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Author's Chapter Notes:
So this is where I run out of chapters. Life and work and holidays have been a little crazy the past couple weeks, and chapter eleven is mostly a figment of my imagination at this point. On the bright side, I feel more and more like I'm hitting my stride with this story, and I've been able to take my time to work out the kinks my crazy plot kitties insist on throwing at me.
As always, reviews feed the muse. Posting what I had and getting feedback really helped kick-start my writing, so please, keep it up!

Tons of thanks to Puddinhead and Ryn for beta duties.

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The house stood dark and still when Buffy pulled into the driveway. She remained in the car for a minute, listening to the quiet ticking of the engine. More than anything she wanted this day to be over, and the absence of any sign of her sister at seven o’clock didn’t bode well. Buffy grabbed the greasy Doublemeat Palace sack containing her and Dawn’s supper from the passenger seat and headed into the house.

“Hello?” A whole lot of silence answered her. Buffy flipped the light switch and turned to hang her keys on the mail rack next to the front door. A key chain decorated with an oversized, glittery ‘D’ sparkled on one of the hooks.

She told herself not to worry; Dawn was probably at Janice’s, taking full advantage of the fact that she couldn’t get into the house. She went through to the kitchen, and sure enough, the light on the answering machine was flashing. Buffy pushed play.

“Hey, Buffy, it’s me. Dawn. Your sister. Um, I’m locked out of the house, so I went next door to Spike’s house to see if he was home, and that’s where I am right now. So I guess just come get me when you get home, okay? Okay, see you later.”

Great. The one thing that would make her day complete: dealing with Spike. Buffy headed through the back door, not even pausing to drop off her purse or the Doublemeat bag. The quicker she got this over with, the better. Once outside, she could hear the faint sound of music emanating from her neighbor’s house. She glared at the square of light spilling across the driveway before making her way to the back door. She looked through the window and paused in the act of hammering one fist on the glass.

Dawn stood at the kitchen counter, wielding an alarmingly large knife over a cutting board full of vegetables. Spike was at the stove, and as Buffy watched, he turned and said something that made Dawn laugh so hard she almost dropped her utensil. Something twisted in Buffy’s chest at the smile that lit Dawn’s face. For a moment, she thought she was going to burst into tears. How long had it been since Dawn had looked that happy? She couldn’t remember, couldn’t think of a time in the past year that her little sister hadn’t carried a shadow on her face.

She took a deep breath and rapped her knuckles firmly on the patio door. Spike wiped his hands on a towel as he moved toward the door.

“Evening,” he said as he opened the door. He motioned for her to enter.

The kitchen smelled completely amazing. Buffy hoped—in vain, judging from the twist of his lips—that Spike hadn’t heard her stomach growl as she caught a whiff of whatever was bubbling away on the stove. The aroma was a stark reminder that she’d been living on employee meals from the Doublemeat and her own dubious cooking for too many months.

Buffy ignored the empty feeling in her tummy and turned to Dawn, a question on her lips. Her sister beat her to the punch.

“Hi, did you get my message? I called you at work, but they said you were busy, so I told them to tell you where I was, and I left the number and everything so you could call if it wasn’t okay.”

Okay, that was a lot of words in one breath, which usually meant Dawn was lying. “There was a message at home. You called me at work?”

“Yeah, because I got locked out, and I thought you’d want to know where I was,” Dawn said. “But I did all my homework, and Spike wouldn’t even let me watch TV at all. Oh! And Spike’s teaching me to make curry, so please, can I stay and have supper, please?” She gave Buffy sad-face, which might have worked if Buffy hadn’t been the one to teach Dawn that little trick. While it had worked on their father—until he disappeared for greener pastures and younger women, that is—Buffy was immune to puppy-dog eyes. She shook her head, and Dawn pooched her lower lip out a little bit more.

That was when Buffy noticed the silver gleam that shone on her sister’s face. She couldn’t believe it wasn’t the first thing she’d seen. “Dawn Summers! What is that thing doing in your lip?” Buffy took another closer look at the girl. “And where did you get that lipstick?”

Dawn reached up, a look of mild panic growing on her face, and pulled the jewelry out of her lip. “It’s fake, Buffy, see?” She held it out for inspection, and Buffy breathed a sigh of relief. “I got the lipstick from Janice. Is it too red? I was just trying it out.”

“Is it too ... yes, Dawn, it’s too red.”

