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Jack was shivering. Spike knew better than to comment on it.

They were rounding a curve on a sunlit road, driving towards Madison. The morning was clear, while a sense of worn exhaustion lingered like the frost. Minimal overcast did little to amend the cold. Inside the DeSoto, an awkward silence was bent on driving the tension further into the ground like a stake.

It was only an hour ago Spike realized the point he'd been missing. The tidbit of information which neatly tied up several loose ends, and made him think twice about his qualifications to teach anyone anything about dealing with bullies.

Up until tonight, Spike never would have pegged Jack as the type, but through his own anger and tiresome merry-go-round of "Where Did I Go Wrong?," he realized the fight must have been instigated prior to its onset.

The bloke made a bet. Michael was a sore spot for him, and Spike had the strongest suspicion that declaring a public challenge, to which Michael met head on, was precisely what Jack had thought of to return some overdue humiliation.

It was a reasonable plan on paper. The human peacock loses, and the underdog makes a name for himself. Except the consequences of the action left Jack in several deep piles of shit, with Spike already halfway buried in one of his own.

"You challenged the wanker, didn't you?"

He froze. The accusation was fresh. Jack's scabby fingers clenched in his lap, and he turned, a streak of yellow sun parting his wary expression. "What do you mean, I 'challenged him?' "

Spike blew out a deep breath. "Look, I don't exactly feel like knockin' your head against the window, but I will if need be."

"All right, fine," he sighed. "I did. I won, too. What's the problem?"

"That's why the others were around. You made it a public event."

The boy scoffed, crossing his arms and looking away. "Believe what you want."

Spike's brow flicked up. "Michael spread the news then?"

"He was so sure he'd win," Jack muttered.

"M'surprised there weren't more of you toddlers. But then again, it was a holiday."

"I'm not the one who decided to do it here," Jack snapped, "and I didn't decide on the day either. I just-"

"You just challenged the idiot to begin with, is all you did. What, might I bloody ask, was going through your thick head?"

"You were the one who said the only way to shut people up is to punch 'em in the mouth," Jack accused.

"I didn't say that!" He hadn't. Not in so many words, at least. Unfortunately, Spike's advice was starting to catch up with him. It wouldn't matter, if Jack weren't the one dealing with the repercussions. "I taught you how to fight so you won't be comin' home with one good eye anymore. How many times do I have to bloody say it?"

"You're such a hypocrite," Jack spat. "You told me you knew what it was like. So you know people don't start leaving you alone just because you can fight. If they can't hurt you with a fist they'll do it in other ways. I'm sick of it! You have to earn a rep in order to make any difference."

"And you thought tackling street fights with an audience was the fastest way to do that, Ponyboy?"

Jack opened his hands to display emphatic obviousness. "It worked, didn't it?!"

Spike cursed. "All it did was get your 'friends' in trouble with the cops, and build up the grudge O'Henry carries around for you like a pet poodle. Not to mention, something tells me you're not excited 'bout the sheriff havin' a talk with your aunt."

"I can't believe you're actually doing it for him," he grumbled.

"If she's up, you bet I am. M'not going to wake her at six in the bloody A.M., though. to report how her nephew's been makin' a name for himself."

Jack glared. "You think you're really in charge of me, don't you?"

"Someone has to be." Spike rolled down his window a crack, reaching for his pack and gaining a cigarette. "Your image is gettin' too big to fill a mirror, mate. That's how you get in over your head before you know it."

Anger and dispute lent a prideful tilt to Jack's chin. "I won't go back to being a punching bag."

"I don't expect you to. But challenging tossers so they'll get their arses handed to 'em in front of a crowd is too Fight Club, even for a bloke like yourself."

Jack rolled his eyes and pulled his hood up.

Spike scowled. With one hand, he tore it back. The teenager was immediately insulted. "You look like you're trying to play the role of rebel with that thing on."

"I'm a rebel, huh?"

"No, I'm a rebel. You're an idiot."

"Do you look in the mirror when you say that?"

"Oi! Quit gettin' caught by the police, and maybe you'll know somethin' about it." Spike gave him a pointed glare. "But I don't expect you'll be testin' your luck anytime soon."

