Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Worthless, useless junk,” Spike gritted out as he sifted through the mountain of rubbish. “Not so much as a ruddy penny in here.”

They must’ve been at it over an hour already: milling through grimy piles in the slush-thick alley, practically baring their throats to all the pricks round here who personally hated Spike's guts, and with sod all to show for it. The deeper he dug, the worse it seemed to get, a Sisyphean bloody cycle of shoving useless crap aside only to reveal even more useless crap. He shook out his hands, trying to shed some of the sticky grunge that’d accumulated on his fingers, but quickly realised it was a fool’s errand and dove back in.
 
A few feet away, Giles briefly inspected a tarnished silver ring before tossing it back on the pile. “Pickings do seem to be getting slimmer." 

Bars of light from the streetlamps spilled down the alleyway and illuminated the jagged, monstrous contours of the towering scrap heap. It’d seemed so promising at first when a shiny new stack of litter had materialised in the lane right outside the manor. But Spike should’ve known better than to get his hopes up, especially these days – and yet he still felt personally affronted by just how dire a show it was.
 
“You know, I swear the vamps are getting in ahead of us," he said. "They’re getting smarter. Evolution, or something.”
 
“Or it’s just sheer numbers," Giles said.
 
A tiny gleam caught Spike’s eye. He wiggled his hand deeper into the fray and pried loose a copper chalice. He looked down and turned it over only to find the other side, predictably, cracked within an inch of its life. Much like himself, really. He strangled out a groan and crushed the chalice in his fist, then flung at it the wall for good measure.
 
“It’s just bloody typical, isn’t it?” he said as the metal clanged and rattled, then thumped softly into the snow. “Finally, finally, my kind are on the up and up. Having a grand old time. Making something for themselves. Building a bleedin’ empire.” He eyed Giles derisively. “And here I am– night in, night out, with you.”
 
Giles, the bastard, didn't even bother looking up. “Yes. I’m just as thrilled about it as you are."
 
Spike sighed dramatically. He’d fancied his tone bloodcurdling, genuinely hateful, but his efforts hadn’t earned him so much as a paltry glare. Crowd was tough tonight. “What’s the matter with you today, anyway?” Spike asked, searching with ever-increasing desperation. “Face like a slapped arse. Worse than usual.”
 
Giles automatically sidestepped the mini-landslides Spike was initiating. “Oh. It’s nothing.”
 
“Oh spit it out, man, would you? I hate it when you’re all puffed up like this,” he said. “Repression poisoning the air. My air. Just grates on me, you know?”
 
Giles hesitated. “It’s nothing, really.” He scratched the back of his neck, shuffling his shoes in the snow. “I just– found something, earlier.”
 
Spike’s dead heart flickered with hope. “Something valuable?” he asked, and then his expression suddenly stormed over. “Keeping it from me, were you? Planning to pocket the cash for yourself?”
 
Giles rolled his eyes. “No. I don’t do that." He swiped a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. “It’s just. Uh. This. The Watchers Council have put out a notice. From Paris.”
 
Ah, bollocks. Spike’s interest immediately went careening off a cliff. He absently picked up a one-legged doll. His chest twinged just looking at it: doused in bin juice, loose threads sticking out like severed optic nerves where its eyes used to be. God, the ugly thing was so pathetic, Spike felt a pang of pity for it.

“The Watchers Council?” he asked, his eyes lingering over the doll for a final moment before casting it aside. “They still going?”
 
“What’s left of them, yes,” said Giles.
 
“And what are they watching, then? Thin air?”
 
“One would assume,” Giles said. “But it seems they’re devoting most of their efforts these days to, uh… finding what’s left of the slayer line.”
 
Spike scoffed and arched around to face him. “Christ. That’s tragic, that is. People just can’t move on, can they?” He shook his head, feeling extra riled and disapproving all of a sudden. “She’s dead. They’re all dead. Done and bloody well dusted.”
 
“I’m inclined to agree with that general sentiment," Giles said. "But they never did find all the, uh, bodies. Guess they still hold out hope, that there might be someone. Some girl, somewhere.”
 
“That’s probably because Angelus chopped them up into little bits and pieces, and then into even smaller little bits and pieces, and then obliterated those little bits and pieces good and proper," Spike said, clawing through the pile and hurling scraps to the ground like he was punishing them. “Wouldn’t find any bodies then, would they?”
 
“Thanks for that visual," Giles muttered. “But a new slayer never rose. Theory goes, then, that one’s still alive somewhere.”
 
“Angelus probably cursed the whole line out of existence,” Spike said, then added bitterly, “Stupid git loves a curse, don’t he?”
 
“Well, that is what we’d all assumed. But, uh, seems they haven’t given up entirely. Not yet," Giles said. He adjusted his glasses and looked down at the wrinkled scrap of paper. “They’re offering a reward. For finding her.”
 
Spike stilled, apart from his ears, which perked up. He spun round and snatched the page right out of Giles’ hand. “Well,” he said appreciatively, eyes flashing wide. “That’s a big ol’ number, ain’t it?” 

Christ. It really was. Spike felt the rusty old cogs in his brain start to spin, and he looked up eagerly at Giles. “So, what’s this about the slayer then? One girl in all the world?”
 
“Oh, please,” Giles said immediately. “Not with another one of your farfetched, hare-brained schemes.”
 
“Who says it’s farfetched? I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” Spike said. “Probably having a gay old time, just waiting to be packed off back to Paris where she belongs.”
 
Giles levelled his eyes at him. “Whatever happened to 'chopped into little bits and pieces, then obliterated good and proper'?”
 
“Nah. Gotta keep the faith, old man. My heart’s gone all fuzzy now, seeing this,” Spike said, shaking the slip of paper. “I was a bitter cynic before. But this has warmed the cockles right up. Lost little girl, alive against all odds... just speaks to me, you know?”
 
“I’m sure,” Giles said flatly. “So how would you suggest we find her, then?” 
 
“Well." Spike shrugged. “We’ll have a scout around, won’t we? But, well. Doesn’t have to be her exactly, does it? Not like she’s got wings or anything. Just looks like a normal girl, don’t she?”
 
“With preternatural strength." Giles pressed his lips tight together. “But no. You’re insane. Obviously. I’m not entertaining this. Especially– not today.”
 
"Huh," Spike said. He paused thoughtfully, taking a spanner to rejig some of the whirring machinery in his head. Might take a delicate hand, this one. “This Watchers Council stuff’s really gotten to you, hasn’t it?” he said. “What is it? Reminding you of old times? Watcher’s glory days?”
 
“Well," said Giles. "Admittedly I am feeling a bit wistful about my, uh, former life. Hardly surprising, considering what I have to contend with now.” He gestured at Spike and then at the wilting rubbish pile, which scowled back in offence.
 
Spike hummed. “Guess not.” He handed Giles back the notice and idly started rummaging about again, but much more quietly than before. “So… you knew they were still around, then? The Watchers Council?”
 
“Didn’t know to what extent,” Giles said. “Knew they had an old headquarters in Paris. But didn’t know how many of them made it out, to be honest. Whole operation was decimated.”
 
“Yeah, I remember," Spike said. His eyes lit up. “God, that was a violent night. One of the best.”
 
“Indeed,” Giles said dryly. “But, well– it seems they’ve managed to regroup somewhat. Cobble something together, from whatever was left.”
 
“In Paris?” Spike asked.
 
“In Paris.”
 
Spike moved a soggy old length of rope aside with extreme care, hands almost trembling with anticipation. He asked, with strained nonchalance, “Got some old mates there, do you?”
 
A beat.

“Perhaps one or two,” Giles said, though Spike could almost hear his eyebrows springing up.
 
Spike clutched at a rusty tin can to steady himself and his voice. “Anyone… special?”
 
“No,” Giles said emphatically, almost before Spike had finished asking.

Ha. Rumbled.

Spike clapped his hands together and spun round, grinning in savage triumph at Giles. “Knew it!”
 
“Oh, just. Shut up,” Giles snapped. “It’s nothing. Shut up.”
 
“Giles, come on!” Spike said, bouncing up and down cartoonishly. “It’s perfect. We’ll find a girl. We’ll go to Paris. You’ll get your jig on. We’ll get the money.” Spike grabbed Giles’ shoulders and gave them a hard shake. “And then we can both, at long last, bloody well bugger off. You’ll never have to see me again.”
 
“Well, that last part does sound enticing."
 
“It’s bloody perfect," Spike said, starting to pace. “I’ll train her. You can… watch her. Teach her all that slayer-watcher stuff. They won’t even know the difference.”
 
Giles took off his glasses and pinched his eyes. “It’s godawful, Spike. A godawful plan.”
 
Spike smirked.

***

Buffy huffed out a sigh.

Boy, St. Petersburg sure was a lot further than it looked on the map. She stopped, turning it upside down and then to the side, then upside down again, just to make sure she wasn’t reading it wrong. Her head was starting to hurt from all the squinting.
 
You’d think there’d be a bus or something, but nope. It was just her, alone, traipsing down a desolate, snowy path. Her first day of freedom, and her socks were getting soggy. 
 
The orphanage, in their measly defence, hadn’t kicked her out totally empty-handed. They’d set up a job for her at the herring factory around the corner, like they did with all their cast-offs. That’s where Buffy was supposed to be going now– towards a bright, shiny future of chopping off fish heads. 

They’d visited the factory on a class trip a few years back. Buffy remembered it all too vividly: the stocky, greasy-haired owner proudly showing them around as sad-looking former orphans cleaved away at even sadder-looking herrings. 
 
“Everyone starts with the tails,” he explained, grinning with crooked yellow teeth. “But if you’ve got the right attitude, you’ll be moving onto heads pretty quickly.” He slapped the shoulder of a young woman with hollowed-out eyes sitting at the assembly line. “Anya here was onto heads in her first week. Girl has a natural talent for decapitation. We love to see that kind of drive around here.”
 
Just the grisly scent of the dank factory had been enough to convince Buffy that her destiny did not lie in the world of fish-mincing. Okay, so obviously there weren’t a ton of glamorous career paths clamouring after penniless orphans like herself– but clearly youthful idealism was on her side, because she still reckoned she could do better. So, as soon as the orphanage gates had slammed shut behind her, she’d taken a sharp turn and pegged it in the opposite direction of the factory, down the long and winding road towards St. Petersburg.
 
And now, well. It wasn’t like she had no plan whatsoever.

Her hand played absently with the silver cross dangling around her neck, fingers twirling the pendant over. It was a comfort thing, touching the necklace, and a lifelong habit. Well, sort of. More accurately, it'd been a habit for as long as she could remember, which, for Buffy, wasn’t really as long as it should’ve been.

Several years ago, on a dark and blizzard-y night, she'd arrived at the orphanage: a lost little kid, all alone, frozen to the bone, and seriously confused. Wearing the necklace and the clothes on her back, but without a single other worldly possession to her name. That evening was the first thing Buffy could remember, and the main thing she remembered from it was the fact that, well– she couldn't remember anything else. She'd shown up on the doorstep with exactly zero recollection of where she’d come from or what the hell had happened to her. No memories. No parents. Nothing.
 
She knew her name was Buffy, somehow. But that was pretty much it. She couldn’t even recall a last name, and the orphanage hadn’t bothered to bestow one on her either, apart from the more colloquial Buffy That Amnesiac Kid, which didn’t have quite the ring she was going for. Her and her two best friends, Willow and Xander, had at least been able to kill a lot of otherwise dull hours in the dorms brainstorming more fitting surnames for her. 
 
“How about 'Buffy the Blonde Bandit'?” Xander had once suggested when they'd all been huddled up on top of Buffy’s squashed bunk. 
 
Buffy considered it. “Well– it’s got the right energy, but it sounds a bit more like a title than, you know, an actual surname,” she said, trying to sound diplomatic. “And it’d always end up getting shortened to ‘the’. Buffy The. And that just sounds like it’s missing something, you know?”
 
“Maybe 'Buffy of Arc'?” Willow offered.
 
Buffy hummed, then shook her head. “Not sure I’m tight enough with God for that one. Plus, it seems a little fate-tempty. Don’t really wanna start having all these crazy hallucinations about being some kind of chosen one, destined to sacrifice herself in battle for the greater good.”
 
Willow nodded. “Yeah, plus the, uh, even less desirable flame-y ending."
 
“That too."
 
Despite Xander and Willow's best efforts, Buffy had never really settled on anything, name-wise. Guess she kept hoping, deep down, that one day she’d find out for real. That she’d uncover the mystery of her true identity rather than having to invent one for herself.
 
She’d tried desperately over the years, of course, to remember. To dredge up some tiny sliver of her childhood, of her family. But squeezing her eyes shut and thinking real hard didn’t yield much, slight tension headache aside. Nah, her long-term memory was more vacant than her bunkmate Cordelia’s incessant gossiping.
 
A few years back, Willow had tried doing a spell to restore the lost memories. Willow had read about it in some old book, very convincingly titled Real Spells for Real Witches. Despite Buffy and Xander’s scepticism about Willow's dabbles with witchcraft, Willow insisted that magic was a real thing. It just needed the right hand. And, well, even though Buffy had never seen Willow succeed in any of her previous spellcasting attempts – mostly she blew things up or set the bedsheets on fire – she was just desperate enough to give it a shot. Buffy told herself it was mostly to keep Willow quiet, but honestly, part of her genuinely hoped it would work. 
 
They crept down to the kitchens one night to gather supplies, then sat on Willow’s bed, simultaneously reading out some fake-sounding rhyme in butchered Latin. But clearly Willow hadn't been cut out for casting memory spells, because nothing happened. They both just sat there expectantly as the air around them stayed perfectly still. No zapping or poofing or flooding of childhood memories into Buffy’s brain.
 
“At least nothing exploded this time,” Buffy said weakly as Willow’s face drooped. They had, however, gotten in a ton of trouble for stealing all the herbs, then suffered through a week of even-more-bland-than-usual lunches.
 
“You just don’t realise how much you miss that half sprig of stale parsley till it’s gone,” Xander said dejectedly in the dining hall next day as he pushed gloopy soup round his bowl.
 
And so, Buffy’s pre-orphanage brain had remained a big, barren wasteland of nothingness. All she had to go off was the necklace. The cross by itself didn’t give much away. It was a simple pendant, shiny and smooth, hanging from a fine silver chain. It did, however, have an engraving in delicate cursive down the back: Together in Paris.

Yeah, okay, so not the most promising lead in the world, but it was something. Paris. And someone there must’ve cared about her enough to want her there with them, right? For as long as Buffy could remember, it’d been her plan to go there herself, to see if she could uncover anything.
 
“But what are you gonna do when you get there, Buff?” she remembered Xander asking. “Just knock on the door of the Eiffel Tower and say to the guy with the twizzly moustache, hey! Do you know my parents?”
 
“Well, I mean, if the whole finding-long-lost-family thing doesn’t work out, at least you’ll be in, y’know, Paris!” Willow said, her voice all babbly like it got when she was straw-clutching. “You could take one of those fancy cruise boats down the Seine. It’s supposed to be all, y’know, pretty and glittery at night. And– just think about the croissants!”
 
Their words hadn’t been super encouraging, but Buffy knew they meant well. They just didn’t want her getting her hopes up, and putting all her eggs in the flimsy Parisian basket. But frankly, she didn’t know what other basket to put them in. She wasn't sure she even had that many eggs. And hey. Maybe, just maybe, she’d get lucky, and find somebody who knew somebody who knew something. Any scrap of information, no matter how small, might point her in the right direction. 
 
Buffy did have to admit that her intra-continental journey wasn’t starting off on the best foot. The best foot probably wouldn’t be as cold and numb as both of hers currently were.

She frustratedly kicked up a few ribbons of snow, the white horizon seeming to stretch on endlessly before her. Even the forest was dreary. No birds singing, no crickets chirping. She’d imagined befriending like, a gentle woodland deer, or a scrappy talking mouse wearing a teeny-tiny hat, and then maybe spontaneously bursting into a jaunty musical number as she skipped her way through the snow. But the cold air was deathly silent, and she hadn’t happened upon so much as an anthropomorphic worm.
 
But at least she was finally free. She’d dreamed about it long enough. About being able to carve out her own path. Sure, that path might turn out to be getting lost in the woods and losing a few toes to frostbite, but at least it’d be of her own making. And that was something.
 
***

Light was already fading when Buffy glimpsed steeples across the pink-grey skyline. She hurried to the edge of the slope ahead of her and took in the sprawling city below.

St. Petersburg looked big. Like really big. Way bigger than the little dot on the map suggested. Okay, so the bigness was slightly intimidating. The closest village to the orphanage, where they’d often hung out on weekends, had consisted of about six cottages all facing a lonely, heavily brutalised postbox. She might have some adjusting to do. 
 
Buffy anxiously checked the map once again, little patches already wet and wrinkling from dribbles of snow. She hoped she wouldn’t need to head east, because the ink on that part had already turned to mush. Luckily, the bit that would lead her to the central station was still mostly intact.
 
She picked her way through the emptying streets, only taking the wrong turn once or twice, three times max. She just needed to make it to the ticket booth before it closed for the day. The streets were becoming unnervingly quiet, and she didn’t fancy spending the night on them. Maybe she was imagining it – projecting or something – but everyone she saw seemed to wear the same anxious frown lines as they hurried past her. One woman was in such a rush she accidentally knocked right into Buffy, and didn’t even pause to say sorry.

“Rude,” Buffy muttered as the stranger fled determinedly onwards.
 
Buffy’s eyes lit up when she spotted the white dome of the train station. She darted through the platforms, which were also rapidly clearing out, trying to find the ticket sales. Luckily for her, there was barely a queue. She joined the line, a small smile playing on her lips. Maybe things were looking up.
 
“Hi!” Buffy said brightly when it was her turn. “One ticket to Paris, please.”
 
The lady sitting behind the glass panel regarded her miserably. “Exit papers?”
 
“Uh, exit papers?” Buffy said, taken aback.
 
“Yes. Exit papers.”
 
Buffy hesitated. “Can’t I just... buy a ticket to Paris?”
 
The woman sighed heavily. “No.”
 
Buffy's face fell. “Uh, so I really need papers just to leave here? Don’t I have like, I dunno– rights, or something?”
 
“No.”
 
“Okay, okay,” Buffy relented. “Um, well, I don’t have exit papers, but…” She dug into her pocket and pulled out some coins, placing a small mound of them on the desk. “Could I interest you in some money? Cold hard cash, you know what I’m saying?” She flashed the cashier a toothy grin, winking hard with one side of her face.
 
The woman's eyes pulsed unnervingly in their sockets. “Exit papers!” 
 
Buffy nodded knowingly. “Okay, I see you drive a hard bargain. Five rubles?”
 
The glass window slid shut in her face, rattling hard in its frame. Buffy stared blankly for a moment, blinking as she took in what had just happened.
 
Well. There go my life's dreams?

And she clearly wasn’t cut out for hustling, either.