“Told you, didn’t I?” Spike said. Dawn stuck her tongue out at him and reapplied the faux lip ring. Buffy turned just in time to see Spike sticking his tongue out in return. He caught her eye and rolled his tongue ring around in his mouth. He smirked at the blush that stained her cheeks.

Buffy bit back a comment—wouldn’t do any good, she reasoned—and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Get your stuff, Dawn. It’s time to go home.” She ignored Dawn’s predictable cry of protest and stepped past Spike to the door.

“Stir that sauce, would you?” Spike said to Dawn. Buffy turned, ready to object to him overriding her command, but he stepped into the doorway before she could speak. He stood so close to her she could practically count each of his thick, dark lashes. His proximity forced her onto the deck. Spike followed her, closed the door behind him, and stood with his back to it.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

“Can we not?” Buffy reached for the doorknob, only to have Spike block her way. “What?” She so didn’t need this.

“First thing.” Spike reached into his back pocket and pulled out a battered black wallet. “Stop with the anonymous envelopes of cash.” He selected three bills from the wallet and thrust them at her. He huffed out an impatient sigh when she didn’t take the money immediately. “You are the one dropping twenties in my mailbox every week, yeah?”

“I … your car …”

“Told you I didn’t want your money. Remember that?”

“Well, I didn’t like the alternative.” Buffy glared at him. “Remember that?” She took the sixty dollars, though. If he really didn’t want her to pay him back, there was an electric bill with dibs on this cash.

Spike scoffed. “I was winding you up, you silly bint. ‘S not my fault your sense of humor is on the fritz.” He patted his pockets in a fruitless search for cigarettes, then jammed his hands into the front pockets of his too-tight jeans.

Not that Buffy was checking out how tight his jeans were.

“There’s nothing wrong with my sense of humor,” she said. “I don’t find being ogled and propositioned entertaining, is all.”

“Okay, look, I’m sorry about that. We got off on the wrong foot. Doesn’t mean we have to keep it up, does it?”

Buffy shrugged. “Not making with the friendlies is working out just fine for me.”

Spike glanced over his shoulder into the kitchen, and Buffy followed his gaze. Dawn had stationed herself at the stove and was diligently tending the food simmering on the cooktop. “Won’t kill you to stay for supper, you know,” he said.

“Do you not get that I don’t want to spend time with you?”

“Yeah, well, you’re not exactly on my list of favorite people, either, sweetheart. But it’d make her happy.” Spike hitched a thumb in Dawn’s direction.

Buffy stared at her sister for a long moment before turning back to Spike. “Why do you care?” she asked.

“Because I’m not a heartless bitch, maybe?” Spike held his hands up in a pacifying gesture when Buffy scowled at him. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. I just mean … Well, told you before, Dawn’s a good kid. And can you seriously tell me you’d rather have whatever’s giving off that awful smell?”

She looked down at the bag hanging in her grip. He had a point. Lukewarm Doublemeat Medleys couldn’t hold a candle to the fragrance that had permeated his kitchen. “Really kinda sick of fast food,” she admitted, surprising herself with her spontaneous honesty.

Spike looked surprised, too. After a beat, he smiled tentatively. “So you’ll stay,” he said, as if it were settled. He opened the door to the kitchen. “Hey, Dawn, make a salad for big sis, yeah?”

Dawn grinned widely and nodded her assent. Spike pulled the door shut and met Buffy’s gaze. “She’s pretty proud of herself. She really did most of the work. I just told her what to do.”

“And here I thought you said supper wouldn’t be deadly,” she said dryly. There was a brief moment of silence between them, then her lips twitched slightly, and Spike laughed.

“Summers, was that a real, live joke?”

“Told you there’s nothing wrong with my sense of humor,” Buffy muttered. “And I didn’t agree to—”

Spike sliced his hand through the air, cutting off her objections. “Stop it. Just ... relax for five minutes. Look,” he urged with a nod toward Dawn. “Look at her. You wanna wipe that smile off her face? ‘Cause I don’t.”

The near echo of her earlier thoughts jarred Buffy’s senses.

“I don’t get you.”

Spike turned to meet her gaze with a startled look. “What’s to get?”

“What are you getting out of this? I mean, I know you can’t stand me—”

“Maybe not everything’s about you, princess,” Spike interrupted. “You ever think of that?” He strode across the deck and took a seat on the top stair, his back to her.

