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Author's Chapter Notes:
Hello, dear readers. I know it's been way too long between updates, and I sincerely apologize. This chapter was ... well, sort of like pulling teeth, only with the added bonus of copious amounts of bourbon and beers.

I have to give a GIGANTIC thank you to both Puddinhead and Minx DeLovely. Seriously, if it weren't for those two, you would not be reading this right now. Or possibly ever. So if you appreciate their enthusiasm and encouragement as much as I do, go check out their stories (and make sure you leave a review!)

That being said, I do hope you enjoy this update. This chapter includes a scene I'd been planning since the start of the story, though the characters still managed to throw a surprise or two in there for me.

Some dialogue lifted from "Tough Love."

Banner by KnifeEdge
Buffy peered into the coffee urn; nothing but sludge left from the morning. No one had ordered any during the lunch rush, so it hadn’t been an issue. It was closing in on two-thirty, however, and the Senior Citizen Brigade would be descending soon, expecting fresh, hot, half-priced cups of caffeinated goodness. They lined up every afternoon, four or five or six women, depending on the day, and the same two men. The men sat in the center of the large corner booth and spoke rarely as the surrounding women chattered away, rehashing the same topics in new and fascinating ways every day.

Buffy could never figure out the appeal: who would voluntarily drink the road tar the Doublemeat Palace passed off as java, regardless of how cheap it was? Their routine was at once baffling and comforting to Buffy, and watching them every day made her more than a bit wistful. She missed the days when she and Willow and Xander were joined at the hip, when she knew that every night would be spent with her friends, scrutinizing the various events of their days. That was back before Anya and Tara, though, before Joyce’s illness and—

Buffy halted her thoughts. Not like she had any events to report these days. I cored and sliced forty pounds of tomatoes this morning! Then, I got to clean out the grease traps. The highlight of my day was making coffee. Whoo-hoo! She mechanically changed the filter and emptied a new foil packet of grounds into it before flipping the switch and setting the beverage to brew. She wiped up the counter around the coffee station, but her mind was replaying the night before.

“Hey, Buffy!” Dawn greeted her from the front door of Spike’s house, a slim shadow against the warm glow of the foyer light. Buffy smiled at her sister; she’d barely had a chance to ring the doorbell before Dawn had beaten a path to the door and flung it open.

Five days and counting, Buffy thought. For the past five days, there had been no trace of the sullen, moody teenager she had come to know and loathe. Buffy knew it wouldn’t last much beyond a week. Dawn’s period was due, and that, if nothing else, would turn her back into a raging ball of hormones, putting an end to this pleasant reprieve.

“How was work?” Dawn asked. “School was pretty lame, go figure. We’re having hamburgers for dinner tonight, but don’t worry, they’re not gross. You’ll like them. There’s feta and pesto in them, and they’re super easy to make. Oh, and I made French fries—from scratch! I’m going to make a shopping list for you for next week, so I have stuff to cook dinner, okay?”

Buffy nodded and smiled as Dawn’s cheerful monologue rambled along unchecked. She followed her sister into the kitchen. The aroma that filled the room elicited a responding growl from Buffy’s stomach, putting to rest any concerns she had about being faced with burgers after her months in the fast-food industry. There might have been a little drool, too, though that response was as much for the lean figure in black leaning over the table as the enticing scent wafting from the plate he was setting on the table.

Spike straightened up and welcomed Buffy with a nod and a wink. Her smile widened as she slipped into what was quickly becoming her place at her neighbor’s table. She looked at Dawn and Spike’s faces, and she didn’t feel alone. She felt like she was with … family. It was a good feeling.

“… and a large chocolate shake. Did you get all that?”

Buffy glanced up at the man standing in front of her, a little boy clinging to his hand. She blinked and looked down at her register. “Um, a Doublemeat Medley meal, supersized, with a Coke, and a kids’ Medley Junior meal with a large chocolate shake,” she read off the screen. He nodded, pleased, while Buffy inwardly cringed at her ability to find the right buttons on her register, even as her mind lingered in Spike’s kitchen. “Would you care for dessert with that today?”

The man shook his head, paid his tab, and moved down the counter to wait for his meal. Buffy glanced at the clock, willing the hands to hurry along. Two and a half more hours until the end of her shift and freedom—and a cooking lesson at her neighbor’s house. She ignored the quiver in her belly at the thought of spending the whole evening with Spike.

“Buffy, you have a telephone call.” Manny’s stern voice interrupted her thoughts. She shrugged off his disapproving glare and slipped by him into the office, where the phone lay on the desk.

