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AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please make sure to read the last chapter (number 27) first! I posted that one a couple days ago!!
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Christmas day flew by with the frivolous rush of a last minute holiday shopper. The Harris' made a huge splash, their party luring dozens of families out of their homes to enjoy a buffet co-created by each invitee, and an endless supply of festive cocktails. Folks without visiting relatives or young children stayed late into the night, toasting with eggnog, dancing, playing games, and generally making merry. With mistletoe hung in every doorway, the music loud, and Anya's painstaking attention to decorative detail, it was hard to kick anyone out.

Buffy remembered a majority of the day, but only a portion of the night. Sometime between her tenth glass of wine and exhaustion kicking in, she tiptoed upstairs to pass out in the guest bedroom. That was probably around eleven or so. Anya's mother had gone home weeks earlier to rest up for her pre-planned Christmas trip to Hawaii, so the bed was all made up and just waiting for some other woman's tired collapse.

Buffy woke the next day still in that bed, unsure of the time, and wondering had she ever woken up feeling so brain-fogged before?

She knew the probability of the answer. She had been to college, after all. Yet at that moment, she was having a hard enough time remembering the evening just past, let alone her widespread history of Mornings After; which, albeit, wasn't a very long list.

She last recalled stumbling precariously upstairs, determined to avoid a throbbing headache by lying down before disaster struck. Buffy vaguely remembered saying goodnight to Anya, and Xander, but not...

*I forgot... Oh God, Giles!*

She had left him, possibly hours before going to bed. Not alone, but with a dark haired woman named Jennifer or something. He'd been drinking and the more Buffy rubbed her aching head, the more concerned she grew.

Rising from bed, she ran her hands through her tangled hair and looked around the room. Sunshine beamed belligerently through the window on the opposite side of the bed. She squinted, and noticed her high heels lying in the nearest corner.

It took Buffy two minutes to get out from under the covers and leave the room with shoes in hand. An unmistakable sense of unrest was clear as she entered the hall, the kind of violation a house endures after a party still lingering in the air, along with various notes of strong alcohol.

Buffy took it in stride. Then, she stumbled very literally upon Roger at the top of the stairs. "What the hell?"

He didn't rouse at her exclamation. Given, she had whispered, but he was dead to the world. Passed out cold. Buffy toed him experimentally with her stocking clad foot, and he elicited a snore.

*Okay, not actually dead. That's good.*

She moved carefully, edging past his legs by gripping the railing and stretching to plant her toes daintily on the unobstructed steps. It was far too much physical exertion so early in the morning. Thankfully, the remainder of her trip was less eventful.

The chaos she discovered after reaching the foyer, though, was something she was entirely unprepared for.

First of all, there were dozens of bottles. Everywhere. Beer bottles, wine bottles, cans piled into the corner by several pairs of shoes, and about twenty paper plates with leftover food strewn across the long hallway table.

Her round eyes scanned the width of the room, noting the messy decorations hanging by worn out pieces of masking tape and empty champagne flutes that had been left on the floor. She did recall a good deal of people having been in the house, and an even greater amount of alcohol being poured, but had it really gotten so out of hand?

Buffy blinked several times as she snuck into the living room. One look at the catastrophe she found inside had her turning right back around.

Roger wasn't the only one passed out; and at least he was wearing all his clothes.

Buffy rushed to the dining room in search of life, and there she found two people- Xander, and one of his construction friends whose name she didn't remember -sleeping peacefully in awkward positions on the recliners by the television. The extended table lying between them and Buffy was laden with dirty dishes, drying pastries, and cold half eaten meals.

She heard a clatter from the kitchen, and with a deep breath and some inner resource of courage, not to mention morbid curiosity, she followed the crooked area rug to the door dotted with paper snowflakes.

She peeked in. Letting out a sigh of relief upon finding Anya wiping down countertops, she said, "Finally, someone who's not a member of the zombie brigade."

Anya shrieked and jumped about a foot, startling Buffy in turn. She whirled around with her hand on her chest, breathing fast. "Don't scare me like that!"

"Same to you!" Buffy quickly shut the door behind her. She looked the other woman up and down. "Are you aware that there are trees taped to your knees?"

Anya glanced at said trees. "Oh, why yes," she smiled, and effortlessly stepped out of her matching felt knee guards. "I picked these up at Walmart. I was scrubbing the floor a minute ago and needed something to protect my pants."

"Those are sweats."