“That’s what ...” Buffy felt ridiculous talking to his back. She crossed the distance between them and, after a bare second of hesitation, took a seat next to him. “That’s what I was trying to say. I mean, I’m not Miss Popularity or anything, but I’ve seen my fair share of guys sucking up to Dawn because they thought they could score points with me.” She felt more than saw Spike jerk next to her, and hurried to add, “Trust me when I say I’m totally convinced that’s not what’s going on here.”

“What’s the problem, then?” Spike asked. “The kid was locked out. What should I have done? Let her sit outside in the dark til you got home?”

Buffy shifted. He was right; he was better than the alternative. Not that she was going to tell him that. “No, I guess … I mean, thanks for helping out.” Her voice wavered, and she wished she had made those words sound even the least bit sincere.

Spike shook his head. “You know, if you gave me half a chance, you might find out I’m not such a bad bloke.” He regarded her steadily for a moment. Buffy squirmed a little under his scrutiny. “Food’ll be on the table in half an hour. Time enough for you to go change before you join us.” He grinned suddenly, and Buffy braced herself for a smart-ass remark. “Plenty of time to wash off the eau de grease factory. Not that I don’t love the smell, but …”

She stood up quickly. “If you’re trying to prove you’re a decent guy, you’re not off to a great start.”

Spike laughed. “Right, forgot about your broken funny bone. Run on, then. And I promise to be on my best behavior when you get back.”

“Huh. I’ll believe it when I see it,” Buffy muttered. She stepped off the deck, though, rather than argue with him any longer.

***

Spike was beginning to wonder if Buffy actually intended to join them for supper when a tentative knock sounded on the door. Dawn scurried across the kitchen, abandoning her spot at the stove for nearly the first time since they’d started cooking, and opened the door with a grin.

“Hi, Buffy!” She practically bounced as she stepped aside to let her sister into the house. “Thanks for letting us stay for supper. Doesn’t it smell yummy? Oh, did you know Spike had a cook when he was growing up?” Dawn smirked at him as she shared that tidbit of information. Not for the first time, he regretted letting that slip.

“No, I didn’t.” Buffy arched an eyebrow in his direction. “Sounds … fancy.” She held up a bottle of wine. “Here, I brought you this.”

Spike took the offered bottle. “You didn’t need to do that, pet,” he said.

She shrugged. “It was, uh, well, my mom liked wine a lot, and we have a bunch of bottles left. I don’t really drink much, but I thought you might like it. As a thank you for looking after Dawn.”

He met Buffy’s eyes and was struck again by how lovely she was. Her golden hair hung in waves around her shoulders, and her small frame was accentuated by the heavy cream-colored sweater she wore. “Thanks. But really, it was no problem. She’s a pleasure to have around.”

Dawn beamed at his words, then tugged on Buffy’s arm. “Come sit down. Wait til you try this curry, it’s just as good as anything we got from India House.”

Buffy looked skeptical at Dawn’s claim, but took a seat at the table. Spike let Dawn have the honors of putting the food on the table as he opened the wine. “This is quite nice,” he said. “Your mum had good taste. Would you like a glass?”

“Can I have one?” Dawn spoke with a hopeful grin. She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “A little one.”

“Not a chance!” “Are you daft?”

The smile left her face in a hurry as Buffy and Spike answered in unison. Their words blurred together, but the message was clear. “Mom would let me have one.”

“Well, I’m not Mom.”

Dawn sank into her chair and folded her arms. The glower on her face said it all, but in case there was any doubt of her mood, she mumbled, “Yeah, no kidding.”

A quiet sigh escaped Buffy, but she didn’t respond to Dawn’s comment. “Yes, I’d love some wine.”

Spike poured a glass and moved to hand it to Buffy. As she reached for it, he pulled his hand back and fixed her with a piercing gaze. “You are old enough to drink, right, kitten? I’d hate to be a bad influence.”

She rolled her eyes and snatched the wine glass from his hand. The red liquid splashed against the sides of the glass. “Is there any chance we can just pretend that whole night didn’t happen?” she asked.

“Now why would I want to do that?” Spike said with a grin. He poured some wine for himself before joining Buffy and Dawn at the table. He filled his plate with salad and rice and curry and was happy to see his guests doing the same. They were both too skinny. No wonder, if they were both as clueless in the kitchen as Dawn had been at the start of the night.

“Oh, my gosh,” Buffy moaned around a forkful of curry and rice. “This is the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in ages.”

Spike nearly choked on the drink of wine he’d just taken. He met Buffy’s eyes, and let out a chortle of laughter as her cheeks flamed red.

