A/N: Well, here it is--the last chapter of 2004. I know the chapters haven’t been as forthcoming as we all wish they were, but I hope there’s a little comfort in knowing that I have three or four later chapters already written. I totally forgot to thank my husband and my mom for their wonderful ideas for the last chapter, so a belated ‘thanks‘ goes out to them. Without their input I’d still be stuck here at my keyboard trying to figure out where the heck this story was going. As I keep saying, smut’s a cinch to write but plot’s frickin’ impossible :)

As always, thanks to those who review and who send me a quick note to say hi. It’s nice to feel appreciated.

On a last note, I have to mention that I’ve changed the final sentence of the previous chapter from “I know how to beat him” to “I know his weakness”.

Silence weighed upon the room as the three Brits stared blankly at the Slayer.

Spike turned to the watcher, worry evident on his face. His voice was quiet, as if he was afraid to disturb the silence that had settled upon the room. “You think she’s ok? Maybe she hit her head or somethin’...”

Buffy’s voice, higher pitched than usual, cut him off. “No she didn‘t hit her head! I’m just telling you what I was shown. It doesn’t make any more sense to me than it does to any of you, so don’t blame me for the wig factor.”

Amelia spoke up, attempting to placate the small blonde. “Buffy, we’re not blaming you for anything. It’s just that this revelation of yours is, well, highly implausible.”

“Don’t you realise I know that already?“ In a gesture of defeat, the Slayer groaned and relaxed into a slouch, letting her head drop into her hands. She was feeling worse than she was letting on, but hoped that the others wouldn’t notice. This wasn’t the time for slacking. They had plans to make, strategies to lay out, maybe even go over the details of that dream one more time...

Spike watched as the young woman’s exhaustion became more apparent. There was still so much work to be done if they wanted to stop that wizard prat from bringing in all kinds of interdimensional riff-raff. But for that to happen they all had to be in top shape, and for Buffy that meant rest. Lots of it.

“That’s it. I’m taking the Slayer back to the hotel--she’s nearly droppin’ off on us. This can wait till tomorrow when we’re not so knackered.” He crouched down beside the small blonde, expecting her to resist--after all, she wasn’t too keen on playing the role of damsel in distress. But all she did was smile gratefully and allow herself to be gathered up in his arms.

Once again it struck the vampire how small the Slayer was. Holding her in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder, warm breath tickling his skin, chest rising and falling slowly to the cadence of the sleep to which she‘d finally surrendered, he felt as though he was carrying a child. He accepted a blanket from Ruth and allowed the older woman (well, older than Buffy and Amelia) to tuck it around the sleeping woman’s form.

Amelia opened the door to let them through. The Slayer’s present condition excluded her from any of the cognitive activities that were involved in research. If she was going to recuperate, she might as well do it while sleeping in a warm bed. A comfort that neither she nor Ruth would be enjoying in the hours to come.

After seeing the two blondes off, the Council members made their way to one of the building’s myriad research rooms. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Amelia frowned. “So what do you make of this new development?”

The witch shrugged. “Honestly? I’ve no idea what to make of it. But I do know that these dreams have a message to deliver--their purpose isn’t to lead the forces of good astray. We just have to figure out what it meant.”

Resigned to a long, long night of research, Amelia groaned. Looking at the rows of books that lie before her she shook her head. “I don’t even know where to start, Ruth. I mean, who would have known that Evan is really a woman, anyway?”

(A/N: to make it easier for both the reader and myself, I will continue to use masculine pronouns when dealing with Evan, despite Buffy’s revelation)

***

The shopkeeper’s daughter groaned as she saw a familiar figure approaching the store. Jumping off the stool she abandoned her post and stormed to the back room. “Da! It’s that really odd bloke again! I told you I’m not going to serve him again, not after all the hassle he gave me last time.” Her arms flailed as she tried to imitate her previous transaction with said customer. “Oh, I can still see the stain! See, right here--if you get out your microscope you can still see a nano-smidgen of mango-cranberry chutney right here by the armpit...”