"My favorite pair." Anya tossed her long blonde hair over one shoulder and nodded at the stove. "Coffee's fresh, if you want."

Buffy sighed ecstatically. "Bless you." She grabbed a clean mug from the dish rack to pour a steaming cupful of caffeine and sugar. Anya retrieved cream from the fridge, and Buffy accepted it gratefully. She said, "Do you need any help cleaning?"

"Yes, please." Anya handed her an empty garbage bag. "You can go around the house and fill this up."

Buffy glanced at her coffee, then the bag.

"Once you've finished."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Buffy smiled and, setting the garbage bag aside, sipped leisurely at her liquid ambition. A moment or two into her fifth mouthful, she remembered being worried about something. "Have you seen Giles?"

"Oh, not since last night. He went home with that Calendar woman."

Buffy nearly dropped her mug. "What?!"

"Shh!" Anya waved a finger at her. "I might be up and cleaning, but that doesn't mean I don't have a migraine!"

"Sorry," Buffy whispered hurriedly. "I just- He went home with her? Giles?"

"Yes. Sometime after you went upstairs, by yourself."

*Love how she feels the need to emphasize that last detail.* Buffy sighed. "Are you sure he went home with her?"

"Are you losing your hearing? Yes."

"Was she okay to drive? He didn't take the car, did he?"

"She drove. So far as I could tell, he was the more inebriated of the two. I actually think she was planning on tucking him in."

Buffy frowned.

"After the sex."

"Ugh!" She shook her head. "It's too early, Anya!"

"It's noon."

"I don't care. I'm painfully sober at this point, and I would definitely need a few thousand more drinks to discuss Giles' sex life. So please, let's not."

"Oh, fine, prude." Anya rolled her eyes. "You know, I'm starting to think you're much more fun to talk to when you're drunk."

"Thanks," Buffy replied dryly, gulping her coffee.

"Don't take it personally. It's just you refuse to talk about things when you're sober that just seem to come spewing out once you've had enough eggnog."

She frowned. "I thought I stuck with wine."

"There was a point where you were hanging out by the punchbowl. And I kind of think all that brandy was what finally got you talking about William."

The mug clinked against her teeth. Buffy began to have a violent coughing fit. "I- I- I what?"

"Or Spike. Isn't that his other name?" Anya gave her an astute sideways glance while she carried three beer bottles to the refrigerator. "You mentioned that last night, too."

Buffy swore she was beginning to hyperventilate. "What else?"

"Well, you talked about how he was a great kisser. You seemed very set on that topic after you were almost caught under the mistletoe with Jerry."

Buffy froze, slamming her cup down. "Jerry Portman? From the funeral home?"

Anya nodded.

A groan of self pity and acknowledgment slipped through her lips. The idea of kissing such a man as Jerry Portman would make anyone shudder; and, if drunk enough, encourage her to talk about the one man she really wanted to kiss, but couldn't.

*Whoa, wait. Who said I still wanted to kiss Spike?*

*You did, apparently.*

Anya interrupted her mental battle, adding, "You were very adamant you couldn't kiss anybody because you would only imagine the other person was William, if you did."

Buffy closed her eyes. "I did not say that."

The other woman shrugged dispassionately. "It was implied."

Guzzling what was left of her coffee, Buffy took a bracing inhale before setting the mug back down, quieter this time. "What else did I imply?"

Anya threw a satisfied glance out her peripheral. "You finally told me why you broke it off with him."

There it was. The source of Buffy's morning panic and the blown up sense of impending doom trickling down her throat. Her last reserve of calm was this close to flying out the window.

Anya noticed right away. She offered Buffy a pleased and thoroughly unsettling grin, not completely devoid of sympathy, but overflowing with triumph. "It was a very interesting story, really."

"Not what I need to hear right now." Anya's outward serenity did little to ease Buffy's anxiety. "Just tell me what I said so I can find the nearest rock and crawl under it." *And determine whether or not I have to worry about you and Xander getting Spike arrested.*

Her friend rolled her eyes, a fresh coat of mascara helping the action to appear even heavier with mockery, and doll-like to boot. "Sometimes you can be so neurotic, Buffy. You must think very little of my opinion of you, or very little of yourself."

"That's not-"

"I don't judge you for breaking into the guy's house."

Buffy froze. "I... I told you I broke into his house?"

