CHAPTER 1 --


“Mom! Where is my green sweater?”

Buffy stopped at the bottom of the stairs, “Did you check that garbage pile in the middle of your room? Really Dawn, you have to clean that up before it mutates, grows legs, and we have to name it!”

Long legs pounded down the stairs, revealing her daughter, “That was only that one time,” she huffed, swinging into the kitchen, green sweater in hand.

Buffy trailed her daughter into the room, “Did you remember everything?” she asked for the thousandth time.

“Yes!” Dawn answered, exasperated.

“Enough clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Pajamas?”

“Yes,” Dawn answered instantly, sitting down at the table and stuffing her mouth with pancakes.

Buffy paused, hands on her hips, staring her daughter down, “Toothbrush?”

Dawn froze, slowing lifting her eyes to glare at her mother, her jaw ticking in frustration. She halted in thought for a moment before dropping her fork and leaping around Buffy to retrieve the forgotten item.

As Dawn vaulted up the stairs, Buffy closed her eyes, leaning against the countertop for support. It was times like that, when Dawn was annoyed with her, that she reminded Buffy so much of her girl’s father it threw her for a loop every time. A steady knock at the door interrupted her daydreams.

Buffy threw open the door, Willow Rosenberg bounded through the doorway.

“Did I miss her!? I didn’t miss her did I!? I brought my camera and everything!”

Buffy smiled at her best friend’s excitement, “No, Will, she didn’t leave yet.”

Willow sighed, relieved, “Oh, good.”

Buffy was eternally grateful for the presence of Will in her and Dawn’s lives. Without Willow and her girlfriend, Tara, all Dawn and Buffy had was each other. And Willow had been with Buffy, and literally Dawn, since day one. Willow had sat with Buffy on the cold porcelain of the bathtub, waiting for the blue lines to appear on the home pregnancy test. They were sixteen at the time.

Dawn jumped down the stairs, toothbrush in her fist, “Aunt Willow!” she exclaimed, hugging her. “You came to see me off?”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Will replied. “Sorry Tara couldn’t be here, she had to see patients today.”

“That’s okay, she stopped by yesterday to wish me luck.” Dawn glanced at the clock, “Oh, crap, I better get all my bags together,” she yelled, fleeing the room.

With Dawn out of earshot, Willow pulled her friend aside, lowering her voice, “You don’t think that she might run into, you know, HIM while she’s there, do you?”

Buffy rolled her eyes, not admitting that she herself had entertained the idea when she had first reluctantly agreed to let her fifteen year old daughter go on the class trip to London, “Will, they wouldn’t even know each other if they did. It’s a huge city, I’m sure you don’t run into anyone twice. Besides, I don’t even know if he’s in London anymore.”

Willow didn’t seem the least bit deterred, “But wouldn’t that be weird though, they could be, like, eating in the same restaurant and not even know it! They could be sitting right next to each other . . .”

“Who am I sitting with?” Dawn inquired, slipping into the room and ending the conversation abruptly. Buffy sent a warning glare to her friend.

Willow fumbled, “Ah, the ah . . . Queen of England, ‘cause, you know, I hear she travels a lot,” she finished lamely.

The taxi pulled up the curb, honking twice. Buffy had fought tooth and nail to see Dawn to the airport, but her daughter insisted she was adult enough to get there herself, reasoning that with the new security laws, Buffy wouldn’t have been allowed very far into the building anyway. But she had gotten Dawn to agree to sharing a taxi with her best friend Janice, who was also going on the trip, under the false pretense of saving money. In all reality, it made Buffy feel better to know Dawn wasn’t completely on her own.

“There it is!” Dawn jumped excitedly. “Bye Mom! I love you!” Dawn wrapped her arms around her mother, returning the tight squeeze.

“Love you too, Dawnie.” Buffy let go of her daughter. “Call me as soon as you land and promise me you’ll stay with the group at all times! And if you get separated at any time, look for one of those guys in the big tall hats, okay?”

“Mom, I don’t think they’re allowed to talk to me,” Dawn replied, posing for Willow’s camera.

Buffy shook her head, “Doesn’t matter, at least I know they’re armed.”

After getting Dawn packed into the taxi, and double checking she had enough money for the trip, Buffy stood at the end of the lawn, watching the car as it pulled away down the road and disappeared.

Buffy sighed before turning around to go back into the house.

This was going to be the two most lonely weeks of her life.

Shutting the front door behind her, Buffy joined Willow, who had already poured them coffee, at the kitchen table.

“So, how are you?” Willow ventured.

“Lonely already,” Buffy admitted. “This is the first time Dawn’s ever been away from me, EVER.” Buffy sipped at her drink, “I’m glad she’s going though. Doing something I never got the chance to.” At the look on her friend’s face, she quickly continued, “Yes, Will, I know I had the chance to live there. Just drop it okay?”

“Just pointing out the obvious flaw in the remark,” Willow smiled, alluding to her friend’s ex and Dawn’s father.

TBC

CHAPTER 2 --

A/N: So here’s the deal on the other twin. Yes, Kellie, I used him. Using two Dawns wouldn’t work, and neither did making up a random person. I like the idea of using who I did because they are the same age and look alike. I hate Angel, and never watched the show until the fifth season, so I have no emotional attachment to the wanker and don’t mind ripping his son away from him. Enjoy.




“Dad, I’m gonna be late!” the teen hollered from somewhere in the vicinity of the upstairs.

“Well, with as much time as you spend on that bloody mop of hair of yours, it’s no wonder!” his father answered from the bottom of the staircase, flipping through a legal pad scribbled with notes from his most recent interview with the Prime Minister.

“Says the man who’s head can’t go near open flame!” his son shot back.

Spike raised his eyes to Heaven, praying for patience this morning.

A voice interrupted him from behind, “Come on, man. Don’t you remember those days? When every day was a brand new chance to meet some hot chick?”

Spike sighed wearily, turning to face his best friend, “No, Harris, I don’t.”

“That’s right, you weren’t playing the field with the rest of us. While I, myself, was seeing to Sunnydale’s female finest, you were too busy making moon eyes with the lovely Bu . . .” He switch thought mid-sentence, “She who shall not be named.”

“You can say her name, whelp.” Spike answered, his brow shooting up, “And I don’t exactly recall any female giving you the time of day.” Checking his watch, he sighed again, “Connor Giles, move that arse of yours! NOW!”

Connor bounded down the stairs, grabbing a tattered hoodie off the banister.

Xander took in the early riser, “Con-man, where you off to this early?”

Spike studied his son, “I’m letting him give tours around the city for extra cash as long as he stays out of trouble.” He directed the last four words pointedly at his son.

Connor gave the two men in front of him a cocky smile, “How was I supposed to know they put security cameras in pie stores. Julie was hungry and I didn’t have any cash.” He shrugged.

Spike was not amused. “You stay away from Julies and pies, you hear me boy? And any Sues, Marys, or Kates for that matter. Just because I work for the newspaper doesn’t mean I can keep your name from getting plastered all over it. Steal one more thing and that’s it!”

Xander chuckled, “I don’t know, Spike. I remember you nicking some pretty serious . . .” His voice pittered out at the look his friend was giving him. “Shutting up now.”

Connor, meanwhile, was storming out the door.

“Hey,” Spike barked out, stopping his son in his tracks. Connor pivoted on his heels to face his father and Spike crooked a stern finger at him, “Come here.”

He trudged over to his father, head hung low, waiting to be scolded for his smart mouth. But Spike, smirking at his son’s teenage angst, reached a hand out to ruffle his hair, “Behave yourself.”

Connor returned with a matching smirk of his own while backing out the door, “Don’t I always,” he replied, before hopping onto his motorbike and kicking up gravel as he sped down the driveway.

Closing the door behind his godchild, Xander turned to Spike, clapping his hands together. “So, what’s on the agenda for today? You know, before we have to go bail your kid out of jail,” he joked.

Spike merely shook his head, “All I want to do is write up this article,” he said, waving his notepad. He addressed his friend squarely, “I’m serious, Harris. I don’t want any surprises today.”


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



“Lisa Canter. Brad Drake. Michael Fester.”

Conner leaned against a fence on the other side of the sidewalk, waiting for the American school group to get their act together before he began their tour. As the chaperone called out each name, the corresponding student would raise their arm, solidifying their existence.

Connor wished he had a cigarette. He had been smoking. That was until his dad had caught him and effectively put the fear of God in him -- telling him that if he planned on seeing sixteen he better not ever step into a smoky room, let alone be seen with a cigarette in his mouth. Connor hadn’t the guts at the time to bring up the fact that he’d seen his dad, on more than one occasion, out on the balcony, a Marlboro between his lips.

“Karen Gable. Dawn Giles.”

That name had his head jerking up. “What . . . What did you say your name was?”

The whole group turned to the stranger’s outburst, who hadn’t even introduced himself yet.

