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Spike woke to the sound of a bell. It was a repetitious noise, faint but suitably insistent and irritating. He squeezed his eyes closed shortly after opening them, burrowing deeper into the warmth of his and Buffy's blanket-made cocoon.

Eventually, the realization struck that a persistent ringing was likely to wake her, so Spike left a kiss in her hair and turned over. He leaned across the edge of the bed and blindly found his jeans on the floor, digging into the front pocket. He pulled out his cell phone.

He silenced it before awareness sunk in. The only person who might ever call him was Buffy. Spike had only gotten the thing for her, no one else had the number. All calls made to his house were set to be forwarded, of course, but only as a precaution.

He blinked furiously and tried to clear his head. Contact from the school or Robin Wood was unlikely, but...

Spike flinched at the bright glare of the mobile screen as an icon for a new voicemail suddenly appeared. He listened to it begrudgingly, closing his eyes yet again. A grumpy and rarely heard voice of the deacon ran down his nerves. He cringed; the message replayed. A group of teenagers had broken into the cemetery, done some damage. Police were called.

A groan of silence and depth left his body. He usually had holidays off, minus Halloween, and when he did occasionally ignore the rules Spike was never caught. He wasn't likely to be in any trouble for this absence, but still needed to get to the cemetery as soon as possible. That last bit, according to his boss.

Rubbing a hand down his face, he set his phone on the nightstand and looked over his shoulder. He traced the dark outline of Buffy's body. Immediately, Spike curled to that side.

It wasn't bloody fair. The first time he shared her bed, naked bodies pressed intimately together, keeping space like lovers, and a twist of bad luck cuts it short. The last thing he wanted to do was leave. Dress in his jeans and face the cold air outside. Bloody hell, he had told her he would stay.

Palm at the back of her hair, Spike lay still for a moment. He supposed he could simply claim never having received the voicemail, and refuse to show. He'd likely get fired for it. The deacon who managed the church over there was a testy old sod.

Spike could take his chances, or even quit, but he really didn't fancy looking for another job in this town where he wouldn't have to talk to people. Plus, losing it would only heighten the chances Buffy might start thinking of him as truly pathetic. Spike would rather she see him as someone worthy of lying beside her at night.

And what a night it had been. Breathing deep, breathing with her, counting her passionate returns. Spike traced a delicate shoulder carefully in the darkness. For the first time in his life, he felt peace. Divine, genuine peace warming his bones, and he didn't want to let it go.

Disbelief remained prevalent, but it was faded like a picture. He didn't know when it had become incapable of ruling his happiness like an unforgiving king, but he was thankful.

Happiness. Spike nearly scoffed. *What a thought.*

He grasped the blankets and pulled them higher, covering her arm. He then leaned in to press a kiss against Buffy's forehead, wishing she might fall right back to sleep once he left. He didn't want to disturb her, but knew that leaving without an explanation would prove supremely ungenerous.

She stirred almost immediately. Spike was murmuring her name, gently shaking her through the blanket like one would a child. "Sweetheart, wake up. I've got to go."

Buffy moaned, wrinkling her nose, and Spike chuckled. She swatted his hand away and he chuckled again. "C'mon, love."

"Mmm." Buffy pried her eyes open, but he could just barely tell. "What?" she croaked.

"I've got to leave," he muttered. "It's the last thing I want."

She was quiet again, as if gathering memories from the active portion of her brain. "Then why are you going?" she grumbled.

"Problems at the cemetery."

"Oh." She shut her eyes again before pushing her face into the pillows. "Sorry."

Spike was half sure she didn't know what she was saying, but comforted her anyway. "Don't be. I'm the one who's sorry. Now, go back to sleep, yeah?"

She sighed. "Okay."

He left another kiss on her cheek, absorbing her warmth for a minute before eventually rising from the bed. He had cold and wrinkled denim halfway up his legs when he heard Buffy mutter, "Miss you," and fall back to sleep.

