her.”

“And you took care of her. . . like you’re taking care of me.” My eyebrows furrow, and I almost pout. I’m too drained to be angry. “I don’t need you to take care of me.”

Before he can respond, I add with a trace of bitterness, “You just like women who need you to take care of them. You like to keep us down, so you can do whatever you want.”

“That’s not true!” Spike retorts, gripping my elbows. “I’m here because I. . .” The storm in his eyes winks away. “I’m here because I know that unlike Dru, you have the strength and tenacity to beat this, too. I *want* you to be the feisty Slayer I know and. . . care about.”

Choosing to ignore the implication about his feelings, I ask my most burning question, “Think I can?”

He sighs. “Can what?”

“Stop this stuff. . . the nightmares. . . the hallucinations. . . from happening to me?”

“Yes.”

And to top off my shocking revelations of the evening, I dip my head close to his. “Will you be there with me?”

“What do you think?” he breathes, his lips millimeters from mine.

“I think. . . this has turned out to be some date.”

With every nerve in my body singing, I dive into the deep end of unknown territory.

Eighth, Make Love and Not War



I’m lost.



I’m completely and utterly lost in Spike.



Here I am with Spike in the Magic Box. . . in my training room, no less, and my warm lips moving against his cool ones in time to the steady rhythm of my heart. For the first time, I don’t feel the hasty urgency of needing to fix everything right away. . . of having to fill the hollow pit of my stomach with the heat of passion.



There’s an answer to the desperation I’ve been feeling since I returned to life. . . there’s a reason for the nightmares and the disconnection and the wildly shifting emotions.



For the first time, our hands aren’t moving everywhere across the landscape of our bodies in a haphazard endeavor to remove clothing and press flesh to flesh. Instead, Spike’s hands remain steady against my back and right hip, and my hands are around his unmoving waist.



All our energy is focused on the gentle glide of lip on lip, tongue over tongue until I’m left gasping.



He pulls back just enough to let me catch my breath. “I’m here, pet. I’m here.”



His eyes are as clear as the ocean around one of those tropical islands that I’ve only ever seen in pictures. I can’t help myself. “Thank you.” The words come out in a whisper.



His lips part as if he’s about to reply.



But I never hear Spike’s response.



“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen training done quite like this,” an irritated voice says from across my sparring room.



Anya’s caught us.



I jerk back from Spike, my hands fluttering in the search for a place to light other than Spike’s body. Spike is equally shocked and probably upset by my behavior, but he protects me anyway.



Grasping my hips, he lifts me and sets me gently on my feet. “Buffy was hurt.”



Anya frowns and shifts the rather large book she’s holding in her arms. “How? In lip lock?”



I clear my throat. Can’t stand when people talk about me in front of me. Seems a lot of people have been doing that lately. “We went patrolling, and there were. . . was. . .” How to explain that one measly vampire got the best of me?



“There was an ambush,” Spike finishes.



We glance at each other, and his right shoulder gives a little shrug. I continue, “And Spike helped me.”



“And Buffy was hurt,” Spike repeats in an awkward fashion.



“R-iii-ght.” Anya narrows her eyes.



Even as Xander’s fiancé is staring Spike and me down, I have the urge to step back into his arms. After all, aside from Dawn, he has been the only one truly there for me since I came back. . . here.



Spike hops off the exercise mats and steps away from me. . . farther away from me than is required, and now I know he’s bothered by my reaction to Anya’s entrance. “It’s true,” he says, and I’m reminded that he’s a terrible liar. That’s one thing I usually appreciate about Spike quite a lot, but today, not so much.



“Say, what are you doing here so late? It has to be what. . . one in the morning or later?” I note.



Anya looks uncomfortable and suddenly seems to be studying the wall. “Nothing.”



“Yeah. What’s with the book?” Spike asks, advancing on the ex-demon.



Her eyes shift to the right as she slams the open volume shut. The pages emit a small puff of dust. “Nothing at all.”



Anya’s not such a great liar herself.



“Well,” I say, bending over to slip on my heels. “If you’re doing nothing. Spike and I were doing nothing, too.”