Noticing the question was directed at her, Dawn furrowed her brows, “I didn’t.”

“That lady, she called you Giles.”

“Yeah, that would be my last name,” Dawn replied nervously, glancing down at the hand he had clamped over her arm.

“That’s my last name!” he exclaimed accusingly.

“Lot’s of people have the same last name.”

“But it’s not exactly Smith, now is it?” he ground out. Knowing damn well his father and grandfather had no brothers, he was almost afraid to ask his next question: “Who’s your dad?”

Dawn ’s face shaded red. She didn’t know who her father was. She had his last name and that was it. It had always been a delicate subject with her mom. Around the age of thirteen it had really started to bother her. Dawn had even threatened to try and find him but her mom had gotten so upset that she had never brought up the subject again. But because so many other people she went to school with had screwed up family trees, it didn’t bother her most of the time -- that piece of her that was missing. And she’d always had such a strong support group around her with her mom, Willow, and Tara, that she had never gone wanting for affection.

“What’s that on your arm?” Dawn was ripped out of her thoughts by the boy’s voice and tug on her arm, flipping it palm-side down and studying the discoloration on her skin.

Dawn jerked the appendage away self-consciously. “A birth mark,” she ground out, cursing her mother for her refusal to let her get it removed years ago.

He stretched out his left arm, motioning for her to do the same with her right.

Hesitating, she did. Pulling up her sleeve further, she lined up her arm with his. The off coloring design, which ended abruptly on her arm, continued onto his.

“When’s your birthday?” she asked softly, her eyes never leaving the matching formation on their skin.

“January 8, 1990.”

“That’s what I thought,” her doe eyes widening further.

Both startled and confused. Connor finally broke the silence: “I think you need to come with me.”


TBC

CHAPTER 3 --

A/N: To fix any confusion, yes, they’re fifteen, and when I write Connor on his bike, I was thinking more along the lines of motor/scooter type bike that anyone at any age can ride. Though I have no idea what the driving laws in England are.




Spike was on his way from his downstairs office to the upstairs den when he heard the familiar motor come to a screeching halt outside the house. Checking his watch, he raised an eyebrow at Xander who was coming from the kitchen.

“That Connor already?” he asked his friend.

Xander swallowed his mouthful of donut, “He just pulled into the driveway, with some girl on the back of his bike.”

Spike brows knitted together in confusion, “Girl? What girl?”

Xander shrugged, “Couldn’t tell, she had his helmet on.” He looked unfazed as he continued back into the kitchen.

“Oh, for the love of Christ,” he muttered under his breath, before raising it so Xander could hear him, “Send him up to my office. I’ll be going over some things with my da’.”

“Will do!” he heard as a muffled reply.

Spike made his way again to his den, hoping for a few minutes of piece before his son dropped the next bombshell on him.

Ten minutes later, Spike looked up at the ruffling in the doorway.

“Hi dad,” Connor began hesitantly.

Spike craned his neck around his son, seeing no one behind him. “Thought you had a guest,” he spoke in a noncommittal tone.

“I do,” Connor answered. At the look on his father’s face he continued hastily, “But it’s not what you think!”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Spike replied, unconvinced, getting up from his desk to replace a book. “Connor, I asked you to . . . .” He slid the book into it’s designated spot, gathering his thoughts before trying a different approach. He turned to gaze levelly at his son, “I understand where you get it from, your perchance for trouble, it comes from me. I understand that. But these people that flock to you.” Spike shook his head, “Connor you have that thing that draws all sorts of people to you.” He took in the state of confusion sprawled across his son’s face.

Connor had that sort of personality. Yes, he was a teenage boy who liked to send the message of don’t-talk-to-me-I’m-a-tough-guy. But it was so much more than that. Something behind his eye sparkled with mischief. Yet despite the warning signs Connor placed all around him, people just liked to be around him. It was the air around him -- it crackled and lured people in. Such a trait may have it’s pros, but it was a constant worry spot for Spike.

Because his son had the tendency to draw the wrong people.

Spike couldn’t help but smile at Connor, who was oblivious to the power he held over people. “Sometimes you are so much like your . . .” Spike’s voice sighed almost wistfully, not intending to continue his sentence.

“Mom,” a foreign voice finished for him.

Whipping his head around, Spike felt like the book he had previously been holding had fallen off it’s shelf and struck him in the gut. A girl stood in the doorway, long brown hair skimming her waist -- the same auburn as Connor’s.

Although Spike, in his heart, knew exactly who it was, he heard the question falling from his lips anyway: “Connor, who is this?”

He looked between Dawn and his father, giving a nervous chuckle and a shrug, “We thought you could tell us.”

It was a feeling Spike couldn’t explain. A feeling that didn’t disappear in thirteen years. The last time he’d seen her was when she was only two. Sure, she looked different, but somehow the same. She had the same nose. The same smooth complexion as her mother’s. And if any part of him had any doubts, the birthmark on her right arm, revealed by her pushed up sleeve, squashed every one of them.

And she had his eyes.

Dawn wrung her hands together, shifting on the balls of her feet, “Mom says the same thing about me all the time when I do certain things. Though I’m pretty sure she’s talking about you.”

She babbled when she’s nervous, Spike noted. If that didn’t prove she was her mother’s daughter, he didn’t know what did.

“We have the same last name. And the same birthdate. And this on our arm. What’s going on dad? Dad?”

Spike barely registered the frightened and confused tones of his boy, his eyes fixated on the girl in front of him, her gorgeous orbs welling up with tears.

He thought he’d never see her again. He and her mother had pretty much made sure of that. But not a single day went by that he hadn’t thought about her a hundred times over.

Fate. It had to be.

“Dawn,” Spike breathed her name.

For the young girl, that was the clincher. He knew her name without her having to tell him. Whether he was aware of it or not, Spike had held out his hand and she ran to him, tightening her arms in a vice-grip around his waist. Spike held on equally hard, squeezing his little girl.

They finally broke apart to face Connor, ten emotions playing over his face at once.

“Connor, meet your twin sister, Dawn.”

TBC

CHAPTER 4 --

A/N: Believe it or not, this chapter was actually double of what it is now. *I am on fire!* Anywho, it was TOO long, so I had to cut it in half and into two chapters. Next chapter is already done and will be up tomorrow. By the by, Buffy appears in chapter 6.



“My what?” Connor looked at his father and smiling girl with disgust. “And when exactly were you planning on telling me I was a twin?”

“Connor, it’s more complicated than that.”

“What’s so damn complicated about it? Letting me go my whole life thinking my mother never wanted me? Isn’t that a little bit more complicated for me!?”

Knowing Connor was not going to handle the turn of events well, Spike wasn’t surprised when his son gave him a look that could easily kill and stormed out of the room.

At the slamming the his bedroom door, Dawn flinched. Seconds later, the sounds of The Ramones shook the walls of the hallway.

“Shouldn’t you, you know, go after him or something,” she looked at him questioningly with the same doe-eyes as her mother.

Spike gave her a soft smile at her concern. He ran a hand through her silky hair, “No, don’t worry ’bout it, he’ll be fine.”

Spike knew how his son handled stressful situations. He handle them like his father. Both he and his son both had the tendency to rant and rave, say things they didn’t necessarily mean, and then need to be alone to cool off. If they didn’t, they had the tendency to get violent. When Connor had calmed down and could talk rationally, Spike would go talk to him. Most times, Connor relaxed and came and found him first.

But right now he had a bigger issue to deal with. “Bet you have some questions that need answered, huh?”

Dawn nodded her head eagerly.

Spike sighed, attempting to prepare himself for the difficult onslaught of questions that would force him to rehash his past. “You eat yet?” he asked. When she shook her head in the negative, Spike led her out of the room and down the hallway in the direction of the kitchen. “We’ll get you something and I’ll answer all your questions the best I can, yeah?”



Thirty minutes later, father and daughter sat across from each other at the kitchen table. After getting her to eat a sandwich before launching into her interrogation, she was now onto dessert and ten minutes into their heart to heart.

“I thought it was because you didn’t care about me.” His daughter looked down at the ice cream in front of her, eyes forlorn. A look that broke Spike’s heart.

He reached for her hands, “No, Dawn, don’t ever think that. Believe me, your mum and I did what we did because we love you two so much.”

Dawn nodded, trying to understand. “How . . .” she tried to formulate her question. The one that had been plaguing her since the moment she found out she was a twin. “How did you decide,” she looked into her father’s eyes, “Which one of us went with who.”

Spike had predicted the question in his mind already. “If you think it was easy Dawn, you’re wrong. In the end your Mum and I figured it would be best if the girl went with the girl and boy with boy. Your Mum . . .”

“Why do you always call her that?” she interrupted. “Buffy,” she pleaded. “Her name is Buffy. Why is that so hard for you to say?”

“Dawn . . .”

“Who’s that?” a nasally women sneered from the doorway.

Spike stood, “Dawn, I’d like you to meet Harmony, my fiancée.”