The owner of Patel Dry Cleaning, a short man of Indian descent, rolled his eyes at the girl’s theatrics. Why she had refused to take those drama classes was beyond him. “Rashida, please don’t talk about our customers like that. Mr. Blakeford is a good paying customer; we should not let his quirks bother us.”

“Quirks?” The young woman swept up her long dark hair with a clip before staring at her father as if he’d grown a second head. “Is that what you call a young man who only hangs around women? Do you know what he and his friend were arguing about last time they came in? Who’s better looking--Mel Gibson or George Clooney! Then the woman turns around and asks me! I mean, eww! They’re so old. Why don’t they ask me about Eminem, or Orlando Bloom...”

Rashida’s diatribe, much to her father’s pleasure, was cut short by the arrival of Evan Blakeford and a tall blonde woman.

“I don’t want to hear it, Camille!”

“But Céline isn‘t...”

“Oh, please! Do you see how she dresses? And that wedding of hers?! That was the tackiest thing ever...” Turning to the stunned shopkeeper, the young man gave him an arrogant sneer as he slid his tag across the counter. “Blakeford. And I’d better not see any stains this time.”

“Oh, don’t worry Mr. Blakeford, we were very thorough this week...” The words ‘microscope’ and ‘nano-smidgen’ flit through his mind as he could almost hear Rashida snickering in the back room. He turned away from the bickering duo, tag in hand, looking for the young man’s clothing.

The two silk blouses, wool skirt and matching blazer were almost first on the rack. As he picked them up, the middle-aged man forced away thoughts of why Mr. Blakeford dropped off women’s clothing every week. Or the especially disturbing thought of how the clothing seemed to be just his size.

Mr. Patel draped the items across the counter for his customer’s close inspection. Again, he was sure he could hear faint giggling coming from behind him. Hmm! She thinks she’s so clever, does she? I’m going to have to ‘disappear’ when old Mrs. Northam and her crazy Yorkie come in this afternoon...

Luckily for the owner of Patel Dry Cleaning, the clothing passed inspection and the young man paid for his service. Without a good day, or even a good-bye, he turned around and walked out of the store; his female friend gave the shopkeeper an apologetic smile before jogging to catch up to him, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor.

As soon as the door latched shut, the giggling in the back room turned to outright guffaws. Shaking his head, Mr. Patel couldn’t hold back a chuckle as well.

***

Camille dropped into the sedan’s passenger seat before closing the heavy door. She watched Evan out of the corner of her eye as her hands fiddled with the seatbelt. “So why do you go there if you don’t like it? There have to be at least half a dozen other dry cleaners around here.”

“Because Mother likes it, that’s why. She insists that we only use Patel’s, although I’ve no idea why. They’re so...” The young man stopped mid-sentence when the CD that his passenger had slipped in began to play. “Oh, not this again! It’s all you bloody listen to!”

The girl let out a very unsophisticated snort. “Oh please, you don’t have to pretend with me, Evan. I know who you really are, and that person is every bit as lustful for Enrique’s body as I am. The man’s fitter than fit.”

Evan’s gaze remained on the road ahead of him, but his face broke out into a lopsided grin. “Fit doesn’t even begin to cover it...”

Latin melodies played away as they both relaxed and enjoyed each other’s presence. This was a comfort that Evan didn’t get to appreciate often enough: not having to act against his nature, to pretend to be someone he wasn’t, to always be on his guard.

“Why do you let her control you like that?”

Of course, close friendships had their drawbacks, too... blasted heart to hearts...

Taking advantage of a red light, the young man turned to look at his passenger. “Who said there‘s a ‘let‘ involved?!” Pursing his lips, he took a deep breath and tried to lighten his voice. It wasn‘t her fault--none of it was; she genuinely wanted to help him and he felt bad for snapping at her. “Look, there’s a reason you’ve never met mum. She’s a mite unhinged--not exactly the type I want to introduce my friends to.”

Every previous attempt to bring up the subject of his mother had been dismissed. Camille had never even been able to get anything more out of the man than a curt ’let’s change the subject, shall we?’ Why was it that he was opening up now? Had something happened? “Evan, you’re not the only one whose mother is weird. I mean, the other day...”