Dawn remained oblivious to the interplay between the adults. “Isn’t it yummy?” she gushed. “I bet I could make it at home sometime, too. Oh, and Spike said he’d teach me how to make flat bread to go with it next time.”

“Next time you lock yourself out?” Buffy’s voice was cool. “Because I don’t want you doing that on purpose just so you can get your way.”

“God, Buffy,” Dawn whined. “I didn’t do it on purpose!”

“I didn’t say you did, I’m just warning you not to in the future. So we don’t have to have this conversation again.”

“But isn’t this nice? A home-cooked meal, real food, vegetables.” Dawn speared a piece of lettuce and a tomato from her salad and bit into them with a self-satisfied crunch.

“Please don’t act like I never give you vegetables.”

“Newsflash, Buffy: rehydrated pickles may be green, but they do not actually have any nutritional value.”

Spike snorted into his wine. Two sets of eyes turned to him; they both looked slightly abashed. “No, no, carry on,” he said with a wave of his hand. “This is better than the soaps any day.”

“You watch soaps?” The question came in surround-sound stereo. Just like that, Buffy and Dawn forgot their little spat in favor of quizzing Spike about his television-watching habits. He got caught up in a heated defense of the art of soap operas, particularly “Passions,” which he owned on bootleg DVD.

“It’s bloody genius,” he concluded. “Midgets, witches, magic, talking dolls. What’s not to love?”

“You are such a girl,” Buffy teased.

Spike had to tamp down the urge to pull her hair. He settled for making a face at her and changing the subject. Dawn quickly dominated the conversation with her chatter about her friends and classes, items she was adding to her Christmas wish list, and her opinions about music.

Spike was happy to let her ramble on. Until this moment he hadn’t realized just how much he missed having people around him. It had been, what, nearly three years now, and when had he ever had guests at his table?

He glanced at Buffy and caught the way she rolled her eyes when Dawn launched into an ode to the wonder that was punk rock.

“So giving her that cd was not a good idea?” Spike stretched back in his chair and retrieved the wine from the counter. He tilted the bottle in Buffy’s direction; she pushed her glass toward him for a refill.

“Hmm, obnoxiously loud music made by people who can’t sing or play their instruments? That’s fine, until I have to listen to the same ninety minutes of music ten times a day.”

Spike winced. “Sorry, pet.”

Buffy shrugged and took a sip of wine. “I’m getting used to it. On the bright side, it’s better than her ‘I want to be Hannah Montana and marry Justin Bieber’ stage.”

“Hey!” Dawn folded her arms across her chest and glared at her sister.

“Payback, pigeon,” Spike said with a grin. “Shouldn’t have spilled the beans about the cook.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that.” She twisted her lips into a frighteningly accurate imitation of his smirk. “Little Lord Fauntelroy.”

“Oi!”

Buffy let out a snort of laughter, and this time Spike couldn’t resist the urge to reach across the table and tug on a golden lock of hair. When she did nothing more than grin back at him, he had a sudden vision of amicable dinners and laughter and feminine voices in his house. His insides warmed at the thought.

“This is really nice,” Dawn said suddenly. “I miss having family dinners.”

The smile dropped from Buffy’s face, and a chill swept through the room. Spike looked from one girl to the other. Dawn stared down at her plate, dragging the tines of her fork idly through the remains of her meal. Buffy took Dawn’s free hand in hers and squeezed gently.

“Right. Let me clear this stuff up.” Spike stood up and reached for the empty plates on the table. He started running water in the sink as Buffy spoke quietly to Dawn. He tried not to listen to their hushed conversation; it was strange to feel like an intruder in his own home. He kept his back to the girls until he heard a chair scrape across the floor.

“Thanks for everything today.” Dawn spoke quietly from beside him.

Spike dried his hands and turned to look at her. He could see she’d been crying. A quick glance at Buffy showed her drying her eyes as well. “Anytime,” he said. Dawn launched herself at him and wrapped her arms around him in an unexpected hug. He patted her shoulder with one hand, the other still holding on to the towel he’d just used. He looked over her head at Buffy. She looked bemused as she watched Dawn give him one more squeeze before releasing him.

“I’ll help you clean up,” Dawn offered.

“You don’t have to—” Spike started to decline

“Dawn,” Buffy interrupted. “I’ll help with the dishes. You head home and start getting ready for bed. Pack your lunch for tomorrow, too, all right?”

Dawn sighed, but moved to collect her back pack without argument. “Bye, Spike,” she said. “Thanks again.”

