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Author's Chapter Notes:
CHAPTER PAIRING: Spike & Tara, Tara/Willow

DISCLAIMERS: All BtVS characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I'm just fixing their mistakes.

CHAPTER CREDITS: A bit of a reference to a line said by Teeth in the "Tabula Rasa" episode. Also, another to the film "Pretty in Pink".
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Madame Polina knew they had found the vampire. She could feel the white magic blowing into Cleveland from the witches. Or, actually, from one of the witches. The one that was…dead? Something wasn't right. Not with that good witch, but with…the other. Polina felt cloudy; that's the only way she could describe it. Like one of the overcast skies that settled over the city, obscuring the sunlight beneath. She had to find that strange little exterminator. Warn him.



When Spike went to take a shower, Tara floated into the little room where Willow had been sleeping. She was surprised that she hadn't heard her lover stir yet, but she had been enjoying her conversation with Spike so she didn't interrupt.

Instantly, she could sense something wrong. The magic coming off of Willow now was stifling. What had she done? Willow seemed so peaceful and relaxed-a look like ecstasy-, and Tara suddenly felt sick; did she fall back on her old habits and become drugged with power?

The good witch had to know. She buzzed around her lover's prone form, assessing the situation. For some reason, she was unable to send Willow any messages telepathically. It was like a heavy door had been placed there and could not be budged. Tara tried to touch the witch, but whatever spell was on her had been so powerful that it seemed to rebuff Tara's energy. She hovered, watching the soft breathing, hearing the little snores that reminded her of their beloved Miss Kitty Fantastico. The spell itself hadn't felt evil or anything like that, so she was confused-surely, it couldn't have been from the Hellmouth because the darkness would have been overwhelming. And who would have even known that the two witches were in this place? She hadn't sensed at all that they'd been followed or targeted.

Tara hadn't felt so helpless in a long time.



Spike trudged on past her, with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. She could barely even see him, really, but already Tara felt the blush rise to her cheeks. He was so comfortable in his own skin—always carried himself that way, she noted—and, although she hadn't spent intimately close time like this with him before, she could imagine what this did to Buffy. And, by that, she didn't mean the sexy stuff. She knew Buffy enough to see now how uncomfortable Buffy must have been. Spike's simple acceptance of himself was in stark contrast to the insecure Slayer, who had so many levels of expectation shoveled upon her that it was a feat to find where they ended and she began. Buffy had opened up to Tara during that painful year (a reminder, again, of her role as safe outsider), but what the Slayer didn't know is that Spike had done the same (a reminder, again, that she and the vampire were kindred outsiders). Tara could see that Spike had been the only one who was able to delve deep enough to find Buffy through all those expectations. He saw her there, tried to bring that self to the fore, but, as Buffy clearly shared with Tara, that raw, bare self was someone she was ill-equipped to deal with.

The good witch's heart ached now as it did then, remembering how much pain and loss occurred because of this. Damn the Powers-That-Be for putting a child into the role of Slayer. Damn the Watchers Council for discouraging development of her humanity. Damn her parents for their lack of trust and support when she needed it most. Damn her friends for their selfish judgements. And damn that voice inside her that kept her from ignoring all of those pressures.

Tara heard clothes hangers scraping along the metal bar in Spike's closet. She sighed, focusing her mind back on the situation at hand. Couldn't touch Willow to wake her. Couldn't seem to generate enough energy to rustle objects near her either. She definitely needed Spike's help. And, unlike the other Scoobies, she wasn't afraid to ask for it.

She slipped through the open door into his room. He was standing near the bed, looking like he was deciding between shirts. Tara couldn't help but smile. Not only at his Buffy-like indecision, but also at the sight of his lithe form. He was exquisite. If his hips had suddenly swelled and his boy parts disappeared and his chest morphed into something grab-able, she'd be on him without a second thought.

Spike caught her. His trademark smirk spread across his lips. "Thinkin' of switchin' sides, luv?"

If this were three years ago, she'd have probably run away. Instead, she giggled.

He winked at her then. "Anytime. Always fancied you, pet." Spike eyed her playfully and noticed that, as he did so, her form became more opaque.

Tara knew he was teasing, but her body couldn't help but react to it. Such a charmer. No wonder Buffy couldn't stay away from him.