Dawn’s eyes widened in disbelief, “You’re fiancée?” She’d never once, since she met her father, ever considered the possibility of him being with someone else.

“Harm, this is my daughter, Dawn.”

“Wait . . . there’s another one?” She leaned closer to Spike, lowering her voice, “You didn’t tell me you had two brats.” She studied Dawn, “So who’s the mother of this one?” She crossed her arms.

Dawn gasped, her jaw dropping.

Just then, Connor walked into the kitchen, slumping down into a chair. Dawn watched, fascinated, as Spike reached into the fridge for the ice cream container, silently scooping out some into a bowl. He walked over to the table, sliding the bowl and a spoon in front of Connor. She watched as her dad ruffled her brother’s hair. Connor accepted both the ice cream and his father’s affection. No mention of Connor’s earlier blowup was made. The two males understood each other so perfectly. They had come to a standing agreement without the need for words. The dynamic fascinated her.

“They look exactly alike,” Harmony notice. She turned her glare onto Spike, “What? Did you bang two sisters within a year?”

The glare Connor sent their soon-to-be stepmother, told Dawn all she needed to know to form her own opinion of the woman.

“Harm, they’re twins.” Spike replied, patience wavering.

“Oh,” she replied with a flip of her hair. “Okay, whatever. I’m going shopping. Credit card?” She stood in front of Spike, hand held out as if she was asking her daddy for an allowance.

Sighing in agitation, Spike reached into his back pocket, extracting a credit card and handing it over to her.

“Thanks Blondie Bear! I’ll be back later!” She kissed him and left, much to the relief of the kids at the table.

“Good Lord, Dawn is that you!?” an older, British voice echoed from the doorway.

“And the fun just keeps on coming,” Spike mumbled under his breath.

TBC

CHAPTER 5 --

Dawn giggled at his comment, “The one and only,” she replied to the older man with glasses who was examining her like she was a rare specimen, slowly inching closer and closer.

“Dawn, meet your grandfather,” Spike spoke wearily, gesturing towards his father.

Giles pulled back, “Good Lord,” he marveled, “you look nothing like you mother.”

Dawn laughed. “That’s what happens when two fake blondes have kids,” she replied, glancing at Spike who smiled at his daughter’s wit.

Giles took in the boy and girl in front of him. “I think they rather look like me and Joyce, do they not?” He smiled at his son, his chest puffed out, looking rather proud of himself.

“Go ahead, Da, take all the credit,” Spike rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.

“Well they do,” Giles defended himself.

“Joyce?” Connor looked at the others in the room questioningly.

“My grandma,” Dawn jumped in. “Well, your grandma too. Mom’s mom,” she added.

“This is incredible. How did this happen?” Giles took off his glasses to clean them.

Spike lifted off the counter, “Come on, I need you to look over some insurance papers, I’ll explain everything then.”

Spike had to drag his father out of the room, the elder Giles twisting his neck around to gape at his granddaughter.

Before awkwardness was allowed to permeate the room between the newly found brother and sister, a dark haired man entered the kitchen, heading straight for the coffeemaker. He glanced over at the table.

“Hey, Con-man!”

Then almost broke his neck doing a comic double-take. “Merciful Zeus there’s two of them!” he exclaimed, shaking his donut at the pair. “Dawn is that you!?”

“Yes!” Connor exclaimed exasperated. “This is Dawn. And I swear to God if you ask us how she got here, I’ll throw something at you.”

Xander held up his hands, “Gotcha, I’ll get the lowdown later.” He held his hand out to Dawn, “Xander Harris, best friend and assistant of your father.” Dawn returned his eager shake as he sat down with them.

“So how did you come to help my dad?” Dawn inquired.

Xander finished chewing before setting down his donut and wiping his hands on his pants, “Well, see, it’s like this -- I didn’t have anything going on and wanted to get as far away from my parents as possible, so when we graduated, I came on over the lake with your dad to help him with Connor.”

“The blind leading the blind,” Connor joked.

After a moment, Dawn sighed wistfully, “This is amazing.” She turned to her brother, expecting him to share her glee, “Isn’t this amazing? I mean . . . I have a dad,” she marveled.

“Congratulations. But that doesn’t give me a mother,” Connor abruptly slammed his chair back, scowling as he fled the room to upstairs.

“Don’t worry about him,” Xander told Dawn, reading her thoughts.

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” Dawn frowned. She looked up as her father reentered the kitchen.

“Dawn, I think you should call your mum. She’s probably worried out of her mind.”

“Oh my God, I forgot to call! She’s gonna kill me!” Dawn rushed for the phone in her father’s hand.

Dialing the long distance number, the phone rang once before she heard the frantic voice of her mother.

“Dawn! Why did you not call me when you landed? Does England not have phones!? I assumes they’d be easy to find considering the big red booths and everything!”

“Mom! Mom!” Dawn interrupted. “I know you’re mad, but I’ve got a great excuse! Something amazing had happened!”

“Unless you met Prince William and are now in line to be the Queen of England, I don’t want to hear it, Dawn!”

“I met Dad!”

The entire bottom dropped out of Buffy’s stomach. “You . . . what?” She asked weakly. Grabbing onto the nearest surface, lowering herself into a chair.

“Met Dad! He lives in this amazing place, it’s huge! And Connor’s here!”

Buffy didn’t hear a single word her daughter said as she continued to gush. She was broken out of her reverie at the sound of her daughter yelling for her attention.

“Mom! Mom! Did you hear me?” Buffy could hear the grin in her daughter’s voice.

The line was silent for a moment before Buffy spoke:

“We’re coming over.”

Dawn hung up and ran upstairs, throwing her confused dad the phone on her way, swinging into Connor’s room.

“Hey Connor, you know what you said -- about you not having a mom?”

“Yeah,” he responded, not looking up from the sketchbook on his lap.

Dawn picked up a soccer ball sitting on the floor at her feet, throwing it at him to get his attention, “Well, your about to.”

TBC

CHAPTER 6 --

A/N: Hey, if you guys haven’t been to www.captivesouls.com -- go check it out. It’s this new archive that only houses completed Spuffy fics. Post and review there. I’ll eventually be posting a version of Before Today with song lyrics in it. As to Back Together, I’ll try to make my chapters a little longer Slayer rock chick! Thank you for each and every review -- it keeps me writing!

A/N: Someone nominated me at Tales of the Slayer Awards! This is the first time I’ve ever been nominated for anything like that! This chapter his dedicated to the person/people who nominated me!




Leaning towards the door, Spike noted that Connor’s room remained quiet and he was thankful for it. Trying to be heard over Johnny Rotten would prove counterproductive for what he was about to do.

Knocking, Spike waited for his son’s annoyed “Yeah?” before entering.

Not surprised to find his eyes trained on his notebook of drawings, Spike approached the bed. Connor hastily closed the book, sliding it under the pillow beside him.

“I thought you’d want to have this,” Spike told him, revealing a piece of paper in his hand. When Connor didn’t reach out for it, Spike set it face-up on the quilt beside him. Connor afforded it a glance, realizing it was not a paper, but a photograph of a beautiful girl his age. It was a close-up of her sweetly smiling face. She must have been outside, because the sunlight was lit up all around her, brightening the honey color of her hair. “She may look a little different,” Spike continued. “That was taken on her sixteenth birthday -- a couple months before she got pregnant with you and Dawn.” Neither expecting nor receiving a telling reaction from his son, Spike repeated his earlier statement, “I thought you might want it.” Nodding, Spike moved to leave the room.

“Hey!” Connor called out. Spike turned his head. Connor was staring at the photo, lightly fingering it. “Thanks,” he said softly.

Spike smiled. “Your welcome,” he replied, closing the door.

Connor gave the picture a thoughtful look before he leaned over his bed.

And picked up his sketchbook.



Outside his son’s room, Spike took a deep breath. Buffy would be in his home in a few hours.

Buffy.

Christ.

He should have expected it though. If it had been Connor in California, Spike would have had his ass on a plane as well. She should be here anyway. The four of them had some major decisions to make. Because they obviously couldn’t go back to the way things were before -- feigned ignorance that the other two didn’t exist.

For one thing, Dawn wouldn’t have it. The girl was so blinded with joy that she was blissfully unaware of her parent’s uncomfortable vibes with each other or her brother’s anger.

And how could he go back to not spending time with Dawn? He loved his daughter. Having bonded with her, Spike couldn’t imagine going months without seeing her again.

Spike rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve some tension building up in his back before heading to his office, trying to get some work done before all hell broke loose.


________________________________________


Hours later . . .


“Xander!” Buffy embraced him in a tight hug and Xander picked her off her feet, swinging her around, before dropping her to tackle Willow in an equally suffocating welcome embrace inside Spike’s office.

