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READ CHAPTER 15 FIRST!
I updated twice in one day, so make sure you read the chapter in order! :)
Hope y'all enjoy.
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There was something to be said for routine. Buffy managed to readjust hers fairly easily as the weeks went by. She worked at the high school every Monday and Thursday, while in between her commitment to the store remained steady.

Anya Harris was thrilled when Buffy asked her if she would be interested in a part time job. Since Xander had given Jack one, and she really did need someone to keep the place open those two extra days, hiring Anya was probably the best decision she could have made.

The woman loved to make a sale. There were a few intricacies Anya needed to learn, mostly regarding etiquette, and a general rule of thumb not to speak her mind quite all the time, but other than that she was a great employee.

Buffy's position as a guidance counselor grew less daunting. Students started frequenting her office, asking her advice on everything from college to relationships. They trusted her with the general teenage drama, and relied on her help to solve their problems.

It could be overwhelming, yes, but the more Buffy did the more rewarding it became. She felt like she was making a difference for these kids, most of whom hardly ever talked to their parents. She didn't like the disconnect between the generations, but her position allowed an opportunity to explain that no matter how clueless or strict, parents did usually have the best intentions.

She believed she was starting to make progress on both sides. Robin Wood recently tried to rope her into working three days out of the week instead of two, as he was suitably impressed with the response she was getting from the students. Buffy wasn't ready to give up another day at the store, which he accepted, but she was flattered by his praise all the same.

Outside of work, Spike came around more and more. A day didn't go by where they didn't speak. They chose to meet up after school on Mondays and Thursdays, usually talking in her office for at least an hour. They had dinner at her house twice a week, but that was happening more often, too. Tabitha was beginning to make a habit out of sleeping on Spike's coat if he left it on any semi flat surface.

Colder weather sped into the area all at once. The skies were either damp and gray, or bright and chilly. It snowed the first day of November. These inspiring mornings and frosty evenings doubled in short time, the cattails in her front yard started to bow, and the holiday season climbed its annual rise to the forefront of everyone's mind.

Thanksgiving crept up like a sneaky neighbor. Buffy was so distracted by work and a man she was very quickly starting to think of as her boyfriend, even if the label hadn't been tagged on yet, she almost didn't notice. Halloween had come and gone without so much as a single costume idea, spent handing candy out to trick-or-treaters while Spike called every other hour from the cemetery.

Thanksgiving, however, was to be a much different affair. One of those family holidays, plump with football and turkey.

Giles was in merry old England, and unlikely to come home for it. Apparently, he had been invited to stay at a ski resort in Switzerland.

Thinking about Giles on a ski lift alone was enough to make her nervous, imagining him actually hurtling down the slopes had Buffy locking the man into a verbal contract that barred him from sport participation completely.

He swore to stick to the sauna and chess games. Apparently, there was a little tournament going on there and he was convinced he had a shot at winning. Didn't she know he was great at chess? Until then, Buffy hadn't, but she was exceedingly grateful for tedious strategy games as soon as he informed her.

Without Giles coming in for a holiday he didn't really celebrate anyway, Buffy had no reason to host dinner. It was a load off her mind, and amazingly, she was invited to spend Thanksgiving with numerous friends and neighbors on a day to day basis. After the almost-mugging at the grocery mart, which people got wind of fairly quickly thanks to not so widely spread town gossips, everyone became particularly warm and welcoming.

It wasn't uncommon for Buffy to receive holiday invitations, but they were especially abundant this time around. It was probably just luck that Anya and Xander were the first ones to ask whether she had plans or not.

She would be attending dinner at their house in a little over a week. Buffy was expected to bring the rolls, as Anya explained she always burned them when she tried making them herself.

It was going to be a small affair, or so Buffy expected. The Harrises, Anya's mother, a couple neighbors, and her. The entire idea of actually celebrating this year seemed almost mundane, until the notion struck her to invite Spike.