Buffy and Spike regarded each other following Dawn’s departure. “You really don’t need to help,” he said, finally.

She shrugged as she stood up. “I … we need to talk.” She picked up the curry pan and carried it to the counter. “Do you have something to put this in?”

Spike nodded and retrieved several containers for the leftovers. They worked in silence for a few minutes, and soon had all the dishes cleared and ready to be washed.

“You wash, I’ll dry?” Buffy suggested.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You wanted to talk, let’s talk.” He leaned against the counter and watched as she fidgeted with the hem of her sweater.

“You’re really good with her.” Buffy spoke quietly, her eyes fixed on the ground between their feet. “I haven’t seen her so happy in … I don’t even know how long.”

The look on her face, the vulnerable set of her shoulders, the sorrow in her voice—it all made him want to pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be all right. Spike ruthlessly squelched that desire. This was the girl who liked to hit him when things didn’t go her way, he reminded himself. She certainly wouldn’t take to him having soft, squishy feelings for her. Which wasn’t an issue, anyway, because he didn’t have any feelings for her, squishy or otherwise. “Sometimes it’s easier with someone you don’t know so well. To put on a happy face, you know?”

“I guess, but … that didn’t look like just putting it on to me.” Buffy looked up at him, and Spike was lost in the depths of her eyes. “She really likes you. I mean, a lot. She hasn’t talked to me like that since … It’s been a long time. Since before Mom got sick.” She laughed. “You’re eerily in tune with a fourteen year old girl. Why is that?”

Her tone was light, but Spike knew there was a serious question behind her humor. “I have a little sister. Had, I should say. Ellie was just a little older than Dawn when she died.”

Buffy clapped a hand over her mouth, and her eyes grew very large. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

Spike waved her sympathy away. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s … it’s not okay; I miss her every day. Like you do your mum, I expect. But it’s been a few years. And having Dawn around—it’s nice. She reminds me of Ellie. Even looks like her a bit.” He reached for his wallet and removed a well-worn picture. He ran a thumb over the photo before handing it to Buffy.

She took it, her eyes flickering between the image and his face. “She … she does look like Dawnie,” she said. “Her hair and her eyes. She’s very pretty.” Buffy passed the photo back to him, and her fingers brushed against his. “How … what—”

He spoke before she could voice her hesitant question. He might be in a sharing mood tonight, but there were some things he didn’t want to talk about. “So, yeah. Probably should have told you before, set your mind at ease. But that’s a big part of why I don’t mind Dawn hanging about.”

Buffy nodded. “Okay. That ... I get that. And I do appreciate your help today. Just—did she really call me at work?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” Spike said. “She made a couple calls.” He moved across the kitchen to retrieve his cell phone from the counter and pulled up the call history before giving Buffy the phone.

“This is our number, but this other one isn’t my work.” Buffy sighed and glanced up at him. “Do you mind if I call it?”

He nodded his assent. He watched her with interest; she was so animated, every emotion showing on her face. Taking in the gleam in her eye and the set of her jaw, he was grateful not to be on the other end of the line.

“Hi, this is Buffy Summers.” She spoke with deceptive cheer. “I think you have a message for me?” Her eyes narrowed as she listened to the response. “Janice? Uh-huh, thanks, bye.” She snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Spike.

“I can’t do this.”

He had to strain to hear her, but the slump of her shoulders and the weary look in her eyes spoke loud and clear. She leaned against the counter next to him, her shoulder so close to his he could feel her warmth. “Can’t do what, pet?” he asked. His voice was unintentionally gentle

“Any of this. I can’t be a mom to Dawn, I can’t even cook dinner! And every day I have to get up and go to work and come home to a teenager who won’t talk to me unless it’s to tell me a lie.” Buffy glanced up at Spike. “Okay, she’s not that bad, but this,” she pointed at the phone, “is a perfect example. What did she think I would have done if she’d called? I’m not completely unreasonable, am I?”

Spike opened his mouth but paused, unsure how to answer her or if she even required an answer. Luckily, the latter seemed to be the case, as she spoke again before he could formulate a response.

“I’m screwing this up. I’m screwing Dawn up. How am I supposed to make sure she goes to college when half the time I don’t know how I’m going to put food on the table?”

“Where’s this coming from?” A worry struck him, and he felt a surge of guilt for tweaking her about paying for his car. “Are you hurting for money?”