Anya nodded slowly. "Yes." She grabbed a fresh towel and started drying dishes. "You said you realized afterward that you couldn't trust him anymore. Which I don't really understand. You must've left something out last night, because honestly if you snuck into his house, then I would think he'd be the one developing trust issues."

Buffy sighed, a breathy noise of tempered relief. "I didn't break in. I just... walked in."

"Uninvited."

"Well, yeah."

Anya cocked one fine eyebrow.

She bit back a little groan. "I was impatient to talk to him about one of my students." Buffy thought backward. That day was still fairly fresh in her memory. Like a black shadow sticks in the middle of your vision after a camera flash, it stuck in her mind.

Her intuition and impatience had told her to push forward that day, to find Spike then and there. Despite the rational argument she was being inconsiderate and her questions could wait, Buffy ignored any twinges of guilt in favor of immediate gratification.

Which hadn't turned out well for anyone.

She realized Spike was far from the Prince Charming she had believed him to be, and was still recovering from the shock.

*Even if he did change my tire.*

"That still doesn't explain why you quit trusting him," Anya said, interrupting her thoughts again.

"I didn't 'quit.' Trust isn't something you give up." Buffy cast her frustration to the floor. "It's something that's taken."

Anya stared at her, perceptively noting the way Buffy's hands were clenched and the nature of her frown. It was too soft to be angry, too deep to be thoughtful. "I don't believe that."

The other woman looked up. "What?"

"I don't believe it," Anya repeated. "I think trust is something you earn, sure, but it's also something you choose to give; only the person who gave it can take it back. Whether or not you were hurt badly enough to warrant a reclamation is always up for debate."

Buffy's mouth fell open, enough to insert a coin through her lips. She shut them as shock made way for acknowledgment. She couldn't argue with Anya. It was, however, still hard to admit that she made a lot of sense; despite all probability the lady was running on a combination of Advil and strong coffee.

Coffee. That reminded Buffy there was more, and gave her a pleasant jolt. "I promise you," she said, turning around to pour herself another cup, "there was no room for debate in this case."

Against all odds, and opposing what she believed would happen, Anya didn't prod. She didn't do anything more than shrug her dainty shoulders and sigh. "If you say so."

Buffy scowled. "I do."

"All right then."

"Right." She looked down at the black liquid in her cup. She abandoned it on the counter and grabbed the empty trash bag. "I'll start cleaning up."

Anya smiled easily. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Buffy ducked her head and strolled out of the kitchen, stomach calm and headache milder, but her mind far from clear.

What was it about people she knew dedicating themselves to being nosy for weeks, only to leave her unsettled the moment they finally gave up?

***

One Week Later

It was the morning after. The beginning of the new year, January 1st. The air was cold and still. Metal hard snow piles withstood the frigid temperatures in the shade, while blinding sun collected stubborn moisture from unprotected mounds. Come twilight, it would all freeze again.

Spike opened his eyes in a flutter, groaning as they discovered the bright evidence of the hour. He quickly shut them.

Tugging the warm blanket over his face, Spike was just able to wonder where it had come from when the splitting pain in his head made itself known. His entire body tensed and he groaned again.

*Right. Been here before.*

In the terrible beginnings of a really, really unforgiving hangover.

Halfheartedly, Spike tried to remember the evening past. He took several deep breaths and rubbed his face. His palm was as fiery as his gut, his mouth coated in sour tasting fuzz.

His mind didn't feel much better, aching like it'd been tossed into a dryer. Spike could barely remember what he did to end up like this, the alcohol he obviously consumed like a dehydrated nutter, or what room he was in. He thought hard- or, admittedly, as hard as he could manage at the moment.

Clem had thrown a little party. A new year's eve shindig with the midnight countdown and bubbly passed all around. Spike hadn't known Clem kept so many friends; he'd met more people last night then he'd met over the entire course of his life.

It hadn't been comfortable. Clem originally told him it was to be a small party. This drew imaginings of six or seven men, drinking beer and playing cards, betting on a fight, getting shitfaced for the hell of it.

Spike planned to drink himself into a stupor and pass out on Clem's couch, which it seemed, he had accomplished; but he hadn't prepared himself well enough for the trip. A sudden onslaught of guests, women and men alike, loud music, drinking games, and dancing, made him desperate. By the time the rash of noisemakers and confetti poppers erupted, a memory which caused Spike to flinch, he had already lost most of his cognitive abilities.