She turned away with a huff. Maybe she should just pack it all in, turn on her heel, and head back towards the fish factory. But no. Fish heads, she reminded herself. With the little gooey eyes popping out. She’d be washing bits of rotten herring out of her hair for the rest of her life. The scent might never go away completely and she’d forever be fish-fragranced Buffy, remembered only as a cautionary tale of a girl who gave up her dreams for the security of daily herring mutilation.
 
There had to be another way. She just had to think harder. Much harder.
 
So that’s what she did, pacing aimlessly as the maze-like city grew darker. Now that the sun had set, the streets seemed to have emptied out entirely. Buffy hadn’t realised the nightlife would be so dire. In books, cities were always these lively barrels of fun with flashy neon lights after dark, but apparently that’d just been propaganda. Which, well, figured.

After trailing down yet another dead, deserted alleyway, she dropped onto a step for a brief regroup with herself. She sighed as she massaged her temples. Walking around in circles wasn’t helping much with the big ideas. If anything, it was making her brain even mushier. Man. What a day. Her lofty plans scuppered by the cruel, petty hand of bureaucracy, and now she was sitting alone in a dingy alleyway, snow melting through to her butt, not much more than a few rubles to her name, and–

Being eyed up by a group of shifty men who looked like they wanted to devour her whole. The guys were half-lit underneath the streetlamp, huddled in a circle at the other end of the lane, occasionally craning a head in her direction.

Buffy squirmed as she took them in. One caught her gaze and grinned wickedly. Oh, great. Couldn’t the universe cut her like, a tiny break? 
 
She whined inwardly, jumping up and quickly scanning the alley for the best escape route. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, this spurred the men into action, their heads spinning round in quick succession. Buffy made a run for it.

She hurried down a side street, heart picking up speed as footsteps pounded into the snow behind her. Luckily, she’d always been pretty good at sports back at the orphanage – she'd won pretty much every race they ever had. She sped up, veering around a few corners in a bid to throw the guys off. After making a few sneaky turns, she paused to check if they were still following. Dread washed over her when she heard the thunk of several feet closing in. Buffy swore under her breath and pushed on, swinging abruptly down another lane.

She skidded to a halt. It was a dead end.

Buffy looked around in panic. She quickly ruled out some too-obvious hiding spots behind the bins and piles of trash. She caught sight of a ragged, one-legged doll with stitches for eyes tossed unceremoniously on the ground beside one, and experienced a brief but profound rush of kinship.

Her heart sank hopelessly. She could no longer tell the footsteps of the men apart from the pulsing of blood in her ears. Her throat threatened a whine, but she pushed it down, a flare of defiance stirring in her chest. This was so not cool.

It was her long-awaited first day of freedom. She'd thought of nothing else since... well, since she could remember thinking. So she wasn't gonna just roll over and let fate trample her into the dust in five seconds flat. And she definitely wasn't gonna be outwitted by some common street thugs with cartoonishly shiny teeth who lurked around in back alleys like they were trying to what, tick off every cliche in the book? Nope. Wasn't happening.
 
Buffy inhaled hard, then took in her surroundings with fresh determination. As her eyes flicked over one of the buildings ahead of her, she noticed a boarded-up window on one of the higher floors. Bingo.

She hastily scuffed over some of her snow tracks with a boot, then pulled herself up to a nearby window ledge. She shuffled along before hauling herself onto the next level. Once she’d climbed high enough, she leant over, heel balanced precariously on a chipped brick, and rattled at one of the wooden planks nailed across the window. A shard snapped right off, the splinters making a cosy new home deep inside her fingertips. She wriggled desperately through the narrow gap and tumbled face-first into the building. The fall sent a storm of dust flying into her nostrils, and she reflexively cupped her face to muffle the oncoming sneeze. 
 
She sat up and peered through the cracked wood down into the alleyway, heart faltering when she caught sight of the men inspecting her tracks. She dropped lower under the windowsill and peeked anxiously over the top. The men gave a boorish howl, then clomped off in the other direction. Buffy heaved a sigh of relief. Guess her luck wasn't all out.
 
She turned around and got to her feet, brushing herself off. She took in the shadowy hallway ahead of her, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. Her nose wrinkled instinctively. The place was clearly deserted, and had been for a long while: the carpet had that damp mildew-y thing going for it and the streetlights were picking up thick cobwebs in every cranny. Buffy took a few hesitant steps forward on the predictably creaky floorboards. She passed a stairway leading into even blacker blackness, disgustedly flicking away a clump of dust that stuck to her hand when she touched the banister.
 
Well. It was pretty much an all-out wigfest in here, but she could probably find some decent hiding spots to see her through the night, at least. Bunk up with a mummified corpse or a family of rats, maybe. It wasn't the most romantic start to her grand emancipatory tale, but hey, it'd add a splash of colour when she told it to her grandchildren one day.
 
She headed towards the first doorway, then tentatively gave it a little push. It was jammed in the frame and didn’t budge, so she shoved harder. The door swung open, hinges screeching harshly. Buffy stepped over the threshold and took in the enormous room ahead of her.

Woah.

It was probably the biggest room she'd ever seen in real life. It was mostly open, like a giant dancefloor, with scary-high ceilings and a stately platform built into the far side. Buffy pulled the door shut quietly behind her, looking around, her footsteps on the marble floor setting off lingering echoes. The place was certainly a hell of a lot fancier than it looked from the outside. Seemed like some kind of mansion or something.

Buffy tilted her neck all the way back, looking up at the spindly chandelier dangling omniously above her head. There was something unnerving about the fact the dusty candles clearly hadn't been lit in a long, long time.

On both sides of the room, the walls were lined with ginormous portraits in thick, ornate frames. Buffy considered one of the paintings closest to her, of a poised young woman holding a pointy stick. The lady was clearly somebody important, but she wasn’t dressed in like, typical princess clothes. She wore a velvety blue waistcoat and long, black gloves stretched up to her elbows, as well as steel shoulder pads, like some kind of armour.
 
Buffy double-took when she spotted the cross necklace around the woman’s neck. On second glance, it was totally different from her own: big, gold, and studded with red diamonds. A bit tacky, actually, even if it probably was very expensive. Maybe the place used to belong to a religious sect or something? Come to think of it, Buffy might’ve read about it in one of Willow’s books. It was ringing a few bells. Her eyes were shifting onto the next portrait when she sensed movement at the corner of her eye. Buffy flinched, then turned around.

A dark figure was coming right at her.

Buffy shrieked, bracing herself on reflex. And then it was gone. It had seemed to go right through her, then just disappear. It took Buffy a moment to realise it hadn’t made a sound. There'd been no footsteps. No echoes.

Maybe she’d imagined it? She glanced around the room. There was nothing there anymore, but her skin was tingling with chills.

She'd felt on edge ever since she’d gotten inside the building, but she hadn't thought much of that, at first. Abandoned houses were always spooky, right? And her pulse had already been fired up after hightailing it away from those guys. But now- she suspected there might be something more going on than vague, creeping unease. The prickles down her spine were starting to feel like little knives jabbing into her. It was probably time to get out of here.
 
She angled towards the door, but, yeah, of course: something else was coming. This time, she saw it properly: a shadow with a grotesque face. It snarled at her, flashing its teeth. It – or he, maybe – was dressed like a man, but his face looked more like a monster.

Buffy didn’t cower this time. Instead, she kicked out when it approached. Her leg went straight through it, and, again, the thing seemed to just evaporate. Even so, the way its sharp teeth had closed in on her made her blood turn to ice. She spun as more movement flickered in her periphery. Shadows were starting to come at her from all directions. Their feet moved silently across the hard floor, eyes glinting menacingly.
 
Okay, so– ghosts. Scary, angry ghosts. Not good. For some reason, though, Buffy didn't run. Something cold and unsettling washed slowly over her, like an extra eerie case of déjà vu. It ran deeper than fear, luring her in rather than pushing her away.

Buffy had never seen a ghost before. But something about this hall, the sinister figures, their flashing eyes– it was as if she’d dreamt about it, a long time ago. Over and over again. 

***

The hallway gave a quake as Spike slammed the door behind them.

“Christ, the talent around here is excruciating," he spat. “Those birds couldn’t go two rounds with a bloody scarecrow.”
 
“Well, holding auditions was always something of a long shot,” Giles said weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not to mention remarkably crass, even by our standards.”
 
He followed Spike down the corridor into the old parlour. The unlit room was mostly bare, with just a few stacks of old linens laid out on the floor and one corner littered with empty bottles. 
 
“Still, you’d have thought there’d be some little street rat who could put up a half-decent fight." Spike knelt down to spark up a few candles. “But they all looked like they were gonna keel over before I even went near ‘em.” 
 
Giles gave a guilty shrug. “Well, most were just skin and bones. They’re clearly fudging the numbers about malnutrition.” 
 
Spike sighed. “Whatever. We’ll just have to try again tomorrow." He slid back against the wall and uncorked a bottle of vodka, then made a face when he slugged some down. “God. I swear they’re watering this stuff down and all." He looked disgustedly at the label. “This place has gone to rot.”
 
“I’m fairly certain the ethanol has simply burned your tastebuds off at this point," Giles said. He lay back on a pile of bedcovers and flipped open a book. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. For the last time, could you please not smoke in here? This wallpaper is antique, you know.”
 
Spike groaned. “Who cares? Not like we can hock it.” But he knew there was no point arguing further. Day’d been lousy enough without Giles on his case. Spike pushed up off the floor and stomped out of the room.
 
Christ. He just couldn’t catch a bloody break. He’d been dead meticulous when it came to laying down the plan. He’d had real high hopes about this one, and hadn’t left so much as a pebble unturned trying to get it off the ground. Had been fussing over the details even worse than Giles. But, as always, he’d still ended up pulling the short straw. They’d had to fork out just to hire the auditorium, and now all the cash he’d worked his fingers off to steal was down the drain. For nothing.
 
As he slunk through the hallway, he heard a high-pitched cry. There was a lot of that these days, from the surrounding alleys – vampires running riot, having a right laugh, rubbing it in his face. But no. This time, the sound was coming from inside.

Bastards better not be trying to mooch in on their territory. The old manor was all he and Giles really had going for them these days. Roof over their heads, still the odd bit of tat to pawn. The vamps usually couldn’t get in, either, because Giles still had invite privileges for the place. Frankly, Spike would’ve been delighted to see the back of it– the crusty old joint was falling apart at the seams and was nothing but a trove of shoddy memories. But he suspected that being here was one of the only things keeping Giles together these days. Spike knew he wouldn’t let it go easy, that last thing tethering him to the past. His final glimmer of hope.
 
Footsteps echoed in the distance. Spike sped up, marching indignantly towards the training hall. Whoever it was would be getting a piece of his mind, and an even bigger piece of his fist. Actually, he could probably use the pick-me-up tonight. When he reached the balcony overlooking the theatre, he spotted a little figure on the plane below. He double-took. Young girl, it looked like. She was cavorting around, sometimes shrinking back, sometimes throwing a kick in the air. Christ. What was this one at? Sleepwalking, was it? Contemporary dance?
 
“Hey," Spike called out as he hurried down the platform towards her. “How did you get in here?!”
 
The girl didn’t respond. Didn’t even turn around, which pissed him off even more.
 
“Oi!” Spike barked. “What do you think you’re playing at?!”

***
 
Buffy snapped back to reality. Somebody had grabbed her. Without thinking, she threw a punch in their direction.
 
“Ow! Bleedin’ hell!”

The guy stumbled backwards, then clasped a hand over his nose.
 
Buffy blinked dazedly, taking in the blonde-haired stranger. Okay– so this one wasn’t shadowy. If anything, his skin was weirdly pale. His face was different, too. Not monstrous like the others, even if it was all scrunched up. And, well, her fist definitely hadn't gone through him.
 
Buffy edged away, head still reeling. “Hey– guy. Real guy. Who are you?!”
 
“Who are you, you mean, you stupid cow?!" he snapped, eyes squeezed shut as blood trickled from his nostrils. "You bloody well hit me! And you’re not supposed to be in here.”
 
“Oh, uh–” Buffy glanced around frenziedly.

She was struggling to remember how she’d even ended up in here. The memory of whatever she’d just been doing suddenly felt very far away.

There'd been ghosts. Ghosts attacking her from all directions. But she wasn’t sure why she'd stuck around, or how long she’d been here for. Judging by her pounding heart and the heat in her cheeks, it'd been awhile, but her mind was scrambling to fill in the blanks. She stood, a bit shell-shocked, wondering, amid the chaos in her head, if she should apologise to the guy for pummelling him.

Spike pinched the bridge of his nose with a snarl. Christ. Now he was bleeding too. Just the sodding cherry to top off a grand day. He sniffed and shook out his bloodied hand, then looked up to take in his assailant properly for the first time.

Huh. Scrawny little blonde thing. Just a slip of a girl. Seemed worked up, breaths coming fast like she’d just run a marathon, and a bit out of it.

He twitched curiously. She looked kind of– sweet. In an annoying, overly precious way, with the big sparkly eyes and golden locks straight out of a storybook. But, oddly enough, not a bad punch. No. Not bad at all.
 
“Spike?” called another voice. “Is everything alright in here?”

Footsteps sounded and Giles appeared, tramping down the stairs. Buffy froze like a deer in headlights, then started to back away slowly.
 
“Wait, wait!” Spike spat. “Just one minute.”
 
Buffy turned on her heel, ready to run. “Uh. I don’t think I’m supposed to… talk to strange men in haunted houses."
 
Spike snatched her by the arm. She immediately twisted round and, again, clobbered him right in the face.
 
“Ow!” he roared, but his fingers stayed latched on tight to her arm.
 
“Let me go!”
 
“Not gonna hurt you,” Spike said, holding his face with his free hand. “Swear. Just wanna talk.” 
 
Buffy struggled for another second before landing a hard kick in his crotch. 
 
“Bloody hell,” Spike gasped, crumpling to the floor. “Giles,” he managed to croak as he tipped over. “Did you see that?”
 
“Um, yes, I did." Giles' eyes quickly jumped to Buffy. “My apologies, miss. My colleague here is… uh–”
 
“He grabbed me!” Buffy threw Spike a dirty look as he writhed on the ground. “You don’t just go around manhandling girls, you know, bleach boy. Especially not confused and, uh– bewitched girls in haunted houses!”
 
“Uh, yes, absolutely,” said Giles, though his expression seemed confused. “You’re absolutely right. Please, forgive his manners. Just– one moment, if you will.”
 
Buffy hesitated, eyeing Giles up and down. He was pretty old, his streaky grey hair receding, and wearing these fuddy-duddy glasses with a shabby pullover. Something about him seemed too dull and schoolteacher-y to be particularly threatening. She didn’t move. 
 
“How did you get in here?” Giles asked.
 
“Well..." Buffy scratched the back of her head. “To be honest, I'm not– um. Hey, is this place, like, enchanted or something?”
 
Giles faltered. “In a manner of speaking, yes. You don’t know where we are, then?”
 
“Um. A big spooky house?”
 
“It’s, uh, the old slayer manor,” he said. “It’s been abandoned for several years.”
 
“The old slayer whatta? Huh?”
 
“It’s the bloody slayer manor,” Spike cut in irritably as he picked himself up off the floor.

Buffy felt a pang of guilt as she looked over at him. His eyes were kinda puffy – definitely gonna bruise – and his slicked-back hair was dishevelled, and she had hit him pretty hard, both times, and–

She could've sworn she just saw him lick some of his own nose blood.

Okay. Clearly her instincts had been right. Guy was a total freak. 

“It’s the former residence of vampire slayers,” he continued, wiping the remaining blood away with the back of his hand. “Before they got overthrown. Heard of it?” 
 
Buffy blinked hard. “This place. You guys. Giving me serious wiggins. I think I’m gonna–”
 
“Wait. Please," Giles said, shooting Spike a warning glance. “It’s just, uh, quite a coincidence, that you ended up here. We can’t help but notice… well, you’re awfully strong. For, uh, a girl.”
 
Buffy scowled, then wrung out her right hand. “Years of beating up kids at the orphanage. Gotta guard your gruel. Not like you get much of it.”
 
Spike's eyes lit up. “The orphanage?” 
 
“Oh, um." Buffy grimaced. "I probably shouldn’t tell strange men in haunted houses about being an orphan. I think someone mentioned that.”
 
“Please, miss,” Giles continued. “I know this might seem a bit– odd. But please, give us a moment to explain." He offered a hand. "I'm sorry, but, uh– what’s your name?”
 
Buffy wavered. She gave Giles another suspicious once-over, then cautiously accepted the handshake. “It’s Buffy."

“Giles. Rupert Giles,” he said. “And this is… well. We call him Spike.” 
 
Spike glared at her. “Pleasure."
 
Buffy glared back.

Chapter Text

“Wow. So. Vampires,” Buffy said. She gave a long, low whistle. “Cra-zy.” She was sitting cross-legged on a dusty old rug in the parlour, the dark room lit only by flickering candlelight.
 
“The city is teeming with them these days, I’m sorry to report,” Giles said, refilling Buffy’s mug from an old silver teapot. “They’ve got St. Petersburg in their clutches. This used to be one of the safest cities on the continent, but alas. With the slayer gone, it’s become a hive for demonic activity.”
 
Buffy wrapped her fingers eagerly around the warm teacup. “Yeah. I’d sorta noticed."
 
“Angelus had something of a vendetta against the slayers,” Giles explained. “He was an exceptionally cruel, but also gifted vampire. Truly Machiavellian in his ambitions.”
 
“Bloke was completely off his trolley,” Spike said from the floor, head propped up on a cushion as he rolled some tobacco. “Always was.”
 
“So he killed them all?" Buffy said. "The slayers, I mean?”
 
“Vampires were dropping like flies back then. Near extinct around these parts, I’d say,” Spike said. “So Angelus got a committee together, didn’t he, and, well. They overthrew this place. Killed the slayer, and every potential slayer they could get their fangs on. And all the watchers besides.”
 
Giles inhaled deeply. “Yes. As many as they could.”
 
“That’s awful,” Buffy said quietly.
 
“Yes," Giles said, sighing. “I lost many friends that evening.”
 
“You were here?!”
 
“Yes. I was a watcher in waiting, at the time. I took care of the books, actually.” He gestured down the hallway. “The library was my domain. It’s but a shell of its former self now. Looted within an inch of its life.”
 
Buffy looked at him sympathetically.
 
“But the thing is, Buffy,” Giles went on. “There’s hope. When the current slayer dies, the next one is always called. We just have to find her, somehow.”
 
“Couldn’t this Angelus guy not have just killed them all?” Buffy asked. “Like, every last one?”
 
“Well, theoretically, slayers are infinite. And destroying the entire slayer line, is… well, it’s a quite a stretch, even for Angelus,” Giles said. “It’s fiercely powerful ancient magicks, dating back hundreds of thousands of years.”
 
Buffy hummed, mulling it all over. She focused for a minute on the translucent brown tea in her mug. Hopefully it wasn’t like, poisoned or hexed or something. She took another sip. 
 
“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Giles said, “But… um. It is rather strange, Buffy, that you ended up in here. Fateful, even. And… well. You seem to be quite a good fighter.”
 