Spike stood away from the group at a safe distance until Harris was finished mauling their friends. Willow approached Spike, a huge smile on her face. “Hey, Spike,” she wrapped her arms around him, squeezing. Spike returned it with both arms around her, closing his eyes tight.

“Missed you, Red,” he replied. God he missed this -- the group of them. He had forgotten how good it felt.

Letting go of each other, all eyes turned to Spike and Buffy, who stood across the room from each other.

“Hi Spike,” Buffy said softly.

Her hair was longer and straighter. And she had long bangs framing her beautiful face. She was wearing fitted jeans, a cream blouse, and a brown leather jacket. Her face was glowing with a California tan.

“Buffy,” Spike nodded.

Sighing at their silly awkwardness, they moved toward each other, exchanging an awkward hug.

“You look good,” she commented, absentmindedly smoothing out his wrinkled shirt.

“You too,” he replied, taking her fussing hands in his and moving them to her sides. She blushed profusely.

The four of them were silent for a moment.

“So . . . It’s been awhile,” Buffy understated nervously, trying to lighten up the heaviness permeating the room.

“Mom!” a voice called from behind her. Buffy whipped around to see her smiling daughter launching herself at her. “Hey,” she took Dawn’s face in her hands, smoothing out her hair, “Having fun?”

“The funnest,” Dawn readily replied. “Grandpa has all these books he’s going to lend me!”

“If I remember correctly, your mother finds my books rather dull,” a British voice called from behind Dawn. Buffy let go of her daughter, looking towards to door.

Buffy flung her body towards him, “Giles!” she exclaimed, throwing herself into the arms of her surrogate father. When they were all in Sunnydale, Giles had been a father figure to all his son’s friends, but especially to Buffy, even before she had gotten together with Spike. And when she and Spike decided to split up, the broken relationship had taken four of the most sacred people to her with it -- all the men in her life.

“Hi mom.”

Buffy froze at the young male voice behind her. Turning slowly, she came to face her son. The bright blue eyes his father had given him looked back at her.

“Hi, baby.” Tears instantly sprung up in her eyes and she didn’t bother trying to hide them. She wiped the escaping drops from her face as he stood across from her, not sure what to do as his eyes nervously darted around the room.

He was completely clueless on what kind of reaction was expected of him. Everyone else had hugged like best friends. Well he sure as hell wasn’t going to.

Buffy read his thoughts, “You don’t have to hug me if you don’t want. I understand.”

Although it broke her heart to say it, Buffy had prepared herself on the long flight over for an icy reception. She was a virtual stranger to her own son.

Connor nodded, making no movement toward her, glad she had made the decision for him, but not letting himself dwell on the fact that she had instinctively known what he was thinking and had saved him.

The sound of a car pulling up through the gravel out front provided a welcome distraction.

“Who’s that?” Willow asked from Xander’s side, the reunited best friends had an arm flung around each other.

“The brain surgeon herself,” Connor grumbled. Spike shot him a look.

“Who?” Buffy questioned.

“Harmony, my fiancée,” Spike filled in before Connor could do it in more colorful terms. Spike cringed a little, not enjoying how empty those words sounded in Buffy’s presence.

“Oh,” Buffy squeaked, glancing over at Willow, Buffy doing a slightly better job at hiding her shock.

Dawn didn’t seem as perturbed, dancing on her tip-toes in excitement, “But it’s okay now right? Because mom’s back and you can’t marry her now.”

Her parents looked at her, slack-jawed. “What? Dawn we’re different people now,” Buffy began gently.

“She not dating anyone!” Dawn interjected, looking toward Spike.

“Dawn!” Buffy admonished, nervously glancing at Spike.

“It’s true!” Dawn continued, “She was with this stupid guy Riley for awhile. But it’s over now!”

“Dawn, where is this coming from?” Buffy demanded, embarrassed to be having a conversation about her lack of a love life in the presence of the only man she’d ever loved. A person who had so obviously moved on. “Dawn, we’re not getting back together.”

“No!” Dawn objected, “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be! You can’t just tell me I have a father and a brother and then split us all up again!”

Spike, now understanding her sudden outburst was less about her parents reuniting and more about losing her new-found relations, approached her, “Dawn, it’s not like we’ll never see each other again. We’ll see each other all the time now.”

“When? Christmas?” she challenged. “I don’t want to see you only on Christmas,” she pleaded. “I’m staying here! You can’t make me go back to Sunnydale!” Dawn turned, storming out the door.

“We’ll go see if she’s okay,” Willow said worriedly, following Dawn with Xander trailing them.

Connor and Giles took the opportunity to slip out themselves -- Connor to escape from the emotional turmoil, and Giles to give his son and the mother of his children some privacy.

Spike and Buffy looked at each other, helpless on how to fix the situation with Dawn, to reassure her that they could be a family even though they lived on two different sides of a very vast ocean. But could they make her that promise? Dawn claimed that she wasn’t leaving England. She said that now, but how long would it take until she began missing her friends and her grandma? Buffy and Willow certainly couldn’t stay in London. They both had lives built for themselves in Sunnydale. And Buffy had just seen her son in thirteen years -- there was no way in hell she was leaving her baby boy indefinitely.

How do you rebuild something so fragile as a family when it was ripped apart so long ago?

They didn’t get long to contemplate their options because they were soon interrupted.

“Spikey! I’m home,” a fluffy blonde loaded down with bags breezed though the door, oblivious to the serious predicament the rest of the house found themselves in. Either she didn’t notice it, or chose not to acknowledge it. Looking at the girl in front of her, Buffy assumed it was the latter.

When Harmony failed to notice Buffy as she told Spike the tale of how she came to be the proud new owner of a Gucci top, Buffy held out her hand, “Hi, I’m Buffy, nice to meet you.”

“Oh, hi,” Harmony responded dully. She twisted on her Prada heels towards Spike. She pointed at Buffy, “Now which one is she the mother of again?”

Spike closed his eyes, “Both of them. Again -- twins, remember?”

Harmony shook her head, as if clearing confusion, “Oh, yeah, whatever. Anyways, gotta run. I’m meeting the girls down at the club for a drink,” she addressed Buffy with a tilt of her head, “You know how it is.”

Buffy tried to remember the last time she had been to the Bronze -- before her life was overcome by crying babies and thousands upon thousands of diapers. “No, actually, I don’t.”

Unfazed, Harmony breezed by them and out the door.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Spike said, breaking the silence.

“It’s okay,” Buffy replied, looking at the floor.

Spike scuffed the floor with his shoe, trying to collect his thoughts. So many questions but not one of them seemed an appropriate opener: How have you been? What have you and my only daughter been doing the past thirteen years? Who taught her to ride a bike? It sure as hell better have been you or Willow.

But his mouth shot out another question entirely:

“So, how long are you planning’ on stayin’?”

The abrupt question caught her off guard, “Oh . . . Um . . . I’m not sure. Willow and I still have to find a hotel. We were kind of in a hurry to get here,” she shrugged sheepishly.

Spike found himself shaking his head, “No, no, I can’t let you stay in a hotel. Stay here. There’s plenty of room.” They both looked equally shocked by the words that came out of him.

“Oh . . . Thank you. But . . . won’t you fiancée mind?” Buffy asked, giving him the chance to back out.

Which was exactly why Spike stuck to his original offer, “With the amount of time she spends here I doubt she’ll even notice.”

His crack earned a small smile from Buffy. Yes, that was exactly why he offered to let her stay here -- plenty of room. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that every time Buffy smiled he forgot who he was and where he was and was willing to get down on his knees and beg her to do it again.

No. It had nothing to do with that.

TBC

CHAPTER 7 --


“Tell me about when me and Connor were born.”

Spike looked down at his daughter who was burrowed into the couch next to him. One thing they had discovered that they had in common, in their short time together, was a love of old black and white movies. The Philadelphia Story flickered across the screen in front of them. She was so much like her mother otherwise -- bright and happy and romantic. And adverse to anything cultural unless it was pop, he thought with a smile.

And temperamental. After Dawn’s tantrum earlier in the office, she had calmed down and was back to her normal self. Much like when her mother was right pissed about something, once she was assured that there was a chance she might get her way, she was more than fine. Spike wasn’t sure what it was -- the fact that they had promised her she could leave England only when she wanted to or that Buffy and Spike were sitting very close on the same side of her bed. But whatever had made Dawn forget about her earlier woes was fine with him.

That was another thing Spike had discovered -- he couldn’t stand Dawn’s tears anymore than he could Buffy’s all those years ago.

“She never told you about that?” He asked, arching an eyebrow.

“No,” she shook her head. “She claims she doesn’t remember.”

Spike smiled, “Well, that may very well be, Bit. They did have her on some pretty strong pain meds.” She giggled, looking at him expectantly. “But let’s see if I can recall, yeah?”

He sighed, not needing to concentrate hard. He remembered the day vividly.

Because it was the best day of his life.