Jack didn't respond, but his second eye roll was a kind of soft retort that hinted at acceptance. They continued the drive in silence, throwing away tension mile by mile, and absorbing forced wakefulness as the sun rose higher in the sky. The radio switched on and soft rock supplied a lazy undercurrent. Jack closed his eyes and began to doze, while Spike counted the many ways he was buggered as soon as Buffy got wind of this mess.

And she would, because Spike would tell her. He would tell her everything.

His decision to teach Jack a thing or two about fighting had never been to get him into more trouble, only to protect the kid. Spike understood all too well what Jack was going through, and if there was a way to teach him anything about survival, make the pain stop, then Spike would do it.

But after tonight, he wasn't certain Buffy would sympathize.

The possibility she might be furious made his heart beat double time. She would have every right to be upset. Spike knew he had butted in, albeit with good intentions, but without reasonable planning or forethought.

He remembered how happy she'd been when Xander talked of Jack's development and apparent good fortune. It was impossible to apologize for that, or much of anything besides the boy's growing ego; but Spike would severely regret losing Buffy.

She was the very thing, the very person he had wanted for so long. Finally being a part of her life, welcomed and appreciated, held by her, was everything he had ever wanted. For two years the concept of achieving those dreams in someone else's arms felt cheap. Now, Spike would come face to face with the tangible fear of losing the woman whose price did not exist.

It made him sick, realizing the mistakes he'd made with Jack, and he hated to think the boy might suffer unfair consequences. Disappointment from his aunt, or some other authority figure trying to make a point, future collisions with the O'Henry prick; but what made Spike's heart clench was knowing how much Buffy cared for Jack. This incident would upset her greatly, and give her a reason to revoke the trust she'd given blindly.

If only he let her talk to Jack before this, do her job as well as she always did. If only the kid hadn't been dealing with people who didn't care to listen to him. If only Spike had stayed out of it. If only...

"You okay?"

Spike blinked and turned his head. Jack was staring with unveiled concern, one dark brow lifted in uncertainty. A hard swallow and Spike realized he was biting down on his cigarette, the steering wheel clenched in his white knuckled grip.

He threw the fag out the window and took a deep breath, "I'm fine. Just worried 'bout you is all."

Jack frowned heavily, shame sparking in his eyes. "You don't have to be. You shouldn't."

"What? Worry?" Spike scoffed. "Right. Your aunt is likely to be pissed, and your dealings with tossers like O'Henry are just goin' to get worse. I should be restin' easy."

Jack sighed. "Look, my aunt won't do more than ground me. Yeah, it sucks, but it isn't going to ruin my life."

"There's a silver lining," Spike muttered.

"I won't tell her how you've helped me, if that's what's bothering you."

"Guess again."

"I can deal with those assholes now. I don't think Michael is going to come after me again, and if I'm wrong, I know how to handle it."

"You mean by beatin' him into a shoebox? Get sent to military school after your aunt realizes what a delinquent you're turnin' into?"

"I've been defending myself."

Spike hurriedly lit another cigarette. "Listen to me," he mumbled, flipping the lighter closed, "when you get your head out of your arse, then maybe I'll stop worryin'. 'Til then I'm gonna fret because someone's got to watch over you, and if Buffy doesn't break her neck tryin' it's going to be 'cause I took some responsibility."

Jack said nothing. He pursed his lips and swallowed a thick lump of resentment or anger or some combination of the two, before turning his face to the window.

Within the next tense minute, Spike pulled up to a familiar white house and got out of the car, slamming his door. Jack followed slowly, past the mailbox and down the sidewalk, up to the shiny doorknocker.

Spike ignored him when he said his aunt was still asleep, and hit the door several times with his fist. There was nothing for five full minutes.

"The back is never locked," Jack offered.

Grumbling, Spike said, "Lead the way."

They hurried to the yard, through a small white gate with a broken latch and up some cement stairs. The morning cast harsh light on the snow patches and brittle sticks that would turn green come spring, but a warm glow surrounded the smooth red door that opened without a peep.

Spike followed carefully, stepping lightly. The house was dark and misty, devoid of inner sound. They traveled a kitchen with outdated tiles, two hallways that broke off opposite each other, and a dining room with a huge mahogany table in the center. It only took a few hushed lefts and rights before Spike was convinced the woman of the house was still asleep, and he was intruding.