“Isn’t there an easy way to check if a slayer’s a slayer?” Buffy asked. “They don’t come with a little stake stamped on their butt or something?”
 
“Bloody hell," Spike said. “She’s an ancient supernatural warrior, not a Sindy doll.”
 
“There’s no way to check, as far as I’m aware,” said Giles. “But, uh. She tends to make herself apparent.”
 
Buffy considered it. “So. Uh. If I really was one of these so-called slayers, what would I do now?”
 
“Well. That’s why we want to go to Paris,” Giles said. “The Watchers Council packed up their operations here, for obvious reasons. Paris is where they’re based now. And they’re looking for her.” He hesitated. “Uh– for you, perhaps.”
 
Buffy smiled wryly, eyes flicking down as she thumbed at the rim of her mug. “So, you want to take me there? To Paris?”
 
“Uh. Well, theoretically, yes,” said Giles. “If you agreed, of course.”
 
“Just like that. Out of the goodness of your hearts?” 
 
“Well, I am a former watcher. But more importantly… it’s the right thing to do. The world needs a slayer," Giles said. “By god, it does. Demons have brought this city to ruins. It’s been devastating, watching everything go downhill in front of my very eyes.”
 
Buffy hadn’t mentioned about her own aspirations to be Paris-bound, or about the necklace. It was all just a little too fluky. Maybe they’d been spying on her? Or maybe they could read her mind, all hocusy-pocusy?

Not that she believed in any of that. But hey, she hadn’t believed in ghosts or vampires either, until a couple of hours ago. In the most bizarre way imaginable, it all kind of made sense. Like maybe she’d always known, but forgotten.
 
“This sounds like a very elaborate trafficking scheme," Buffy said slowly. "Is it a very elaborate trafficking scheme?”
 
Giles chuckled uncomfortably. “Uh, no, it's not," he said. "But I can hardly blame you for being sceptical.”
 
“And, uh– what about him?” Buffy wrinkled her nose and gestured towards Spike. “Was he a watcher too?”
 
Spike sniggered.
 
“Uh, no,” Giles said. “He’s, uh… well–”
 
Giles and Spike exchanged looks. Giles sighed and admitted, "Well, um. He's a vampire, actually."
 
Buffy leapt off the floor. “He– he’s a vampire?!”
 
“Yes, but– Buffy, please, sit down," Giles said quickly. "He’s not dangerous."
 
Spike glared over his shoulder at Giles. “Hey!”
 
Buffy eyed Spike suspiciously. He looked back at her with equal suspicion plus a generous dash of hostility. 

She carefully sat back down, but inched away to put more space between them. 
 
“He’s, um... well– he was cursed too," Giles said. "By Angelus, in fact. He can’t bite anyone."
 
Spike grunted.
 
“So, he has some sympathies, for, uh, the slayer cause,” Giles said. Spike choked back a scoff while Giles added, “Enemies of my enemies and so forth."
 
“I don’t understand,” Buffy said carefully. “I thought vampires were bad. I thought the whole point of the slayer was to, you know. Kill them?”
 
“Well, yes. It is,” Giles said. 
 
“And you used to teach slayers to fight vampires, and now… you’re partners with one?”
 
“Strictly business partners, I hasten to add,” Giles said, to which Spike rolled his eyes. “But yes. I know it seems a bit… unorthodox, at first glance. But you must understand, Buffy. The situation has really deteriorated around here these last years. Everyone is desperately trying to scrape by. And Spike, well. He’s more of a, uh… scrappy mongrel now, let’s say.”
 
“I can’t bloody well be a vampire, can I?” Spike said, swinging up off the floor and lighting his cigarette. “Can’t bite people. Not many prospects around here for defective demons, other than scavenging in alleyways with this one. It’s downright pathetic.”
 
Buffy scrunched up her face. “So you’re still evil?”
 
“Damn right I am," Spike said.
 
Giles slapped a hand over his face. “He’s not evil, I assure you. He simply has delusions of grandeur.”

Spike blew smoke out the side of his mouth, looking unimpressed.
 
“Okay. So let me get this straight," Buffy said. She took a deep breath. “I might be the last in an ancient line of mystical superheroes whose job is to kill demons,” she started, looking at Giles.

He nodded. 
 
“And now, a former librarian and his neutered vampire sidekick–”
 
Spike spluttered. “Hey!”
 
“–want to escort me thousands of miles to Paris so I can be, like– officially crowned Buffy the vampire slayer?”
 
“Something like that,” Giles said. 
 
“And then I’ll… save the world? Like, a lot?”
 
“Well. A bit crude, perhaps, but overall, a fairly accurate summary,” said Giles.
 
“It’s almost too dumb to be a hoax," Buffy muttered.
 
“I suppose so,” Giles said.
 
“But… it’d be even more dumb if I said yes, right?”

***

Buffy unlatched her necklace and laid it down delicately on one of the cushions.

Her pulse was starting to tick up. She took a final steadying breath, then turned around with fists poised. “Okay. I’m ready.”
 
Spike stood a few yards opposite her, loosening up his shoulders and smiling wickedly. 

Buffy tried not to grimace as her insides did backflips. She’d had her fair share of scraps back at the orphanage, and mostly she’d come out on top. Buffy wasn’t exactly proud of it – not openly, anyways – but she’d had a bit of a reputation: tough for her age, and able to throw a mean punch. But the kids back there hadn’t really known what they were doing. Plus, they were just kids. She’d never taken on a grown– well, vampire, before.

“Don’t worry too much, Buffy,” Giles said from the side. “We just want to get a… sense of your abilities, really.”
 
“Yeah," Spike said, biting his tongue between his teeth. “Let’s see what you got.”
 
Buffy lurched towards him. She'd barely taken two steps when she felt hands around her waist, and then she was twirling through the air with a whoosh. She stared up at the ceiling, which was spinning. The worn-out rug had only vaguely softened the blow. “Ou-ouch.” 

Giles shot Spike a disapproving look.
 
"Just checking,” Spike said, holding up his hands. “Don’t wanna condescend to the girl.” 
 
“Buffy, are you alright?” Giles asked, hunkering down beside her. 
 
“I’m fine," Buffy said tightly, though the back of her head was throbbing, and her bare arms were raw and carpet burn-y.

When she sat up, Spike's eyes were twinkling. 

Buffy’s face hardened. Adrenaline had already started to gush freely, but now anger was hot on its heels. 
 
“I want to try again," she said stubbornly, pushing herself to her feet.

“Are you sure?” Giles asked.
 
This time, Spike stood almost completely still when Buffy surrounded him.
 
“Not bad,” he said casually, quickly straightening his back when she landed a kick in his thigh.
 
“Come on,” Buffy urged through clenched teeth. “Fight back.”
 
Spike gave a bored sigh. “Fine.”
 
Spurred on by the seething rage, Buffy threw a few punches at his face. Spike dodged them easily, swinging quickly from side to side, all the while looking supremely pleased with himself. Buffy missed a couple more shots before he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders. 
 
“Seriously,” he said lightly, eyes flashing at her. “Not bad.”
 
Buffy wriggled in his grip, hoping to wrench an elbow loose and whack him in the chin. “You seem like you’re enjoying this a bit too much.”
 
“Vampire,” he said matter-of-factly, lips curling nastily. “Violence is part of the package."
 
Then his face shifted. Sure, he’d looked mean before, but now– his forehead bulged, deep trenches forming between rolls of thick, rigid skin. His bright eyes squeezed themselves together, gilded and cruel, like an animal moving in for the kill.

Buffy recoiled on instinct, breath hitching. Spike opened his jaws wide, revealing the new points in his teeth. She struggled against him as he hovered over her neck, his nails digging hard into her shoulder blades. 

“Spike!” Giles called out as he rushed over. “That’s enough!” 
 
Buffy staggered backwards as Spike abruptly dropped her. She watched, eyes wide, as his face melted back to what it’d been before. It felt like the bottom of her stomach had dropped out. The hatred had been simmering since she’d first clapped eyes on him, but she hadn’t been, well– scared of him. Not that she was scared now, exactly. The writhing in her gut was something stickier than plain old fear.

She swallowed. Even when they’d told her he was a vampire, it’d been hard to really get her head around it, when he looked– well, like a pretty normal guy. A bit striking, maybe, with the hair and the face angles, but human. Definitely human. 
 
Giles scowled at Spike. “That was hardly necessary."
 
“Well, that’s what it’s gonna be like, ain’t it?” Spike said. “Just a little taster. I mean, if she really is the slayer…” 
 
Again, Buffy forced herself to straighten up quickly. “I’m fine,” she said in response to Giles’ frown, trying to quash the tremble in her voice.
 
“Well, that was halfway decent," Spike said, leaning back against the windowsill and folding his arms. “Yeah. I’d say there’s a smidge of potential.”
 
“Uh, yes, Buffy,” Giles said. “You did, uh, very well.”
 
Buffy bristled with irritation. She didn’t want to be appeased. Especially not in front of Spike.

“Wouldn’t it be more obvious?” she asked Giles. “If I were, you know, a slayer?”
 
“Not necessarily,” said Giles. He removed his glasses to give them a polish, smiling. “I mean, I’m certain you could give me a few bruises. But, uh, I’m not gifted with preternatural healing powers, so let’s not try that, shall we?” 
 
“But aren’t slayers supposed to be stronger than vampires?”
 
“Well," Giles said thoughtfully. "Certainly they have the potential to be. But they need practice, and the right training. Their abilities vary naturally, too. Plus, uh, vampires also come in different strengths and sizes. Some are weaker, less skilled than others.”

Spike eyed Buffy smugly.
 
“And, uh, well Spike here,” Giles went on. “He’s been around the block, let’s just say.”
 
“I thought he couldn’t hurt anyone,” Buffy muttered, stretching out her shoulder.
 
“Can’t bite,” Spike corrected, narrowing his eyes at her. “Could still pummel you into the ground, though.”
 
Buffy threw him a dark look and he stared back, unflinching. Her chest twinged uneasily.
 
“Uh– let’s call it a night, shall we?” Giles suggested. “Buffy, why don’t you sleep on it?”

***

Buffy was still rubbing crumbs of sleep out of her eyes as she collected what little possessions she had and shoved them into her rucksack.

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to travel by day?” she asked Giles.
 
She was tired. Which made sense, since it was literally the middle of the night. But even aside from that, she hadn’t been sleeping particularly well. Frankly, she’d been half-expecting to wake up to a headful of peroxide hair in her face and fangs sinking into her neck. Even though the spot she’d chosen to sleep in was pretty much as far away from him as possible, her body felt persistently edgy, like it knew he was there. 
 
“Well, it’s something of a double-edged sword," Giles said, buttoning up his tweedy overcoat. “There’s certainly more demonic activity at night. But it’s obviously a bit tricky for Spike here to move around during daylight hours.”
 
“Oh, so he’d sizzle up and get all fried if we went out in the daytime?” said Buffy. “Sad.”
 
Spike side-eyed her as he heaved a suitcase up off the ground. “Bloody hell Giles, what’s in here? You’ve packed half the bloody library.”
 
“Some of those titles are irreplaceable,” Giles said. “First editions, many of them. And they’ve got information that may prove useful.”
 
Spike rolled his eyes, hovering in the doorframe. “Get a move on, would you Goldilocks?”
 
“It’s Buff-y,” said Buffy, fitting her cap on as she joined him at the door.
 
“Christ, what kind of a name is that, anyway? Your parents must’ve been right nutters," he said. "Oh, sorry. Forgot you don’t have any.”
 
Buffy stared at him. “You’re disgusting."
 
“Yes, do shut up, Spike,” Giles said.
 
“What?!” Spike said, shrugging. “Well, she doesn’t, does she?”
 
“Just ignore him, Buffy,” said Giles.
 
Spike’s eyes glittered.

He leaned out the open doorway, peering around the corner. “Right, coast looks clear. Off you go.”
 
Buffy and Giles stepped out into the icy night, glancing around cautiously. They’d only made it a few feet when they heard Spike give a loud, drawn-out groan.
 
“Not these tossers,” he muttered, turning to face two vampires lumbering around the corner.
 
Buffy looked to Giles with a twinge of panic. 

“Don’t worry, Buffy,” Giles said in a hushed voice. “But, uh. Here. Do take this, just in case." He handed her a stake from his inside pocket. “Aim for the heart, yeah?”
 
“Thanks,” Buffy said flatly, looking dejectedly at the pointy stick. 
 
“It’s Spike,” sneered one of the vampires.
 
“Yeah, yeah,” Spike said with an eyeroll. “It’s poor old Spike, emerging from his hidey-hole to go stock up on rabbit food. Now shove off, yeah? Pip pip, alright, unless you want your arses handed to you on a plate.”
 
“Who are those two?” one of the vampires pointed over Spike’s shoulder. “Look edible to me. Especially the little one.”
 
Spike sighed. “Hell. I just don’t have the patience for this."

He launched into action. Buffy’s eyes popped open wide as Spike yanked the first guy’s collar and smashed his head viciously against the wall. The vampire’s skull gave a gut-churning crack as it met the brick, though the vampire was, bizarrely, still alive – wriggling now in Spike’s throttle. 

The grace period didn’t last long. Spike whipped out his stake, then drove it through the vamp’s chest in one swift motion.

Buffy winced. She’d kinda assumed whatever her new vocation turned out to be, it’d be less gruesome than chopping off fish heads. She blinked when, almost immediately, the vampire crumbled like a half-cooked biscuit, the dust flittering neatly away into the air.

Huh. Well, that was one point for vampire slaying. Way less clean-up.

Spike spun round to the survivor and snarled. “Told you to get lost, didn’t I?”

The vampire started to back away, but Spike was evidently not one for mercy.

He casually clapped his hands clean when it was over. “Right,” he announced, straightening up and looking freshly chipper. “Let’s go then."

***

Buffy's eyes roved the crowds as they arrived at the train platform, while Spike lugged the suitcases at their heels.

“So, where do we get our exit papers?” she asked.
 
“Uh, well." Giles coughed slightly. “We have our ways.”
 
Spike dropped the bags down with a thud. “Your old man here’s a talented forger. St. Petersburg’s finest.”
 
“Such flattery,” Giles mumbled. He rubbed the back of his neck as he edged around to face Buffy. “But, uh– yes. I do have some experience in… that department.”
 
Buffy raised a disapproving brow.
 
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Buffy!” Giles said defensively, his face going a bit red. “One must be resourceful, in order to survive.” 

Spike hummed and quirked his lips. “Resourceful’s one word for it,” he said, then looked over at Buffy and added, “He’s quite the spin master, too.”

Giles shot Spike a sideways glare. “Let’s just find a seat, shall we?”
 
They pushed onto the train, maneuvering through the crowds until they found an empty compartment. Spike loaded the luggage overhead, then immediately disappeared. 
 
“What’s he up to?” Buffy asked suspiciously as she leant back in her seat.
 
“Probably gone down to the cargo,” Giles said. “Be more comfortable for him there. No windows.”
 
Buffy shuddered. “Ugh. Vampires.”
 
Giles shook his head ruefully. “You’ll get used to the demon underworld quickly, Buffy. Won’t seem so strange anymore, after a while.”
 
“I’m not sure I want to get used to it," she said, sticking out her tongue in disgust. “So does he like, drink blood?”
 
“Yes. Mostly subsists on pig’s blood and the like, these days.”
 
Buffy crossed her arms. "Gross."
 
“It’s a bit unsightly, I agree. But uh, he’s not so bad, really, when you get to know him," Giles said. Then he sighed. “God, what am I saying? He’s worse. He’s a total git.”
 
“Why d'you put up with him?” Buffy asked. 
 
“Well, he has grown on me over the years. Rather like a degenerative disease." Giles raked a hand through his hair. "And the reality is that I needed him. I don’t think I’d still be alive, if it weren’t for our alliance. You’ve seen how good a fighter he is. He wards off vampires and other demons. And he can train you, too.”
 
Buffy moaned unhappily and cast her gaze out the window. “So– you don’t think he’d go all chompy chomp on you, if he had half a chance?”
 
“For my sanity, I choose to believe not," Giles said. "But either way, I don’t think Angelus’ curse is at any risk of breaking any time soon.”
 
Buffy pursed her lips. “Bet he’d like it to."
 
Giles stared outside as the train gathered speed, watching as the rows of buildings flashed by. His expression was unreadable. “Perhaps.”

***

Spike dragged the screen door open and hissed, “Oi.”
 
Giles, who’d been dozing in his seat, roused suddenly. “What is it?”
 
“They’re checking papers. But Giles– they’ve gone and changed the colour. Blue to red.”
 
“Oh, for goodness’ sake."
 
“What do you reckon then, should we hop off?" Spike looked around shiftily. "Or will I just, uh– beat up the conductor?”

“Let’s just get off,” muttered Giles. He softly shook Buffy’s shoulder.
 
Spike gave her a kick in the shin as he grabbed the luggage from over her head. "Rise and shine, love."
 
Buffy's eyes fluttered open. “Something wrong?” she asked sleepily.
 
“Uh, nothing to worry about,” said Giles.
 
Spike gave a fake, bright smile. “Just going for a cosy little interval in the cargo bay.”
 
Buffy sighed. “It’s our papers, isn’t it?”
 
“You two head on,” Giles said. “I need to get a quick look at this new format.”
 
Buffy reluctantly trailed after Spike as he squeezed through carriage aisles, unapologetically whacking passengers with the bags as he passed. Buffy ignored his offer of an outstretched hand as she hopped from the final carriage over to the cargo car.

“Well." Spike tossed the suitcases down inside the darkened coach. "Make yourself at home."
 
A bag landed on Buffy's foot. “Ouch."
 
“Well, aren’t we precious,” said Spike. He sat down on a wooden chest and lit a cigarette, then offered her one. 
 
“I’m good,” Buffy said flatly.
 
“Suit yourself."

Buffy huddled up against a pile of suitcases. The carriage was cramped and draughty, and obviously not designed for people to actually spend time in. She rubbed at her shins.

Well, great. She was alone in a dark, dank train carriage with a bloodthirsty vampire. One who’d probably single-handedly killed enough people to fill the entire passenger section. And, okay, he apparently couldn’t bite her, but if he really wanted, he could probably just... wrench her neck clean off and lap up the blood. Like a cat. She doubted anybody would even hear her scream.

Buffy glanced around, searching for the most promising escape route, and inadvertently caught Spike looking at her out of the corner of his eye.
 
He immediately averted his gaze and started tapping his foot on the ground. “So. Uh. What do you like to do for fun, then?”
 
Buffy shrugged. “We used to scrub the orphanage floors a lot."
 
Spike nodded slowly and pressed his lips together. “Right. Sounds like a laugh.”
 
“Sometimes we set things on fire,” Buffy tried.
 
“Not a big fan of fire, myself," Spike said. "Gets me all, you know, dusty.”
 
Buffy drummed her fingers on the floor. On second thoughts, maybe it’d be more fun if he ripped her head off? 
 
“Where is he?” Spike mumbled. He looked back towards the front of the train. “Giles?!”
 
Spike sighed and turned back to Buffy. “So. What’s it like being an orphan, then?”
 