She was nearly positive he didn't have plans. He was British, after all, and unless the man was great at holding a grudge she didn't think he would be opposed to coming.

Buffy thought about it for days, idly glancing at the mark on her calendar and cringing every time. She toyed with the best way to ask him, and then considered the answers she might receive. Each scenario left her more nervous than the last.

Dating William, dating Spike, was new. It was the closest thing to a relationship she'd had in over two years. Every time Buffy thought about asking him whether he wanted to attend a family-esque dinner, which might hint at commitment and other serious things, she was captured by schoolgirl inadequacy.

You just didn't ask a grown man if he wanted to be your boyfriend. It felt too forced, to childish. Exclusive was a more suitable word, but semantics didn't take away from her panic.

They hadn't slept together yet, and despite those intimate kisses the night of their first date, they had barely progressed so far a second time. Every once in a while he looked at her in that bone melting way, like she was the universe rolled up inside a human being, and Buffy felt her stomach tighten and blushed so hard that her nerves probably turned pink. Yet she still couldn't bring herself to ask if he would come to Thanksgiving dinner... let alone whether they qualified as a true-blue couple.

They spent unrestricted amounts of time together, shared meals together, even ran errands for each other on occasion. Spike had picked up paper towels so many times now it was unlikely she would remember to get them for herself ever again. These kinds of things were undoubtedly of the couple variety, and despite the fact Spike had only just gotten a cell phone, he was never hard to reach. It almost seemed he went out of his way to make certain she could get a hold of him.

None of her past boyfriends had been so doting, and Spike demanded nothing from her. No declarations, and no tears to prove she trusted him. He had become much more comfortable with teasing her, too, and that relaxed Buffy. It made her think he was starting to trust his own judgment as much as she did.

What they had was different. Almost a partnership, and if someone had told her when she was eighteen that she would eventually kick Angel to the curb and start getting in deep with a new man just weeks later, a man named Spike, Buffy probably would have laughed herself silly.

She was under no delusions he was perfect, but his imperfections- from the occasional stutter to his tendency to talk during movies -were what made their relationship so groundbreaking. Spike calmed and excited her. She didn't feel as if she needed to measure up to anything to make them both happy.

She was in deep, and she knew it, but focusing on the obvious had never been something Buffy liked to do. So, she let her mind nitpick the little things, rather than examine just how close she and Spike were getting.

Pouting over the fact he hadn't invited her to his house yet was number one. Sure, he described it in great detail, and the pictures in that book counted for something, except Buffy's curiosity had very little to do with the property and everything to do with wanting to see how he lived. Was Spike messy? What did the inside of his fridge look like? Was it filled with strange bachelor necessities like lunchmeat, chicken wings and beer? Did he have a day planner? Just how many black T-shirts and button ups did the man own?

It was never the guy's problem opening up, it was always hers, and she couldn't rightly say she was facing that dilemma with Spike. She also couldn't say he acted like he was hiding anything. Her insecurities were merely getting the better of her, and Buffy had to fight them down occasionally. After all, it had never once been said she wasn't welcome in his home.

On the Sunday before Thanksgiving she was busying herself with work, and trying to avoid the entire concept of relationship conjecture.

Occasionally, customers paid Buffy to display their antiques in her store. The most recent example was a drop front writing desk from the 1930s, and she was suitably impressed by both its style and condition.

Buffy examined the piece from top to bottom and dusted it clean. There were roses painted on the sides, numerous cubbies for letters, papers, and other things. It reached her waist in height. The legs were stout and ornate, three serpentine drawers made up the middle, and the surface was smooth, unmarred cherry wood.

Anya had already tagged it with the price, but Buffy couldn't remember her mentioning who brought it in. She walked behind the front counter and found the log book organizing secondary sale merchandise, spotting Anya's latest entry almost immediately.

Apparently, Larry Gregory was the owner. "Sell for asking price or best offer."