“They wanted to do a C-Section,” he began, “because your mum was so young. They gave her the option, but she refused because she wanted to be able to hold you right after you came out. Stubborn chit didn’t want to be held down or incapacitated by the drugs.”

Dawn’s shining eyes urged him to continue.

“I’d never been so worried in my whole life.” He shook his head in remembrance. “She was in so much pain, screaming, practically broke my hand, she did. Your grandma was there with us. Your grandpa, Willow, and Xander were out in the hallway pacing the floor. I was terrified. But the minute you came out of your mum all pink and yellin’ your little lungs out, that was it. I never thought I could love anyone more than your mum, but there you were. Your brother came a little bit after you.”

Dawn looked down at her hands, “It must have been hard for her, being the only mother in her high school,” she stated quietly, trying to imagine being a mom at her age.

Spike nodded, “Well, I can tell ya, we were the only married sixteen year olds in school.”

Dawn yawned, stretching her long body across the sofa. Spike looked at the clock, one-thirty in the morning flashed across the digital screen.

“I think it’s time for bed, Nibblet. It’s been a long day, to say the least. You need anything, my room’s at the end of the hall on the right. Your mum’s at the opposite end of the hall on the right, next to your room.”

Dawn nodded, leaning towards her father for a goodnight hug.

“You know, we used to do this every night,” he commented.

Dawn beamed, “Yeah?”

Spike nodded, “Your mum would take Connor because he liked to be rocked to sleep. You didn’t though, so I’d take you downstairs and we’d sit in the dark, just the two of us.”

Spike placed a kiss on his daughter’s cheek, “I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad,” Dawn smiled at him before disappearing up the stairs.

Spike waited twenty minutes before he heard Dawn pad down the hall to her room and close the door, leaving the house in silence. Connor had gone to bed an hour before and he hadn’t seen Buffy in hours.

Deciding it was safe enough that he would be able to be alone for a while, he headed upstairs himself, exhausted, but utterly certain his brain was too busy to let him fall asleep anytime soon.

At the top of the staircase, he halted.

Buffy had her back to him, leaning against the doorframe of Connor’s room. Over her shoulder he could see their boy was dead asleep, sprawled out in the black sheets of his bed.

She felt Spike walk up behind her.

“He’s so much like you were at that age,” she spoke, taking in The Sex Pistols posters covering the walls. She picked up a dark t-shirt littering the floor in front of her, The Clash was emblazed across the front. She smoothed out the creases in the shirt, absentmindedly folding it and placing it neatly on the nearby dresser.

“How so?” He chuckled, “Full of angst? A punk?”

“Perfect,” she answered, turning to face him. “He’s perfect.”

She turned back to study her son. Before she could stop herself, her legs were carrying her over to his bed.

Brushing the long hair out of his eyes, she placed a kiss on his forehead and whispered that she loved him before pulling the covers further up his body.

She moved to leave the room, but Spike had his arm gripped across the doorway, blocking her path, still stuck on her earlier comment about him at fifteen. Swallowing, she lifted her face to him. His eyes bore into her, searching her face for answers she didn’t have. Their bodies subconsciously leaned into one another, their warm breaths mingling together.

Buffy was the first to noticing their lack of distance, braking the trance, looking away and ducking under his arm to flee down the hallway.

Taking one last glance over his son, Spike shut the door behind him.

TBC

CHAPTER 8 --

Connor stumbled out of bed, untangling the sheets that were wrapped around his legs. But the aroma that met him almost had him incapacitated with shock. Pinching himself and coming to the realization that he was, in fact, awake, he warily made his way downstairs. With just him, his dad, and his Uncle Xander in the house, the smell of home cooked food was beyond foreign to him. Chinese take-out and pizza he knew. But the pleasant odor wafting upstairs from the kitchen floored him.

It smelled like . . . omelets.

Almost scared with what he might find in the next room, Connor snaked his head around the corner before entering.

Liz Phair blasted from the kitchen radio. At the counter stood his mom, bowls spread out around her, bopping her head to the song. He’d never experienced this before -- waking up with his mom cooking him breakfast in the kitchen. Connor found himself smiling, but quickly wiped it from his face. It must be commonplace for Dawn.

“Hey!” Buffy greeted brightly as he entered the room. “You’re up early. Sit,” she gestured with the spatula towards the kitchen table.

He slid into a seat and seconds later Buffy had an omelet the size of the plate itself in front of him. “Thanks . . .” he tripped over what he would call her. Labeling her “mom” seemed a little forced to him after not knowing her for thirteen of his fifteen years, even though Dawn was showing his . . . their . . . father affection like they had been one happy family since day one.

“You can call me Buffy if you want,” she told him, having been able to yet again tell what was going on in his head. She returned to the counter.

Connor nodded, now more comfortable. But he was pretty sure he’d keep calling her mom.

Buffy watched as her son scarffed down the omelet like he’d never seen one before. It made her seriously wonder what Spike and Xander had been feeding him all these years. She made a mental note to grill them about it later.

“How did you meet dad?”

The question surprised her a bit, but Buffy smiled, continuing to slice the vegetables on the cutting board in front of her. “He was an exchange student,” she answered gamely. “The British bad boy. He wore all black and a leather trench coat. And believe it or not, his hair was an even more ungodly shade of white than it is now.”

Connor let out a chuckle at the rib at his father. “And you were?”

Buffy stuck up her nose in false superiority, “The good girl cheerleader that never went out with bad boys,” she smiled, walking over to the table to set out a plate of fruit.

On her way past him, she smoothed her hand over his hair in a motherly caress.

Connor pulled away quickly at the unfamiliar touch, but it didn’t seem to faze Buffy, a grin still on her face.

Inspired, Connor pulled his notebook up onto the table next to him. Taking out some pencils he began to make some outlines on an empty page.

Buffy looked over his shoulder, “That’s really good,” she commented.

Connor hastily pulled his sketch away.

But Buffy, aware of how finicky artists are about their work, continued, “I run a gallery back in Sunnydale, I can get some of your stuff to display when I do amateur nights.”

Connor blinked, “Really?”

“Sure,” she answered. “Can I see some more?” she nodded at the sketchbook.

Connor cautiously handed over his most prized possession.

Buffy leisured over each drawing, the book being almost full, pointing out her favorites. It was like seeing the last thirteen years flashed before her as she flipped through pictures of Spike and Xander at all different points in their lives. Also were glimpses of various things Connor held dear besides his family -- soccer, friends, and various punk bands littered the pages. But Buffy stopped abruptly at the last page. The very last completed picture was one of her, but at an earlier age. It must have been copied from a picture.

“Dad gave it to me right before you came,” Connor explained, nervous how she would react to the addition he had made to her portrait.

If Buffy was shocked at finding a picture of herself inside the book where her son kept his most private of thoughts, what was drawn on the page next to her almost had her woozy.

It was Spike.

Drawn to scale to match her own was a sketch of Spike . . . from fifteen years ago.

They looked just like they had in high school. It could easily have been a snapshot of how they looked moments before they split up, with Spike taking Connor and returning to England with his father, the school librarian.

“Connor, this is beautiful,” she breathed, unable to fake calm and collectedness around her son like she could his father.

Just as remarkable as the picture was the fact that Connor had thought to draw it. Because Connor hadn’t shown any interest in her and Spike’s lives up to this point. This had proven that, before he had even met her, Connor was thinking about her, just like she had been him for the past thirteen years.

“Wait, I want to give you something,” Buffy twisted around to retrieve her purse. Pulling out a small photo album, she slid a picture out of it and handed it to him.

“What’s this?” he asked. In his hand was a photograph of a young Buffy holding a baby.

“It’s . . . it’s a picture of us. You were two.” She pointed at the picture and the stuffed pig that Connor held, “That’s Mr. Gordo,” she said, “Your dad bought him for me at the hospital when I was in labor.”

Connor looked up at his mother and smiled.

For the next fifteen minutes they talked about Buffy’s gallery and Connor’s art until they heard the pounding of Dawn running down the stairs.

“Hey sweetie, want an omelet?” Buffy asked as she entered the room.

“Totally,” Dawn replied, plopping down in the seat across from her brother. She nodded at Connor’s shirt, “Who’s on your t-shirt?”

Connor looked down at the shirt he had slept in before looking back up at his sister, “The Damned,” he answered.

She looked at him skeptically, “The who?”

“The Damned,” he emphasized, “English punk band formed in 1976. Their debut album Damned Damned Damned was released six months before The Sex Pistols’ debut Never Mind the Bollocks.”

Dawn scrunched up her nose, “Ever heard of normal music?”

“What, you mean like the stuff you listen to?” He leaned across the table, “Ever heard of Generation X?” he challenged.

“How about Jennifer Lopez?” she replied.

Connor rolled his eyes, “Patti Smith?” he shot back.

“Good Charlotte?” Dawn offered.

“Oh please,” he scoffed, “X?”

“N’Sync?”

Connor looked at his sister, disgusted, “I’m not even going to justify that with an answer.”