“Did she ever poison your cat because you forgot to clean its litter for one day? Did she ever break your toys because you didn’t put them away when you were told to?” His voice wavered as the words just poured forth--there was no stopping them now, not after years of being held back. “Did your mother ever hold your meals back until you finally understood that maths problem--even if it took days?”

Ok, this wasn’t what she was expecting. ‘Mum talks to her potted plants’, or ‘Mum thinks there are aliens living in the attic’, but not ‘Mum killed my cat.’ The young woman knew that the wrong kind of reaction--anything over the top--would draw him back into his shell. Psychology had been the only course at University that she’d actually paid attention to--well, most of the time.

Her voice quiet but steady, Camille lightly placed her hand on Evan’s arm in a sign of understanding. “I’m sorry... I didn’t know...”

Strangely enough, the young man felt lighter after having shared his secret. He’d always kept his relationship with his mother as a secret for fear of any reprisal--people might question his maturity, laugh, or roll their eyes.

“That’s ok--you couldn’t have known. Don’t worry about it, though. I’ve got something in the works that will get us out of each other’s hair for good...”

***

As he stepped into the lobby of the Sheffield Arms, Spike smiled at the quiet that greeted them. For the first time since they’d arrived, he consciously appreciated not having been granted his wish for a five star hotel. Hetty’s little nook, far removed from any hustle and bustle, was far homier and comforting than Brown’s could ever aspire to be.

Buffy was nestled in his arms like a sleeping tot, her even breathing an indication of deep sleep. She hadn’t stirred since they’d left the Council, not even when the vampire had ended tangled up in her seatbelt, cursing under his breath, as he tried to pull her out of her seat.

The stairs creaked as he climbed them, the Slayer’s weight adding to his own. He managed to unlock their door without much trouble, nudging it closed behind him with a gentle kick. Home sweet home, he thought to himself. Had he not been so tired or occupied with Buffy’s well-being, he might have paused at how strangely comforting the thought was. But now was not the time for introspection and Spike busied himself with putting the young woman to bed. It took him all of two seconds to decide that undressing her was too risky, so he simply removed her footwear and lay her on the bed fully clothed, pulling the warm covers over her.

Still too wired to sleep, the vampire made himself a warm mug of O-Neg before slumping down into a chair by the bed. Finally relaxed, he could allow his mind to wander where it hadn’t dared: the complete flip in his and the Slayer’s relationship, the changes in his personality and, of course, this whole apocalypse kerfuffle.

Eight days. Eight bloody days is all that it had taken for his life to turn on its ear. Everything he’d stood for, everything that had made him the Big Bad--the blood, the guts, the glory--had lost its hold on him. Scary thing was, the changes seemed to be self-imposed. Heck, they hadn’t even left the States yet and he’d refrained from killing Bob the Portly Salesman. The vampire had been disgusted with himself at the time--a temporary weakness, he’d thought--but in retrospect he was oddly content. If keeping Buffy meant changing who he was, it was a no-brainer. Love’s bitch ever so...

But what about Buffy? How did she see their relationship? What did all this mean to... Spike shook out of his reverie when he noticed that the object of his musings was not only awake, but staring at him intently.

“Spike? Is everything all right?” Buffy had woken up to the feeling that she was being watched. Something that must have been deeply ingrained into the Slayer part of her, she assumed, since she was still way too tired to be waking up without the help of an oompah band. The look on her lover’s face worried her. Forehead creased, lips pressed together, he reminded her of Angel at his broodiest. And that was never, ever good.

The vampire kept his gaze steady with hers, relaying the seriousness of his mood. “What is this to you? Is it a holiday fling? An itch you’re scratching while you’re out of Scooby sight?”

Buffy would have been angry had she not seen the genuine worry in the bleach blonde’s eyes. Hadn’t he believed her when she said she loved him? What had he thought when she claimed him? It was now obvious to her that there was much more William left in Spike than he’d ever care to admit.