Buffy blinked at him. 
 
“Just trying to make conversation," Spike said defensively.
 
“Well, you’re not very good at it.”

“Well, you’re not giving me much to work with!”
 
“Fine," Buffy said through clenched teeth. “What’s it like being a vampire, then?”
 
Spike gave a noncommittal shrug. “Eh. The novelty’s sort of worn off, now that I’ve been, you know. Defanged." He drew up his lip and made a little ‘grr’ sound to emphasise the point.

It was sort of cute, in a pathetic way. Might’ve even been endearing had it been literally anybody else. Buffy resisted the impulse to laugh.

“Poor you," she said unsympathetically.
 
“Hey, it’s no joke, you know," Spike said. "Not being able to do what you’re supposed to. A vampire who can’t bite, well – it’s a bit like a fish who can’t swim, or a bird who can’t fly. Might even say it’s like a kid without a family. Nothing can ever truly fill the void, you know?”
 
Buffy scowled at him. “How about we just, you know. Not talk?”
 
Spike rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Look, Giles should be back by now. We were supposed to be stopping.” 

As he stood up, the carriage jolted sharply and he was knocked half-backwards. Metal screeched fiercely against metal, and Buffy instinctively covered her ears. 

“What the–” Spike staggered over to the carriage door and peeked out the misty window. He double-took. “Christ! We’ve been cut off!”
 
“Huh? What do you mean?”
 
“Did it sound like a riddle to you?” Spike snapped over his shoulder. “Wagon’s gone rogue. The mothership already stopped a good half mile back.”
 
Buffy jumped to her feet. She wobbled to and fro from the motion as she stumbled towards the window to get a look for herself. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the other carriages, parked and stationery in the distance. They were rapidly getting further and further away. 

Oh boy.

Spike glared over at her. “You’re a bad luck charm, Blondie, you know that?”

The carriage continued to judder along the tracks, the grinding of steel piercing the air. “But if we’ve been cut off–” Buffy started, voice uneven as the cart jerked her from side to side. “Then who’s driving this thing?”

“I’m guessing–” Spike slammed a hand against the wall to stop himself falling. “–the carriage has embraced the zeitgeist, and gone full revolt.”

Buffy’s panic surged. “Okay, so then won’t we eventually slow down and just, you know… stop?”

Spike blinked at her like she was an idiot. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, princess," he said as he hobbled towards the far end of the carriage. “Forget all these squabbles over governments, because there’s only one law ruling us all, and it’s this: anything that can go wrong, bloody well will. And after it’s all gone wrong, it’ll just get bleedin’ worse, and it’ll keep on getting worse, dragging you, kicking and screaming down with it, until the end of sodding days.”

“Gee,” Buffy said, stumbling after him. “You should give, like, motivational speeches.”

Spike yanked open the back door. A torrent of icy winds rushed in, quickly followed by an eruption of sparks. Spike let out a string of swears, then staggered backwards and frantically clapped out a shock of fire on his sleeve. “Oh come on! Not the leather!” He straightened up and wheeled around to Buffy, eyes wide and manic. “See?! What’d I tell you?!”

She had to admit it. He had a point.

“Go see what’s happening out there, would you?!” he spat as he shook out his arm. “Didn’t get a chance to see, what with nearly getting seared up.”
 
Buffy blundered towards the door, balancing herself precariously along the side panels. She squinted against the gale-force winds when she poked her head out.

“Uh, Spike?” she called out over the clamour. Her fingers clutched tight to the side of the open door. “You know how you’re not exactly wild about fire?”
 
Buffy heard Spike’s groan even over the wind and whistling. The engine cart ahead of them was no longer billowing steam, but neon-orange embers, the coals hissing viciously and hailing cinders down into the wagon. Flames danced across the top like a lit fuse.

It was quite pretty, actually. Enchanting, in like, a terrifying-hellscape way. 
 
Spike arrived over her shoulder, jacket pulled haphazardly over his head. He took in the looming inferno. 

“Bloody hell," he said, voice barely audible. “Looks like the whole thing’s gonna blow.”

Still half frozen, Buffy watched as he knelt down and started to wrench at the thick metal bolt linking the two carriages. Her insides were starting to hollow out from her navel all the way up to her throat. Was this some sick joke? It was bad enough dying – just days after finally being set free, no less – but being forced to spend her final moments with Spike, of all people? It probably would’ve been funny if it wasn’t, you know, real.

Spinning on her heel, Buffy started to scour the carriage, rummaging desperately through crates and cases for some kind of weapon, looking for anything at all that might be useful.

“Hardly the time for petty theft, love," Spike said, still trying in vain to loosen the connective bolts. “And coming from me, that really means something.”

Buffy’s eyes lit up when she spotted an axe. It was pinned to the wall behind a pane of glass. Without thinking, she elbowed the casing hard. She didn't flinch, ignoring the flurry of broken glass now clattering around the wagon as she yanked the axe free. She leapt out the door, shoved Spike aside, and brought it down hard over the steel latch.
 
Spike shrank back. “Hey! You could’ve taken my arm off!”

“Yep, that was the plan," Buffy said, giving the axe another violent swing. The clank of steel rung harshly through her ears, but the coupler remained firmly in place.
 
Spike hissed, “You’re not gonna cut through metal with that thing.”

“Well, I look forward to hearing your better idea–” Buffy heaved the axe over her shoulder again. “–any second now.”

“I’m about to sizzle out here." Spike ducked down under his jacket to avoid another onslaught of sparks. “So get back inside, yeah? Before I lock you out.”
 
Buffy gave the chains one more angry, futile thwack before she reluctantly jumped back inside the quaking wagon. Spike was already dragging the side door open to reveal the snowy landscape zipping past in a navy-white blur. Buffy saw him arch around the edge of the train and vanish mostly from sight, the tails of his jacket whipping in the wind as he scaled up the side of the carriage.
 
“Where are you going?” she called, but her voice was lost amid the tumult.
 
Spike’s boots almost kicked her right in the nose when he swung back through the doorway.

“Well, the good news,” he started breathlessly, skidding to a halt. “Is that we’re not gonna burst into flames. We’ll be flying off the mountain and into a great big snowy ditch long before the engine ever explodes.” 

Buffy stared at him blankly.

“We’ll just have to jump," he said simply.

Buffy blinked once at him, then shifted her gaze to the white hills flashing by. The blurry landscape was moving so violently fast it made her head hurt just watching it.
  
Spike snatched up a suitcase and flung it out the open door. It flew unceremoniously into the middle of nowhere. Buffy watched with dread as the hapless bag hurtled to its uncertain fate.

“Fancy giving me a hand over here, love?” Spike said, interrupting Buffy's reverie of impending doom. “Kind of on a tight schedule.”
 
Buffy kicked into autopilot. Her mind had gone fuzzy and blank, which was actually much preferable to having thoughts. She was kind of bummed when they came back, which they did as soon as all the bags had been tossed out the door and Spike grabbed her wrist.

“Time for the flying leap,” he announced.
 
Buffy yanked out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me!”
 
“Christ alive,” Spike said through gritted teeth. “You’ll be safer with me, is all. Vamps are more sturdy than you dainty humans.”
 
“I’ll be fine," she said, inching closer to the edge of the carriage, trying unsuccessfully to shield her face against the winds.
 
“Fine. Your funeral,” Spike spat. “Can eat you and all, if you’re already dead.”
 
Buffy glared at him, then turned back to the mountainous landscape zooming by. Her eyes streamed from the winds cutting into them. She took a long, deep breath.
 
Then Spike seized her shoulders.

Buffy yelped in protest, but it was too late. “Make a wish, love,” she heard him murmur in her ear, and then everything was spinning. Buffy was catapulting through the air so hard it felt like her brain was being dislodged. Spike's elbows were clamped around her neck, locking her head tightly in place.

She felt herself eke out a cry. Then, a painful wheeze. A throb in the back of her neck. Cold, everywhere.

Buffy blinked furiously. She was alive. Lying on her side in a hollow of snow, bundled up in Spike’s arms, her cheek pressed against the soft leather of his jacket.

Before the relief of being not-dead could truly sink in, she was wriggling frantically out of his embrace. Spike yowled as their heads knocked together. 
 
“Get off me!” Buffy said, shaking him off. She moaned as she sat up and rubbed the back of her head. 
 
“You do know being a vampire’s not catching, right?” Spike glared at her as he shuffled up off the ground. He thought for a second. “Uh. Well, okay, I guess technically it is. But it’s not like, you know, chickenpox or leprosy. It’s more like... rabies.”
 
“Oh, so it’s just like rabies, then," Buffy said. She stretched out her shoulder, wincing in pain. “That’s reassuring.”
 
“Well I can’t bite you, can I?!" Spike spat. "Not that I’d bloody well want to. Probably taste all bitter and grainy.” 
 
Buffy rolled her eyes as she stood up. “Just… don’t help me, okay?”
 
“Fine. Don’t say thanks for saving your ungrateful skin. Whatever." Spike brushed himself off. “Come on, then. Let’s find the old man and get the bags.”
 
They started to walk back along the empty tracks, the rogue luggage car now distant enough that the hilly landscape was near silent. Buffy could hear nothing but the soft smooshing of their feet, all other sounds muffled by the thick blankets of snow. She winced as she glanced down at her hands, the veins blueish and swollen even in the dusky light. Her fingers were pretty much ice-sticks at this point, though they scarcely compared to her toes, which were somehow both numb and sore at the same time.
 
Spike cleared his throat. "Uh. You cold?”
 
“No,” Buffy lied, wrapping her arms around herself tightly.
 
“Bloody hell. You’re impossible," Spike said. He shucked off his jacket and held it out to her. "Put this on."
 
“Ew. No thanks.”
 
Spike blew out air irritably. “Giles will be in a hump with me if you freeze to death, alright?”
 
Buffy looked over. She hesitated. “And what about you?”
 
“Vampire, remember? Don’t get cold.”
 
Buffy raised an eyebrow at him. “So the jacket’s just for what– style?”
 
“Uh. Something like that.”
 
"Oh my god," Buffy said, but she took the jacket anyway and slipped it on. The black leather fell almost to her ankles and the oversized sleeves covered most of her hands. When she went to button it up, she realised her fingers were not only nerve-dead, but shaky. She gave a little sniff of frustration as she fumbled.

She hadn't even realised she'd stopped walking until a shadow fell over her. Spike was standing in front of her, blocking her path. "Here," he said.

Buffy was either too taken off guard or too drained – probably both – to object as he started to fasten the buttons. Even though he was wearing only a thin shirt and it was covered in wet patches, his hands were dead steady. Dead being the operative word, Buffy guessed.

She sucked in a tiny drag of air, uncomfortable standing passively in front of him, his face inches from hers. Spike was looking down and not at her, gaze focused on the jacket, on slipping each button through its eyelet, his fingers working their way up her middle to her chest.

Buffy wanted to say something to break the silence. But she couldn't think of anything.

Finally, Spike did up the last button. He took a moment to gently straighten out the collar, curled up around her neck, turning the edges down and brushing his palms over them. His eyes levelled with hers for a beat, and his lips moved, and Buffy briefly saw the tip of his tongue. Then he moved aside.

Buffy quavered out a long stream of condensation. “So, uh... vampires don’t get hot or cold?” she asked, breath was still a little uneven. She shuffled her shoulders around in the oversized jacket as they started to walk again. “Ever?”
 
Spike shook his head. “Not really."
 
“Freaky," Buffy muttered.

Spike snorted quietly. “Yeah, well slayers are freaks, too, I’ll have you know. All part of the same club, in the end.”
 
“What?" Buffy said, making a face. "Slayers kill demons. They’re complete opposites.”
 
“Well neither is completely bog-standard, is what I’m saying," Spike said, kicking up a ream of snow. "Not quite… normal, you know.”
 
Buffy barked out a cold laugh. “Well, that does check out. I finally leave one freak club, and immediately get a gold-plated invite to another.”
 
Spike rolled his eyes. “Oh, boo hoo,” he huffed. “Poor little orphan girl. Jeez. Change the record, would you?”
 
Buffy went dead silent, lips tightening as she clutched at her waist. Her chest felt empty. A painful kind of empty.

It was just– even with Spike's jacket on, the cold was biting. Every part of her ached and stung and... and, oh boy, the day she'd just had. She strained desperately to hold back the hot tears pricking her eyes. It felt like a final frontier, somehow, and she really didn't want to let him have it. She swallowed hard, hoping he couldn’t hear the quiver in her breath.
 
Neither of them said anything for awhile, Spike collecting some of the snow-soaked bags as they went.
 
“Uh. Sorry," he said eventually, coughing slightly. “I can go pretty hard on Giles. He’s used to it. But, uh.” He glanced over at Buffy. “I’m not used to– you know. Girls and their feelings.”
 
Buffy swung round, eyeballing him savagely. She let out an angry exclamation that wasn't quite made up of words, but which she felt had a pretty clear meaning nonetheless.

Spike shrank back on instinct. He glanced around in alarm, like he was looking for somebody to rescue him, and when nobody did, he went back to saying nothing.

It was an even quieter silence than the one before.
 
“Giles?” Spike said hopefully a few minutes later as a distant figure came into view.
 
Deeply relieved on numerous counts, Buffy called, "Giles!"
 
“Oh, thank god it’s you," Giles said as he hurried towards them. “What on earth happened?”

“Got cut off,” Spike said. “Engine started overheating, and we ended up veering off course. Had to jump in the end. Almost broke our bloody necks.”

"Good lord." Giles pressed a palm to his forehead, eyes darting from Spike to Buffy. "Are you two alright?"

"Just about," Spike said. “Something right funny’s going on, Giles."
 
Giles frowned gravely. “Yes. It’s very suspicious indeed.”
 
Buffy glanced between them both. “What do you mean?”
 
“Well, not sure what trains you’ve been on before, love," Spike said, "But they don’t usually snap down the middle like a pair of chopsticks."
 
“I know,” Buffy said. “But why– I mean, what do you think could have happened?”

“Well, we don’t know," Giles said. He hesitated. “But, uh. Something supernatural, perhaps.”

He and Spike exchanged an uneasy look.
  
“Come on. We’ll figure it out later,” Spike said. “Sun’ll be up soon. Let’s set up the gear.”

***

“You reckon it was something to do with him? Angelus?” Spike asked later, sitting with Giles by the glow of the fire. The meek flames were already dwindling.
 
“It would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
 
Spike glanced over his shoulder at the tent where Buffy was sleeping. “Would mean, surely, well…”
 
“That it’s really her,” Giles finished quietly. He shook his head, smiling a little. “No. I dare not hope. Not just yet.”
 
“She is pretty hardy,” Spike conceded, thinking about earlier, landing in the snow with her in his arms. The train had been moving fast. Most people, he reckoned, would’ve at least been injured. But first thing she’d done was... well, leap up and push him off her. “For a little thing. Needs a good polishing, mind.”
 
“Yes, she’s quite impressive.”
 
Spike grunted. He saw Buffy's eyes flash through his head: looking at him, just for a split second, when he'd buttoned up his jacket on her.

He'd had the impulse to let his hands linger.

Spike quickly pushed aside both the memory and the flicker of dread in his chest. “So what do you think he would be playing at, then?" he asked Giles. "Angelus?”
 
“God knows," Giles said, rubbing his mouth. “I mean, she has come of age, officially. Could be something to do with that. Perhaps a reactivation of something from the past… uh, a dormant curse, maybe. I’m not sure. I’ll consult the books.”
 
Spike nodded, running a hand through his hair. The last thing they needed was that nutjob and his little toy curses on their heels. God, the girl really was trouble through and through, wasn’t she? 
 
He thought again of the money. She’d better be bloody worth it.

Chapter Text

“So, no more trains?” Buffy asked.

Three pairs of boots crunched through the thick snow. The untrodden landscape stretched on and on before them, the inky sky casting ash-coloured shadows down across the otherwise relentless sea of white. No matter how far they walked, the distant silhouettes of trees and hills never seemed to get any closer.
 
“No more trains,” Giles said.
 
“Just… trekking across the snowy mountains," Buffy said flatly. "On foot."
 
Giles hesitated. “There should be a village, not too far off.”
 
“How far?”
 
“Uh. Not quite fifty miles, I believe," said Giles.
 
“Fifty miles?!” 
 
“God, she’s a bit waifish, isn’t she?” Spike butted in. “Thought slayers were supposed to be tough.”
 
Buffy shot him a look. 
 
“It’s muggins here who’s lugging round the bags, anyway, isn’t it?” he said. “Don’t see what you’ve got to be moaning about.”
 
“I wasn’t moaning," Buffy bit back. "Just asking.”
 
“Said it real snippy, though, didn’t you."

Giles sighed. It was going to be a long fifty miles.

***

“Come on,” Spike urged. “Give it to me.”
 
Buffy lunged towards him. Spike grabbed her wrist and held it taut.

“Nah. Too obvious,” he said.
 
Buffy groaned, struggling to wrench free. She was, quite frankly, exhausted. Several consecutive nights of snowy hikes had taken it out of her, so she wasn’t exactly fighting fit. Still– the prospect of getting pulverised into the dirt by Spike had managed to get some adrenaline pumping.
 
"Oi!" Spike said, edging back as he let her go. “Take that thing off, would you?!” He gestured to the cross around her neck. “It’s gonna scorch me up.”
 
“I wish it would,” Buffy said, but she pulled off the necklace and laid it down anyway.
 
Spike tried not to buckle when she came back with another kick.

“Better,” he said, recovering. “Much better.”
 
Giles popped out from his tent and came to watch. “How’s it going?” he asked.
 
Spike shrugged. “Bit like kiddy karate hour out here, but I reckon I can make something of it.” 
 
Buffy knocked him roughly in the ear.
 
Spike staggered backwards, grinning. “Nice one, slayer." He bit his lip and rubbed the side of his face. “Works to get you a bit riled, eh?”
 
Buffy swung another kick at him. "God, how I loathe you."
 
Spike caught her ankle, twisting her over so she landed face first on the ground. “Clearly not enough. Come on, put more fire in it.” He went to grab her by the back of her shirt, but she surprised him by kicking backwards, hard. Spike fell, landing on his hands, taken aback.

“You’ll pay for that one, pet," he said, face furrowing.
 
Buffy’s chest twinged with pride as she squared back up, looking at Spike determinedly. “Yeah? Try me.”
 
Spike swaggered up to her, and for a moment they held each other’s glare. Then he swung. 

Buffy gave an angry groan as he caught her around the middle. She writhed fruitlessly as he twisted her round flush against him.
 
“Try getting out of that,” Spike said smugly in her ear.

She managed to wrest an arm free, elbowing him sharply in the face and knocking him back a few steps. Spike's face tightened with anger. He gathered himself quickly, blocked a string of her frenzied advances, then dove to grab her legs. He tugged till her balance gave way and she fell backwards, her head landing on the ground with a smack. Spike dropped down over her, pinning her arms against the ground.

Buffy stared up at him, winded and breathing hard. His brows were still tensed, something threatening leftover in his gaze, but his lips were twitching with triumph.
 