Spike finished dressing. He dropped one last kiss on her pouty lips. He knew she couldn't feel it, but he didn't care.

"I love you," he whispered.

Spike waited until he was confident she wouldn't rouse, holding his breath, then tiptoed out of the bedroom with boots in hand. He put them on in the hall, bestowed a quick pat to Tabitha's head when he found her sleeping near the front door, and slipped out.

Checking the lock was secure after he shut it, pulling on his coat, Spike hurried to his car in the predawn atmosphere and drove reluctantly away from Buffy's house.

What he didn't know, was that from the moment he'd exited the bedroom, Buffy's eyes had popped open, as wide and bright as the full moon. His retreating footsteps were nothing compared to the echoes of his admission, the one he was so sure she had not heard.

***

Spike roared through the cemetery gates with palpable ruin, his bitterness wholly unbefitting such an early hour. It wasn't the fact he was tired, or the fact he was going to likely be stuck cleaning up a mess made by bored and irresponsible teenagers the morning after the Thanksgiving Dinner from Hell. It was this dagger sharp urge he'd felt the moment he'd pulled out of Buffy's drive, to turn right around and go back to her, to where she and a bed were happily awaiting his return.

He couldn't follow that urge, couldn't soothe the itch. Couldn't so much as scratch it with his little pinky finger; because one of the only times in the history of his employment at the cemetery, there was an actual disturbance. He'd dealt with kicking people out before, homegrown ghost hunters, couples, and even some confused elderly folks, but he'd never gotten a call in the middle of the night because some kids got the idea to host a party.

Couldn't the brats find somewhere else to drink illegally?

As Spike drove up to the little guardhouse he called his on select nights, the bricks were a blinking canvas of red and blue. He quickly realized the sheriff was in town.

After slamming his car door shut, Al Howard turned on him with a puffy stare. Spike nodded to the man, approaching quietly. A deputy was talking to a row of teenagers in the distance, far from the exuberant light display.

Al hummed, lifting a Styrofoam Dunkin' Donuts cup in greeting. "Mornin'."

"Right," Spike sighed. "Guess it's just 'bout daybreak, ain't it?"

Al nodded sleepily. "Right you are."

"So, what the hell happened here?"

" A party. A fight. Underage drinking. Nothing original, thankfully." He closed his eyes and rubbed them. "Already phoned the parents, but none of 'em are pickin' up. It looks like we're gonna have to do an individual drop off."

Spike followed the coffee led hand and squint at the shadowed batch of teenagers, morosely lined up like ducklings. The scene was scarily out of place for a cemetery. Neon hued lights scattered, a mismatched group of hooded sweatshirts, litter dotting the browning grass, two police officers and- Ah, there was his boss.

The bloke wore clothes as black as the trees overhead; dark khakis, a sweater, and his heavy wool coat. He strode towards Spike and past the painstakingly curious deputy with distress on his old, pasty face. The image painted a unique scene, indeed.

"Pratt!"

Spike swallowed his foul mood as well as he could. "Sorry I wasn't here, sir."

"That's not the point!" the deacon shouted, evidently set on getting straight to his. Coming to a halt right in front of them, he continued with a tirade of complaints. From the look on Al's face, it was all repetition, and by the time the good man ran out of breath Spike was back to square one on the agitation scale.

He thought of Buffy, and was simultaneously calmed and angered at once.

"You've got to stay here and clean things up before morning, you understand?" The deacon nervously picked at his shirt collar, eyes demanding and anxious.

"It is mornin'," Al said, in Spike's opinion just to rankle the man's nerves.

"Thank you for the reminder," he replied caustically. "I trust the forthcoming sunrise means you will be taking the children home now?"

"Just as soon as my deputy is finished up, we'll head out. I'd also like the second car to get here and help with the distribution, if you don't mind." Al's smile was compressed.

The deacon sighed. "Very well. Pratt, do get to work. I'd insist that the... offenders undertake the task, as I'm sure our loyal sheriff can understand," he pointed out, "but most of them can barely walk in a straight line at the moment. Let alone poke around for litter in the dark. This area cannot be left a mess for the visitors tomorrow- ahem, today."