"I'll leave you be, but the sheriff is going to stop by on his own time," he said, "so be sure to warn your aunt. It'll be easier for her in the long run."

Jack flopped onto the nearest soft surface, which just happened to be a floral print couch beneath a window in the living room. He yawned and tucked himself into his sweater, hugging a throw pillow. "I'll let her know."

"I'm serious."

"I know. Now shut up, please." He closed his eyes. "And shut the door when you leave."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Sweet dreams," he muttered. "Hopefully you sleep off the rest of your hangover by the time your aunt's up."

He got no retort for the comment.

Turning, rubbing his neck, Spike was halfway to the dining room when he heard the boy pipe up.

"Thanks for the ride."

***

Buffy was sitting in the kitchen, having a cup of coffee and reading over the newspaper before work.

*Okay, so that's one huge lie.*

She was pacing in the kitchen, sucking down her third cup of chamomile tea prior to inhaling one jumbo cup of coffee, and she'd already decided to keep the store closed for the day.

It was nearly eleven A.M. She looked at the clock again. Wrong. It was now officially noon.

After walking- circle style -into the living room, Buffy dropped onto the couch. Setting her cup down, she rubbed her eyes and yawned deeply.

She looked to her left, scrutinized the phone, wondering yet again if she should call him. Wondering if he would call her. Wondering, wondering, wondering...

Wondering if what Spike had said was the truth.

Buffy remembered hearing him murmur the words. How they caused a deep jolt in her stomach. She was half convinced she had dreamt it at first, then she heard his footsteps as Spike walked out, and the door clicking shut behind him. The hollow departure of his car engine was the ultimate finalizing reality check.

He had said the words. Those three little, but oh so big words that always managed to ruin every relationship. It was illogical to think otherwise, what with history still ringing in the distance like a gong.

Buffy couldn't say she was very good at love. It always bit her in the ass, and she never felt the same for her partners as they did for her. Not since Angel, anyway.

A sudden groan left her lips. In the kitchen, Tabitha looked up and glared. Buffy returned it.

A momentary flashback to the day she had first seen Spike through her storefront window, and she was groaning again. Buffy remembered weeping over Penny's harmless well wishes, and coming to the very jarring conclusion that if she was to be happy, she had to quit wasting her time. Years spent pining for a man who was never meant to be hers had lengthened a heartache from a youthful past. Loneliness shaped a hole in her chest that grew familiar as the years flew around her like confetti.

This was why Spike's confession kept shaking her up. This was why Buffy hadn't been able to fall asleep since hearing it, or eat more than half a bowl of cornflakes all morning.

She was just starting to feel again, to open up to a man for the first time in years. Creaking the door a bit, leaving it ajar... and waves had rushed in.

She didn't know how to respond to the admission. Buffy didn't know if Spike had even meant it like she thought. In a 'I want to take care of you, possibly have children, get married and grow old together' way. Not to mention, how was she supposed to take him saying 'I love you' when he thought she was asleep? That wasn't exactly a good sign, was it?

Numerous doubts kept rising to the surface like bubbles in boiling water. Repeatedly popping after Buffy would ask herself if deep down she thought Spike had meant what he'd said. If she thought his actions and treatment of her bordered on infatuation or falsity.

She always answered these questions the same way: No. It was too clear, too heartfelt and sweet, the way Spike said the words, like the announcement came naturally to him. He was a man unafraid of loving her, a man willing to confess his feelings, if not directly to her, then in a quiet whisper until he could gather the courage.

She felt it in her veins every time she remembered his voice.

It didn't alter her own dilemma on what the hell to say in return, though.

Buffy flopped backward, reaching for a pillow to tug over her face. Did she say anything? Should she just act like she had been sleeping? She didn't feel confident saying it back yet, and she certainly wouldn't lie about something like that. Not ever, and not to him.

It felt as if the moment was coming, on its way, in first class seating on the bullet train, but it wasn't yet here.

She wouldn't rush herself. It wasn't fair to Spike, or her, and he deserved better. Her heart kept fluttering like a spastic moth every time she thought about being loved by a man like him. A man who was hard and soft, protective but not invasive. Warm, funny, kind, sexy, tolerant of her cat. Hell, Buffy would even go so far as to say he liked Tabitha, and if that feline had nothing else going for her, she had great taste in men.