Buffy’s whole body strained with frustration. She wanted desperately to lash out, to claw at his eyes or smash her fist through his teeth or scrape her nails across his face till the blood gushed. But she couldn’t move. 

She briefly considered spitting at him, until she realised it’d been quite a while that they’d been staring at each other. Her heart gave a hard thump.

Spike seemed to snap out of his daze at the same moment. He slackened his grip on her, and Buffy rolled out from under him, chest still tight.
 
Giles cleared his throat. “Uh. Seems to be going well, then. I’ll be– uh, in the… uh. Yes…” he trailed off, then hurriedly fled back into his tent.
 
“What’s his problem?” Buffy asked, brushing herself down and stretching out her neck a little as Giles scurried away.

Spike shrugged and turned back to face her. “Okay. Now, even harder this time," he said, beckoning with his hands. “Yeah. Uh huh. Just like that.”

***

Buffy soon realised that, despite him complaining about her complaining, nobody actually complained half as much as Spike.

He had resorted to dragging the bags along the ground, leaving fat snow tracks in their wake. Buffy would’ve preferred to carry the luggage herself than have to listen to Spike’s constant monologues about how overexploited and under-appreciated he was, but when she offered to help, he insisted she was a weakling and it would just slow them down. And so his self-professed martyrdom continued.

“Do we have to keep playing this stupid sodding game?” he asked as they trudged through yet another darkened woods, moonlight catching in the creases of his scrunched-up face.
 
“You were the one who suggested it,” Giles said.
 
“Yeah. Round about six hours ago,” Spike said. “But there’s only so many different ways you can say ‘snow’ and ‘sky’. And why does everything begin with a bloody ‘s’, anyway?”
 
“You just don’t like it because you suck at it,” Buffy chimed in.
 
“Well, I just don’t think ‘celestial sphere’ counts as something I can actually see,” Spike said sourly, side-eyeing Giles. “Longest hour of my immortal ruddy life.”
 
Giles chuckled fondly at the memory. “Ah, that one had you stumped, alright."
 
“I liked the part where Spike started tearing his hair out,” Buffy said. She squinted at Spike. “Will that grow back, by the way?”
 
“My personal highlight was when he broke down on his knees and begged for the answer,” Giles said. “He looked just like the prodigal son, only much more pathetic.”
 
Spike ignored them. “Let’s just have a pitstop, yeah? We can set up the tents over there. I need to go and, I dunno. Kill something.”
 
Buffy shot him a disgusted look. 
 
“Anything! Even a bloody sparrow," he said. "The boredom’s driving me spare. Not much in the way of entertainment around here.”
 
“So killing something, that’s your solution?”
 
Spike grunted. “Well it’s a bit of action, innit? Some excitement, you know.”
 
“You’re disgusting.”
 
“Fine, then," Spike said. He clenched his fists. “I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with s.”
 
“Sick, twisted vampire?”
 
“No.”
 
“Seriously unhinged demon?”
 
“No.”
 
“Stupid, irritating–”
 
“No!”

***

Buffy patted down the side of her snowman’s head. The top part was a little small compared to the giant rotund body, but her hands had gone numb from packing ice, so it’d have to do.

She placed Giles’ glasses on the face. One side slid down, then rested crookedly in place.
 
“Not bad," Spike said. He sat down and started rolling up a snowball. “Pebbles don’t quite capture that self-righteous look in his eyes, though.” He leant forward and flicked his snowball at Snowman Giles’ head, knocking some bits off the corner.
 
Buffy glared at him. “Hey! You took off his ear.”
 
Spike shrugged and started rolling up another snowball.
 
“Has anybody seen my glasses?” Giles asked, crawling out from his tent. Spike flung a snowball at the side of his head. 
 
“Ow!” Giles flinched and brushed the ice from his hair. “Spike, for heaven’s sake. What on earth?”
 
Spike looked over at Buffy. “Now your art’s more true to life, innit?”
 
Buffy was too busy aiming a snowball at Spike’s face to respond. It slapped him right in the nose. Spike grimaced as he spluttered out slush.
 
“Giles, I’ve recreated your image out of snow,” Buffy announced proudly.
 
Spike grumbled. “Christ. Why don’t you give his boots a lick while you’re down there?”
 
Giles eyed his snowy doppelganger up and down. “I’m rather concerned about only having the one arm," he said, lips quirking to the side. “I hope it’s not some sort of portent.”
 
“Oh, sorry!” Buffy said, adjusting the misshapen branch poking out of the snowman’s stomach. “It was all we had left over from the firewood.”
 
“Weren’t we supposed to be packing up?” Giles asked, removing his glasses from Snowman Giles and drying them on his jumper. 
 
Buffy pouted. “Hey, now Snowman Giles is going to be all blind."
 
“Yeah, lucky for him, not having to look at your crotchety mug anymore," said Spike, who was lounging on the ground and lighting up a smoke.
 
“We really do need to make the most of this evening,” Giles said impatiently. “Could you two please get ready?”
 
Buffy sighed and headed back towards her tent. She quickly stuffed her things inside her backpack, trying in vain to shake out her perpetually damp clothes. She got to work dismantling the tent poles, haphazardly wrapping them up in twine before heading back towards the others.
 
As she returned, she saw Spike kicking Snowman Giles into icy shreds. “Hey!” she demanded, stomping over. “What are you doing?”
 
Spike just grinned as he tossed up the lifeless remains of Snowman Giles’ torso. “Just getting ready to go. Didn’t want to leave the poor sod all by himself.”
 
“No. You just wanted to destroy something.”
 
Spike shrugged, eyes bright with glee. “Have to say, it’s quite cathartic. Go on, I’ll give you the next shot.”
 
“I have no desire to hurt Giles, or any snow-based representations of him.”
 
Spike sniggered. “Clearly you haven’t spent enough time with him."
 
“Maybe I’ll build one of you," Buffy mused. "I think I’d enjoy kicking that.”
 
“Now you’re getting it."
 
“Don’t think the snow is pale enough to accurately convey your complexion, though."
 
“Well, I wouldn’t bother building one of you either," Spike hissed. "Because the snow wouldn’t do justice to your stone-cold heart."
 
Buffy started viciously kicking the ruins of Snowman Giles back in Spike’s direction. “My heart’s plenty warm. It’s toasty, in fact."
 
Giles returned, tent slung over his shoulder, to where Buffy and Spike were kicking the mucky remains of Snowman Giles back and forth at each other, wearing him down until he was nothing.
 
He dragged a hand down his face helplessly. Now that definitely was a bloody portent.

***

Light was poking through the clouds, casting golden slivers down on the trees. The snow lining the branches was melting away bit by bit, the icy shards underfoot breaking and dissolving to mulch.
 
“Finally," Buffy said, stretching her arms lazily, enjoying the brush of warmth against her skin. "Some green."
 
“And sun,” Giles said.
 
“Yeah,” Buffy agreed. “Sun good. For many reasons.” Sun meant they’d been able to ditch Spike back at the campsite, where he was holed up alone in his darkened tent. Ergo, a whole afternoon free from his jibes and gag-worthy face.

Buffy leant up on her tippy toes eagerly as a smoking chimney came into view. “Giles, look!” she said, breaking into a smile. “It’s the village.” She automatically sped up, a new bounce in her step at the prospect of re-entering something resembling civilisation. 
 
“Buffy, I’ve been researching quite a bit this last while,” said Giles as they climbed the little dirt track up towards the village. “But I haven’t been able to figure out what may have happened back there, on the train.”
 
“You don’t think it could’ve been an accident?" Buffy said. "You know, just a seriously unlucky case of wrong place, wrong time?”
 
“It’s… possible. But it seems rather too coincidental. In my estimation, at least.”
 
“So, what do you think it could be?”
 
“Well, Angelus cast a lot of black magic that night he overthrew the slayer manor. God knows what curses are still lingering.”
 
Buffy’s heart quickened.
 
“Those fragments you saw back in the training theatre suggest residual spellwork,” Giles went on. “Neither I nor Spike ever experienced anything like that, in all our time there. I’d say it’s rather revealing.”
 
“So, uh… what can we do about it?”
 
“I’m not sure, yet. But we should certainly keep our eyes open.”
 
“So, do you think it’s just leftovers from an old curse? Or… do you think Angelus could still be, well, dead and kicking?”
 
“It’s possible he’s still active, alright," said Giles. "I’m not very clued into the latest goings-on in the vampire world. Haven’t had much access of late. They’ll know more in Paris. However, if Angelus is alive, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he wants to finish what he started. He’s quite notorious for his… uh, determination.”
 
Buffy swallowed. “Right.”
 
“But don’t worry,” Giles said quickly. “The Council have ample resources at their command. We’ll have plenty of defenses against whatever he throws at us.”
 
“Why does he hate slayers so much in the first place? I don’t get why he’d still be so obsessed with killing them, even after all this time.”
 
Giles shrugged. “Probably had some brutal encounters with them. Vampires are known for being, well… rather vengeful. But the slayer’s very existence thwarts vampires. It’s not surprising, really, that an overzealous demon like Angelus would make it his goal to wipe them out. I’m sure there’s an element of… well, glory to it, as well.”
 
Buffy shuddered. “And how do you, you know, break a curse, once it’s been cast?”
 
“Well, that depends entirely on the curse. Usually they have an Achilles heel of some sort. But first you have to know what sort of curse you’re dealing with. And right now, we have very little idea.”
 
As they approached the centre of the village, Buffy shifted her attention to the growing evidence of human life. She instinctively adjusted her cap at the sight of people. One man wheeling a wooden cart gave them a nod of acknowledgement as they passed. Shortly after, a goat plodded across their path, then wandered down a side street towards where a handful of kids were scrapping in the muck.

The main square was busy with activity, where thatched-roof houses lined the gravelly road, all leading towards a small timber church. Buffy’s stomach started to rumble as indeterminate cooking smells wafted from chimneys.
 
“Wow,” she said as they passed a cross-legged lady selling vegetables on the roadside. “Soggy cabbage never looked so appetising.”
 
“Indeed," Giles agreed wryly.
 
“Giles, what was dinner last night?” 
 
“Again, Buffy, I must impress upon you that sometimes, ignorance is bliss, or at least the closest approximation. I’ve learnt that lesson the hard way.”

Buffy paused, double-taking and then pointing across the road. “Hey, look. It's a butcher's."

“Oh, thank heavens," Giles said, adjusting his glasses. “Spike’s been particularly antsy lately. He doesn’t do well on an empty stomach.”

Buffy made a face. She’d never seen Spike anything but particularly antsy, but whatever. “Yeah. Was getting worried his eyes might sink right back into his head,” she said, sounding distinctly unworried. “Will we do the blood run first, then?”

Giles shook his head. “Later. Right now, I need a strong cup of tea.”

A little further down street, they ambled into a small teahouse. Steam tickled Buffy’s skin as they closed the door behind them. She sat down at a corner table as Giles greeted the owner, a bubble of something happy rising in her chest as she relaxed against the wall, taking in the sweetened air and cosy chiming of china.
 
Giles looked similarly in his element when he returned, placing down a ceramic teapot and some slices of layered sponge cake in front of her. Buffy’s eyes went wide. She immediately grabbed a delicate little teaspoon and started shovelling cake into her mouth.
 
“Mmm," she said, then took another big bite. “Cake good. So–” she coughed a few times, then swallowed, “–how do you get all the money to pay for this stuff, anyway?” 
 
“Well," Giles said, hesitating. "Spike has his, uh, methods of procuring… uh, what we need to get by.”
 
Buffy raised a brow. “You really have gone pro with the whole turning-a-blind-eye thing.”
 
“What can I say, Buffy?” Giles said. He sighed and removed his glasses for a polish. “It’s not a just world. This isn’t quite how I imagined my future, either. Believe me.”
 
Buffy looked at Giles’ fallen face, then dropped her voice. “Guess sometimes things don’t work out like we planned."
 
Giles refitted his glasses and poured himself some tea. “Spike and I can unfortunately attest to that, alright."
 
“How did Spike end up getting cursed, anyways?” Buffy asked, licking some of the honeyed cream off her spoon. “What was Angelus’ beef with him?”
 
“Uh, I believe that was more of a personal animosity.”
 
“Spike knew him?!” 
 
“Yes, I believe so.”
 
“Boy," Buffy said. She shook her head. “And the curse? Doesn’t he know how to break it?”
 
“I suspect he has some ideas. But… I’m not certain that he would, even if he did know.”
 
Buffy gave him a disapproving look. “Giles."
 
“Well. It’s just, he doesn’t seem to be investing much of his energies into finding solutions, is all,” Giles said, carefully placing his teacup down.
 
“You’re always making excuses for him. But he loves violence. It’s like, his lifeblood. Literally.”
 
Giles sighed. “Well. Maybe I’ve become excessively tolerant with age, but… I. Uh, well, I feel sorry for him, sometimes.”
 
“Really. Never would’ve guessed.”
 
“But, well, it’s not just pity, Buffy. I studied demons for a long time. Soulless creatures aren’t supposed to be… like us. Human,” he said. “But sometimes I see something rather… familiar in him. And I think, perhaps, in the right circumstances… well, he could amount to something more.”
 
“Yeah, he could amount to being an even bigger pain in the ass,” Buffy mumbled through a mouthful of cake.
 
Giles shifted his gaze out the window. “Maybe I’m letting my idealism get the better of me," he said. “I admit it’s been difficult, these last years, to not descend into total nihilism. I suppose I’ve had to look for hope wherever I could find it.”
 
Buffy stirred a few spoonfuls of sugar into her tea, watching as the little crystals quickly dissolved. “Guess it’s a good thing, not being all jaded and hate-y." 
 
“Indeed," Giles said. "But, uh, orphanage life doesn’t seem to have dented your spirits, either.”
 
“Oh, they tried their best,” she said brightly. “But I had good friends. They helped a lot with the not dying-inside. Plus, I knew I’d be free one day, so I always had something to hold on to.”
 
“Still. It’s rather remarkable," Giles said, smiling at her. “I hope Paris won’t be too much of a disappointment to you.”
 
Buffy shrugged. “Well, the bar is set somewhere in the fiery pits of hell. I’m sure Paris will be at least a minor improvement.”
 
“Knock on wood," said Giles wryly.

***

Giles poked the fire back to life, tossing another few lumps of coal atop the scorched logs.
 
“How’s the training coming along?” he asked as Spike approached, fresh from another session.
 
Spike dropped down on a log and rustled in his pocket for his tobacco. "Well, she certainly has the deep-rooted contempt for vampires down." 
 
“Uh, well. Yes. I’m sure that’ll stand to her in future.”
 
“She’s right irritating,” said Spike. “Grinds my gears, she does. Can’t say a bloody thing to her without getting my head chewed off.”
 
“Have you tried not being a complete arsehole?”
 
“You know, I have and all. Doesn’t make a difference with that one. Hates demons. Right stuck-up, judgemental sort, she is. Mustn’t have taught them all that modern rubbish about tolerance and equality at that orphanage. Curriculum probably full of old-school rot about us, you know, the typical drivel with the mansions and nancy bats.”
 
Giles exhaled impatiently. “I’m sure. Anyway. Do you think she’s making progress, in terms of being able to defend herself?”
 
“Yeah. Reckon she’s doing alright," Spike said. He lit his cigarette from the fire, leaping back as a few rogue sparks attacked him. “Not that it will help much against Angelus, if he decides to make another appearance.”

Giles cleared his throat. “About that. I haven’t been able to find anything particularly promising in that regard. But I was thinking… perhaps we could extrapolate something, from what we know… uh, about your curse.”
 
Spike raised a brow at him.
 
“It may give us some clues as to how Angelus operates," Giles went on. "His patterns.”

“Yeah." Spike took a drag of smoke. "Well. Maybe."

Giles sat down. “Why did he do it, Spike?”
 
Spike dropped his eyes as he ashed his cigarette. “Blighter didn’t like me, did he.” 
 
“Can’t imagine why,” Giles said wryly. “But why would he curse you? And why would he take away your ability to bite people? It seems rather contrary to his interests to… uh, defuse a powerful vampire like yourself.”
 
Spike shuffled on the spot. “Was about a girl, wasn’t it.”
 
“A girl?” Giles asked. “A, uh, vampire woman, you mean?”
 
"Yeah," Spike muttered.
 
Giles stared at him.
 
“He didn’t even love her. Not like I did,” Spike went on, gaze fixed on the flames. “Just wanted what he couldn’t have. Greedy bastard.”
 
“So he cursed you? So that he could be with her instead?”
 
“He knew she wouldn’t like it, if I couldn’t bite,” Spike said. “And he was spot on and all. Cow up and left me, didn’t she?” He fiercely exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Wanted a real demon.”
 
Giles looked at him sympathetically.
 
“I don’t need your pity, alright?” Spike spat.
 
“Well, I’m not sure that information helps with the slayer curse. But it does explain a lot.”
 
Spike just grunted. 
 
“But didn’t you try to look for solutions?" Giles asked. "There must be answers, somewhere, about how to break the curse.”
 
“Yeah. Well." Spike looked down and scrubbed some gravel with his heel. “Already know how to break it, don’t I.”
 
Taken aback, Giles' eyes snapped up. “You never told me that.”
 
“Never asked,” Spike mumbled. “Least not outright.”
 
“So you’ve known how to break it all this time?”
 
“Well. Yeah. But it didn’t matter, because I couldn’t, could I.”
 
“Well, what is it, then? The cure?”
 
Spike paused. “To kill her," he said eventually. "Right twisted of him. Thought it was dead poetic, he did. Funny thing is, she thought so too.” He laughed coldly. “Bet she would’ve respected me and all, if I’d actually done it.”
 
“Did you. Uh. Did you try?”
 
“Thought about it, a lot. Bloody fantasised about it, ripping the two-faced bitch limb from limb," Spike said, fidgeting with his hands. “Was agony, you know, watching her flounce after him while she left me behind in the rubble. But I, uh, couldn’t, in the end. Hurt her.” He snorted derisively. “Was too much of a coward.”
 
“I wouldn’t call that cowardice," said Giles. "In fact, it’s rather, uh–”
 
“Oh, don’t give me that sentimental human tosh,” Spike cut in. “I was a rotten vampire. And now I’m just a shell of one.” He shifted, stretching out a shoulder. “Well, whatever. Beats being human, at least. Was even more of a wanker, back then.”
 
“Really? What were you like?”
 
“Miserable little ponce,” Spike said. “Pretentious. Rubbish with women. Always reading.” Spike hummed thoughtfully, then looked over at Giles and wrinkled his nose. “Huh."
 
Giles eyed him back with disapproval. "I see." He stood up to leave and took a step towards the tents. “You know, Spike,” he said cautiously, not looking back. “When we get to Paris. There are ways… well. There are forces there, that can give demons back their souls.”
 
Spike scoffed. “Christ. A vampire with a soul? How little you must think of me.”
 
Giles sighed. “Clearly not little enough,” he said. “I’m just saying. It’s a possibility. If you should ever– well, you know.”
 
“Yeah. Think I’m tragic enough as is, thanks."
 
"Right," said Giles. "Well, it was just a suggestion. Goodnight, then.”