Confusion transforms into understanding in the blink of an eye. “Okay,” she agrees with haste. “I saw nothing. . . no way, no how.” And then, she scurries out of the training room and into the front of the store.



I follow her to the door. “Us either!”



Shutting the door firmly, I turn back. “Well, that was a close. . .”



Spike is gone, and the back door is still moving from the motion of his exit.



Bewildered, I scramble after him, filing Anya’s behavior away for another day.



I have too much else to worry about. . .



. . . like a cranky. . . well, hurt vampire.



* * *



Arms swinging, Spike hurries around the corner. He’s using the extra height he has on me to outdistance me. Skipping a bit on my good leg to avoid putting too much weight on my injured knee, I attempt to catch up.



“Hey!” I shout.



He keeps going.



“Wait up.” Tufts of my new shorter haircut blow across my eyes, and I unsuccessfully blow the strands out of the way.



No response.



Finally, at the entrance to the movie theater, my leg starts throbbing.



“I can’t keep up. My knee.” I grab his hand in attempt to slow him down.



At my touch, he abruptly stops, arms still moving. As if my hand’s made of acid, he yanks his hand away.



“What’s wrong with you?” I demand. “Why are you acting this way?”



“No reason,” he growls.



I try to hold his eyes with my own but fail. Annoyance boils in my stomach. My emotions can’t take much more of the emotional-roller-coaster thing tonight. “Yes. It’s something. What?” I can’t stop the bitchy tone from coloring my voice, and for the first time, I’m not happy that I’m aiming it at Spike.



He starts to leave again, but I grasp his upper arm with my right hand and whirl him around despite the pain still groaning through my body. I really need to go to bed.



“Tell me what’s wrong,” I command, emphasizing each syllable.



The muscle in his cheek twitches as if he’s gritting his teeth, and he keeps his eyes lowered.



“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.” The longer he’s not being responsive with me, the more my inner self is quivering in fear. I don’t know what I’ll do if he decides to go away right now. I’m the one who’s supposed to be avoiding him. . . not the other way around.



“I’m tired, Buffy,” he says so quietly that I almost can’t hear him.



My gaze is intent on him. My voice lowers to match his, “Tired of what?”



“This game. . . this charade.”



My heart sinks; I hate this space between us. “What game?” I know very well what game.



“Hiding what’s going on between you and me.”



“We’re doing it for Dawn. . . so she doesn’t have to go away. It’ll just be a little longer, and you can go back to your crypt and doing your. . . vampire things.”



That’s not what he means, of course.



And he gives me that look that says he knows the words I just uttered are total bullshit.



“You mean what we just told Anya? That’s just to keep her and Xander off our backs. We really don’t need more people knowing until the situation with social services is resolved. Then. . .”



“Then, it’ll go back to being the way it was before. . . instead of partially hiding this. . .” he gestures back and forth with two fingers, “. . . it’ll go back to complete denial of any connection between us.”



Right. Well, that’s right, right? Really. Sleep is needed. “Yeah,” I murmur as a half-statement, half-question.



He closes his eyes at my confirmation, and he slumps against a half-torn movie poster. “Don’t know if I can keep doing this, Slayer.”



His words cut me like a knife.



And before I can think, I launch myself into his arms and hug his ribs tightly. “Please.”



He hugs back but without much enthusiasm. “After this. . . after I help with Dawn, I’m not going to do this anymore. I’ll still help out, but I’m not going to let you keep on. . .”



“You said you’d be here for me. . . help me with the hallucinations and nightmares.” I hate the whine in my voice, but my insides are consumed with genuine panic.



Could his bizarre push and pull with me be related to the push and pull I’m doing with him?



“Yeah. I’ll be there, but not this way. If you need more support than just listening, you’ll need to see a shrink or something, pet.” He sounds defeated.



I’m dizzy at the thought of losing the cushion of his presence. “W-what if I consider letting the others know. . . after the social services thing is over with? I can’t promise miracles, but I can try.” I pause and then add, “I-I just can’t handle another emotional upheaval right now on top of. . . everything.”



His arms pull me closer, and a mix of desire and relief floods over me.



His voice is still soft as he speaks against the top of my head. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Buffy. But do know that there’s only so much one. . . vampire can take.”