“This is Buffy.” She spoke quietly, aware of her manager’s presence behind her. She could practically hear him counting off the seconds. No doubt he would deduct this time from her hours for the day. If it was Dawn and she wasn’t seconds from a fiery death or missing a limb, there would be hell to pay when she got home.

“Miss Summers, this is Principal Stevens. I’m sorry to disturb you at work, but you haven’t responded to any of the messages I’ve left for you.”

The unexpected voice sent a trill of fear through her. “Messages? I don’t … I’m sorry, I never got a message from you. I would have … is everything all right?”

There was a pause in which Buffy heard the rustle of papers before the woman continued. “Miss Summers, my secretary has placed three calls to your house. I called you myself yesterday morning. It is imperative that we meet to discuss Dawn’s situation. Is it possible for you to be here at the end of the school day today?”

“Oh, today? Um …” Buffy dared a peek over her shoulder. Manny still stood guard in the doorway of the office. He gave a pointed glance at the clock, tapping his wrist impatiently.

“It’s very important.” Ms. Stevens’ tone plainly stated that she wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

“I … of course. Yes. I’ll be there.” She hung up the phone and took a deep breath before turning to face her employer. He began to speak, but Buffy cut him off before he could get going.

“That was my sister’s school. I have to leave to meet with the principal.” She smiled up at Manny; cheerful and non-confrontational, that was her. “I know you understand. I mean, you have kids. Right?” A quick look around the office confirmed the absence of anything hinting at a life outside the confines of the restaurant. “Or not, I guess? I’ll … I’ll work a double tomorrow,” she promised rashly. “I know we’re short.” The angry flush receded from Manny’s face, and Buffy felt safe to hurry out of his sight.

She stopped quickly in the locker room to lose her ridiculous hat and run a comb through her hair. She only wished she had time to run home and change into something that said ‘responsible guardian’ rather than ‘minimum wage drone’. Buffy shook her head as she got into her car and headed for the high school. She had more important things to worry about than how she was dressed. Exactly how dead she was going to make her little sister was at the top of that list at the moment.


***


Dawn squirmed in her chair as both Ms. Stevens and Buffy fixed her with hard glares. Well, Buffy’s was definitely hard, maybe even granite-y, while a hint of sympathy glinted from behind Ms. Stevens’ glasses.

“Dawn, you lied to me?” Buffy’s voice cracked on the words.

“I … I didn’t lie, exactly.” She dared another glance at her sister. Big mistake. Buffy was angrier than Dawn could ever remember seeing her.

“Really. What about all the times I asked you how school was and you said ‘fine’?”

Dawn flinched at the harsh tone. “Well, it was. You didn’t ask if I was in it when it was fine.” The words fell flat even as they came out of her mouth. She gave a tiny shrug of her shoulders and tried to smile gamely under the twin barrels of Buffy’s glower and Ms. Stevens’ impassive stare.

“Dawn, I don’t—” Buffy started to speak, but quickly cut herself off. She shook her head at Dawn, who could almost hear the words that Buffy didn’t say: I’m not angry, I’m disappointed. If only that were the case. Buffy might act more sorrowful and hurt than spitting mad in front of the principal, but Dawn sensed that she was going to be in for it when they got somewhere private.

Buffy abandoned her steady perusal of Dawn’s guilty face and turned to Ms. Stevens. “I don’t know what to say. How … how did it get to this point without me knowing about it?”

Ms. Stevens shuffled through the file folder laying open on her desk. “I would like to know the same thing. We have an automated system that does alert parents and guardians to any unexcused absences. Here, this is the number we have listed for your primary contact.” She passed a paper to Buffy, who examined it quickly.

“This isn’t our phone number.” Buffy held the page up in front of Dawn. “Do you know anything about this? You turned in the change of address form when we moved. You didn’t, oh, change any other information on here, did you?”

Dawn sank down in her chair. She really didn’t want to be having this conversation. “I maybe sorta put Janice’s cell phone number down instead of ours.” She mumbled her answer toward the floor, but the lack of follow-up questions let her know she’d been heard.

This was easily the lamest day she’d had in a long time. She wished Janice hadn’t thought to give her a heads up about the principal’s call yesterday. She would have been oodles happier skipping this meeting altogether. But no, she’d decided maybe she should show up for school, since Ms. Stevens was threatening to call a meeting with Buffy. Not that being at school for one day after missing a week would be enough to get her off the hook. She should have known better.