Chapter Text

Buffy wriggled fruitlessly on the ground. “Giles, he won’t get off me!”
 
Spike sat on top of her, casually flicking away a burnt match after lighting his smoke. “Not until you take back what you said,” he said, not looking at Buffy.
 
“No. Your hair is embarrassing.”
 
Spike shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette. “Fine, if that’s your hill. Die on it."
 
“Get off me!”
 
“I see we’re learning valuable combat skills," Giles said, sitting down on a nearby tree stump, book tucked under his arm.
 
“Yeah, she’ll be trash-talking Angelus into the dust any minute now,” said Spike. “Prat does have lousy hair, mind.”
 
“Surely not as lousy as yours,” said Buffy.
 
Spike shot her daggers over his shoulder. “Wow. You wound me with your words."
 
Buffy squirmed more underneath him, then stretched out her hand and scrabbled around for her necklace, which was lying by the side. She grabbed it and pressed it up hard against Spike's neck.
 
“Oi!” Spike leapt up, cigarette flying out of his hand. He rubbed his neck, where bits of steam were coming off his skin. “Bloody hell! Giles, did you see that? She bloody well singed me!”
 
“He wouldn’t get off me!”
 
“I’m not training her anymore!" Spike threw his hands up. "Got no respect, she hasn’t.”
 
“Good," Buffy said, scowling and brushing herself off. “I hate fighting with you, anyway. You getting your vampire-y mitts all over me.”
 
“Yeah, I can’t stand it either, your bloody hair in my face all the time. I’m pulling yellow straw out of my mouth all day.”
 
“You’re one to talk about hair.”
 
Giles glanced over as they descended into a dusty scuffling ball. Buffy shrieked as Spike tugged at a handful of her hair, and she retaliated by dragging him down by the ear. Spike contorted his head, trying to bite at her hand. 
 
“Stop it!" Giles exclaimed, leaping to his feet. "Just. Stop this nonsense, right now.” 
 
Buffy and Spike immediately drew apart. They both straightened up, Buffy taking a deep breath while Spike exhaled coarsely, his nostrils flaring.
 
“Now, could we all please try behaving a fraction of our actual ages?” Giles said.
 
Spike and Buffy glared at each other.
 
“Let’s try to resolve this amicably, shall we?” Giles went on. “Now, Spike. Would you, uh. Promise not to, uh… sit on Buffy anymore?”
 
“If she doesn’t make snide comments about my appearance," Spike said poutily. He looked down and scuffed his boot against the ground. “Right mean, it is.”
 
Buffy scoffed. 
 
“Can you agree to those terms, Buffy?”
 
“Okay, but can I still insult him in other ways? Like, non-appearance related ways?”
 
“Well, it is tough not to, I admit,” said Giles.
 
Spike side-eyed him. 
 
Giles sighed. “Look, we have a long journey ahead of us. It’s imperative that we, uh… get along, as best we can. Can we come to some kind of truce here?”
 
Spike and Buffy stayed silent, not looking at each other. Buffy crossed her arms. Spike twitched restlessly.
 
“Look, uh, Spike. Buffy has been working very hard during these trainings,” Giles tried, looking at Spike before turning to Buffy. “We all know how important it is that she builds her strength and technique. And Buffy, uh, Spike has been very diligent, too, in teaching you.”
 
“Yeah, wonder why,” Buffy said. “He loves having me as his personal punchbag.”
 
“See?! See what I have to deal with, Giles? She’s impossible," Spike said, arching around to glower at Buffy. “No wonder your parents buggered off and left you. Should take a leaf out of their book. Tie you up, throw you in an old sack and toss you down the river, see how you like that.”
 
“Giles!” Buffy whined, spinning on her heel. “He’s threatening to drown me!”
 
Giles took off his glasses and leant his forehead on his fist. “God, this is giving me a headache."
 
“She started it!” Spike said as Giles started walking, resigned, towards his tent. “I was over here, all ready to wave the little white flag, till she–”
 
“Oh yeah, I’m sure that peace deal would’ve lasted all of five minutes,” said Buffy. “You know, you’re really scraping the barrel with these jabs about being an orphan. I mean, could you even go any lower?”
 
Spike narrowed his eyes at her. "Oh, you wouldn’t believe how low I can go, love."
 
“Fine. See you down there, then.”
 
They lunged at each other.

***

Buffy leant over the side of the bridge, watching the sunlight dapple across the water. Her eyes followed a chestnut leaf as it floated gently downstream, wedging momentarily in a cluster of rocks before slipping free and disappearing beneath the bridge. She knew she should make the most of the chance to squeeze in some extra sleep, but it was hard to resist the lure of the sun. She’d never fully appreciated it before: how warm it was, the way it turned the trees so many shades of green, its hypnotic strobing over the river.
 
“Everything alright, Buffy?” Giles asked, appearing beside her and resting his elbows over the side.
 
“Uh huh,” Buffy said drowsily. “Just enjoying the whole not-walking thing.”
 
“I admit, it has been rather taxing this last while," Giles said. He took off his glasses and massaged his eyes with his knuckles. “With any hope, we’ll find more, uh, efficient transport soon.”
 
“Like a teleportation device?”
 
“We’ll do our best. But are you, uh, holding up okay, in general?”
 
“Well, I’m a bit blistery, but nothing I can’t handle. I mean, the schooling back at the orphanage wasn’t exactly world-class, but I can’t say they didn’t teach us resilience.”
 
“I can tell," Giles said with a smile. 

They stood in silence, watching the river together, for a few moments.

“Giles?” Buffy began tentatively, looking down. Her gaze was drawn to another leaf being carried along by the water. “Do you think… do you think the Council will be able to tell me anything, about my family?”
 
Giles hesitated. “Well. Like I said, I do think it’s likely they were there, with you as well, the night Angelus attacked.”
 
“I know,” Buffy said quietly.
 
“Naturally Angelus chose to strike when all those affiliated with the slayers were gathered in one place,” Giles went on. His voice dropped. “It was supposed to be a happy occasion. The annual ball. We all looked forward to it. To meeting all the other watchers, and of course the young potentials. It was an opportunity to speak with parents, too… to assuage some of their concerns about their daughters possibly becoming slayers, one day.” He stiffened. “I suppose they were right in the end, to be worried.”
 
“Did you. Did you, um, see, exactly what happened?”
 
Giles swallowed. “I was there that evening, of course," he said, voice hoarse. “But, uh, the celebrations were just kicking off. I was in the library, as always. Preparing to show anyone who was interested around the place.” He smiled wryly. “I was in a bit of a sulk, to tell you the truth. Over a, uh, personal spat. Of course, it seems remarkably frivolous, in hindsight…”
 
He sighed, then went on. “I heard the commotion, from the training theatre. I can barely even… recall, what happened after that, to tell you the truth. The whole evening is a total blur. Everyone panicking, running… the screams,” he trailed off. “It was… the most awful night of my life, and yet… I was one of the lucky ones. To survive.”
 
Buffy's chest twinged. “Sounds like a nightmare."
 
“It was," Giles said. "I’ve gone over and over it, Buffy. Not so much lately, but in the subsequent years. Wondering if I could have done more. If I had been able to, uh… just hold my cool a bit better.” He paused for a breath. “Maybe I would’ve been a hopeless watcher, in the end. Crises are supposed to be what we do best.”
 
“It wasn't your fault, Giles," Buffy said. "The whole place was full of people who knew how to fight demons. And not many of them… made it out. It sounds like he was just… too powerful.”
 
Giles nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, he was," he said. He straightened up, readjusting his glasses. “I’m sorry, Buffy. I know you were looking for… more useful information. I wish I could paint you a more hopeful picture.”
 
“It’s okay," Buffy said in a small voice. "I always knew my parents were… probably dead, or didn’t want me, or something. But I hoped, anyway.”
 
Giles turned to her and placed a hand on her forearm. “It can’t have been easy. Growing up in the dark like that.”
 
Buffy snivelled and fidgeted with her hands. She managed to shake her head.
 
“I expect that the Council will… uh, have, more extensive records of that evening,” Giles said, weakly. “I’m confident they will, at the very least, have some answers for you.”
 
“Yeah," Buffy said, absently running a finger down her necklace. “That… that’s something.” She gave one last sniffle, wiping her face with the back of her hand, then turned to leave. “I think… I’ll, uh, just head to bed. Thanks, Giles.”
 
“Alright,” Giles said softly as he watched her go. “Sleep well.”

***

Buffy shuddered as her toes broke the surface of the river. She swished half a foot around, breath held, letting the familiar sting of ice course through her.
 
She hadn’t been able to sleep. After hours of tossing and turning, gravel itching at her back through the flimsy tent floor, she’d leapt up and marched down to the riverside, needing to move, to shake herself off. The sun had already set, so she assumed they’d be setting off soon enough, anyway. Sitting on the pebbled bank reminded her of afternoons by the stream back at the orphanage. They’d always gone swimming there, holding bets on who could stand the water longest.

Honestly, the competition hadn’t been very tight. Buffy got this rush out of it, of pushing past the pain. At first, the cold knocked the wind out of her lungs and made her skin scream, but if she could just withstand it long enough, well, her body went sort of tingly-numb, and afterwards she felt strangely calm. And sort of strong, in a quiet way. She had let Xander and Willow win sometimes, though. Just to be nice.
 
“Jeez, Buff,” she remembered Xander saying. “With that constitution, maybe one of your parents was, you know, a polar bear?”
 
“Would make sense,” said Willow. “I mean, have you seen her when she’s mad?”
 
Xander grinned. “We all did. Cordelia seriously had it coming to her.”
 
God. Buffy missed them. She hoped they were happy, wherever they were. Last she’d heard from Xander, he’d been hopping from job to job. Working down the coalmines, selling pickles from a food cart in Moscow, changing barrels at a brewery. Willow had headed south and quickly fallen in with a clan of wandering bohemian types. Her new lifestyle seemed to consist of hitching rides from town to town, doing spells, and never washing her hair. Her last letter had been sent from a country Buffy hadn’t even heard of. She’d sounded happy, though, and her new friends seemed nice, if a little freaky. Not that Buffy was one to talk, given her new ragtag companions.

She wished she could tell her friends where she was, about what was happening. She could imagine their reactions: Xander’s eyes nearly popping right out of his head, Willow’s face bunching up apprehensively. But once they got past the initial shock, Buffy reckoned they’d take the whole vampire slayer thing on the chin. They were usually pretty unflappable in the face of wackiness. In fact, they’d probably think it explained a lot, what with how Buffy had always tied the other kids in knots when fights broke out.
 
She desperately wanted to tell them about the rest, too. About Giles, who would make Willow’s head spin with his encyclopaedic knowledge of all things occult. Unlike Buffy, Willow would be genuinely riveted when Giles droned on about the ancient mystical uses of turnips, or the true etta-what-ology of the word “witch”.
 
As for Spike, well. Buffy was just itching to dish out an epic-length rant about how singularly irritating he was. Frankly, the pent-up frustration was reaching boiling point. Buffy would have to insist to Xander that Spike was, in fact, even more insufferable than Cordelia. And once she’d gotten the fervent rage off her chest, Buffy could pick their brains, getting their help to devise cruel new ways to tick him off.
 
Buffy’s thoughts were interrupted by voices in her periphery. She tensed, tuning in to the sound of muffled laughter. She slowly pushed herself off the ground and craned her head in the direction of the noise.
 
A handful of silhouettes were moving towards her along the riverbank. As they advanced, she saw their teeth glistening in the moonlight.
 
Buffy arched back and crouched behind a tangle of thick scrub. Then her heart sank. She realised she’d forgotten to even bring a stake.
 
Even if she had been armed, Buffy didn’t fancy her chances. She hadn’t slain one measly vampire yet, never mind a whole gang. But a weapon would have at least given her a fighting chance. Some clout. She raced through her options. There was no point making a break for it – she’d never get up the rocks and back to the bridge quick enough. She couldn’t call for help, either – there was no way her cries would carry all the way back to the campsite, and god knows who else they’d attract.
 
Her body went rigid, chest thumping as the footsteps drew nearer. The vampires had stopped speaking a little while ago, presumably because they’d already figured out she was there. Well, there was only one thing for it.

Buffy ducked down to pick up a sturdy-looking branch, took a deep breath, and leapt out to face them.
 
“Well, fellas,” one of them said, yellow eyes widening. “Think we’ve landed ourselves a catch.”
 
“I wouldn’t count your chickens," Buffy said with a steely glare. “Or, you know, your… trout.”

Ugh. She made a mental note that, should she miraculously get through this night in one piece, her quips needed serious workshopping.
 
“We’ve got a live one,” the vampire sneered. There were three in total, cruel grins lining each of their faces.
 
“I’m warning you," Buffy said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “If you don’t walk away now, this evening is going to get very dusty. You guys know what a vampire slayer is?”
 
“A slayer?” one barked, and then he laughed. “Nice try, kid. But the slayer’s dead.”
 
Buffy cocked an eyebrow and held her branch up high. “You want to bet?” 
 
This at least gave the vampires pause. They exchanged uncertain glances.
 
“If you are the slayer,” one said slowly. “Ain’t it your job to actually slay us? Not send us off to find some other innocent snack?”
 
“Yeah,” another piped up, nodding. “She’s stalling, boys. Let’s get her.”
 
Buffy swallowed as they turned around, six glowing eyes homing in on her.

She lashed out hard as they approached. Her first kick landed in a midriff, knocking one of them backwards. She shielded herself with the branch, spinning it and ducking as another lunged at her waist.
 
“Get off me,” Buffy yowled as nails clawed at her shoulders. She twisted sharply, driving her branch hard at the vampire’s chest.

Her heart stopped momentarily. Waiting, hoping.

The vampire blinked, then laughed as the blunt branch rebounded lamely.
 
Buffy’s throat went dry. She scrambled backwards. Her movements were growing desperate. She was losing track of which vampire was were, everything suddenly rushing too fast, her command of the situation fizzling.

All semblance of strategy out the window, she resorted to struggling fiercely against their grappling hands. Low, deep growls rumbled in her ear as she was knocked off-balance, then slipping, then slipping some more until she was tumbling fully backwards. 
 
Her head cut through the icy water. Everything went muffled. She seemed to momentarily stop breathing. The cold scored into her skin and white noise filled her head.

As fast as her body would allow, she fought past it. Splashing frantically, ignoring the jets of water rushing up her nose as she flailed to regain footing. She gasped violently for air as she resurfaced, the shock of the cold making her tremble hard. As her ears re-adjusted, a familiar voice rung through the night air. 

“Back off,” she heard Spike roar. “She’s mine.”
 
Buffy blundered to her feet, almost falling over again as she staggered back towards the action, numb fingers somehow still wrapped around the branch. Her legs felt heavy beneath her, weighing her down as she moved.
 
Spike was arm-wrestling one of the attackers, stake in hand, fangs also on display. The scuffle quickly reached a head when Spike broke free and managed to thrust his stake right through the vampire’s heart. He barely paused before moving onto to the next one. 
 
Buffy’s brain wasn’t working, not really. But she felt herself rushing towards Spike’s opponent. Her arm didn’t quite feel like her own as she speared the branch hard through him, this time from the back.
 
It seemed to happen in slow motion. The vampire froze, letting out a weak, piteous little gasp. And then he was dust, flittering away in the breeze. Just like that.
 
Buffy stilled momentarily, taking it in. A surge of something powerful trilled through her. She couldn’t believe it’d worked – that she’d done that.
 
The shock of the double onslaught seemed to spook the last vampire. He took a few steps back, looking at them incredulously before scuttling away around the riverbank.
 
At first, Buffy thought Spike might chase after him. Instead, he immediately spun round to her, gnarled face furrowed.
 
“What were you thinking?!” he spat. “Out alone at night, without a weapon?”
 
Buffy hesitated, taken aback. Her head was still spinning, trying to catch up with what the hell had just happened. 

“Well, I made the most of it, didn’t I?” she managed.
 
“Oh, yeah, a twig," Spike said, glancing down at her makeshift weapon. “Dead threatening, that is.”
 
Buffy blinked, then swiftly recovered herself. “I don’t need you to rescue me, you know,” she said, her voice fierce now, even while it shook. Her teeth chattered, drenched clothes pinching her skin, but clarity had come flooding back.
 
Spike snorted. “They’d have sucked you dry and chucked you in the river by now if I hadn’t shown up.”
 
Buffy hurled the branch down hard on the sandy bank, making Spike flinch. “God. You were just waiting for something like this to happen, weren’t you? For me to screw up.”
 
“I was waiting for it, yeah,” said Spike tightly. “Because that’s the job. Am supposed to be looking out for you.”
 
“The gloating’s just an extra-special perk, I take it.”
 
“Wasn’t gloating,” Spike said quietly. “Just trying to wrap my head around how you could be so bloody stupid.”
 
Buffy gave a long, guttural groan. Fresh adrenaline coursed through her, an irresistible flare of rage rising in her chest. “God. Why do you always have to be such an asshole about everything?” she spat. “Yeah, I messed up. I didn’t think. Nearly got myself killed.” 
 
She took a wavering breath, her voice cracking. “Proved you right about everything, didn’t I? That I’m just a stupid, clueless kid who can’t even take care of herself," she said. She shook her head, nostrils flaring, willing the strength back into her voice. “So, tell me, Spike. Are you happy now? Is it fun, getting to bask in all that smug, self-satisfied glory?”
 
“Oh yeah, go on. Take it out on me," Spike said, rolling his eyes. “It’s the same old story, innit. You make a mess, I put my neck on the line trying to mop up after you, and in the end, you have a bloody go at me for it.”
 
“Yeah, well, why do you even bother?” Buffy asked with a scoff, eyes wide and savage. “What’s in it for you, anyway?”
 
Spike glanced down at the ground. “Helping Giles, ain’t I. We have an arrangement.”

Buffy’s blood pulsed between her ears like it was egging her on. “You know I don’t care what you think of me, right?” she said. She dropped her voice and narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m used to people like you. Had to deal with them my whole life. Sad, unhappy people who get their kicks out of making everyone else feel small. It’s pathetic.”
 
Spike laughed mirthlessly. “Well, I’m not a person, am I, love?” he said, dangerously quiet. “As you just love to point out.”
 
“Yeah. Suppose not," Buffy said. She took a deep breath. “Guess you just can’t help yourself.”
 
They looked at each other for a long moment. Buffy felt the tension in her face slacken and her lip starting to quiver. She turned sharply on her heel and marched back towards the bridge.
 
Spike hesitated for a moment, his face slipping back to normal. He rubbed at his eyes with both palms, exhaling hard.
 
“Look. I was just saying," he said as he started to follow her up the rocks. “Gotta be more careful, is all.”
 
“Yeah,” Buffy said shortly. “Heard you the first time.”
 
She stopped to gather herself when she reached the bridge, brushing down her crumpled clothes and wringing out her hair.
 
Spike hung back at the edge, watching her silently. He tapped his fingers against the wooden railing. “Wasn’t bad, though,” he said tentatively, breaking the uneasy silence. “The move with the twig.”
 