"Yes, sir."

"You may leave when you have finished."

Spike nodded. The old man returned it and trotted away, his steps precise. A flashlight in hand, he clicked his tongue with disapproval at the bottles and cigarette butts under his heels.

The deputy turned away from the teenagers then, and before he could retreat entirely the deacon snapped his fingers with impatience. The young police officer heeded the call and Al sighed. "He'll make Bernie recount everything those kids just told him, slurs and all."

Spike scowled, preoccupied with his own frustrations. He scanned the ground and just like water to a sponge, it sunk in, the reality of the nonsense that had dragged him from bed. Roused him from a peaceful sleep. Forced him to leave Buffy's warm, welcoming arms.

He had to bite his tongue to keep from resigning on the spot.

Party leftovers were strewn from his shoes to at least twenty paces in every which direction. Someone had tried to start a campfire with little luck, leaving a perfectly good bottle of whiskey behind. Its contents dribbled across a tall pile of twigs surrounded by mismatched rocks.

Sensing Al's attention on him, Spike tossed the man a glance. "My boss doesn't like talkin' to the troublemakers themselves," he said. "I've learned he prefers to let your lot handle things."

Al nodded. "How long have you worked here, if you don't mind my askin'?"

Spike shrugged. "Years." He clenched his jaw. There were at least three piles of broken glass in sight.

"I see your hands healed all right," Al said.

Spike flexed his knuckles. "Yeah. They're doin' fine, thanks."

"Good to hear."

A moment of quiet came. Spike sighed heavily and bent to retrieve the forgotten bottle, muttering to himself ironically about the money wasted on cigarettes and cheap booze.

The deputy approached. He handed a scribble filled notepad to the sheriff and said, "I talked to all eight of 'em, sir. They're certain their parents won't be up for hours. We'll have to drive 'em and drop 'em since no one's answering the phones."

"Surprise me next time, Bernie," Al said. "What about Michael and... What's the other kid's name?"

"Jack, sir. Jack Winton."

"How're those two doing?"

Spike snapped to attention. "Hold a second. Who now?"

The deputy glanced at the man in charge, but Al wasn't looking back. "He said Jack Winton. Why, Pratt? You know him?"

Spike barely spared the sheriff an eye twitch before he was moving towards the lineup. They looked like unhappy little gnomes from a distance, all slouching and irritable. They had similarities in appearance, from hoodies to boots; up close was different. The one on the far left raised his face; when Spike squint, he could recognize the person looking back.

"Yeah," the Brit muttered, storming ahead. "I know him."

Al and his man didn't follow. If they had, Spike wasn't sure he would have heard their footsteps. Agitation, sharper than a switchblade, was charging up his spine like lightning. Jack's expression, one of hapless disdain, became the metaphorical bull's-eye for Spike's wrath.

It didn't register to Jack. Not at first. Not until Spike was only four feet back did the boy's demeanor change. He ducked his head again. Shame became evident, some fear; it was the same expression you'd see on Pinocchio every time his nose grew.

"Jack."

Nothing.

"Jack!" Spike caught him in a glance and held it. "What the bloody hell are you doin' here?"

He blinked, hard. Eyes fogged and wary. "Hey Spike. What's up?"

The boy swayed and Spike reached out on instinct, steadying him. Mouth curling in shock and distaste, he said, "You're pissed, aren't you?"

Jack snorted, hiding a girlish giggle. "Just buzzed now. So?"

Spike yanked the hood down, exposing dirty, tousled black hair. He noted the other teenagers to his right and pulled Jack away. Overheard conversations concerning angry parents and likely punishments reassured him no one was paying them any attention. " 'So?' That's all you've got? How 'bout tellin' me why you're here?"

Jack frowned blankly, strangely dimwitted. "I gotta explain that one?"