He’s highlighted his demon for me. . . his lack of soul.



I make a feeble attempt to remind myself that I can’t let myself get too close to a soulless demon. . . not again.



And yet. . . here we are.



After a long embrace, I slowly push away and look up at him. Now his clear blue eyes focus on me instead of elsewhere. I can’t read them.



I stroke his cheek with the back of my hand. My words tell him that for now, we’re together, “Let’s go home.”



* * *



Willow is sleeping on the front porch swing wrapped in a blanket she’s pulled from the closet. A little piece of paper is propped on the front of the cloth, and from the sidewalk, I imagine what it probably says:



“Please do not disturb.”



“Redhead at rest.”



“Witch a’waitin’.”



“Kiss me. I’m yours. . . . but only if you’re Tara.”



Spike squeezes my hand. We’ve been holding hands since my house came into view from the street corner. Gotta at least look the part of girlfriend and boyfriend. His hand is cold and heavy against my palm, and I’m reminded that our connection is still far from sturdy despite his outward placidity.



“What are you talking about, pet?”



Oops. Hadn’t realized I’d said that stuff out loud. “Nothin’,” I say with a levity I’ve sworn to use around Spike. . . for now.



Besides, I sometimes get these pockets of time when I feel okay about being alive, and they mostly happen when my brain is too tired to form a coherent thought.



“Talking to yourself. Never a good sign of sanity,” he teases. Apparently, he’s decided to play along, too. I have to admit that I feel better, and for some reason, shoots of desire streak across my belly along the inner length of my thighs.



I giggle. “Nope. Not sane. Buffy is not and never was sane.” I let go of his hand and dance ahead of him in a little circle. The pain in my body is much less, but I can’t tell if it’s because I’m so worn out. “Certifiably insane. . . that’s me.”



“Going all Dru on me, then?”



“Yep.” God, I’m drunk with exhaustion. I skip up the front steps and teeter back and forth a little as I face Spike. I spread my arms. “Hee! I’m drunk.”



“Or something,” he says as he catches up with me.



“Or tired,” I amend. “The bed sounds good about now.”



Spike leans around me in attempt to check on Willow. “Let’s see what Red has to say first.”



“I’d rather. . .”



I take him by the shoulders and kiss him hard on the lips. I have to know if he’s going anywhere just yet. He hesitates at first. . . just long enough for my heart to skip a beat, and then, he kisses me back, matching my ardor with his own. I relax into the kiss with relief.



As I pause to catch my breath, he asks, “Shouldn’t we?” He gestures at the sleeping Willow.



I put my finger to my lips and shake my head no. Tilting my head toward the front door, I give him a little grin, hooking the same finger in the waist of his jeans and giving them a tug.



He groans as my skin contacts his. “Wanna give the cameras a show, love?”



The corner of my mouth quirks up, and he takes that as consent.



Within seconds the door is open, closed, and locked, and he’s leading me toward the kitchen.



As he flicks on the light switch, I ask, “Here?”



He spares me a brief glance, and I see the merriment in his eyes. “No, that won’t do. Dawn might catch us. But. . .” he flings open the refrigerator door, “thirsty.”



“Oh.” I’m amused. Guess he hasn’t had any blood all day.



Spike stops touching me long enough to rummage around in the back of the appliance. He locates the empty milk carton of blood he’s hidden behind a container of moldy cheese, spins open the lid, and drinks with such swiftness and neatness that he’s done before I realize.



He licks his lips, replaces the carton, and rinses his mouth with water from the sink. “Done.”



Before I can say anything in response, he seizes my hips and presses them into his own so that I quiver with longing. “Want me, love?”



“Yes,” I breathe as I feel just how much he wants me.



He bends to whisper in my ear, “We’ve talked about a lot of stuff tonight. Before we do this, I just want you to know that I haven’t forgotten it.”



I nod; at this moment, I don’t care. I just want him to never stop touching me.



“Truce?”



I nod again.



“Great.”



With that, he lifts me in his arms, and being of weary mind and body, I let him carry me up the stairs. . . even though I can most definitely take care of myself.