Buffy said nothing for a second. “Yeah. Well. Training’s helping, I guess.”
 
Spike looked up at her, a tiny glint in his eyes. “So… how was it, then?” he asked, lips twitching. “The first kill?”
 
Buffy smiled slightly in spite of herself. She shrugged. “Wasn’t terrible.”
 
Spike smirked. “Told you. You’re gonna be hooked now.”
 
“Pfft." Buffy shot him a look. "We’re not all like you, you know."

They started walking slowly back towards the camp.
 
“Maybe not. But you are,” Spike said. “Can see it in your eyes, when we fight.”
 
“Oh, trust me. That lust for violence is reserved solely for you.”
 
Spike laughed under his breath. “Well, isn’t that flattering.”
 
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Wasn’t supposed to be a compliment, you know.”
 
“Well, a man’s gotta take what he can get, don’t he?”

Buffy looked up and met his eyes for a beat.

"Uh. Anyway," Spike said, coming to a halt and scratching the back of his head. "We’re, uh, moving out soon. Better get your stuff together, yeah?”
 
“Yeah. Right,” said Buffy. She hesitated, her voice coming out a bit croaky. “I will. And, uh. Thanks.”
 
Spike nodded wordlessly as she hurried away.

Chapter Text

“So, are you able to bite a horse?” Buffy asked.
 
“Nah," Spike said, shoving his hands in his pockets as they picked their way down the hill, the sharp-sweet scent of hay filling the air. “Can’t bite anything. Not anymore.”
 
“Sad," said Buffy. "But, if you could, could you turn a horse into, you know, a vampire horse?”
 
Spike shook his head thoughtfully. “Nah. Think they have special equine vampires for that.”
 
“Really?”
 
“No.”
 
Inside the paddock at the bottom of the hill, a cluster of horses stood huddled together. Some turned their heads, eyeing Spike and Buffy curiously. The farm was dark but for the stippling of moonlight, the animals still and quiet, the distant houses unlit.
 
“Okay, so which ones should we take, do you reckon?” Spike asked as they skirted the fence, appraising the herd.
 
“The one with the little grey whiskers looks like Giles,” Buffy said. “Let’s get that one for him.”
 
“Nah, we don’t need any more old codgers on this trip. We need good, hardy steeds.”
 
“Fine. How about that big one over there? He looks tough and, uh, strapping.”
 
Spike shook his head. “Too big. We already got enough hungry mouths to feed around here.”
 
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Alright, Goldilocks. Remind me never to go shopping with you.”
 
Spike scrunched up his face. “You can’t call me Goldilocks. I call you Goldilocks.”
 
“Well, you were really channelling the Goldilocks spirit," Buffy said as she unbolted the gate. “And I’ll call you whatever I want to call you.”
 
Spike grumbled, edging in the gate after her, their feet squelching through the thick muck. He scowled down at his muddied boots. “Bloody hell." 
 
“Don’t be a baby,” Buffy chided, even though, honestly, she was also a little grossed out by the sludge pooling around her ankles.
 
“You think they’re gonna make a fuss if we start moving them?” Spike asked quietly as they inched towards the horses. “They can be right noisy buggers.”
 
Buffy handed him a coil of rope. “We’ll just take it nice and slow." 

Spike nodded, meeting her eyes. He took a deep breath, like he was bracing himself for a deadly heist.

Buffy grinned.

***

A little while later, a very muddy Buffy and Spike led three horses tromping back to camp. 

“Hope you’re hungry, Giles,” Spike announced in singsong.
 
“Ah. Nice work, you two,” Giles called over his shoulder, rolling up the last of the tents.
 
“Yes, we successfully destroyed an innocent peasant’s livelihood,” Buffy said brightly.
 
“Hey, left him a few quid as compensation, didn’t I?” said Spike.
 
“No you didn’t."
 
“No I didn’t."
 
“Good heavens," Giles said, adjusting his glasses as he drew closer. “Did you two have a roll in the pigsty while you were there?”
 
Buffy pouted, pulling a clump of dried muck out of her hair and flicking it at Spike.
 
“Well, you had us skivvies doing the dirty work, didn’t you?” Spike brushed the mud flakes off his face. “Now, where’s the gear?”
 
Faster than a bullet leaving a gun, Giles was waxing lyrical about the fine leather of the saddles he’d managed to pilfer from a nearby barn. To Buffy’s surprise, Spike made zero snide comments. In fact, he started nodding along eagerly as he hunkered down beside Giles.
 
“If we’d found anything like this back in Petersburg, it would’ve sustained us for the whole month,” Giles said, shaking his head appreciatively as he inspected the underside of one of the saddles.
 
“Yeah,” said Spike in an awed voice, giving the leather a little sniff. “Bloody good find. How much do you reckon these would go for, then?”
 
Giles rubbed his chin. “Well, I’d be willing to bet most of this is full-grain."
 
“In good nick as well," Spike said. He crossed his arms, surveying the saddles like they’d been painted by Caravaggio himself. 
 
Buffy observed this bemusing display for a minute before turning away and trying to wrangle a halter over her horse’s head. 
 
“Alright, let’s load them up,” Spike announced a few minutes later, once the leather exhibition was over. “Finally, no more Spike the bloody carthorse.” 
 
Buffy gave her horse a little scratch between her ears, transfixed by the animal’s brown, almond-shaped eyes. She automatically drew her head closer to get a better look. Sheesh. Those were some big eyes. 
 
“Neigh,” she murmured, brushing a hand gently down the mare’s long nose, the velvety muzzle tickling her fingers. The horse snorted.

“Neigh,” Buffy said again in response.
 
“C’mon, horse whisperer," Spike said, pulling himself into the saddle. “Up you get.”
 
Buffy hesitated. She’d never ridden a horse before. Without much forethought, she tried to pull herself up onto its back. She fumbled, accidentally yanking hard on the poor thing’s mane as she swung herself up.
 
Spike looked at her in surprise as he turned his horse around. “Yeah. Good,” he said gruffly, kicking off. “Let’s go, then.” 
 
Buffy followed suit, jerking backwards as the animal took off. It was bumpier than she’d anticipated. Her brain rattled in her skull, teeth chattering as she clutched desperately at the horse’s mane. As she vibrated, she was struck by a vision of Spike’s snide face, cackling at her as she crashed to the ground. That was enough to put the wind back in her sails. Or the feet back in her stirrups or whatever. 

Buffy took a deep breath. She leant in to the horse’s movements, trying to find its rhythm. She relaxed slightly, settling further into the saddle and straightening her back. After a few strides, everything fell more or less into place. She patted her horse on the neck appreciatively, and murmured a guilty apology for pulling its hair. 
 
“Intelligent creatures, ain’t they?” Spike said as they all fell into step, clip-clopping along the dirt track. “‘Course, you gotta do nasty things to them, to get them to fall in line.”
 
Buffy grappled a bit with the reins. “You mean they don’t come out ready and willing for us to jump on their backs and yell yee-haw?”
 
“Nah. Gotta break their spirit first, don’t you?”
 
“Well, it has been centuries of domestication,” Giles said. “Symbiotic relationship, really, at this point.”
 
“You don’t know what he really wants, though, do you?” said Spike. “Just behaves, don’t he, because he’s got no other choice.”
 
Giles hummed. “I’m sensing a thinly veiled analogy.”
 
“Spike is a broken horse, alright," Buffy said, smirking. “Emphasis on the broken.”
 
“I’ve always thought of him as more of a sturdy mule,” Giles mused.
 
“Oh yeah, the donkey thing fits,” Buffy agreed.
 
“Yeah. Whatever,” Spike drawled. “So, who wants to race then?”
 
“Oh please,” Giles began impatiently. “We don’t have time for–”
 
“I will,” Buffy piped up. “To that tree over there." She kicked hard and took off without waiting for a response.
 
Giles sighed as dust sprang up around him.

***

“Spike fell,” Buffy announced delightedly a little later when Giles arrived on the scene.
 
Spike took a gulp of vodka. “She tripped me up on ruddy purpose," he said. He was sitting on the ground with his leg stretched out, trousers rolled up to reveal a bloody graze below his knee.
 
“He’s just not a very good rider,” Buffy said, quietly patronising. She patted the wound with some cotton. 
 
“I bloody well thrashed you in that last race, didn’t I?” Spike spat, handing her back the bottle. Buffy poured a little more vodka onto the swab.
 
“For the last time,” she said sweetly, dabbing a bit too hard with the alcohol-soaked cotton, which made Spike inhale sharply. “I was pointing to the other tree.”

***

Buffy absentmindedly examined Spike’s boots, turning them over a little in her hands, trying to catch her reflection in the shiny black leather. The surface was a little dry and rough in places, the nooks and crannies a bit worn, but mostly they were soft and plane, because Spike was such a stickler for–

Ouch!

Buffy landed flat on the ground. The boot heels jammed into her forehead. She groaned, head throbbing, realising that a knobbly tree root had gotten the better of her. She sat up, blearily scrubbing at her face and roughly pushing her hair back into place. Glancing down, she saw that her knees were more damp and grass-stained than usual. 

She picked up Spike’s boots, noticing a few scuff marks on the front. Were they there before? She haphazardly tried rubbing over them with a thumb, but to little avail. Whatever. He probably wouldn’t notice, she told herself, even though she knew he definitely would.

She hurried on, catching sight of a horse’s outline and a white-blonde head in the dusky distance. The two were standing near to a small pond, Spike hovering somewhere around the horse’s ears. Buffy swore she’d heard him talking to it earlier, probably traumatising the poor thing with twisted tales of gore and depravity.

“So, have you two set a date yet?” Buffy asked as she approached.

Spike turned around and rolled his eyes at her. “Say what you like about me, slayer, but leave old Buster out of this," he said, giving Buster a pat on the neck. “He’s alright, he is.”

Buster blinked calmly. His soft brown coast shimmered amber in the leftover light, fuzzy mouth slightly curled to give the impression of a smile. Buffy resisted the urge to cuddle his giant head.
 
“Nah, I’m happy for you," Buffy said, walking around to palm gently down Buster’s frizzy forelock. “Happy you’ve finally found a friend who can, you know, tolerate you.” 
 
“You’re just jealous. That one of yours is a cantankerous old bat.”
 
“Hey, she’s not. She’s just… got character,” said Buffy. She turned around and dropped down at the edge of the pond, stretching out her legs. “Anyway, I like a woman who can stand up for herself.”
 
“Well, there’s standing up for yourself, and there’s being a right old bitch for no good reason." Spike clapped his hands off and joined her on the ground. “You know. Just treating people like dirt when they don’t deserve it. People who’ve been nothing but good to you. People who fed you, took care of you, who waited on your every whim.”
 
Buffy shot him a quizzical look, but he didn’t notice. He wasn’t even looking at her.
 
“But no, it’s all me, me, me,” Spike went on, staring into the water. “Using the whole girl power thing as an excuse to trample all over you, as if you don’t have feelings, like you’re just a bloody pawn in their twisted little game. It’s all power tripping. Then they’re onto the next poor sod, chasing and chasing until they’ve got him in their clutches, right where they want him, just so they can rip out his unbeating heart and stick it in a jar with the rest of the collection. Then laugh themselves to sleep about it. Yeah. Bloody hilarious, am I right?”
 
Buffy blinked slowly at him. 
 
“Just gets my goat, you know?” Spike looked down self-consciously. “But, uh, that’s the good thing about horses, innit?” he said quickly, twisting his head back towards Buster, who was happily munching away on some grass. “Just gotta chain ‘em to a sturdy fence, and they’ll never leave you.”
 
Buffy nodded. “Yes. Chains. The cornerstone of every good relationship.”
 
Spike arched an eyebrow at her.
 
“Ugh. You know what I mean," Buffy said. She fished a little steel tin out of her pocket. “Anyway, I’m here on delivery.” She pushed Spike’s boots in his direction and held the tin out in her palm. “There was a cobbler in the village," she said. "Giles got you some of this, uh, waxy stuff.”

Spike's eyes widened as he snatched the tin out of Buffy’s hand. “He didn’t!”

“It’s shoe polish, Spike. Not the holy grail.”

“A bit of gratitude goes a long way, love," Spike said, eyeing her disapprovingly as he twisted the lid off the tin. “Immortal life’s a nasty slog. Gotta find your kicks somewhere.” 

He shoved a hand into a boot and started inspecting it meticulously. Buffy looked away guiltily, tapping a foot.

“Christ, these are in some state," he said as he rubbed his fingers over the sides. “Vamp needs a good buffing.”

“Well, I won’t be coming anywhere near you,” Buffy said disgustedly. Spike rolled his eyes as he started to polish in earnest. 

“So,” Buffy started. “You think the horses are all rested up and ready to get their trot on again?”
 
“Jeez, give them a proper break, slayer," Spike said, working carefully around the detail of his boots. “They’re not machines, you know.”
 
“I know that," Buffy said defensively. "We just have a long way to go, is all.”
 
Spike smirked up at her. “Someone’s itching to get down to the demon-slaying marathon in Paris."
 
“Nah. Tent life is losing its novelty a bit, is all. Waking up in a puddle of mud, sleeping the whole day on a bed of rocks… just stops being fun after a while, y’know?”
 
“Not enjoying seeing the world, then? Broadening your sights beyond parochial orphanage life?”
 
“Yeah, the forests and mountains are particularly beautiful in the black of night," Buffy said. She smiled wryly. “But nah. It has been nice. Never imagined I’d have the chance to travel so far. See so much.”
 
“Really?” Spike looked up momentarily from his polishing. “You spent all those years cooped up in that backwater and never dreamt of getting out there for some cross-continent trailblazing?”
 
“Oh, I dreamt, alright. Just never thought it’d actually happen," she said. "They try to beat that sort of starry-eyed disposition out of you in the orphanage. I swear they had a sixth sense for it. You’d just be sitting there, minding your own business, fantasising about a better life beyond the orphanage gates. Then wham!” She clapped her hands together. “Instant broom in face.”
 
Spike snorted. “Well, guess you’re getting the last laugh now. Bein’ a chosen one and all.”
 
Buffy hummed. “Well. Yeah. If it’s true. Can’t really let myself believe it, yet. Would be quite the turnaround, though. Lots of the other girls used to dream they were like, long-lost princesses and stuff. Everyone wanted to be somebody important, you know? Guess it helped them deal with the reality of being big fat nobodies. Don’t think anyone ever fantasised about being a predestined, superpowered, demon-killing warrior, though.” She paused thoughtfully, smiling. “Don’t know why, really. Definitely trumps being a princess.”
 
“Never fancied royal living yourself, then? With the tiaras and fanning servants?”
 
“Nah. Not so much. Honestly, I just… well. I think all I ever really wanted was to find my family,” she said, her voice dropping. “Bit lame, I guess, when there’s this whole big world of endless possibilities out there. But that’s what my mind usually ended up getting stuck on, when it came down to it. Always wanted to know what it was like.”
 
Spike rubbed in circles over the same spot on his boot, nodding slowly. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
 
“What about you? Always dream of being a bloodthirsty killer?" Buffy asked. "Did little Spike sit up after sunset, burning the midnight oil and filing his canines into points?”
 
“Well. Not exactly,” Spike said. “Wasn’t the plan, but, uh. Made the most of it, didn’t I.”
 
“What was the plan, then?” 
 
Spike shrugged. He polished harder. “Dunno.”
 
“Wow. Big dreams."
 
“Just wanted. You know. All that typical human twaddle.”
 
“Like?”
 
Spike opened his mouth, like he was about to say something, but then closed it again.
 
“What, was it really embarrassing?” Buffy teased. “Did you want to be like, a spaceman or cowboy or something?”
 
Spike shook his head, bouncing one knee. “Nah. Nothing like that, really.”
 
“Then what?”
 
“Look. I’ll spin you the heartwarming little fairy story you’re looking for,” he said, looking up at her. “If you tell me where you hid my tobacco.”
 
“I told you. I didn’t touch your tobacco."
 
“Vampires can sense when you’re lying, you know."
 
“No they can’t.”
 
“Where is it?”
 
“I don’t know.”
 
“Well, you seemed to think it was dead funny, when I couldn’t find it.”
 
“I’m sorry, but watching you practically claw your eyes out? Always going to brighten up my day. Didn’t know vampires could even break a sweat.”
 
“Where is it?!”
 
“Dunno. Maybe Buster ate it?” Buffy threw Buster a look over her shoulder. “I have to admit, he looks pretty innocent, but it’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”
 
Spike narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re cruel, you know that, slayer? Making a poor innocent bloke suffer like this.”
 
“Yeah. 'Cos you’re real innocent."
 
“Well I didn’t do anything bad to you, did I?!” 
 
Buffy looked up at the sky. “Nah. You didn’t do anything to me, except be rude, condescending, wildly insensitive–”
 
“Alright, alright,” Spike cut in. “Well it’s not like it’s personal or anything. I’m just like that, ain’t I. With everyone.”
 
“Well, just because Giles puts up with it doesn’t mean everyone else should.” 
 
“You’re not exactly a basket of daisies yourself, you know. Reckon you give as good as you get.”
 
“Only when it’s necessary.”
 
“So." Spike took a breath. “If – and I mean if – I were to say sorry, and apologise sincerely for being such a terrible, mean, spiteful prat all the time– would I get my tobacco back?”
 
“Well. I don’t have your tobacco, so I couldn’t possibly give it back,” said Buffy slowly. “But I would appreciate your heartfelt apology, sure.”
 
Spike scoffed. “Forget it, then. What’d even be the point?”

***

Spike had decided it was time to shake up Buffy’s training strategy.

“It’s not just about brute force,” he’d explained in a patronising tone that made Buffy want to smack him harder than usual. She suspected his sudden shift in pedagogical focus might have something to do with how close she was getting to beating him, but she had little choice but to grudgingly acquiesce. 

“Vampires have some advantages over slayers," Spike began one evening, pacing in circles around her like a hungry wolf. He shook his head hard, face shifting. Golden eyes fixed Buffy menacingly. “For one, they got their weapon right here." He bared his fangs, catching Buffy’s arm as she launched towards him. She quickly pulled herself free. “But it’s also about the mindset,” Spike went on, tilting his body forward as Buffy came back swinging. 
 
“Meaning?” Buffy asked as Spike dodged a few kicks.
 
“Vampires aren’t weighed down by guilt, or shame, or any of that other human namby-pamby." He lowered his head like he was about to charge. “That kind of thing slows a slayer down.”

Buffy sidestepped Spike’s lunge. “So what you're saying is, to be a good slayer, I have to become a monster?”

“Exactly.”

“That was–” Buffy spluttered as he caught her by the ribs, “–sarcasm.”

“Well, I was dead serious." Spike locked her in with his arm. Buffy inhaled harshly as his fangs hovered over her neck. He was so close to her ear, his teeth almost grazed her jaw. “You gotta find that predator’s instinct, inside yourself.”

“I’m not a predator." Buffy wrenched herself free and stumbled away. “I’m just trying to protect people.”

“Well, the why hardly matters, is exactly what I’m saying. In the moment, you’re nothing but a killer. Denying it will only hold you back.”