Most of the party guests he met had faces he could not remember, and names that he was sure might come back to him with the help of coffee and aspirin. He vaguely recalled being lead to the couch, ever so carefully, before passing out. That was the entirety of it.

"Are you up, then?"

Spike jolted. The chirpy voice of unknown origin prompted him to tug the blanket away, but carefully, lest the sunlight eviscerate his pupils.

Spike squinted at the ceiling and turned his head. Sitting on a couch opposite his, with a coffee table covered by bottles and empty plates in between, was a lady. She wore inquisitive, friendly regard on her face like one would a pair of glasses, and it was a nice face, Spike noted.

She held herself with poise, confident posture, hair combed, ankles crossed. Obviously this woman hadn't had nearly as much to drink last night as he.

Which allowed her to remember him. Spike clearly, and unfortunately, wasn't half as lucky. "Who are you?"

The lady smiled. It was a gentle smile, but resigned in a way. She rolled her eyes, lined with black and doe-like lashes, before saying, "You don't remember me, do you?"

Spike made an effort to sit up, but fell backwards again almost instantly. He rested his head on a throw pillow, shutting his eyes to summon strength. "Sorry, ducks."

He opened them again, found her shrugging and looking away. She had fiery red hair, too bright to be considered a natural color, and skin like snow. One tattoo of a heart in flames topped her left shoulder.

"Don't take it personally," Spike muttered quietly. "Can't remember much of anythin'."

She smiled again, a sort of amused grin that only touched half her mouth. "I'm not surprised. You drank nearly an entire handle by yourself."

"Shame I can't recall that either."

"I'm Candace. We talked a lot last night."

Spike closed his eyes briefly once again, finally managing to sit up so he could put his feet on the floor. His boots were scuffed and black, and when they hit the carpet his head immediately followed, dropping into his open hands. "I'm Spike," he grumbled, "but I s'pose you know that already, eh?"

"I do," she giggled. Spike looked at her, just an inch over his palms. She didn't seem young enough to be giggling, but then again, the bird wasn't too old either. Around his age, he suspected.

"Where's Clem?"

"He's still sleeping," she said. "You, Jared and I are the only people who spent the night. Clem told me that if we left before he woke up just to make sure we didn't leave the door unlocked."

Spike rubbed his forehead, then his eyes. "Did he?"

"I made coffee, if you'd like some."

"You have no bloody clue."

Candace smiled once more, and rushed from the room. In under a minute she had brought him a steaming mug of fresh, strong coffee. "Black, I assume?"

"How'd you know?"

"You seem like the type."

Spike actually managed to smile back. He sipped an unforgiving first taste, sighing into the warmth of the cup. "Thanks, pet."

"You're welcome." She sat down, beside him this time. Spike watched from his peripheral as she adjusted her short black skirt and crossed her ankles again. That outfit she had on, presumably chosen for the party, was hardly suitable for January. If she stepped outside her bare arms and legs would turn blue in under a minute.

But Clem kept his house plenty warm, so the lady was clearly comfortable. The amount of skin on display might have been distracting, if Spike weren't so busy trying to quell a migraine.

"So, I know you don't remember much of last night," she began, "but do you by any chance remember what we discussed?"

He blew out a breath. "Let's look at the odds. I likely mentioned my car, choice of drink..." *My girl,* he silently added, thoughts avalanching right on time. Buffy's face floated through his mind and he took another gulp of hot coffee. "Or music, I'm guessin'."

Candace shook her head, hair flitting around her slender arms like a batch of red feathers. "No. I mean, we talked about that stuff, too, but I was referring to our agreement."

That word, the illusion of expectation behind it, had Spike's guard up. He eyed her curiously, still too hungover to feel genuinely nervous, even if he should. "Got to say, pet, if I agreed to somethin' last night, s'not right to hold me to it now."

"Oh c'mon, you can't be backing out before you even know what it is we talked about."

"Exactly. I don't know, so don't expect me to be keepin' my word if I promised to lend you a grand."

She chuckled, giving him a look. "I live by the rule to never borrow and never lend, so I wouldn't ask anyone for that. Calm down."

"I'll hold off for the mo'." Spike nodded at her. "Go on, then."

"You agreed to come meet my father."

Spike nearly dropped his coffee cup. "What?!" he sputtered.

"My father," she repeated, voice slowing over the letters in each word. "The mechanic. I asked you what you do for fun, and after I practically yanked the answer out of you, we got to talking about cars."

Spike scowled. "What do I do for fun?"

"You like working on your car.