Buffy frowned over that. She rarely got people to allow wiggle room on the pricing. That was why they brought their personal items to her. Not only could she wrestle a good wad of cash out of almost any penny pincher, but a higher price usually meant it took longer to sell a piece. Her store acted as a storage unit and selling block.

She shrugged absently and closed the log book. Eyeing the desk again, standing in a corner beside a full length mirror and several dozen photographs, Buffy decided it really was kind of priceless. Larry didn't seem much for antiques, though, and he must have no sentimental attachment, otherwise he wouldn't be getting rid of it.

She wondered how he'd acquired it.

Just as Buffy was setting the book back on its shelf, beside her folded coat and one unopened twelve pack of diet coke, the front door opened with a parade of wind.

The radio overhead quieted and tension spread across her shoulders like a net. An all too familiar face, bordered by streaks of yellow blonde hair and oil smudges stood impatiently inside her store.

Buffy cleared her throat and resisted a scowl. "How can I help-"

"Where is it?" he demanded.

A moment taken to catch up didn't help her decipher his needs. "What?"

"Where's the desk? The one my dad gave you to sell."

Buffy blinked in shock and turned as if in slow motion towards the piece. He was glaring at her back, she could feel it on her spine like little needles, but once he spotted what he wanted his attention shifted.

Joe Gregory, oldest son to Larry Gregory, resident pervert, and most recent addition to Buffy's "People I Would Clock" list, was a tall and grimy young man. At age twenty-two he worked daily with his father at the mechanic shop. He used to bug her to no end. Ever since learning that he liked to beat up sixteen year olds for fun and encouraged his younger brother's help, Buffy found she hated just letting him set foot in her store.

The guy wrapped his long arms around the sides of the desk without delay, one heavy groan piercing the air. He carried it three feet before Buffy ran out from behind the counter. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"I'm taking this back," he said irritably. "My dad had no right to give it to you, and he has no right to sell it. Now get out of my way."

Buffy shook her head and put both palms flat on the closed, slanted surface of the desk. "I am not letting you take this. Your dad asked me to sell it for him. If he's changed his mind then he can tell me."

He glared dramatically and dropped the desk, making her jump. That furious brown glower could frighten anyone, but Buffy was oblivious to the emotion. "I don't give a shit. You're not selling it."

"It's your dad's, isn't it?"

"No. It's my mom's, and until he gets permission from her ghost to fucking sell it, I'm keeping it."

A chill went through her. That's right. The Gregory boys had lost their mom some time ago. Despite every instinct in Buffy's body begging her to scream at the moron, her gut still reacted to that knowledge. "I'm sorry," she forced herself to say, "but your dad expects me-"

He didn't want to hear anymore. Joe stepped around the cherry wood barricade between them and towered over her. She hadn't worn her boots today, well, not her clunky ones. Just flats, so she was about as tall as she could ever wish to be and that meant her head reached Joe's chest. It was an unsettling difference when a man was invading your personal space.

"I'm not asking you," he snarled. "It's my desk. My dad doesn't have a right to it. She left it to me."

"I think you should take a step back." Buffy's voice had lowered, something darkened by its hush. "Now," she warned.

He refused to move. "Why?" A light entered his eyes, one that was somehow dark. It flickered like wavering candle flames. "Am I making you uncomfortable, sweetie?"

Buffy ground her teeth together. There was that damnable nickname, covered by syrupy disgust. An unreal endearment he sneered to multiple women in town if they met with certain requirements. Maybe his unfiltered bad luck with the opposite sex was what made him bully Jack, a way to compensate, a way to feel like a "man."

Tough guy was going to learn a hard lesson if he kept trying to bully her. "You're making it less likely I'll let you take that desk."

"Like I said, I'm not asking."

Joe Gregory turned and picked the big piece of furniture up once again, and Buffy was clenching her fists to remain in control. "I'll call your dad and talk to him about this if you want me to."

