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Buffy didn’t think she’d ever been so happy before. The dull ache that seemed to constantly remind her of her old friends and family had lessened slightly; Spike’s knowing touches seemed to have lifted the strain from her soul. The throbbing pain was still there when she thought about Dawnie, her mom and Giles, but whenever it surfaced she remembered her Slayer’s lo- affectionate manner and the choking agony eased.

Some days, however, she couldn’t help but brood, though she shuddered to remember the face she’d previously attached to that particular pastime. Today was one of those days. Spike had joined her in her bed, and though she’d dropped into sleep easily enough, it was restless and disturbed.

She’d known she was having a Slayer dream as soon as the images began to surface. No normal dream, no matter how vivid, could ever make her feel as though it were real the way she did when she was seeing the future. This particular dream was a blurred collection of images that didn’t make sense to her or her Slayer half, but the demon stirred in recognition.

Flames flashed in her eyes, a circle of burning oil. Inside she could see figures moving, circling, the firelight flickering over their naked bodies. A sense of dread washed over her, mixed with a rush of fear; she knew she didn’t fear for herself, but for whatever it was that had driven her here.

For a moment the smoky air cleared and she could see a familiar, pale body illuminated by the eerie orange light, eyes glowing gold as her dark hair caressed her back. The fairy-like, maniacal laughter rang out over the hungry groan of the flames and she saw wide, piercingly blue eyes staring at her from across the ring of fire before everything went black and all she could hear was that high, cruel laughter.

She’d woken with a gasp, her hair tangled around her face, her fangs bared as her silver eyes probed the shadows. If she’d been alive, she was sure that her heart would’ve been pounding so hard against her ribs that it would’ve jumped from her chest. As it was, she pinched the bridge of her nose with trembling hands, the demon still agitated after her prophetic dream.

Unable to sleep, she’d slipped soundlessly from the bed, turning to look at her partner, splayed in glorious nudity across her mattress. His usually sleek hair was a tousled mass of curls, the strands that flopped over his brow softening his features, the barest hint of a smile lifting his full lips. One long arm suddenly flailed out, as though he were reaching for her, but it clutched at the duvet instead.

Feeling the foreboding chill creep over her again, she pulled on some sweats and trod quietly into the training room. It took over and hour for her to work off the restless tension in her body; every time she began to tire, the demon would shiver with a new wash of anxiety and she’d go back to slamming her fists into the punching bag.

Finally exhausted physically, she dragged herself into the kitchen. Here, at this ungodly hour of the morning, she was alone to feed however she wanted. There were no Scoobs she could disgust, no squicked-out faces staring back at her. Impatiently she waited for the blood in the microwave to heat before she lifted it out.

Glancing furtively around a final time, she morphed back into game face and sank her fangs into the bag with a hungry growl. She drained great gulps of the coppery liquid at a time, grunting in ecstasy as rivulets of blood trickled down her chin. When she was finished, she licked her lips with a satisfied purr. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she froze when there came a soft knock at the door.

She waited, silent and still, but the heartbeats in the house remained steady; neither Wood nor Spike had heard the quiet tap. Breathing a deep sigh to steady her nerves, she let her eyes fade to green as her fangs shortened again. Padding to the door, she paused before reaching for the handle and throwing it open, jumping back out of the path of the pale dawn sunlight that was suddenly splashed across the floor.

Looking up, she gave a gasp of shock as she saw the familiar face, creased in a sheepish smile. “Giles?” Her voice was an incredulous squeak as she beckoned him in. As the door shut behind him, she was swept into a warm hug. From somewhere above her, she heard something that sounded suspiciously like a sniff.

The arms banded tightly around her relaxed, and suddenly his warm, fatherly face was beaming down at her. “My, you don’t look any older than you did when I last saw you, all those years ago…” He trailed off, removing his glasses and cleaning them nervously as he sidled back, as though only just remembering what she was. “Of course, how foolish of me.”

There was an awkward silence as Buffy stared at him, feeling tears sting her eyes at his sudden hesitation. Seeing them, her former Watcher gave a muffled curse and swept her back into a hug. Feeling him relax as he held her, she finally let free to sob that had been making her throat ache since she’d seen him outlined in the doorway.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she squeezed him tighter, until he wheezed, “Buffy, ribs…” Instantly contrite, she let him go and gave him a watery, apologetic smile. Gingerly wrapping her arms back around him, she gave a sigh of relief, breathing in his familiar scent. About to pull back and speak, she was interrupted by a hoarse demand.

“What the bloody Hell is going on here?”

Spike had emerged from their bedroom after waking and finding Buffy gone. He’d heard the soft sound of sobbing outside and had rushed to comfort her, only to find her wrapped in the arms of a stranger, a male stranger no less. Outraged, he spoke before thinking, only to have them both swing around to face him.

Seeing Buffy’s tear-streaked face, he rushed to her side and pulled her rudely from the stranger’s embrace, ignoring the pained glare that was sent his way, murmuring soothing nonsense into her ear until her sobs quieted and she had calmed. Her gentle tugging made him release her from his arms, and he watched with astonishment as the elderly gentleman immediately pulled her back in for a brief, fierce hug.

Sensing the confused rage from behind her, she swung around to face the Slayer’s icy gaze. Smiling softly, she stepped between the two men and introduced them. “Spike, this is Rupert Giles, my former Watcher. Giles, this is Spike the Vampire Slayer.”

Giles watched as the hostility in the young man’s manner drained away, replaced by a polite curiosity. A slender hand was shoved near his own as his fellow countryman gave a lopsided grin, a possessive arm snaking around his Slayer’s waist and pulling her against the current Slayer’s side, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Ah, yes. Pleased to meet you… Spike was it? I don’t suppose you have any tea, do you?”

And they were off, chatting about the home country like old friends. Buffy, sandwiched between her father-figure and her lover, gave a contented smile and let their voices wash over her.





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