“I am so sorry,” Buffy said. To Ms. Stevens, of course, not to Dawn. No one ever apologized to Dawn—they just apologized for her. “You know if I had been aware that Dawn was skipping school, I would have done something about it before it got to this point. I’m … I’m sure you’re aware that the past few months have been hard for Dawn. Not that I’m saying that’s an excuse.”

“I understand. Your mother was a lovely woman, and we all miss her very much.” Dawn looked up just in time to catch Ms. Stevens’ warm smile in her direction. “I know how difficult it must be.”

That was a joke. Dawn barely stopped herself from laughing derisively. Sure, Ms. Stevens meant well, but she didn’t understand anything. People said things like that all the time—I feel your pain, I get what you’re going through, I understand how you feel—but it was all a bunch of lies. No one got it, no one could possibly know how Dawn felt.

“It is,” Buffy answered. “It’s been very difficult, but especially for Dawn. She’s … she’s just a kid.”

Dawn glared at her sister. I’m not a baby! Buffy would never admit that, though.

Ms. Stevens folded her hands together on her desk and looked from Buffy to Dawn. “I think we all know that Dawn is much more than ‘just a kid’,” she said. “She’s a bright young lady with a sharp mind. When she applies herself, she does exceptionally well, and she has the potential to be an asset to our school.”

Dawn flushed under the unexpected praise and shot a triumphant glance in Buffy’s direction.

“However, we have seen little evidence of Dawn’s abilities this semester.” Ms. Stevens’ brow furrowed. She looked at Dawn from over the rim of her glasses, all trace of the mild and sympathetic principal gone. Any pleasure Dawn had felt at her previous words swiftly vanished. “Her teachers report that her homework has been spotty, at best. And of course, it is very difficult to learn if one is not in school.”

Buffy and Ms. Stevens began to discuss exactly how to insure Dawn would show up for school and complete her homework. She tuned out of the conversation at that point. Not like anyone wanted her opinion on things—after all, it was only her life they were discussing. Why should what she thought matter? Besides, her preference—no more school or homework. Ever.—was one they probably wouldn’t agree to.

“Dawn,” Ms. Stevens interrupted her sulk, “why don’t you wait outside for a minute?”

Dawn blinked and looked at Buffy. It wasn’t at all reassuring to see the worried frown on her sister’s face. “O-okay,” she said. She stood slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of any glaring clues on the paperwork half-hidden beneath the principal’s hands. At Buffy’s impatient cough, Dawn clutched her backpack in both hands and fled the office.

Five nerve-wracking minutes passed while Dawn wondered what Buffy and Ms. Stevens were talking about. Suspension? Expulsion? Summer school? Or maybe Buffy was getting in trouble, too, but Ms. Stevens didn’t want to yell at her in front of Dawn. Nah. She dismissed that idea. Buffy wasn’t even a student; what could Ms. Stevens do to her?

Finally Buffy emerged from the office. She closed the door firmly behind her and took a deep breath. She glanced briefly at Dawn, and then gave a sharp nod. Dawn took that to mean it was time to leave, particularly since Buffy followed the gesture with a swift exit.

Dawn trotted behind Buffy through the school and to the car, unwilling to break the frosty silence that lasted the entire way home. It wasn’t until they stood facing one another in the living room that Dawn dared to open her mouth.

Buffy held up her hand, effectively silencing the apology Dawn had spent the car ride formulating. “I don’t want to hear it.” She hadn’t looked at Dawn once since they had left the school, and she wasn’t looking at her now. It gave Dawn an oogly feeling in the pit of her stomach to see Buffy so angry. “I can’t talk to you right now. Just … go to your room. We’ll deal with this later, when I can look at you without …”

Dawn nodded and obeyed without protest. Halfway up the stairs, she stopped and turned back to Buffy. “I’m sorry,” she said meekly.

“Go. To. Your. Room.”

Buffy was about to lose it; Dawn felt like she’d stumbled onto a frozen river and was watching the ice splinter beneath her feet. She gulped and sprinted up the stairs for the safety of her room, where she threw herself across her bed. She reached for her favorite stuffed animal, a ratty-eared dog, and turned her face into her pillow in an attempt to stifle the sobs that tore through her.

***


Spike experienced a moment of deja vu when he opened the door to reveal Buffy in full-on brassed-off mode. Just like the day she’d moved in, she was fuming; smoke was practically pouring out of her ears. The only difference he could see was that she was dressed in her ugly-as-sin work uniform instead of short-shorts and a skimpy top. He tried out a friendly smile in the hopes of shaking her out of her mood.