"Oh." He blinked several times. "Suppose that's accurate."

"I hope so. You seemed to know a lot last night about it, even if you were plastered."

"I sort of... remember having that conversation."

"Then I told you my dad owned a body shop. I asked if you were interested in doing a trial run as a mechanic for him, since he's looking for someone new. He just lost one of his guys."

Spike didn't respond. He knew she wasn't done.

"I told you last night... but, we know how much that matters." She shrugged carelessly. "Long story short, you agreed to meet my father today. I already called him, when I was making coffee earlier, and told him we should be by around two."

Spike felt the pain in his head swirling. "What time is it?"

"Noon."

He groaned loudly. "Christ."

"Don't worry, you don't have to be anywhere else. It's Saturday."

Spike gave her a funny look. "How do you know I don't have-"

"Because you told me you only worked Sundays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays at that high school with Clem." Candace spoke without reserve, her pearly white smile perfectly even. "Also told me you used to work on Mondays and Thursdays, too, but that you stopped. Didn't tell me why, but I suppose it doesn't matter. You just said you were looking for something new, preferably part time, if my father decided to take you on."

"Uh... right." Spike took another bracing sip of coffee. It had grown lukewarm but remained unwaveringly strong.

He wasn't looking for a second job. The graveyard watch was his second job. Sure, he was tortured ruthlessly by his own boredom on the days he used to spend at the school, but want for things to do didn't seem like much in comparison to everything else he felt on the daily. Spike certainly never consciously planned to seek out new, or additional, employment.

Evidently, all it took was alcohol and a pretty smile to put right that lack of consideration.

He set his mug down on the floor, pointing to it. "Er... Candace, right?"

She nodded.

"Did you have coffee this mornin'?"

"I did," she answered peculiarly.

"Good. All right. Well then..." Spike sighed, resisting an urge to rub the back of his neck. "Look, I'm not really lookin' for any work right now."

Her dark cherry brows slanted together. "But you said-"

"I said a lot last night... I'll bet."

She huffed delicately. "Not really too much. Mostly you just sang Ramones songs with Jared and talked to me."

"Who the hell is Jared?"

"Clem's cousin. Great guy. He left already though," she gestured vaguely. "Can you stay on topic please?"

"Right. As I was sayin'-"

"You were going back on our agreement."

Spike sighed again. "Look, I just don't think I'd be good for your father's business, all right?" He fought the miniature fountain of panic that was sprouting in his gut. There was nothing Spike hated more than being forced into a situation where expectations were high; he had enough issues going out just to spend time with Clem, let alone to pursue job interviews.

"You promised me," Candace argued, and not bitterly, but calm and soft-spoken. "Besides, Clem said he thought it might be good for you. To do something else with your days off besides brood alone in your house."

Spike scowled. "I do not brood-"

"Last night you did." She poked him, digging one sharp finger into Spike's cotton clad chest. The lady seemed very familiar with him. "You talked to me, and I listened, on and off for hours about the girl who broke your heart. Her name is Barbie or something?"

He swallowed a hard lump. Suddenly, Spike's body felt a thousand pounds heavier, and his chest was hollow with familiar grief. "Buffy," he choked.

Candace's gaze softened. "I know she hurt you. And I know you blame yourself for her leaving. You said it was your fault, but even if that's true you can't sit around blaming yourself forever." She sighed, exasperated. "I told you all of this already, but again, we recognize that your memory is obviously of little use today!"

Spike nodded. "Sorry to say it's true, pet." He ran his hand through his tangled hair, wondering about that. About being sorry, and whether he felt it because he was actually concerned he might offend this kind, pretty woman, or because he was certain her words had meant something last night. They couldn't not have, with his agreement to meet her father.

That explained so much. If she made Spike hate himself a bit less last night, relieved the guilt for a moment or two, and talked some sense into him about the pointlessness of habitual self recrimination, he might have just said to hell with his issues and yes to an interview after all.

The bird was waiting for him to speak. Her eyes were green, the shade clenching at his heart, but resolutely, Spike caved to the expectation in them. "Okay, I'll go."

Her smile was blinding. "Great!" She stood in a blink. "I knew you wouldn't go back on your word."

"You don't know me too well."

"Oh whatever. We had an agreement, and I knew you'd keep it, even though Clem warned me you might not."

"He did?"

"Don't be mad," she rushed to say. "He just knows how antisocial you are, and told me the alcohol might've clouded your judgment when we spoke."