He ignored her, lumbering towards the door.

"Or I'll just call him now, so I can talk with him."

The man didn't stop. "Do what you want. I'm not going to let him see this thing again if he keeps trying to get rid of it."

Any remaining sympathy died a quick death. "Maybe you should ask him what he wants."

Joe finally dropped his load and turned on her, storming forward. "Maybe you should keep your nose out of other people's business!" he shouted. Buffy stepped back, her spine hit the counter. "You might think you can push an old man around because you're cute, but tits and ass don't work on everyone."

Something snapped. "You think I'm pushing your dad around?"

"I'm betting you manipulate a lot of men to get your way."

"I don't hurt people for personal gain," she said.

"You sure look like the type." His shins caressed her knees in an eerie sway.

Buffy swallowed. "That's funny coming from you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I thought it took one to know one." She inched backward, further into the counter's edge, and rose her chin to look him dead in the eye. "You look like a manipulative jerk to me."

He pinched her chin in one big, oily hand. Surprise and fear pulsed together as she shoved him off, but Joe grabbed her wrist and squeezed. "You need to learn how to shut your mouth one of these days."

He pushed himself away before she could reply. The glass clinked in protest behind her. She trembled against her will, watching him stomp back to the desk and haul it out the front door.

Until that moment, she hadn't realized her heart was beating a mile a minute. Buffy cupped her jaw, squeezing her eyes shut. Her wrist throbbed like a twitchy clock striking the hour. The moment swayed to stillness as her nerves worked for composure.

The quiet didn't last long. About twenty seconds into it, someone new barreled into her little shop and Buffy jumped again. Her whole body felt weighted with lead, but when she saw Spike's face, relief took hold of everything.

"Buffy." He stormed forward, eager hands coming up to frame her shoulders. He didn't touch her, just looked her over from head to toe, beseeching blue eyes edged with worry and coal liner. "Are you okay?"

She reached forward without conscious thought, latching onto his arms. Spike pulled her into a hug and maintained eye contact, letting their foreheads touch. "Yeah. I'm okay," she said, but a knot tightened in her stomach.

Something small, something almost invisible, changed. On his face, the worry quickly melted into anger. "What happened?"

She heard the coldness in that question and was transported back weeks, to an alley behind a grocery store. She remembered a thief and blood, lots of it. Buffy's turned away, unblinking, to stare at the floor. "Nothing."

Spike's breathing was barely audible but she could see his chest heaving through his T-shirt. Her hand, wrapped once more around her wrist, was taken in a gentle grasp. "Did he touch you?"

His biting voice, the question, was all more than enough to make her look up. Buffy shook her head. "How did you-"

"Saw him after I parked, walkin' out of here carryin' a desk. Pillock looked angry."

It sounded like the idea of Joe being angry at her made Spike livid; and that was just the concept. "He was," Buffy admitted. "The desk was his mom's, and his- his dad tried to sell it through me. Joe took it back."

"That's what he wanted?"

She nodded. "We kind of argued about it first."

A fast tremor shook his body. Spike reached for her arms and began rubbing soothing circles into her flesh through the cotton. "I imagine he didn't bother asking."

She laughed humorlessly. "No, he made that very clear."

Thick bile filled his gut. The only thing stopping Spike from bolting out the door right then was the fact his girl looked as white and fragile as a porcelain doll. He hated it. "I'll get it back for you if you want."

Buffy shook her head again, annoyed to feel her eyes watering. "It's not worth it. I'm sure I'll hear from Larry soon enough."

She didn't know Spike wanted to do everything he could to intercept that call. If the bastard wanted to keep the bloody desk then let him keep it, but there was something Joe Gregory didn't have rights on, and that was Buffy's peace of mind. The wanker had already stolen his. "Did he hurt you?"

Buffy didn't say anything right away, but having not answered the last time she knew there was no avoiding it. A tight shrug accompanied hedging. "I'm fine. The guy's just a jerk."