Speaking of the devil, Tabitha scared the crap out of Buffy the next second by jumping on top of the pillow currently smashed to her owner's face. The human flailed uncoordinatedly and reached up, grabbing hold of her pet.

Tabitha meowed loudly and Buffy sighed in aggravation. "Ever hear of personal space?"

Another meow. The sudden blare of the telephone startled them both, and Tabitha quickly wriggled free to charge into the bedroom.

Buffy ran in the opposite direction, towards the phone. When she picked it up the cord was already tightly wound in her sweaty palm and her breath was short. "Hello?"

"Buffy?"

Her brows slanted. "Al?"

"I'm sorry to call you at home, hun, but I tried reachin' you at the store a few times and nobody picked up. Figured you might be playing hooky."

She cleared her throat and took a breath. Not Spike, no need for irregular heart rhythms right now. "You could say that. What's up?"

"Well, pardon me if I'm late with the news. Won't be surprised if Pratt beat me to mentioning it, but I still wanted to talk to you about the matter myself."

Buffy scowled. "What news? Al, what's going on?"

"There was a little trouble at the cemetery last night. Well, more like early this morning. I tell ya, coffee only does so much good before the sun rises. I had to double my regular doses."

"What happened this morning?"

"Pratt didn't tell you then?"

"Uh, Sp-" She shook her head. "William told me something had happened at the cemetery, but he didn't..." Buffy fumbled impatiently, sighing. "Look, can you just tell me what's going on?"

"There was a little problem with some kids over there. Threw a party, small, not much wreckage, but there was a bit of a fight between two of the boys. I hear from Pratt that one of 'em had gotten into this sort of thing before..."

As she listened to Al's explanations, a tale starring Jack, Michael O'Henry, several other kids who attended the same school, and her very own boyfriend, Buffy's stomach tightened into knots.

By the end of the phone call, her blood was boiling, her heart beating frantically, and her feet carrying her swiftly out the front door.

***

Buffy called Spike on the way. No answer and not enough patience to leave a voicemail, she drove to his house as batty as she'd ever driven, gravel and paved roads the victims to her Jeep's screeching tires. She knew the way, but only because of a book found in the high school's library, and heavily aged memories of shortcuts etched in her mind.

In fifteen minutes or so, she pulled up to a dark gated entrance with stone fences on either side. The height of a somehow familiar mansion loomed fifty feet away from the nose of her car, and two garages book-ended it.

Buffy parked quickly, gulped around the stiff knot lodged in her throat, and got out of the vehicle. There were trees everywhere. Heavily barked, towering trees with drooping branches to provide maximum amounts of shade. She examined the vacant grounds for all of two seconds, noting how out of place a cherry red Jeep looked here, before nearly running to the front door. She found a doorbell and rang it at least five times. Her tapping foot created a tedious rhythm against the cement step, and she muffled it by knocking without mercy.

"Spike?!" Nothing. "Spike?!"

More knocking. Harder this time.

"Damn it," Buffy muttered. She turned around and searched the area for any sign of the familiar black DeSoto vintage. The closest garage, the one on her left, had its big door halfway risen off the ground. She walked closer to peer through the four foot tall gap.

Car, and a motorcycle she'd never seen before, present and accounted for. Buffy huffed before crawling underneath the door, standing tall once inside. "Spike?!"

She waited, but received no answer. Buffy walked around the DeSoto and discovered a red door. Tentatively, her phone like a weight in her back pocket, she reached for the handle.

Slipping into the gentle warmth of the house, the floorboards beneath her boots let out little more than a creak. Buffy wondered whether or not she should call out again. After all, it wasn't like she had a right to be here, and something about sneaking into Spike's home instead of waiting on his front step didn't feel right.

She sighed and walked down a narrow hall, passing a laundry room and coming to a fork. The left side beheld a staircase, the right a flat and carpeted path.

She went left. Obviously, if Spike was home, he would've heard her banging and ringing had he been on the first floor. Likely, he was on the second or third.

Again, guilt rose inside her mind, poking at her like an insistent toddler. Buffy called his name again, and a quiet echo was the only response she got.

There remained an acute sensation of eggshells beneath her feet as she continued. It was an uncomfortable feeling, and to gain distraction Buffy considered Al's phone call, the upheaval that led her here.