"Well, the bloke was right..." He cleared his throat. "Don't agreements traditionally have a give and take factor 'bout 'em?"

Candace shrugged. "Not this one."

"How's that?"

"Because I only asked you in the hopes you might ask me out. I work at the shop, too." She laughed carefully, but upon noticing Spike's bugging eyes she quickly waved a hand and said, "Calm it, Spike. I made the offer before I realized how hung up you were on that girl. Buffy, you said?"

He gave an imperceptible nod.

"Well, I realized too late about that. But my dad does need a new mechanic, even if it's part time. I'll ignore the fact you're hot. Besides, I don't like to share the men I date. You have nothing to fear from me."

Spike stared at the girl who stood above him with confidence and ease, thrown horribly off by the way she spoke to him. It was as if they were old friends, even if it didn't feel like that. She made him nervous, but he couldn't find a thing wrong with the truthfulness she offered. It was refreshing, in a way.

He messed his hair, sheepishly tugging at the strands. "Should I stop home and change before I meet your dad, ya think?"

She eyed him critically, tilting her head. "Could use a shower. Definitely a toothbrush."

"Can't argue that," Spike said, licking the insides of his cheeks.

"Then maybe a pair of pants that aren't so... revealing."

Spike looked at his black Levis. "Revealing?" he balked.

"Those are some of the tightest pants I've ever seen. Don't get me wrong, they work for you, but they can't be comfortable to work in."

"You expect I'll be hired on the spot?"

"You want to look the part."

The man shrugged. "Fair enough."

"You should probably head out now. I don't know how long it takes you to primp and everything, but you'll likely have enough time to come back and get me if you're quick."

"Pick you up?" Spike tried to recollect. "We're goin' together?"

Candace sighed very wearily, shaking her head. "Yes, we discussed it. Last night- Totally explains why you don't remember." She actually tsked at him. "I don't have a car here. I came with friends, and decided to stay because you said we could go see my father together. It made sense, at the time..." She shrugged. "It probably would've made just as much sense to separate and leave you with the address, but if I had, you wouldn't even know we'd spoken to each other!"

Spike rubbed his neck, sheepishly ducking his head. "Valid point."

She nodded, satisfied. Candace plucked the forgotten coffee mug off the floor. "So, do you want any more coffee before you head out?"

His throat burned, his head hurt, and his stomach was starting to grumble. "Maybe one," Spike conceded.

She beamed effortlessly. "Comin' up!"

Spike watched her strut happily from the room, all the while wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

*Damn it, Clem. You'd said 'small' party.* And before Spike left, Clem woke up, giving the Brit ample time to yell, and question the improbability of being lead around the collar by a strange redhead who smiled like the Cheshire cat on a regular basis.

***

The body shop was large, longer than it was wide, and filled. Filled with tools, with cars, with tires, spare parts, noise, people, and even music.

Loud, blaring rock played over speakers Spike couldn't see. He followed Candace obediently as she lead the way, curving and turning past messy piles of grease coated drawers on wheels and men in matching uniforms.

"Hey Candy!"

"Hi Bobby."

"Hey Candace, did you bring lunch today?"

"Sorry Tom, I didn't have the opportunity. Just going to have to feed yourself for once."

"Candy! You didn't call me back last night, I-"

"Was waiting by the phone?" The redhead with a walk meant to knock men over from a distance winked at the fellow. "Really Louis, I'd expect better from you."

"Who's the new doll in your collection, sweetheart?"

Candace rolled her eyes as they approached another, yet untitled man, this one older, looking Spike up and down like a prison guard. "Calm it, Ollie" she admonished, wedging herself between Spike and the stranger as they passed. "He's too stiff for my liking."

"I thought that was exactly how you liked 'em."

"Now if that were true, I'd have bagged every man in this building," she giggled.

Spike kept his head high and senses alert. He was suddenly very glad for those two cups of coffee. They were making it so keeping his guard up proved almost easy, anxieties and hangover aside.

The atmosphere around him was active, loud and hot, despite the temperature outside. The men who greeted Candace like she was the single thing worth smiling about in this factory of gray metal and abrasive racket were different from each other, faces and heights and builds. Everything various, from the way they met Spike's eyes to the way they held their grease rags; all except the uniforms.