He takes the stairs two at a time, pausing to kiss me every so often. His lips are firm, and I relish the slight tang of coppery blood that remains on his breath. I’m impatient with hunger and flushed with desire as we enter my bedroom. He hurriedly turns on the lamp beside my bed, and cool air rushes between us.



As if surprised by the change in temperature, he stops short.



His eyes lock with mine, and a blaze of passion sparks between us. I squirm and climb out of his arms, kicking off my high heels and peeling off my blouse at the same time. I’m grateful to be on even ground again, but my knee objects, and I perch on the edge of my bed for a moment until the pain subsides.



I watch him. I can’t help myself.



Spike slides his shirt over his head, and in a single movement, he slings the cloth over the end of the camera in my bedroom, effectively shielding us from those-who-are-watching. Then, he’s upon me, gliding his hands on either side of me and leaning me back against the pillows. In a familiar dance, he slips off my panties and skirt and unlatches my bra, and I unbutton his jeans and peel away his jeans, freeing him of constraint.



“Now. Please,” I beg as he knocks our clothing to the floor.



As he presses into me, he murmurs, “They don’t get to see more than I do.”



Before I let myself get completely lost again, I finish with the same words I uttered earlier, “Thank you, Spike.”



Things between Spike and I aren’t perfect. . . aren’t as tender as before we were caught by Anya, but they are definitely different. For the first time, I have hope that I’ll be okay.



The white flag is raised.



Everything and everyone else can wait until tomorrow.

Ninth, Don’t Neglect Responsibilities



Note to self: make sure to arrange sleeping positions so that the vampire doesn’t end up by the telephone.



Cause then, well, bad things tend to happen.



In the haze of sleepiness, I think I heard the phone ring once. . . and I definitely remember Spike’s brief curse as he picked up and slammed down the receiver.



But then, dreams claimed me again, and the next thing I know. . .



“Good morning!” a voice sing-songs in my ear. . . loudly in my ear.



I groan as my dreams are disrupted. They were peaceful dreams, too. . . the kind I haven’t had in a while.



“Rise and shine, Buffy!”



“Dawn?” I croak, stirring my arms and legs to wake them from the pull of unconsciousness. I seem to have grown an extra set of legs, and there’s a third arm around my waist. Either that or someone’s in bed with. . .



Oh. My. God.



I abruptly sit up, somehow mindfully holding the sheet to my bare chest. The sheet is wrapped around the still sleeping vampire next to me, and he emits a small groan as the cloth stretches taut. Thankfully, the sheet still covers us both.



My voice is a sharp croak. “Dawn!”



She’s staring at me, taking in. . . my nakedness. Her eyes flicker to Spike, but before she has a chance to fully realize what she’s seeing. . .



“Get out!” I don my best pissed-off-sister face and distract her with my finger pointed emphatically at the door.



Eyes wide as a rabbit’s, she scampers out the door, and I hastily disentangle myself to follow after her and slam the door. Heart pounding, I lean against the door in partial relief.


But now I have to have yet another talk with my little sister. What can I possibly

say to explain this?



Leaning against the wall, Spike looks comfortable with the sheet around his waist.

And he’s watching me with a smirk on his face.



I shoot a glare at him. “It’s not funny.”



“Didn’t say it was, love.”



Dashing around, I throw a pair of jeans and a fairly unwrinkled peasant blouse on

along with a pair of sandals. In between articles of my own clothing, I toss Spike his jeans and a fresh shirt out of the closet. He dresses much more slowly than me.



“Hurry up,” I command with my arms crossed.



“Eager to get out there and explain to Dawn exactly what she saw?” he asks, his voice slightly muffled by the cotton shirt he’s putting his head through.



“No. Eager to get things in order.” I yank his dirty shirt off the camera. “Dawn has school tomorrow.”



“Riigghhht.”



Piling up all the dirty clothes and bed sheets, I point to the pile. “And Spike has laundry to do.”



“Let’s see here.” He puts a finger to his chin and looks thoughtful. “Ummm. No.”



I bat my eyes and tilt my head toward the camera. “Now, hun. You *know* it’s always been your job around here to do the laundry.”