She shook her head. “No! I mean, maybe a little. It’s just … I don’t know how to do all the things that need to be done. Grocery shopping, laundry, paying bills … It’s too much, and that’s not even the big stuff, like the fact that she hasn’t had any insurance for the past three months. I’m supposed to be taking care of her, and it’s every day, and it doesn’t stop, and I … I want to be done with it. I just want one day where I don’t have to get up and play house and go to a job I hate for not nearly enough money. I’m so, so tired.” Buffy’s head drooped forward, and she rubbed at her eyes.

“You don’t have to do it all alone.” Spike spoke slowly. “Your friends—”

She gave him a sideways glance, barely peeking at him from behind the curtain of her hair. “I can’t tell them—” She let out a sigh that ended in a bitter laugh. “I can’t talk to them about this, so why am I unloading on you?”

Her words stung. The reason for that was something he would have to examine later. He nearly snapped back a sharp answer to her, until he took in Buffy’s miserable appearance. Her cheeks were blotchy with color, her eyes full of unshed tears. She’d folded her arms around herself and seemed to be trying to take up the smallest amount of space as possible.

“You’re hurting,” he said. She looked up at him in surprise at his soft words, and he realized how close they were to each other. "And you don't really care what I think of you, do you? Maybe that makes it easier to let it out."

Spike stared down at her, and his focus narrowed to just Buffy. When she’d told him they had to talk, he hadn’t expected this. More like a biting lecture and possibly, if he was very lucky, another slap. This glimpse of her allowed him to see the cracks in the facade of the fierce attitude she presented to the world. She was so strong, but she needed a chance to stop being strong. Spike almost ached with wanting to be a haven for her, a soft place for her to rest. He wanted to put a smile on her face and see the weight of her burdens lifted from her shoulders.

Spike pivoted so that he was facing her. Their hips bumped together, and the contact sent a shock through his body. His skin fairly tingled at the heat coming off her as she stared up at him with wide eyes. He reached out and let one hand slip through the golden silk of her hair. He was probably crossing a serious line here, and he wouldn’t surprised by a punch to the gut any second.

He spoke while he still had her attention. “It’s okay to ask for help, Buffy. You don’t have to do this alone.” His voice rasped over the words.

Buffy nodded slowly, silently. His hand remained in her hair, combed through the curls at the nape of her neck. The skin beneath his hand was warm and so soft. Spike’s senses were bombarded by her—the floral scent wafting from her freshly-washed hair, the color of her eyes, the texture of her hair against his fingers.

She shifted slightly, bringing their bodies closer together. Her eyes were locked on his, and Spike watched as the green of her irises was swallowed up by the black wells of her pupils.

“I could help, if you let me.” His nerves jangled as he braced himself for Buffy’s inevitable rejection of his offer.

“You … you want to help.” Buffy licked her lips and fastened her gaze on Spike’s mouth. Then she took a deep breath, and her eyes flicked back to his. “For Dawn, no … no other reason?”

Spike inclined his head; their mouths were a hairsbreadth apart. “Can’t think of one, love,” he lied. He brushed his lips against hers, just the barest of touches. He was still half-convinced he’d be sporting a black eye if he pushed too hard. She offered no immediate objections, so he leaned in again, intent on kissing her properly.

Then Buffy jerked back slightly and stared down at the floor. Her eyes, wide with panic, flew back up to meet his. “Spike,” she said in a strangled whisper, “is that a snake?”

He looked down as well to see a slim, black and brown patterned shadow slither across her left foot. He leaned down and scooped it up before it could escape. He straightened to see that Buffy had gone pale. “Oh, she’s harmless,” he hastened to reassure her. “This is Drusssilla—” Her glossy-eyed stare dissolved into a confused blink when he said the snake’s name. “Or, uh, Dru. Just Dru is fine. Ellie named her.” Okay, Buffy was looking less like she was going to pass out on him. He smiled, hoping to set her at ease. “She’s a ball python, perfectly docile, but altogether too clever at getting free from her cage.”

Buffy nodded, her eyes transfixed on the snake that curled around Spike’s forearm before making her way to his shoulders. “I really, really don’t like snakes,” she said. “There was this snake that got loose in high school that—” She shuddered. “Ew. I can’t even talk about it.”

“Right. I’ll just go and put her away.” He hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his office, where the snake’s cage resided. “Good thing I like you,” he muttered as he deposited Dru in her cage and secured the top. He dropped a dictionary on the screen cover for good measure before heading back downstairs.

Buffy was nowhere to be seen.





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