Buffy put down the knife she was using to turn around and lean against the counter, watching her son and daughter bicker about musical tastes.

His eyes on the newspaper he held in front of him, Spike entered the kitchen, blindly making his way to the coffee maker and retrieving a cup. It wasn’t until his mug was full that he acknowledged the noise in the room.

Dropping his paper and situating himself next to Buffy against the counter, he nodded at their kids, “I’m slightly disappointed in the way you raised our daughter,” he commented in mock seriousness.

Buffy spun to face her ex-husband, “What!?” a smile playing across her lips.

“I would have thought you would’ve given her better taste in music. Do you not own an album made before 1985? Did I teach you nothing in the four years we were together?”

Buffy laughed, “So that’s all I was to you? A music charity case?”

Spike shrugged, “Someone had to take you under their wing,” he replied. Smiling, he nudged her and she turned to him with a beautiful smile before turning back to watch their kids.

He could have this every day, he thought, before letting his mind lead him to another:

He should have had this every day.

Spike smirked, picking up two plates with omelets on them. With a tilt of his head he motioned for Buffy to follow him to the table.

She silently followed him as he set their plates at the end of the table across from each other’s -- Buffy’s next to Connor and himself next to Dawn.

Seeing this as a rare opportunity to have her parents in the same room in a seemingly relaxed mood, Dawn folded her hands in her lap. “So,” she began, boring her eyes into her parents, “who went after who?”

Dawn’s inquisitiveness and her ever unending quest to get the entire history of Spike and Buffy’s relationship, her parents learned, was relentless. They had expected some curiosity into how they came to be, but Dawn revealed herself to be borderline obsessive.

Both adults were more than ready to brush her questions off, not wanting to encourage her, but even Connor had put down his fork, his breakfast forgotten for the moment.

“He ‘went after’ me,” Buffy answered.

“She ‘went after’ me,” Spike replied instantaneously.

Buffy gasped, whipping around to face him, “I most certainly did not chase you, William Giles.”

“Yes you did,” he said nonchalantly, “in those ridiculously short skirts of yours,” he did a quick lift of his eyebrows while popping a blueberry in his mouth, making their kids giggle.

“I wore those skirts all the time!” she objected. “Not just for you,” she grumbled audibly.

“Don’t let her fool you,” Spike shook his head, “Your mum could’ve had any man she wanted she was such a tease.”

“And what about you? All you did for weeks was follow me around making moon eyes. You practically stalked me!”

“He what?” Connor objected, never having known his father as anything but the stern, unfoolish man he was now. The idea of his father chasing a girl, the same thing he was on Connor’s case about constantly, was worthy of blackmail.

Buffy’s voice softened, “When grandma was sick,” she began, referring to her mother’s successful bout with a brain tumor, “he was constantly around. Not pressuring me, just being there. He was the only one I could be alone with. And I fell in love with him.”

‘And you still are,’ a quiet internal voice whispered.

“What about you, Dad?”

“When I fell in love with her, you mean?” He turned his soft eyes on his ex, “The minute I saw her. That was it. It was my first day in Sunnydale. I didn’t know a soul. I stopped in at the Bronze to check it out and I saw her dancing, but she was surrounded by half the football team. I was drawn to her but knew I didn’t have a chance. Besides,” he joked, “she was a vapid cheerleader whose only interests were makeup and the mirror,” Buffy leaned her chin on her hand, enthralled by his voice and eyes. “I tried to hate her, I put on the front, but I couldn’t fool myself. I was in love with her.”

‘And you still are,’ his heart told him.

‘And they still are,’ Dawn thought.


A/N: The Damned info gotten from “Your Guide to Gilmore-isms”

TBC

CHAPTER 9 --

“Buffy, they aren’t two anymore, they’ll be fine,” Willow assured her, holding out Buffy’s coat.

Buffy sighed, making no move towards the jacket, “I know, but we practically just got here. We shouldn’t be leaving them so soon.”

“Come on Buff,” Xander prodded, “It’s only for a couple hours. And Giles will be here. Think about it, when was the last time any of us got to go out for a night on the town?”

Buffy gave the group in front of her a fretful look. She wrung her hands together and glanced up the stairs, where her kids and ex father-in-law currently resided.

Spike rolled his eyes at Buffy’s mother-hen routine, “For the love of God, cut the umbilical cord already and let’s go!”

That broke Buffy’s mood, turning a glare at her ex, “You,” she admonished, “of all people should understand what I’m going through!”

Spike couldn’t help the smirk that graced his lips. The little spitfire she used to be was beginning to shine through for the first time since she arrived. He had begun to think that motherhood had softened her. He knew better now and looked forward even more to the night out.

Ignoring her smart mouth, Spike grabbed Buffy’s shoulders, spun her around, and wrestled the coat on her amid protests of manhandling.

When the coat was securely around her, Spike moved her to face him, “There. You’re clothed. They’re fed. We’re ready. Let’s go.” He held open the front door. She opened her mouth to object, but Spike gave her a look that quickly shut it. Just as she was about exit, a pounding on the stairs turned her around.

Dawn came to a halt on her way to the kitchen, shooting her parents a quizzical look, “You’re not gone yet?”

“See, she doesn’t need you anymore, let’s go,” Spike deadpanned, pushing her out the door while Buffy continued to call out numerous instructions for her daughter.

An hour later, the four of them sat at a club reminiscent of their old Bronze, though British pop music filtered through the speakers.

Spike and Buffy sat swigging their drinks and watching Willow and Xander groove out on the crowded dance floor.

“Spike, ye ol’ bastard!” a drunk Irishman man slurred, saddling up next to their table, shot glasses and bottle of whiskey in each hand.

“O’Brien,” Spike acknowledged happily, slinging back the shot that O’Brien slapped down on the table in front of him. Buffy watched as the two apparently old friends fought about the outcome of a Manchester United game played a few days prior. After a few minutes O’Brien left, but not before getting the promise of Spike to get “piss drunk” with him someday in the near future.

Buffy shook her head, crossing her arms and watching as Spike downed another shot. “I should have never let you move back here, you’ve become more British.”

Spike smirked gamely, tilting his head to the side, taking her in with his eyes, “What can I tell you, baby? I’ve always been bad,” he drawled.

Buffy laughed outright at him, “Oh, come on! Giles could rival you for non-rebel of the year!”

“What about you? I had to drag you out of that house tonight! If there is one person at this table who direction in life took a 180, it would be you, luv. You used to be such the social butterfly you’d have to be wrestled off the dance floor.”

Their laughter died down into meditative silence.

“Buffy, were we bad parents?” Spike said suddenly, pivoting in his seat to regard his ex-wife.

“What? No! Spike, what would make you think that?”

“Splitting them up, I mean. Was it a mistake?”

Buffy shrugged, her hands pressed between her knees, “I don’t know. What does it matter now? It’s done. And Dawn and Connor turned out great.” She paused before confessing her own thoughts, sure it felt strange doing it in the middle of a dance club while mildly tipsy, but as long as they were being honest with each other, “Is it strange that out of a short four year relationship we have two fifteen year olds?”

“People have had kids and been together shorter a time,” he commented.

“But do they erase each other from their lives?”

“Just like being a single parent,” Spike said.

“But it never was for us, was it? Because we always new the truth,” Buffy looked at Spike, realizing she’d delved more information then she meant to, “At least, that’s how it was for me,” she quickly tried to backpedal.

He took her nervously fluttering hands in his, “It was like that for me too.”

Buffy breathed in relief, only to look up abruptly as Spike stood, pulling her with him as a slow song began to play.

Realizing his intentions, Buffy tried to remove herself from his grasp, “Spike . . . I don’t think I . . .”

“Come on, Summers,” he interrupted her, “Nothin’ fancy, just some high school style swaying, alright?”

“Oh . . . Um . . . Alright,” she caved, allowing her arms to wrap around his neck. Relaxing for what felt like the first time since she arrived in London, Buffy let her weight rest on him, closing her eyes to the rhythmic movement. Breathing deep, she took in his scent -- the cologne she’d always known his to wear and leather filled her, lulling her forehead to his sturdy chest. Is this what she could have had, if she had left with him for London all those years ago? Maybe her and Dawn could . . . A rumble disturbed her train of thought.

“What?” she asked, wanting Spike to repeat himself.

“She left me.”

“Who . . .”

“Harmony,” he answered her unformed question. “She left me.”

A flood of sympathetic thoughts paraded through her mind, none conveying her shock and sorrow for him correctly, “Oh, Spike, I’m so sorry.”

“I guess I should be more heartbroken than I really am,” he commented, the slight strain evident in his eyes.

“It probably hasn’t sunk in yet,” she offered, her eyes full of worry and concern.

Spike shook his head, “No, I think it’s pretty well sunk,” he smiled ruefully.