Spike's jaw clenched. "Who planned this lil' outing? Was it you? Or were you just invited by those friends you claim not to have?"

The boy looked stricken. "Lay off, man."

"I'm supposed to lay off, am I?" He took a step closer. "When I get a call in the middle of the soddin' night 'cause you're screwing around out here?! At my place of work? Got dragged out of bed 'cause of this, just so you know. I'm the one who gets to clean up the mess." He gestured around them, voice threatening a rise. "Now, tell me, was it your idea or someone else's?"

"I'm not a snitch," Jack growled.

"Well, that answers that then," Spike said. "You aunt know you're out here? Probably not, right. D'you tell that woman anything?"

He looked away. "Why do you even care?" He rubbed his nose with a blood stained hand.

Spike's attention quickly shifted. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

He blinked, recollecting what was mentioned only seconds before. "Al said something 'bout a fight."

Jack looked at him, glittering and bold, suddenly hitting Spike with anger most men couldn't carry, much less a kid. "And you're surprised? Have you forgotten why you've been helping me?"

The words lashed him with meaning. Spike pressed his lips tight. Jack did, too. A moment came where the quiet murmuring of outsiders and the crackling roll of a new car approaching grew prevalent.

"Who was it?"

"Who do you think?" Jack muttered bitterly.

Spike turned around and studied the string of teenagers. At the far end a bloke he recognized, Michael O'Henry, stood glaring with two swollen black eyes, right through the man in the leather coat to the boy on the other side.

"Right then." He faced his charge again. "What'd he do, call you a baby or somethin' of the like?"

"Yeah, that was it." Jack swallowed thickly. "You can't blame me, all right? Not you."

Spike's jaw clenched again. He studied the bully's broken stance, the favoring he was bestowing to his left leg. In a second, it all became too costly. Jack was barely shaken, Michael was furious. Swallowing his pride and principals, Spike said, "You should've kept your fists to yourself, mate."

Outrage flew across Jack's cheeks like a fever. "You're saying this? To me?"

"I'm sayin' there are rules," Spike bit off. "There're times you don't start a fight!"

"Who said I started it?!"

"You did." His voice grew abruptly quiet. "Insults, right?"

Jack laughed angrily. "Since when does control have a place in this? You're the one who taught me to forget about pride and just fight."

"It's pride what got you into this," Spike growled.

"You taught me not to take any bullshit!"

"I taught you how to defend yourself!"

Jack's eyes narrowed to slits. "Well," he muttered, "I did a pretty good job tonight, huh? I'm learning fast. You're a decent teacher."

"Is there a problem here, Mr. Pratt?"

Spike turned quickly. Al and the deputy were suddenly standing in confused wonder beside him. "Havin' a talk with the tyke here."

"Don't call me that," Jack snapped.

Spike's whole face twitched with repressed irritation. Al stared so hard that a lesser man would have dropped his gaze immediately. "Jack is my responsibility," he explained.

"The hell I am."

The kid shot off, and the deputy grabbed him before Jack could get more than three feet. He restrained him, pinned his arms. Spike snuck a forearm behind Jack's head at once, intercepting a sloppy but sure to be effective head butt aimed at the deputy's nose. "What I should say," Spike added, immediately grabbing hold of the boy's neck, "is that I'm taking responsibility for him."

The sheriff cocked his head and scratched it, paying the stunned deputy little mind. "Why is this?"

Spike sent Jack a warning glare before he went on. "He showed up at Buffy's place a while back- She's his counselor, as I'm sure you've heard." Al nodded. "Well, kid was sportin' a black eye. She was worried 'bout him. I thought I could get him to... open up, play a sort of big brother role in his life." Spike paused, effecting a look of disappointed concern. "Been at it for a few weeks, but now I see I haven't done a very good job."

Al turned to the boy, acknowledging the way Spike controlled him despite his deputy's position. "I wouldn't say that." He spared a moment for the others being quietly packed into the newest patrol car. Two more yawning officers. On the other side of the cemetery, he could see the purple hue of the sun floating above garish red and blue lights. "Jack, is it true Pratt can claim responsibility for you? Make sure you get home?"