Getting the hint, Spike sighs, gathers up the laundry, and stalks past me, making sure to shoot me a soft growl of discontent. “*Not* in the contract,” he whispers, almost inaudibly.



Despite the issues between Spike and me that lurk in the morning shadows, I can’t help but grin.



* * *



Dawn’s standing at the kitchen island, awkwardly pouring herself some cereal and trying to turn the page on the comics section of the newspaper at the same time. She doesn’t even bother to look up as I enter. “It’s raining.”



For the first time, I notice the wet windowpanes through the open blinds.



“Was that Spike who just came by with the laundry?”



I bite my lower lip and try to play it cool. “Yep.”



“That’s interesting. Think he’ll do mine, too?” She shakes the Pops box up and down. “Ugh.”



“Here let me.” Anything to avoid the topic that I know will inevitably come up.



I take the box from my sister and straighten the plastic bag so that the puffs can pour into the bowl more easily. “He might. If you’re sweet to him.”



“Are you speaking for me again?” Spike asks, appearing from the basement where the sound of the washer has started.



“*Pretty please*?” Dawn begs.



Spike rolls his eyes. “Fine.” Grumbling, he crosses behind us to get to the refrigerator and his carton of blood. “What I do to hold this household together.”



“What did you say?” I ask just as the phone rings.



He shrugs as he takes a big swig out of the milk carton. He shakes the box at me as I pass him. “Need more milk. Gotta develop big, strong bones.”



“Later.” I pick up the phone. So far, so good. Dawn’s said nothing about what she saw this morning. “Hello?”



“Let me in!”



“Willow?” Oh my go. . . we left Willow outside!



The doorbell rings.



“H-hang on. Just a sec.” I hang up the phone and race to the front door, flinging it open.



A gust of cool air and the clean smell of rain greet me. . . along with a rather rumpled, shivering Willow.



“Fell asleep outside. Why didn’t you wake me?” She seems more sleepy than angry. At least, the porch is covered, so she didn’t get soaked. . . and she had a blanket.



“I’m so sorry. We got in late. . .”



Willow stands beside me in the entry way as I shut the door. “Did you have a long night patro. . . on your date?”



“You could say that.”



She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “Did you stak. . . get a lot of. . . have fun?”



“I didn’t have. . . steak. Spike got that.” I won’t tell her it was in more ways than one. “And we spent time. . . talking. Too tired. Went right to bed.”



“O-oh. Maybe next time, you could invite me in? I forgot my key.”



“I’m *so* sorry about that. Why don’t you take a shower?”



“Thanks.” She starts to ascend the stairs. “Oh, and Buffy?”



“Yeah?”

“Got info for ya.” She hands me the slip of paper I remember seeing last night.



“Oh good!” Yay! No more stupid camera stuff!



She studies her shoes. “And the stuff with Dawnie. . .”



“Yeah?”



“Not so good.”



“I’m sorry. I want to hear about both things,” I reassure her.



“Shower first?” Poor Willow looks miserable after a night on a porch swing.



“Yeah, yeah. Definitely.” I wave my arms to point toward the kitchen. “I’ll, I’ll be in the kitche. . .”



Then, I hear, “So, Spike, tell me about *your date* with Buffy last night. When’d you guys get home?”



Gotta put a stop to that before Spike says too much.



“Well, pet. It was definitely interesting.”



Great, just great. Why do I always feel like I’m doing a dance to hold things together around here?



As soon as I walk in the kitchen, I give them a pointed look, and they quiet down like cats who have been caught with a canary. At least, I still have some bit of control. . . for the moment.



I nod, and they follow me onto the back porch. Little drops of rain are still lightly drizzling, but what Willow’s written on the slip of paper may be too important to worry about getting a tad wet. And hey, grey sky means that Spike won’t combust. . . although I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing right now.



“What does it say?” Dawn asks eagerly, cradling her cast under a kitchen towel to prevent the plaster from getting too wet.



“I gather that you and Willow still aren’t speaking.”



She juts her chin out in a flash of defiance. “I gather that you and Spike were doing something you don’t want to talk about last night.”



A grin spreads across Spike’s face. I shift from one foot to another. Stupid vampire’s loving this. “Let’s just see what Willow wrote.”