Smiling, the Slayer laid her head back against the oversized pillow and pulled the sheet back in invitation. “Come on, you worrywart. Get in here so we can talk.” She watched him as he undressed and slid in between the covers, waiting until he was close enough to hold in an embrace. Wrapping her arm around his waist, she pulled the vampire even closer and draped her leg over him. “Spike--I love you. And that’s not going to change once we’re back in Sunnydale. Everyone is just going to have to learn to live with it; Giles and Xander are going to blow gaskets, Willow‘s going to be support-o-girl and Mom... heck, Mom‘s probably going to be looking at mother-of-the-bride dresses before I’m done telling her. This, to me, is the start of a serious relationship, something that won’t be easy, won’t be without its bumps and problems; but we’re also going to have good times, Spike. You know all that stuff about sharing smiles and laughter? I think we’re both due for some of that...”

Well, for once, Spike was the one who was short for words. Buffy’s little speech had gone way beyond what he’d wanted--what he’d needed--to hear. He brought his hand up to her face, brushing a few stray locks and tucking them behind her ear. The warmth of her body, pressed intimately against him, instilled in him a sense of calm he’d never felt, not even as William. Leaning in, he brushed his lips against hers in a gesture that showed her how much she meant to him.

Sighing contentedly, Buffy pulled away from her lover. Her mind told her that more than anything, she needed sleep; her body, however, was telling her otherwise. She offered her lover a coy smile, dragging a fingertip up his hard chest.

“Why don’t you help me get these clothes off so I can show you just how much I love you?”

***

The young man had been standing in front of the door, staring a hole into it. His hand had reached out and grabbed the handle all of four times before pulling back as if burned. Come on, grow a pair, will you? You can’t just stand here all day. He frowned, realising what he’d thought. Great, now I’m even thinking like a red-blooded male...

Evan sighed. Coming home shouldn’t be like this. None of the neighbours would ever know of the psychological abuse he had--and continued to--endure at the whim of his mother. The well-kept brick bungalow, with its neatly trimmed juniper bushes, mature wisteria and immaculate lawn held secrets that none would believe, safe for seeing them with their own eyes.

Something odd, however, caught his eye as he turned the doorknob. Through the door’s frosted glass he could see a young man standing in his living room; a man who held a frightening resemblance to him. The stranger walked out of Evan’s sight, into the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

He opened the door quietly and stepped in. Silence met his arrival and although he cocked his head, straining to hear something, anything, he couldn’t tell whether his mother was alone or not. Wouldn’t it be just his luck if she was ‘entertaining’? Not wanting to bring any attention to himself, he carefully draped the dry cleaned garments over the recliner that lay to his right and tread lightly across the carpet.

If he could only make it to the stairs that led to the basement, he could...

“Is that you, dear?”

Balls. “Yes, Mother.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t forget the dry cleaning. You can be so harebrained sometimes...” Roberta Blakeford entered the room in a whirl, buttoning up an emerald green cardigan. Her sharp gaze landed on the clothing that lay draped over the chair and she tutted. “You know better than to leave clothing lying around like that; make sure it’s put away before I get back.” She dragged the palm of her hand down the plastic-encased garments. “Nice clothes are so hard to come by nowadays...”

Get back?! Maybe lady luck was looking out for him after all. Her absence would allow him the freedom to iron out the final details of his plan. This kind of thing didn’t come about on its own and unless he wanted to bollocks it up, he had to pay close attention to every remaining minutiae.

“... and the dishwasher needs to be filled and run, and there’s still clothes in the dryer--you might want to let it run again to get the creases out, as my beige pants are in there... Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, mum. Dishwasher, dryer... You go and don’t worry about anything--the house will be spotless when you get back.” Just call me Cinderella... Evan helped his mother into her coat and ushered her out the door, glad to be out of her company and on his own.

So many things left to do, so little time. Evan Blakeford’s world was about to change for good. As he turned towards the kitchen, eyeing the dishwasher with distaste--at least he didn’t have to wash anything by hand--he realized that he’d completely forgotten to mention the young man he’d seen.

Maybe he wasn’t the only one with secrets after all...