Spike finally chose a shirt and slipped it over his head, but didn't bother with shoes. He loved the feel of carpeting against his bare feet. Didn't have that luxury in his crypt or even at Wolfram & Hart.

"Have to work tonight for a bit," Spike said to the witch. "Just next door if you need me, though." He nodded in the direction of The Phantasy.

"Actually..." Tara wasn't sure she knew how to say this. What could Spike do?

Spike's eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Umm... it's Willow."

Red? Yeah, that always got his attention. He braced himself for it.

"She's... still sleeping."

Spike let out his held, unnecessary breath. "'S'alright, luv. I'm not evicting my guests." He smiled gently.

Tara approached him then, wringing her hands lightly. "No, I mean... she's under some sort of spell. And I can't touch her. I can't wake her."

Spike's lips morphed into a frown.

"Can you..."

Tara didn't even get a chance to finish her sentence. Spike rushed out of the room. As he left, she felt her body lighten, and she was able to float through the wall. She solidified again near him, but still could not touch Willow; it was as though her hands became invisible as they approached the magical field radiating off of the little witch.

Spike had no such ill effects. He reached down and shook Willow firmly. If she had simply been asleep, it would have been enough to bring her 'round. But her eyes stayed closed, her lips modeled into a comfortable half-smile.

Bloody hell. Spike gathered the witch in his arms, holding her to see... what? If she felt odd? If he could squeeze her awake?

He looked up at Tara. "Think someone knows you're here?"

Tara shrugged. "No idea. I mean, who would? We didn't tell anyone. And... why would anyone care?"

Oh, Angel would care, Spike thought bitterly.



"She's blocking my texts now," Angel grumbled. He was hoping this expensive phone call would yield better results.

Giles sighed. "You don't even know that he's still alive."

"He's blood, Giles. He's my blood." Angel cringed at the thought and even moreso at the sound of his voice having admitted that aloud. If he hadn't turned Drusilla, Spike would never even exist. "Of course I'd know if he was dust. Again."

Giles was torn, as usual. Getting older didn't seem to make his role or his decisions any easier. "I did as you asked," he replied tersely. "What good that's done, I do not know."

"You love her. You want to protect her. You're her Watcher... Her father."

That struck. Angel knew it would. His soul was Liam's after all.

He was pretty sure he could hear the man cleaning his glasses. But if this didn't work, Angel wasn't sure what else he could do. Outside of finding Spike himself.



Gar took one look at the tableau before him and frowned. This vampire was surely going to be the death of him.

The scene the door opened to was of a slight, red-haired girl draped in Spike's arms, the vampire looking up like the Virgin Mary holding Christ after he was pulled from the cross. Floating behind as the Holy Spirit was something (or someone) in a fluttering gown.

"Now what did you do?" the Kailiff growled, slamming Spike's door. "And why am I here?"

Tara was startled. This demon didn't look (or feel) like someone she wanted to spend the next few hours with, ghost or not. She hovered protectively over her prone girlfriend while Spike explained to him why he called.

"Oh, you can't be serious." Gar paced the small room.

"You owe me, mate!

Gar shot an angry glance to Spike.

But Spike was most definitely serious. "Don't you dare forget what I did for you on Miles. I could have left your sorry corpse there, and you know it. Those were sodding bullets, not stakes."

The Kailiff hissed for a moment before finally relenting. "If anyone finds out I'm a fucking babysitter, I'll dust you myself, you bastard."



Stan wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he loved pet-sitting. When his cousin Roy had to hide his poker winnings, Stan had reluctantly obliged to be the "safe house". He promised not to eat any, but Roy never came back to claim the winnings—and every demon knows the old saying: time is what turns kittens into cats. So, with that batch spoiled already, Stan found himself a pet-sitter. Eventually, most of his wards escaped. But, still, the experience stuck.

When his lovely neighbor Tia asked him to watch her dachshund for the weekend, he was doubly pleased. Here was a way to have a little non-evil companion for a couple days as well as a hanging favor with the pretty girl.

So, there the two floppy-eared creatures were, each eating cheese curls out of a bowl on the floor. Were dogs supposed to have this? Stan didn't know, but Puddles seemed to think so. They were in the middle of a John Hughes marathon, and the scene where Duckie was alone in his room listening to The Smiths had Stan all teary. Damn Andie, that bitch! How could she pick the "richie" over the one who loved her with all his heart?

Just as he reached for a tissue, his phone rang.

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