She opened her mouth to offer more comfort, but Spike returned to dancing, apparently closing the subject. Buffy chastised herself for her earlier thoughts. How could she even have considered staying here? Interrupting the life of an engaged couple! How stupid could she be to assume he’d welcome her back into his life?

“Again, Spike, I’m really sorry.”

He jerked his head out of his own thoughts, studying the flickering of the club’s lights in her eyes, “I’m not.”


A/N: I know, everyone was all down with the whole Dawn and Connor torture Harmony into leaving thing, but I realized that would mean many chapters with no Spuffy focus, and I just couldn’t do it. It would be annoying to me to write and then there would be no update. So, for the sake of moving the story along, I left it out.

TBC

CHAPTER 10 –

A/N: I found I made a bit of a boo-boo in the first time Spike and Buffy met. So, in Chapter 8, the story is changed a little bit. Nothing monumental, but it’ll be important later on in the story so go check it out.



“Why didn’t you change it?” Spike inquired.

Buffy fiddled in her purse, scrunching her nose until she found her tube of strawberry flavored lip gloss. “Change what?” she inquired as she handed the Lip Smacker off to her daughter, who took it and left her parents on the sidelines of the soccer field to explore the surrounding park area.

“Her last name,” Spike continued, training his eyes on Connor’s soccer team’s warm-ups, “After we divorced you could have changed her last name to yours. Why didn’t you?”

Buffy shrugged, watching her son complete sprints up and down the grass, “I don’t know. I never thought about it, I guess.” She paused, “Or maybe I hoped that she’d meet her father one day. Having her keep your last name was like a clue. Or something like that,” she tacked on.

“Well, it worked,” Spike commented, both having heard how Connor was tipped off.

Buffy pivoted to face her ex’s profile, “Spike, I’m sorry if . . .”

“Buffy, I want my daughter to have my name,” he insisted, giving her a look that made her feel stupid for thinking otherwise. “I’m very glad you kept it.”

A whistle sounded on the field, signaling the momentary start of the game and the end of their discussion.

Ten minutes in, the first penalty was called against the opposing team. A boy, who looked more like an NFL linebacker to Buffy than any of the fifteen and sixteen year olds that comprised the two teams, had practically clotheslined a member of Connor’s team.

“I forgot how hard these things were to watch,” Buffy winced as the player was helped off the field, glad it wasn’t her son who was hurt. It had slipped her mind the emotions that took over her when she used to watch Spike play in high school.

“This is real football, luv. Not that civilized stuff you play in the States,” Spike joked, trying to get her to lighten up.

It didn’t help.

Needless to say all the other boys on Connor’s team felt a need to avenge their fallen team member and the game escalated in roughness ten fold. Every time their son was bashed, Buffy gasped, grabbing on to Spike’s forearm and bicep. And at every inhalation of breath, Spike would look down at her, amused and utterly unconcerned with the violence as her eyes grew in size, riveted on the game.

After a particularly hard hit, his feet kicked out from under him, Connor wiped out onto the ground. Buffy’s jaw dropped as she moved to run out onto the field and help her little boy. But Spike was on her in a split second, grabbing her arm and pulling her tight against him before her foot crossed the white line on the ground in front of them.

“But . . . he . . .” she sputtered, struggled in his arms which were banded around her, only to cease when a team member approached her hurt son, reaching out to haul his friend off the grass. Connor leapt to his feet and trotted down the field, back in the game.

“He’s fine,” Spike assured her. “And unless you want our son to be the laughing stock of his entire team you will stay right here.” He hesitantly let her go, ready to pounce again if he had to.

When her shoulders ceased to relax from the stress overtaking her body, Spike maneuvered her in front on him, placing his hands on the tight muscles, beginning a rhythmic massage. In his mind, Spike reasoned that the contact was an excuse to be close in case she felt the need to become a soccer-mom and charge the field again, but when she let out a sigh and leaned back into him, he really didn’t care anymore on whether his actions were justifiable or not.

Though her knowledge of soccer was limited, Buffy was soon immersed in the game. Together they cheered and hollered with the rest of the crowd of players’ friends and family, who kept shooting Spike and “the new girl” looks. Buffy was happy she was able to meet many of the parents of Connor’s friends, feeling that she was part of his world now.

When she and Dawn were introduced as Connor’s mother and sister, they received surprised but pleased responses. Well, with the exception of some English trollop named Stacey, who told Spike they should get together for a “play date” and made it pretty obvious she didn’t mean Connor and her son. Even though she and Spike were no where near together, Buffy thought is was entirely inappropriate to talk like that in front of the mother of his children. And the amusement Spike found in her, what he called “jealous,” reaction just made her fume more even after he felt the need to insist that while, yes Stacey had slept with half the dads of Connor’s team, no he was not one of them.

With the game ending in a tie, each team chose one player to participate in the shoot out that would determine the winner. Connor, who had scored two goals already, was selected. When the opposing team missed, silence fell over the entire field as all eyes fixated on Connor. Even Dawn, who had earlier declared that she could care less who won, joined them. When the ball flew through the air and made the satisfying swoosh against the net of the goal, the entire sideline erupted in cheers.

Fifteen minutes later, Spike and Buffy sat in the car, waiting for Connor and Dawn, who were talking to the rest of the kids on the field. Buffy was thoughtfully watching Connor from the side mirror.

Spike gently rubbed her leg to get her attention, “Something wrong, luv?”

Buffy smiled faintly at his ability to read her moods, “I never got to dote on him. Oh, I worried about him enough; God’s knows every day I worried about him.”

Spike rolled his eyes, “I wouldn’t kill our son, Buffy.”

Buffy leveled her gaze at him, “I made him an omelet the other day, Spike, he just about passed out from the shock of it.” He ducked his head guiltily. “What have the three of you been feeding him all these years?”

“Don’t change the subject,” he scolded.

Buffy smiled, “I know, but . . . I missed so much.”

Spike shrugged, relating to her, “And where was I when Dawn started school? Where was I to chase off all the boys.”

“Well you’re in luck because there haven’t been any yet.”

“Really?” Spike replied happily.

“Well, she does have a crush on someone,” Buffy hinted with a smile.

“Who?” Spike demanded.

“His name’s R.J.”

Spike scoffed, “That’s a pillock’s name.” Just then the back doors of the car flew open and Dawn and Connor piled in.

Spike glanced in the rearview mirror, noticing his son staring out the window, “What’s wrong? You won the game, you should be happy.”

Connor merely grumbled in response.

Dawn laughed, “He’s mad because a bunch of guys on his team think mom’s hot.”

Buffy sat up a little straighter, flattered and making a face at Spike.

Spike shook his head, “You always were a momma’s boy,” he called back to him.

“What?” his son objected.

“When you were learning to walk,” Spike said, “anytime you fell and scraped your knee you’d scream bloody murder for your mum -- wouldn’t let anyone else comfort you. You wouldn’t even let her talk to anyone else if she wasn’t holding you.”

Never having heard many stories in which she was a baby, “What about me?” Dawn pressed.

“You were fine, Bit,”

“Unless we took you shopping,” Buffy added.

“Oh bloody damn you were a right terror the minute we stepped into a store,” Spike remembered. “Connor was a perfect angel as long as we took a truck or ball with us, but you would cry like we were the worst parents in the world until we bought you the entire store.”

The laughter died down. “Dawn . . . Who’s R.J.?” Spike questioned, changing lanes.

“Mom!”

TBC

CHAPTER 11 –

A/N: Well, you know what they say, “It’ll never happen to me.” But it did. I was plagiarized, ya’ll. Thank you to everyone who caught it. It’s called “Seperated” (she/he didn’t even spell “separated” correctly) by SpikeRock08. I know it’s posted at Buffy/Spike Central. I don’t know if it’s anywhere else.

A/N: When you get to the part in the story, Go here http://www.tothemaxusa.com/fall2005/index.html to see the dress Buffy is wearing.



“I’m going to have to go back soon,” Buffy stated, looking across the desk at Spike, studying his reaction. She was curled up in a comfy leather chair wearing a navy blue sweatshirt and drawstring pants she had borrowed from him, sipping at her cup of hot tea, watching him work. They’d been like that for almost an hour. Every once in a while he’d stop and they’d talk about this and that, but mostly they were happy to just be in each other’s company, comforted by the soft snap of the keys of his computer.

The weather outside was, not surprisingly, miserable. But Buffy, in spite of her love for the California sunshine, found the grey sky and storm clouds calming. It was the kind of weather that didn’t make her want to go outside, but stay right where she was.

“You what?” he glanced up from his laptop, peering over the top of his glasses. She had always liked his glasses, especially when he paired them with a crisp white button down and blue jeans like he had on now. He had stealthily hid the fact that he wore glasses for years. It wasn’t until they had been dating a year that she caught him with them on unexpectedly at home. It had made her giggle at first – the entirely black ensemble, the slicked back bleached hair, the leather . . . and those delicate little frames. He had shot her a murderous look while whipping them off and it had taken her all day and some *ahem* coaxing to break him out of the bad mood and agree to wear them around her.