She shoved past him into the foyer without waiting for an invite. “I thought you were taking Dawn to school!” she snapped by way of greeting. She planted her hands on her hips and glowered at him.

“And hullo to you, too, pet.” He closed the door, and the quiet snick of the latch catching echoed through the foyer. Spike turned to Buffy and waited for some indication that she had any manners at all.

“Dammit, Spike! I thought you were going to help me, and instead—” Her voice caught and cracked, and she bit her lip.

He took a step toward her, confused and now a little concerned. He’d been expecting her and Dawn for supper, but she was over an hour early; she shouldn’t have even been out of work yet. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Is everything all right?”

She shook her head and gave a cold laugh that scraped his nerves raw. “No. And I want to know what the hell you’ve been doing with my sister.”

“What I’ve been—” He didn’t like the accusation in her voice; it set him on edge, got his defenses up. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“God, I’m such an idiot.” She paced back and forth in the hallway. “I just … you’re so helpful and nice, always wanting to lend a hand. And I was desperate enough to let you.”

Spike stepped into her path, bringing her frantic pacing to a sudden halt. “Buffy,” he said, as calmly as he could, “we’ve been getting along. Being neighbors, yeah? So tell me what’s going on. What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that Dawn hasn’t been seen at school for the past week. Ever since you started ‘dropping her off’ in the morning.” Buffy glared up at him. “I just had a meeting with her principal, and no one has even seen her arrive at school, let alone attend any of her classes.”

“Oh, that’s—”

“Where has she been?” She stepped forward until they stood toe-to-toe.

“There’s always this gaggle of girls in the morning, right? Dawn said she wanted to walk the rest of the way to school with them.” He shrugged. “Didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“Well, it is a big deal! I trusted you with her.”

“And I trusted her to go to school. My question is: why are you over here taking it out on me instead of talking to the person who’s at fault?”

Buffy put her hands on his chest and shoved him as hard as she could.

Spike took a stumbling step backwards; his heel caught on the bottom riser of the staircase, and he landed on his arse. The impact rattled his teeth; to add insult to injury, he bit his tongue at the same moment he bruised his tailbone. Worse than the physical damage, though, was the odd sense of betrayal he felt. He’d thought he’d seen Buffy Summers at her worst. Thought she’d gotten past her defensiveness and bursts of temper. He’d thought they were becoming something more than neighbors—friends, if nothing else. Spike wanted to laugh at himself. Worrying about being friends with the crazy lady one door down while his rear end throbbed and his tongue oozed salty blood into his mouth.

He did nothing to hide his pain and irritation as he kipped to his feet in one fluid movement. Buffy flinched away from, and he tried not to take any pleasure in the look of horror and shock on her face.

“I’m … I didn’t …” she stammered.

“Let me guess,” he said acidly. “You’re sorry. You didn’t mean to. I’m bloody well not your sodding punching bag, Summers. Thought we’d moved on to the using-our-words stage of our relationship.”

“Spike, I …”

“You know what? You want something to pound on, you can find a better target.” He wrapped his hand around her wrist. “In fact …” He led her into the kitchen and opened the door to the basement. “Come on. Let’s get this out of your system.”

She balked momentarily at the top of the dark staircase. Spike flipped on the lights and loosened his hold on her. “Come on,” he said again, a little gentler this time. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Buffy nodded silently and followed him down the stairs. Not that he gave her much choice. He pulled a light cord at the bottom of the stairs, illuminating the utilitarian room. A punching bag hung in the middle of the room, centered over a gym mat. The only other furnishings were the washer and dryer and a simple folding table that held laundry detergent and a small stack of gauze cloths.

Spike retrieved two strips of gauze from the table. “Give me your hands,” he said. “I’ll wrap them for you.” He took Buffy’s right hand in his. He placed the end of the gauze between the delicate bones of her wrist and held it there. He could feel her pulse thrumming against his fingers as his other hand wound the strip twice around her wrist.

“Spike, this is sil—”

“Shush,” he interrupted her. He didn’t want to hear what she thought. He didn’t want to fight with her. He wanted to watch his hands move over her smooth flesh, wanted to run his fingers down the pale blue trace of veins on her forearm. His fingers looked too rough, too large against her smaller digits, and his chipped black nail polish only heightened the incongruity of their contact.