Jack was breathing quickly, set for another run, but then something flashed behind his frustrated eyes that hinted at resignation. "Yes, sir. My aunt won't mind."

Al nodded once more. "It would be helpful," he admitted, taking a sip of his cold coffee and cringing. "Pratt, you sure it's all right with your boss if you leave to drop him off?"

Spike stepped cautiously away from the deputy and Jack, releasing his hold on the latter. "I was figurin' I'd have him help clean up before I did," Spike said. He rolled his eyes at the boy in question when Jack protested.

Al snorted. "Sounds like justice. Would you tell his aunt that I'll be paying a visit later on, if she's up when you get there?"

"I will," Spike assured, and stopped himself from looking at Jack too keenly.

"I appreciate it," Al said. Leaning in, he spoke quietly to William. "Between you and me, Michael- the boy he got into it with -is pretty beat up. Now I'm not sayin' he didn't have it comin', but Jack did quite a number on him. I think he's got a bruised rib or two."

Spike looked down, resisting the urge to swallow a lump that had suddenly grown inside his throat. He cleared it instead, and concealed the pride he probably shouldn't be feeling with genuine, if minimal, regret. "I'm gonna have a talk with him."

"I'm sure you will." The sheriff patted Spike's shoulder, then said to his deputy, "Bernie, let's go. Mr. Pratt will take it from here."

The cop shoved Jack free. Spike caught him and held him by the neck again like a pup. They watched as the remaining teenagers, officers, and flashing patrol cars gathered to leave. There was a short tussle between Al and Michael O'Henry, likely over Jack, and why he wasn't being accompanied home by men in uniform. A solemn exit was, thankfully, the ultimate result.

Spike and Jack watched fixedly. The outline of a new morning twinkled in the distance. Sudden emptiness of the worn grounds acted as a trumpet, and jarred Spike back to his former level of irritation. He kicked a forgotten beer bottle and said, "You'll be picking up the glass."

Jack shrugged off his grip. "Looks like Michael asked why I wasn't getting escorted home. That'll make me real popular at school."

"You become a social butterfly as of late?"

Jack glared with feeling. He turned pointedly around and started picking up scattered debris.

"Oi! I asked you a question."

"What do you want me to say?" Jack demanded, dropping a beer can. "That I've suddenly acquired friends? Right. In what universe?

"Oh, I see. So this group is just who you hang out with when you feel like getting drunk on private property."

"This is a cemetery."

"Owned and managed by a church, moron. You really thought no one would bother you here?"

Jack sighed with clear frustration. "Look, I'm sorry! Can we just clean up so I can get home?"

Spike's brow furrowed deeply. He groaned and clenched his fists, then leaned against a stone cross. Jack dropped carefully to his knees and he could see they were caked with mud. The boy picked at glass shards that were embedded in the dirt while stiffness hunched his shoulders.

Spike looked away. All around him silence thickened. Violet light was reaching up from the landscape in the east, outlining trees and headstones. Darkness retained superiority but crisp morning air was bleeding through, turning this night into yesterday. While Jack lazily extracted bottles and cans from the grass, a familiar isolation surrounded his observer. It wasn't new. It had not lifted when the others were here, neither had it descended upon their departure; but Spike felt it now more than ever.

He didn't have answers yet. None as to why his plan to help someone else had gone sour, other than the fact he was dealing with a teenager. There was one advantage to Jack's youth, and that was the lad's strength; he wouldn't suffer physically for this. He would rebound quickly. However, such youth inspired recklessness, and he was good at fighting. Genuinely good.

The forthcoming repercussions of tonight set Spike's nerves on edge. Not only the likelihood of Jack's future dealings with bullies and classmates, and the trouble he might be in with his aunt, but the concern and anxiety that would surely be dropped at Buffy's door.

Worse yet, the ramifications Spike would face for his fault in all of it.





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