She cleared her throat, “Have to go back, you know . . . home. The gallery, my house, my mom. I have to sort everything out with Dawn’s school if she’s going to stay here for a while.” The mountain of paperwork from every aspect of her life that awaited her arrival home made her inwardly cringe.

Buffy sighed, gazing out the window. Willow had already returned to the states the night before and she and Xander were already planning her trip back with girlfriend in tow. If Dawn was ready they would bring her back to Sunnydale with them on their return trip.

“Let’s go out tonight,” he said finally.

“Huh?” Buffy’s head whipped back, not the response she was expecting on word of her departure, if she was hoping for one at all.

He pushed himself away from his work, “Come on, Buffy, we’re barely been alone together since you got here and you and I both know it’s partially been on purpose.”

“We were just out two nights ago!” she argued. Maybe they had been avoiding situations together that could be potentially awkward in the beginning, but they had, in the past couple days, developed a comfortable friendship around each other, one that could consist of conversation that didn’t necessarily revolve around their children or work.

“To a noisy dance club with Red and Harris,” he replied. “Let’s go out by ourselves tomorrow,” he pleaded, “like we used to.”

Her eyes darted around the room and her mouth opened as if to object to his idea. She was hesitating and he could tell.

“I’ll plan the whole night,” he insisted, “I’ll make it worth your while,” his last comment let forth some of that innuendo he was known for, but had held back on around her until very recently. “If you play your cards right I may even put out,” a quick eyebrow raise accompanied his last remark, and Buffy let out a bark of laughter at his teasing. Apparently, he was now completely comfortable enough to let forth his pervy sense of humor.

Buffy couldn’t think of a good excuse not to agree, and she’d barely gotten to see the city since she’d arrived, confining herself to the house to spend some much-needed time with her son. But Connor and Dawn were currently out with their grandfather and had a moviefest planned with their Uncle Xander tomorrow night.

“Okay,” Buffy caved, “You plan it and I’ll be there.”




At seven fifty-five the next night Buffy was still standing in front of her full-length mirror, chastising herself for being so indecisive.

“It’s only one date, Buffy,” she muttered to herself, before crinkling up her face in distaste at the words, “Not a date,” she insisted to herself, “Just going out . . . somewhere . . . with the father of your children.” She looked at the clock, then back at her reflection. “Well, here goes nothing.”

She descended the stairs quietly, her heels barely clicking on the marble. Peaking around the corner she saw that Spike had his back to her. He had told her to dress to the nines and she observed that he had done the same. His black dress pants were neatly creased and the back of his jacket was smooth.

He was standing behind the couch, eyes on the television. Some horror movie flickered across the screen – number two on the long list of movies Xander and their children had planned for the night. Over the couch she could see the top of Dawn’s head and Conner’s legs poked out from the side, laid out on the floor. Blankets, pillows, and piles of candy were everywhere.

“Wow, Mom, look at you!” Dawn’s neck was now craned over the couch, nodding approvingly at her mother.

Spike spun around and two more sets of eyes joined him.

Buffy suddenly felt herself under close scrutiny. Granted it had been quite some time since she had dolled herself up, but with a credit card and some exquisite designer shops, Buffy had cleaned up nice if she did say so herself.

And if the four people that were now gaping at her were any indication, she had either done very well or really, really bad. She had on an aquamarine dress with barely visible straps and a v-neck that dove past her cleavage, which her A-cup allowed without looking slutty. The dress went to her knees, but had a slit up her inner right thigh. Buffy didn’t think the dress was that scandalous, but the looks she was getting made her want to go up and change.

That was until Spike broke from his stupor and approached her, his eyes never ceasing his up and down scan of her.

“Luv, you look amazing.” The other three called out agreements, but Buffy never heard them, as Spike had captured her eyes with his. “Don’t wait up,” Spike hollered back, his sight never leaving her. He smoothly ran his fingertips down her bare shoulder and arm until his fingers reached hers. Intertwining them, he led them out the door, whisking her into his car, and speeding down the road.

The whole trip there, Spike refused to tell her where he was taking them. Every time she attempted to ply him for information, he simply told her how beautiful she looked or some other distractingly flattering comment. After a while, Spike began to think she continued to nag him just to hear more eloquent compliments, of which he had an endless supply and every one sincere.

When he finally pulled to the side of the road, Buffy immediately craned her neck to spy the places they were near. Little shops and numerous swank restaurants lined the streets on all sides of them – all looked equally appealing to Buffy. She looked to Spike, who was currently opening her door and helping her out of the car, for confirmation on where they were headed. All he did was smirk and shake his head.

“Uh-Uh, Summers, I got something even better planned.” At that, he whipped out a deep red silk cloth from his pocket.

Buffy looked at the handkerchief, and him, quizzically, “Isn’t it a little early for bondage games?”

He gave her an impressed look for her suggestive comment, “Just turn around.”

She did as he told and he tied the blindfold securely around her eyes. “Isn’t it going to look a bit ridiculous walking through crowded streets with this thing on?” she argued.

“We’re not far from our destination,” he simply replied, and began steering her through the streets. He kept her left hand in his and his other hand on her lower back the entire trek.

Shortly, he stopped her and took off the blindfold. Her eyes adjusted to the synthetic lighting. She gasped as she read the sign, but quickly her excitement deflated, “Spike, the National Gallery closed at six o’clock,” she gestured to the sign.

“To everyone else, yeah,” he replied, rapping on the door.

She looked around warily, “Spike, when you said you wanted to take a trip down memory lane, I assumed you wanted to leave your lengthy history with authority figures out of it.”

He said nothing and continued to watch through the glass door. Seconds later a man, dressed in a suit jacket that signified he worked there, appeared and greeted them with a smile. He expertly unlocked the complex system, and gestured them to come in with a sweep of his arm.

“How . . .” she asked flabbergasted.

“I have connections,” Spike whispered in her ear, ushering her along. It wasn’t until they reached the first hallway of art that she relaxed, convinced that the police were not around the corner ready to jump them. She sagged against him, “I’ve always dreamed of coming here,” she sighed.

He gazed at her profile softly, “Well luv,” he placed a kiss on her temple, “now you are.” He offered her his arm and she took it with a great smile.

They strolled like that leisurely throughout a great portion of the gallery. Spike did not share her strong affinity for art, but what he did enjoy was her face as they came upon more and more of her favorite pieces.

At the finish of their exploration, they end up in front up her favorite painting, Van Gogh’s “Sunflowers.” A wistful expression seemed plastered across her features. When she first laid her eyes on it (and the bottle of champaign and flutes that sat on a bench nearby) she grabbed onto his jacket and tie in surprise, dragging him over to it in giddiness. He poured the drink while she rattled off little known facts about the painting and its history. She accepted the drink from him, calming slightly.

Pivoting, she faced him and he looked down at her, “Thank you,” she told him, “for all of it.”

He gave her a queer look, “All of it?”

“This night, our children, everything,” she gave him a delicate smile.

Unable to hold back any longer, he ran his hand through her loose tendrils of hair, “Think you did most of the work, luv, but your welcome.” They lost themselves in each others eyes for a few moments, just enjoying the simplicity of being near and touching each other.

“It all ended so fast,” she whispered, a bit of melancholy in her voice.

“It all started so fast,” he replied with a dry smile.

“You got your dream of being a top journalist,” she told him proudly.

“And you have your own art gallery. Did you know your son is quite the accomplished artist?”

She nodded, “I know. He showed me.”

Spike looked surprised, “He showed you? He’s never shown me,” he grumbled.

Buffy grinned, “Well if it makes you feel any better, I’ve never been allowed to read a single word Dawn’s ever written.”

“She’s a writer?” he inquired smugly; glad to have handed down his trait.

Buffy sipped her drink, “Very much so. She always has her nose in a journal.”

“We were both young, stubborn,” Spike reminisced, hands running everywhere he dared.

“We were,” Buffy nodded with a faraway look in her eyes.

“But we’re not anymore. Well, young anyway,” he commented, earning a giggle from her.

She took a swig of her drink and a tiny drop began to trickle down her chin. Reaching out, Spike swiped the escaped droplet with his thumb and across her bottom lip. Buffy didn’t know what came over her, but she opened her lips and caught his finger, letting her teeth scrap gently across his finger while her tongue tasted the drink. He always did like it when she bit.

Glancing up into his eyes, Buffy saw heat reflected in them. Gulping, Buffy noted that he seemed much more confident in his feelings then she, but was simply waiting for the go-ahead. She thought back over the night – his roaming hands, his whispering in her ear. Now he looked like a caged animal ready to pounce – on her. It was both exciting and frightening. So she lifted her hand to meet his that was currently caressing her neck. She met his eyes boldly and uttered those three little words that she knew would have him breaking every driving law in England.

“Let’s go home.”

TBC