Candace waltzed through the group, through the extensive, filthy auto shop like a girl who'd grown up in it. No one said a word about her misplaced high heels or short skirt. Even her father, a heavy older bloke with oil black hair and two days worth of stumble coating his jaw, seemed accustomed to Candace's incompatible attire and sunny attitude.

They entered the boss's office, one happy-go-lucky redhead, and a tense, fidgety bleached blonde in tow.

Candace hugged her father, and Spike watched him kiss the grown woman on her forehead like a child. Then he looked at Spike, back to Candace, and once again at the stranger lingering in the doorway.

"Who's this you brought me, eh, dove?"

"New employee, very possibly." She stepped away to nudge Spike into a chair. There were two facing the wide, cherry stained desk taking up most of the space in the cramped office. She shut the door, and he felt his lungs constrict. "Dad," she said brightly, "meet Spike. Spike, meet my father, Paul Bandoni."

*Italian. Well, that explains a lot.* Spike took a surreptitious breath, extending his hand as he stood up again. "Nice to meet you."

The big man watched him critically, sticking his hand out brusquely. "Ah, the Brit. Candy's told me you might be interested in some part time work."

Spike looked at the girl who had dropped into the chair beside him. She nodded encouragingly. "Um... yeah. That's right."

Mr. Bandoni let go of Spike's hand. "Do you have experience?"

"Only workin' on my own cars and bike."

Candace received a cross look from her father.

"What?" She resituated, holding her hands up and out as if to speak her mind before she said the words. "Haven't I always been good at spottin' new talent?"

Mr. Bandoni sighed. "I know, dove, but we've talked about this. I like to have references."

Candace blinked at him, unconcerned, and crossed her legs at the knee this time, her left heel tapping the air. "All the ones you got are ones I found for ya," she said, in a much less proper tone than the one she'd used all day.

"Not Sal."

"Sal's a joke! You've fired him twice!"

Mr. Bandoni rubbed his face, scratching at his stumbly chin. "Damn, forgot about that."

"He's been good for a while, I admit, but c'mon dad, after Jacob left you said you needed new men. At least one. And I've brought you one!" She waved at Spike like he was a brand new car model, rotating on display.

Paul Bandoni stared hard at his daughter. She smiled. He sighed again, this time in a resigned manner that caused Spike's stomach to flip. "I'll give you a trial run. How many days are you willing to work right now?"

"Uh..." He shook off the stun. "Two. For now, Mondays and Thursdays."

The man squinted. "I should tell you I've hired someone else, I suppose."

Candace sat as straight as an ironing board. "You did? Who?!"

Her father spared her a glance. "Younger guy. He's worked with his dad for a time now, but he wants more hours, so he's been lookin' for outside work." Mr. Bandoni gave Spike his full attention. "You'll both be on probation, so to speak, until I hire one of you full time."

He nodded, but Candace stood in a rush, her face covered in disbelief. "Who is this guy? Have I met him?"

"Don't think so, dove."

"You know you never have good luck with people I don't screen first. What's his name?"

Mr. Bandoni rolled his eyes, but indulged her. "Joe Gregory."

"Bugger."

Both father and daughter looked at Spike in the same instant, identical expressions of confusion taking him in. The Brit clenched his jaw and unclenched his fist with effort. "I know the bloke," he explained.

Candace frowned. Mr. Bandoni squinted again. "You do?"

"Lives in my town."

He made a noncommittal sound, clearly unconcerned by the news. "Works good?"

Spike shrugged tightly, fighting his every instinct. He didn't want to screw himself over here, and that was shocking enough, the fact he cared; so he bit his tongue. He wanted to tell all about Joe Gregory, but old instincts remained sharp. Nothing Spike said could be taken seriously. Not yet. Because he was new blood, and the only thing he'd accomplish by talking trash would be solidifying a rat's reputation.

What you said about other people often spoke more of your character than it ever did of theirs.

Or at least, that was the usual case. Joe Gregory was something different, but these people didn't know it.

"I've never seen him work," Spike answered honestly. "Don't know 'bout his ethic."

"Then how do you know him?" Candace asked.

Good question that was. Spike tried for a safe answer. "Small town. You meet people easily enough, see 'em around."

Candace squinted this time, her big girly eyes turning into wise slits, but Mr. Bandoni either didn't notice or didn't think too much about it. "Well, you two will get to know each other much better over the next couple weeks. He's on three days, two of which are yours."

Spike grit his teeth, absently craving a cigarette. His response was merely one word: "Wonderful."

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END NOTES: Thanks for reading!





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