The guy was dead. Spike closed his eyes with her admission, every limb and muscle going rigid. He kissed Buffy's forehead, and wrapped his arms more fully around her, relieved when she let him.

"Spike, you can't do anything to him."

Apparently, the chit could read his mind. "I beg to differ on that note."

"You can't," she exclaimed, moving her face away from his chest. He immediately wanted to pull her back. "The guy is a bully and in major need of an ass kicking. I get that, okay? But I can't let you start a fight. I don't want you getting into trouble because of me."

Spike exhaled much like a dragon and ignored her, scanning Buffy's face and right hand some more. "What did he do when he was in here?"

"Spike, did you hear me?"

"What did he do, love?"

"Take a desk."

"I mean to you," he demanded.

"Just grabbed my wrist, okay?" She shook her head, sighing. "I'm fine. I promise."

Spike took that moment to fixedly examine the exposed appendage.

After a minute she lost her patience and tugged it away from him. "Will you promise you're not going to get into a fight with him?"

His anger finally rose to the surface, bubbling behind frosty blue eyes. "The bastard put his hands on you. You think I'm just gonna let-"

"What about Jack?"

The interruption made his mouth snap shut. A fierce muscle tick appeared in his cheek, and Buffy had the insane urge to curve her hand against it.

Spike looked down. *Balls.* Jack. He couldn't... Damn it to hell. He couldn't do a thing about Joe because of Jack. The kid would imagine himself to be the cause. Even if Spike explained...

His senses flared. "I'll tell him what happened. Jack won't think I-"

"But Joe will be angry."

"And bloody."

"He'll take it out on Jack," Buffy stressed. "At least, he might, and I'm not willing to chance it." Spike turned away, rage tightening his entire body from shoe soles to throat. "Besides," she added quietly, "I can't let the sheriff think you're always getting into fights, especially if they concern me every time. And I don't doubt Joe would press charges."

Spike figured he could always rip out the idiot's tongue. That would interfere with filing a complaint, and he shouldn't have one anyway, but the idea wasn't likely to fly with Buffy. "What about makin' your own report?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't want to deal with that. In this town word would get around."

"Maybe it should."

"Larry's doesn't deserve that," she explained quietly. "I don't want to hurt him, and I don't think much can be done to Joe anyway. All he really did was take back something that used to belong to his mother."

Sighing, Spike shook his head and resisted the urge to storm out, find the wanker, and beat him into an extended hospital stay. It was only after a good minute of grinding his teeth together that Spike managed to nod.

Buffy finally smiled, thankful and gentle. She leaned up to kiss him with sweet timidity the man knew all too well wasn't her normal shade of passion. Spike pulled her closer, cradled her body against his own, and tenderly feathered voiceless endearments across her lips. She sighed contentedly and brought her hands to his neck, wrapping them around and using her toes to raise herself higher.

Spike pulled back for air alone. He murmured her name and she giggled softly. The sound was so light, so unexpected and damn beautiful that his eyes popped open. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she said. "I just feel better now."

He smiled tenderly. Inside, he was thanking God. "I'm sorry I wasn't here before-"

"Don't be sorry," she cut in. Buffy turned so she could nuzzle his jaw affectionately, each nerve in Spike's body quickly set aflame. The radio played soft music overhead. He sighed into her hair and held on for as long as he could.

All the while, a voice in the back of Spike's mind called out a warning. Not to step back, or loosen his grasp; it was a ringing alarm that stood as the countdown for something else. Something he feared related to Buffy's safety.

Spike realized his heart might be getting in the way of logic, but his gut rarely turned out to be wrong. When he had seen Joe Gregory striding from the store, the seconds it took to travel to her side were muffled by his own pulse.

With every running step the unease doubled. The idea of Joe being near her made Spike's fighting instincts go off, and if something like this happened again, there was nothing to stop him from making peace with several inner demons.

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