“I think I want to hear the other part of the conversation first,” Spike says, raising his eyebrows and leaning against the house.



“No!” Dawn and I say at the same time.



“Fine. Open the bloody paper and tell us what it says before the sky opens up again.”



My hands tremble a little as I unfold the note. I don’t know what I was expecting, but the words on the page were not what anything I would have remotely thought.



“What’s it say?” Spike asks me, startling me out of my shock.



When I don’t respond, he pokes at the top of the paper, pushing it down so he can read the message aloud. . .



“Watcher’s Council?”



* * *



All I know is I’ve got to get out of this house. If the Watcher’s Council has anything to do with the state of my. . . this household and Dawn’s future, there’ll be hell to pay.



I grab the car keys, barely noticing the cold metal against my palm. I turn to the bewildered vampire who’s followed me into the kitchen.



“Here,” I say, my tone flat. I dangle the keys in front of his nose.



“What’s this, pet?” he asks gently.



“Drive me.” I can’t look him in the eye, so I stare at his chest.



“Drive you where?”



“What’s going on?” asks Dawn, slamming the back door.



I give her an even expression. “Spike’s taking me to the Magic Box.”



“What for?”



“Gotta call Giles,” I reply, starting for the door and the car. My mind is set on one goal and one goal only. . . confronting the man who has all the answers.



“Can’t you drive yourself?” Dawn asks.



I don’t answer. I can’t tell Dawn that I’m afraid if I drive, I’ll use up the remainder of my resources. . . resources that are holding me together right now and keeping me from completely breaking down in tears and climbing back in bed. Gotta keep moving.



Flinging open the door, I pause on the threshold, glancing back over my shoulder. “Coming?”



Spike has a silent exchange with my sister and then, makes a decision. “Right.”



Dawn makes a move to follow him, but I hold up my hand. “Nope. You stay.”



“But I wanna come!” she pouts.



My mind races. “You need to stay here and let Willow know where we’ve gone.”



She frowns at me like she might insist on coming. Then, “Fine. I’ll stay.”



Geez. The ice is just hanging off her words. Since when did my little sis get so angry?



I’ll worry about that another time. . . just like everything else. Damn it.



I’m already out the door when Dawn shouts after us, “And what if the sun comes out when you guys are driving?”



I waver; then, clear my throat. “We’ll deal!”



* * *



Does Dawn have to be right? Little sisters aren’t supposed to know what they’re talking about.



Halfway to the Magic Box, Spike’s hand bursts into a bright flame as the sun peeks around a cloud. With a curse, he jerks his one hand from the steering wheel, and the car lurches right. My heart jumps with the motion.



With my right hand, I grab for the side of the car and reach a steadying hand for the steering wheel with my other.



Spike shakes his ignited hand and slams it into his stomach, rolling the bottom of his shirt up to put out the fire.



The car wobbles precariously in the lane under my one-handed guidance. “Spike! Help!”



Another sunbeam finds a home in the car just as he reaches out to aid my efforts, and Spike’s bare arm ignites. This time, he shouts, “Bloody fuck!” and slams the breaks on.



The car traveling behind us honks loudly and swerves around us, narrowly missing the back bumper.



Once we’re steady, I unbuckle my belt and reach around the seat to grab the old bath towel on the floor in the back. Tugging Spike close to me and away from the deadly light, I wrap his hurt limb in the cloth and batter down the blaze.



The cloud cover becomes whole once again, and greyness prevails.



Spike hasn’t said anything, and now I’m antsy for action. . . anything to have some semblance of control. “So, what should we do?”



His voice is an almost inaudible growl, “What do you mean what should we do?” He sits up and away from me. “Open up the sodding trunk! I’m getting in it!”



Pressing my lips together, I push a button on the key ring still dangling from the ignition. The trunk clicks open.



Without acknowledgement, Spike pulls the blackened bath towel over his head, glances in the side mirror for passing cars, waits a moment for a blue truck to pass, slams the door almost off its hinges, and climbs into the trunk. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him move so fast.



And for several minutes, I can’t bring myself to move at all.



Guilt pervades my stomach, heavy as an anchor on a ship.



I definitely should have stayed in bed today.