Six days, Spike thought. He kept his attention focused on what his hands were doing, not even daring to look up at her lest he lose his temper. It had been six days since they’d declared a truce—for Dawn’s sake, or so she wanted to believe. Spike knew it wasn’t just that. The way he thought about being her friend—the way he wanted to be a part of her life—told him there was more to this than wanting to help a girl who reminded him of what he’d lost.

It had been over six years since Ellie had died and his family had imploded. In all that time, he’d never allowed himself to be close to anyone the way he’d been with Buffy and Dawn over the past six days. The way he’d been with his sister and his mother, before—

He’d reached the end of the first wrap. Buffy’s right hand was securely wound, the gauze providing support and cushion for her knuckles and metacarpals. He took hold of her left hand and repeated the process.

Six days. That was all it had taken. Six days of smiles and friendship and jokes, six days of sharing her burden, being part of something—feeling like a member of a family again. Sometime in those six days—

Be honest, he instructed himself. Started the moment you saw her.

True. That feisty girl he’d met—was it only three months ago?—had managed to make an impression from word one. Between that first meeting and the past six days, he was a goner.

Spike was head over heels in love with Buffy Summers.

And she didn’t care two figs for him.

“There,” he said, and he patted her hand one last time before letting her go. “Go beat up something that’ll stand for it.” He met her eyes and was meanly gratified to see tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

“I am sorry, Spike,” she said.

“You say that a lot.” He took her shoulders in his hands and steered her toward the punching bag. “Maybe you should work on not needing to apologize so much.”

Buffy shot him one more kicked-puppy-dog look over her shoulder before squaring off with the heavy bag. “This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. You’re peeved, you want to punch something, I don’t want to be that something.” He circled the bag until he stood opposite Buffy. “So go on. Hit it.”

She punched the bag, but so weakly it barely even moved.

“Come on, Summers. We both know you got more in you than that. You hit me harder than that the first day we met, and I’d hardly done anything yet.”

“Key words being ‘hardly’ and ‘yet’,” Buffy said. She took another swing at the bag. It was less pitiful than the first, but not by much.

“Give it up, pet. You know I’m your favorite bloke in the world.” I wish. “I can sketch you a picture of my face and tape it to the bag, if that’d help motivate you.” He eyed her closely as he spoke. “But it’s not me you’re angry at, is it?”

“You wanna make a bet?” She landed a quick, fierce jab on the bag, then fell back into a relaxed fighting stance. She danced lightly on the balls of her feet as she brought her fists up in front of her face. “You told me.” She threw a left jab. “You took Dawn.” A right hook. “To school.” A solid uppercut. Buffy stepped back from the bag and met Spike’s eyes. “So yeah. I’m a little pissed off.”

He smirked and shook his head. “Yeah, but not at me.” She opened her mouth, no doubt to detail exactly why he was the only person to blame for Dawn’s behavior, but he forestalled her. “You think it would’ve made any difference if I’d marched that kid up to the school doors? Maybe I should have escorted her from class to class all day, just to make sure she stayed in school.”

“I told you this was stupid,” Buffy muttered, and started pulling at the gauze wrapped around her left hand.

Spike covered the space between them in a second and captured her hands in his. “Stop. Just … I’m telling you, Buffy, this, whatever it is, between us? It’s gotta change. So try again, yeah?” He released her hands and stepped away until he stood behind her. He watched the slope of her shoulders and the way she let her head hang as she took a few deep breaths. Then she moved into that same neutral stance as before and circled around the bag.

The room was quiet except for the squeak of Buffy’s shoes on the mat and the solid smack of her fists landing a series of punches on the bag. Spike watched her with growing admiration. She knew what she was doing, that much was clear. She kept herself moving and kept her hands up as she did. Then she surprised Spike with a roundhouse kick that set the bag swinging wildly. Buffy danced back from the arc of the bag. A smile so natural it looked unconscious lit up her face.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Spike commented. She shrugged her shoulders and laid into the bag again without answering. That was enough for him. He wished he’d thought of this months ago. Maybe his car would have escaped the Wrath of Buffy if she’d had an alternative outlet for her emotions. “You want to share? Tell me what’s really making you mad, now we’ve established it’s not me?”

“Where to start?” Her tone was bitter, but she didn’t cease her rhythmic attack. Three punches, fall back and move a quarter turn to the left, four punches and another kick. Even in the hideous uniform, she moved as if she’d been born to it. Her speech was punctuated with the sound of her fists connecting with the bag. “How about … Dawn’s been lying to me for months. She put her friend’s cell phone down as our number so I wouldn’t get any calls from the school about her attendance.”