It wasn't the sheriff's fault that one of her students had gotten into such a mess, or that her concern shot to skyscraper heights upon learning about Jack's graveyard fight. It was purely her. Buffy's own determination to do her job, and be there for her student.

However, it was completely Jack's fault for worrying her. For getting himself hurt. For breaking into a cemetery and fighting with Michael O'henry to begin with. The only way Buffy might not strangle him was if she learned the fight had been started by Michael, but the way Al was talking, she found that hard to believe.

How did Jack win such a fight? One against one was much different than one against three, sure, and Michael was Jack's age. Joe Gregory wasn't involved this time. The odds certainly could have fallen in Jack's favor.

But Buffy wasn't convinced.

She had questions. Questions, concerns, and plans to visit the kid very soon, but after Al told her what William had said, she was driven straight to her boyfriend's door. Jack could wait, she had decided on some subconscious level, if Spike would answer questions for her, and clear up this whole matter. She was certain he'd been helping Jack in some way, spending time with the boy, perhaps after school. Talking to him, acting as a big brother or role model. Spike was bound to know more about the fight than Al did, and likely more than Jack was willing to tell.

This is why Buffy was climbing an unlabeled staircase to the second floor of Spike's foreign mansion home; calling out his name once again, despite the utter silence in the wood panels all around her.

She finally reached new level ground, and silence continued to echo. If he wasn't in earshot, she had to think he was the next floor up, but finding another staircase would all be left to chance. She turned a short corner and faced a long hallway with dark cherry carpeting. Dust free furniture lined each side, and on the right, in the distance, she could see a staircase leading down.

Buffy took three hesitant steps. "Spike?! It's Buffy! I'm sorry, I kind of let myself in..." Again, no answer from the emptiness around her. Sighing, she walked ahead. Dangling chandeliers cast a tepid glow across the few doors dotting the walls. Paintings lay against paneling, on the floor, freshly dusted and more than a few of them topped with dirty rags. The evidence of recent cleaning piled up as she came to the railing, overlooking a long pathway of carpeted steps. Several dusty sheets were hanging over the wood banister, as if waiting for their turn in the washing machine.

Buffy moved on. She found three doors within ten feet of each other, two on her left and one on her right. Each led to rooms left vacant but for shadowy corners and foggy windowpanes.

She frowned harder the further she traveled. An ache started in her chest, something deep and repetitive. The quiet, the dust, the colors, all of it spoke of mourning and solitude. She had once considered such emotions to be a possible cornerstone when thinking on Spike's life in a big house like this one. Left all alone. The reality, however, was much harder to face than a few sad considerations.

The reality made her call out his name again. A need to let him know there was more in the house besides dust particles and antique furniture. Living with nothing else was a life incapable of supporting anyone's needs. Especially not a man's like Spike's. He was too passionate for it, too rock solid and alive to be cast into the shadows.

God, if she had a dollar for every time seeing him had lightened her day or alleviated that barren feeling in her heart, she might be able to buy a new car. Except she wouldn't, because Spike had worked on the Jeep for her, and despite its age, something about knowing a leaky coolant hose led to their first date made cherishing the automobile quite easy.

Buffy reached the end of the hall. There were no stairs in sight, and only one door left. She reached out and turned the knob, listening to the hinges squeak in protest.

Inside, she found a room with more dimness than furniture. She could only see the outline of a table and chair in the corner ahead, but nothing more. She walked inside and palmed the expansive wall, searching for a light switch.

She found it quickly enough and flipped it. The sudden exposure made her blink her eyes closed, and upon opening them Buffy noticed a small pile of boxes on the floor.

No staircase, only boxes, and then she noticed the pictures stuck to the wall. She walked closer.

Buffy blinked again when her feet collided with the pile. She knelt down, retrieving a foggy photograph. It was of a woman with blonde hair, wearing a salmon pink sweater, her face turned away from the camera.

She frowned. She recognized that sweater. She'd thrown it out a year ago, donated it to the rag collection at work. Buffy picked up another picture.

Polaroid photographs, words scrawled on wrinkled pieces of paper, and drawings... All in a box. All packed up like keepsakes, and all of...

*They're me.* Buffy looked up again, gaping at the wall. A hoarse sound of fear left her throat.

It was nearly half covered by her face.





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