Spike winced. But at least that was something she couldn’t pin on him. “What’s going to happen with that? She get suspended, or—”

Buffy halted her movements mid-punch and glanced at him. “No. They’re not … we decided giving Dawn a free vacation wasn’t the best idea.”

He chuckled at that. “Yeah, probably not.”

She sighed and executed another kick. Spike tried not to stare, but damn, she looked good.

“Where’d you learn the fancy footwork?” he asked.

“I took martial arts for twelve years.” She moved back into her previous rhythm. She was starting to work up a sweat, and Spike watched a bead of moisture trickle down her neck into the collar of her shirt. “I wanted to open a dojo, actually. I was working on a business degree with a phys ed minor until Mom got sick.” That statement was followed by a particularly vicious set of punches and kicks.

“Had to give it up, huh?” Spike edged around the mat as Buffy assailed the bag, mirroring her movement so he kept her in his sights.

“Had to take care of Mom and Dawn,” she said shortly.

“Hard to do, I bet.” He kept his voice casual. She wasn’t looking at him; she was focused on the bag, on where to place her feet and her hands. “Putting your plans on hold like that.”

“It was supposed to be for a semester.” Smack. “She had to have surgery.” Smack. “Someone had to … Dawn couldn’t do it, you know?” Buffy’s breath came quicker even as her hits slowed down. “So I dropped out and moved home. And then …” Smack, smack. Her words ceased, and the punches and kicks picked up again.

Spike wanted to nudge her along, get her talking again, but he wasn’t sure she’d even hear him. She looked to be in her own world as she worked the heavy bag. He waited and watched, instead. Her golden curls had darkened with sweat, and a few strands clung to her face. She circled the bag steadily, and Spike could see the fighter in her. He imagined himself facing off against Buffy, sparring with her, and his body stirred at the thought. Would she go for that? Maybe. Seemed to take any excuse she could get to lay her hands on him.

“She promised I’d be back in school this fall.” Buffy’s ragged voice interrupted his pleasant daydream; he tucked it away for later. She stood before the bag, suddenly flat-footed and graceless. Her gaze was unfocused, and her hands hung limply at her sides. “That was our deal. It was important to her that I finish college.” She looked up to meet his eyes. He hated the emptiness on her face. The smile from earlier was long gone.

“You can still do that,” he said quietly. He moved slowly across the mat until he stood next to her. She dropped her eyes to her hands and again plucked at the gauze wraps. Spike didn’t stop her this time, but took her left hand and began to unwind the wrapping. “Nothing to keep you from going back to school, right?”

“Sure. Nothing stopping me.” Her words were soft, but full of venom. She yanked her hand away from his and finished the job of unwrapping the gauze. “There’s just my kid sister who I’ve got to keep fed and clothed and …” Buffy started in on her right hand. Her movements were jerky and impatient; whatever tension she had vented during her session with the punching bag was coming back in spades. “I never wanted to … I wasn’t one of those girls who dreamt about having kids someday, you know? But I promised, I told Mom I’d take care of Dawn if anything ever happened to her. I figured … she was getting better. She was ... it was a ‘just in case’ thing, like making plans for her funeral. It wasn’t … she wasn’t supposed to die. She said she was fine, every day she was getting better, and then …”

Spike was unprepared for the onslaught of Buffy’s tears. The sobs burst out of her, shaking her entire body. She covered her face with her hands and wailed into the crumpled gauze she still held. He stood next to her, wanting nothing more than to pull her into his embrace and soothe her until the storm passed. Now that he understood exactly what it was he felt for her, watching her suffer was like taking a knife in the chest. Her pain ripped through him like a physical thing.

Finally, Spike threw caution to the wind and slipped an arm around Buffy’s shoulders. Her breath hitched at the contact, but then she turned so her forehead rested against his chest. He put his other arm around her and tugged her close to him. “It’s okay,” he murmured. He dipped his head so his mouth was next to her ear. “Let it all out, love, that’s it.” They stood there for several minutes as she cried out her sorrow and Spike whispered soft words of encouragement to her.

Buffy mumbled something he couldn’t quite make out. He pulled back a bit and tipped her chin up. Her eyes were blood-shot and puffy, and her nose was dripping snot. She was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “What was that?”

She swiped at her tear-stained cheeks and runny nose with the gauze. Her eyes flickered up to meet his, then settled on his chest. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was flat, devoid of the emotion that had animated her just minutes ago.

“They’re going to take Dawn away.”





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