“I don’t need lectures from you on what I am, alright?” Buffy advanced on him again. “I already know.”
 
Spike’s eyes glittered. “Go on then." He licked his teeth. "Show me.”

Buffy took a deep breath, missing Spike by a whisker as she hurled herself towards him.

Spike’s eyes furrowed smugly as he started to circle her again.

“Now, a slayer’s got good, sharp reflexes,” he went on. “But vampires got heightened senses, too, yeah? Gotta be aware of that. Can hear you, smell you, before we see you, most of the time.”
 
“Gross.”
 
“You can be as dainty about it as you like, love. Might cost you your life,” Spike said. “We can smell fear, too. Literally.”
 
“Great. Then you’ll know just how not-afraid I am.”
 
“Maybe you just don’t know you are.”
 
“Or maybe your intuition’s off.”
 
“Doubt that. Point is, we can sense weakness. See what makes you sweat, and use it against you.”
 
“How?” Buffy blocked Spike’s fist with her forearm, then blocked it again.
 
“A scrap of doubt’s all we need to get the upperhand." Spike grabbed her ankle mid-kick, but Buffy swung free and steadied herself. “One moment’s hesitation, and we can swoop in. Take advantage.”
 
“Oh yeah?” Buffy twirled her stake upright in her hand. “What are my weaknesses, then?”
 
Spike scoffed. “Don’t need to use my nose or ears for that one, pet." He dove forward, trapping her by the shoulders. “Sad, lonely little orphan,” he said, grinning meanly and shoving her backwards onto the ground. “Unwanted. Alone. Doesn’t fit in.”
 
Buffy didn’t miss a beat, rolling over and leaping back to her feet. “How’s that gonna help my opponent beat me?” She came at him, face set, fingers tight around her stake. “It’s just gonna get me riled. More hungry for the kill.”
 
“That's more like it." Spike shielded himself as she tried to grab his arm. “Still. It helps, sometimes, if you can be clever about it. Goes both ways, of course. Vampires have weaknesses too.”
 
“I know."

Buffy surged forward with fresh momentum, tossing her stake to the ground. She seized Spike by the collar and yanked him towards her, nails scoring unapologetically into his chest.

She looked him dead in the eyes, teeth clenched. “Unwanted,” she spat, and then she hit him. Her knuckles crunched against his mouth. She had never hit him so hard before. Hell, she’d never hit anything so hard in her life. 

“Alone." She struck again with the same new ferocity, her chest heaving.

“Doesn’t fit in." Buffy's voice wavered. She watched as Spike’s face slipped back to normal, his blue eyes widening. He bristled in her grip, like a prey animal about to gasp its final breath. 
 
She flung him backwards, sending him flying into the dust. 
 
“Guess that’s an advantage slayers have," she said, looking down at him. “Vampires are usually ashamed of their humanity, aren’t they? But we can sense it. And use it against them.”
 
The fire that had surged in her chest was waning quickly, becoming something sickly and tight. Spike’s blood prickled on her fingertips from where they’d scratched through his skin. She clenched her fists.

Spike lay stunned for a moment, then pushed himself slowly to his feet. 

“I guess,” he muttered, wiping his mouth as he came back to stand opposite her. He shook his head hard, as if trying to summon the demon back, but his face didn’t change. “But you’re probably not going to hear a vamp’s life story before you go toe to toe,” he said, voice louder but laboured. “Better to look for more obvious weaknesses, yeah?”

Buffy tried not to flinch as she met his gaze. “Seemed pretty obvious to me.”

***

“Hey, somebody’s happy to see you,” Buffy said as her and Spike arrived back at camp. Buster had caught sight of them and was scraping the ground excitedly with his hoof.
 
“Yeah, wonder why," Spike said, pulling an apple out of his inside pocket. Buster went wild.
 
“I meant Giles," Buffy teased. "Are those tears in his eyes?”
 
Giles looked up from the fireside. “Yes, it has been terribly lonely. I could scarcely tolerate the blissful silence.”
 
“Didn’t save any for the rest of us, then?” Buffy asked Spike as Buster chomped away on the apple in his outstretched hand. 
 
“Christ, you just want to squeeze me for every last drop, don’t you?” Spike wiped Buster’s drool off his hand onto his trousers. “All I do is give and give, but you always want more. Least Buster here shows a bit of appreciation.”
 
“Well, you never give me any apples to appreciate.”
 
“Oh, I’ll give you an apple, alright," Spike snarled. "I’ll give you a big bloody sack of them, I will.”
 
“Was that supposed to be a threat? Because I’d actually love a sack of apples.”
 
“God, thank heavens you’re both back,” said Giles exasperatedly. “I was getting withdrawals from your quarrelling.”
 
“Aww. We missed you too, Giles," said Buffy.
 
“Speak for yourself,” said Spike. “Only one I missed around here is Buster.”
 
“Well, that’s sweet, at least,” said Buffy. “Maybe Buster can help you lick all those wounds I gave you in training?”
 
“Yeah, well I’m sure he would and all, if you’d managed to give me any." Spike wrinkled his face when he heard his own words. “Wait. Nevermind.”
 
Buffy shook her head gravely at him. “You’re off your game tonight.”
 
“Tea, Buffy?” Giles called out, carefully lifting his teapot off the fire. 
 
“No thanks." She yawned and stretched her arms. “I’m ready for bed. Sleepy Buffy.” She gave her horse a little kiss on the bridge of its nose, then leant over to do the same to Buster.
 
“Hey!” Spike protested, arching back.
 
“What? You want one too?” Buffy teased.
 
“No,” Spike snapped, almost spitting to emphasise the point. “Just don’t want anybody else kissing Buster, is all.”
 
Buffy looked at him, spluttering out a laugh as Spike slapped a hand over his face. 
 
“Bloody hell. This is getting weird,” he muttered.
 
“It sure is."
 
“Please just go.”
 
“Gladly.”
 
“Sleep well, Buffy,” Giles called after her. “I didn’t know there was anything between you two,” he said, a smile playing on his lips as Spike sat down on the ground opposite him.
 
“Well, it’s all a bit new,” Spike snarked. “We’re not really telling anyone yet, you know?”
 
“Well, I just hope you don’t let people’s prejudices stand in the way of a good thing. Attitudes to horse-vampire relationships have come a long way.”
 
“Okay, you can shut up about it now, alright.”
 
Giles smirked, pouring some tea into his mug. “How was training? Sounds like Buffy is making strides.”
 
“Yeah. She’s getting better, alright,” Spike said. He scratched his nose. “Money’s in the bag.”
 
“Uh. Yes. Quite,”
 
“How much longer do you reckon it’s going to take, till we get to Paris?”
 
“God." Giles rubbed his chin. “We’re not even halfway.”
 
“Chomping at the bit, are we?” Spike said, biting his tongue between his teeth. 
 
“No,” said Giles irritably. “Just looking forward to sleeping in an actual bed again.”
 
Spike leant back on his hands. “Not cut out for the road, old man."
 
“What are you planning, anyway? When we get there.”
 
“In Paris, you mean?” Spike said. He scoffed. “Well. Could do anything, couldn’t I? I’ll be minted. And free, at last. World will be my oyster.”
 
“Yes, I suppose it will.”
 
“And, uh. You?” 
 
“Well, I don’t want to bank on it, but I do hope there’ll be some work for me, at the Council.”
 
Spike nodded. “Yeah. Yeah." He tapped his foot on the ground, then said nothing for a long moment. “Should be good.”

Chapter Text

Buffy looked up as big fat drops of water pounded the roof of the tent. “Is this rain ever going to stop?” 
 
“Well, maybe if you focus on the task at hand, it will have cleared up by the time we’re finished,” said Giles.

He was clearly in full-blown watcher mode. Buffy’s fingers had started getting all twitchy with boredom after an hour, but as ever, Giles was incorrigible in the face of dull, musty books. 
 
Buffy felt surprisingly grateful when Spike unlatched the front of the tent and ducked his head in. 

“What’s happening in here? Party, is it?”
 
“Characteristics of nocturnal and crepuscular demons,” Buffy read flatly from the page open on Giles’ lap.
 
“Oh, well the practical part of the lesson has begun, then," Spike said. He stretched out in front of them. “Got a very special guest for you today, kids.”
 
“Spike, you’re tracking dirt all over my tent,” Giles muttered as Spike unlaced his muddy boots and kicked them off. “You’re worse than a dog.”
 
Buffy found herself unconsciously following Spike’s movements with her eyes. His hair was all ruffled and floppy from the rain. Little clumps hung over his face, drips catching in his forehead and eyebrows. His white shirt was soaked through in big patches clinging to his skin. He looked kind of devil-may-care and a bit–
 
Okay, so she was clearly having this kind of cabin fever where it was, well, the opposite of cabin fever, because they were actually always trekking through huge, wide-open spaces. But just, you know, the three of them, and she hardly saw anybody else, and that’s why Spike sometimes looked kind of– she couldn’t find the word, but he sometimes looked a bit like that.
 
“Don’t even think about smoking in here,” Giles told Spike, who had started rolling up some tobacco.
 
“M’not,” Spike grunted. He tucked the finished cigarette behind his ear. “God, some party.”
 
“It’s not a party,” Giles snapped. “We’re trying to study. Okay, Buffy, so did you see this part about werewolves – they’re a unique case, in fact, which is why it’s also important to keep track of lunar cycles…”
 
“God, werewolves are well embarrassing,” Spike said. “Can only be demons a couple nights of the month, and even then they don’t have two brain cells to rub together. Definitely the dodos of the demon world.”
 
“That’s rather unfair to dodos,” said Giles. “They weren’t particularly unintelligent. Simply hadn’t adapted to seeing humans as predators.”
 
“Well, that’s a bit thick now, isn’t it,” said Spike. “They wouldn’t be dead as they are if they’d had some cop-on.”
 
“Thank you for that insight, Darwin. Now, Buffy, like I said, the lunar cycle is important to be aware of. It's more complex than it may appear at first glance, because it involves–”
 
“God, now this is exactly the problem with the education system, innit?” Spike interrupted again, sitting up. “This stuff could be dead interesting, but just sitting around yapping about it? Dryer than a nun in the Sahara.”
 
“Well, some of us have attention spans greater than that of a goldfish,” said Giles. “The point is, it’s critical that Buffy learn the theory, regardless of how dull it may–”
 
“And that’s the thing about theory,” Spike went on, leaning over and snatching the book out of Giles’ lap. “It’s alright, you know, in… well in theory, but bet it skips over all the good bits.”
 
His eyes scanned the page, then he started to read aloud in a dreary, monotone voice.

“Vampires are one of few strictly nocturnal demons, due to their complete inability to tolerate sunlight. Unlike creatures who find it merely advantageous to hunt in low-light environments, vampires are unable to emerge from their dwellings in daylight hours.”
 
Spike scoffed. “Dwellings?! Christ, we’re not bleedin’ rabbits." He went on.
 
“Vampires possess superior night vision to humans, and can sharpen this ability by shifting to full demonic form. Despite their strict nocturnality, however, vampires still see most optimally in full light, which is a vestigial trait of their human body. The night vision of nocturnal demons such as werewolves and various classes of ghoul far outstrips that of vampires, giving vampires a distinct disadvantage in hunting.”
 
“Jeez,” Spike grumbled. “Werewolves have better night vision than us?! That’s dead unfair, it is.”
 
“So the theory told you something you didn’t know, then?” Giles asked dryly.
 
Spike flung the book back at Giles. “Whatever. Could’ve told you most of that myself.” 
 
“For goodness’ sake, Spike, this isn’t a peep show,” Giles snapped as Spike started unbuttoning his wet shirt. 
 
“Yeah, more’s the pity,” said Spike. “God, Catholic boys’ school is less puritanical than this little homework club.”
 
“Yeah, Spike, you’re distracting us,” Buffy chimed in, glaring at Spike. She determinedly kept her eyes above his neckline. “With your, you know… irritating presence,” she added quickly. “Some of us are here to learn.”
 
Giles glanced at Buffy in surprise. “Uh, indeed."
 
“Fine, I’ll just freeze to death,” Spike said, leaving his shirt mostly unbuttoned, fabric rumpled and hanging off his chest. He leant over Buffy to peer down at the open book on Giles’ lap. “That was a trick question, slayer,” he said, looking up at her. “Vampires can’t freeze to death, which you’d know if you’d been paying attention.”
 
“It wasn’t a question," Buffy said, edging slightly away from him, gaze fixed unflinchingly on the open book. “And obviously I knew that.” 
 
The tent had been cramped enough when it’d just been her and Giles, but with a half-robed Spike draped over her, it was starting to feel entirely airless. The back of his head was obstructing Buffy’s view of the textbook, and her mouth was hovering over his ear, and– ugh, hadn’t this guy heard of personal space? If she moved even an inch she’d knock against him, so she had to hold herself all uptight like a ballet dancer, and his hair, which was all mussed and sticky-uppy, was almost tickling her nostrils (and it smelled kind of earthy, but also like when you get out of the shower, which was kind of nice, actually) and oh god, what if she bit his ear? Like, by accident? Like, just because she’s not supposed to, like when you’re standing at the edge of a cliff and– and, ugh, this was all a lot to be contending with, so she couldn’t really concentrate on what Giles was saying, which was difficult enough anyway, even under normal circumstances, and, well… in short, Spike should just get lost. God, he was irritating.
 
“Right, so what’s next in the lesson plan, Father Rupert?” Spike asked, tongue between his teeth. “Time for a good caning, is it?”
 
“Luckily for you, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot barge pole,” said Giles.
 
“One of those new-age schoolteachers, I see. If you ask me, there’s nothing wrong with giving kids the occasional wallop. Stops them going soft.”
 
“Well, we didn’t ask you, did we?” Buffy snapped. She turned back to the book. “Okay, Giles, so onto regional and aquatic demons?”
 
“Well, most of those are endemic to habitats you’re unlikely to encounter any time soon, so it’s probably not where our energies are best spent,” said Giles, flicking a couple of pages forward. “It would be more prudent to go into greater depth about the modus operandi of the more common nocturnal demons. So, regarding werewolves, as I said previously, they’re active only two or three nights per month, and their primary objective is–”
 
“To make a bloody mess,” Spike cut in, accidentally butting Buffy’s knee with his elbow as he gesticulated. Giles looked like steam might be about to billow from his ears. “No rhyme or reason to it. Just wreaking havoc. They do go in for sexual energy, though. Like catnip to them, it is.”
 
“Sexual energy?” Buffy asked without thinking. “What do you mean?”
 
“They’re drawn to the heat,” said Spike. “When humans are all hot and bothered, they can sense it. They sniff out the lustful, and prey on the randy.”
 
“Spoken like a true scholar,” said Giles.
 
“But how do they know?” Buffy asked, her cheeks going hot. God, the tent was seriously stuffy. There were clearly just too many people pressed up together in this small, confined space, and could anybody really be sure that vampires didn’t emit body heat? Because if Buffy were to hazard a guess, she’d–
 
“Just do," Spike said, shrugging. “Like the way a vampire can sniff out blood and that.”
 
“Oh," Buffy said. Her throat felt dry. “Didn’t know some demons could do… that.”
 
“Yeah, brothels have a rough time keeping going in full moon. I had this mate once, he used to–”
 
“We’re careening rapidly off-topic,” said Giles impatiently. “Incidentally, Buffy, now might be a good time to begin monitoring the lunar cycle. It’s actually a full moon tonight, which is an ideal time to start tracking.”
 
“Oh,” said Buffy. She stirred, careful not to brush against Spike. “So, uh, should we be on the look-out for werewolves, then?”
 
“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” said Giles. “They’re more common in urban centres.” 
 
Buffy nodded. “Right. That’s, uh, a relief.”
 
“But let’s have a look at their weaknesses, to get a better idea of how to kill them, since we’re on the subject.”
 
Buffy swallowed. "Yeah. Let's do that."

***

Buffy twisted the skewered fish over the fire, wrestling a little with the stick to find the right perch.

"You’re getting it all burnt,” Spike complained.
 
Buffy huffed. "Why do you care? You don’t even need to eat.”
 
“Well it’s a laugh, ain’t it?” Spike said. “Okay, it’s done, alright? Give it here.”
 
Buffy relented and pulled the spit out of the fire, then handing it to him.
 
Spike took a bite of the charred fish. His face wrinkled up as he chewed. “Clearly didn’t teach you to cook in that orphanage."
 
Buffy glared at him. “Yeah. Sorry for having better things to do with my time.”
 
“Like what? Being a pain in my arse?”
 
“That’s the dream." She speared another fish and suppressed a wince as it stared lifelessly at her. Its guts oozed a little through the tears in its skin. “I was actually supposed to work in a fish factory,” she said, wobbling the fish into place over the fire. “Was all set up to become Buffy the world’s best fish beheader.”
 
Spike spat out some bones. “Christ, you’re joking."
 
“Nope. That was, once upon a time, my destiny.” 
 
“Lucky escape, then.”
 
“I’m not sure, actually. I’ve been kinda won over by the fish cause," she said. Her lips quirked to one side. "Fishing was fun.”
 
“Yeah. We got a decent haul, too.”
 
“How’d you learn, anyway?" Buffy asked. "Doesn’t seem like something they show you at vampire school.”
 
“Uh. Someone taught me." Spike paused. “My dad.”
 
“Your dad?”
 
Spike leant back against a log and uncorked a bottle of vodka. “When I was human. Obviously." 
 
Buffy hummed, giving the spit a turn. “Funny to think of you having… you know, a family and parents and stuff. What were they like?”
 
Spike shrugged and sipped his drink. “Like parents.”
 
“Well. I wouldn’t know," Buffy said dryly.
 
“You don’t remember anything about yours? Nothing at all?”
 
Buffy shook her head. “I should. But the memories, it’s like they were wiped. Must have hit my head, or something. Maybe because of all the chaos that night...” She hugged her knees in close to her chest. 
 
Spike gave a little grunt. "Yeah. Well. Parents aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, sometimes. Some are real pieces of work, being honest with you.”
 
“Were yours?”
 
Spike shrugged. “Sometimes. In some ways. I mean, know it must feel bad and all. Not having them. But, uh, when you have them, you want things from ‘em, as well. Want them to be… you know. Be proud of you, or care about you, and that.”
 
“Well. That doesn’t sound so bad.”
 
“Can be. Can consume you. Spent my whole mortal life chasing my dad’s approval. Road to nowhere, of course,” he said. “And my mum was sickly. Had to give up a lot, to take care of her.”
 
He hesitated, then went on. “But, uh. Still. Hard to imagine, not having them, all the same.”

Buffy bit her lip. “Did… did you love them?"
 
Spike's face went still. “God, slayer," he said, suddenly bitter. "You ask a lot of stupid questions, don’t you?”
 
Buffy flinched. “Nevermind. Was just wondering.”

“Uh. Sorry,” Spike said quickly, taking a gulp of vodka. “Just, uh. Not easy sometimes. Talking about it.” He coughed slightly. “But, uh. Yeah. ‘Course I did. Love them, I mean. Even when it was eating me up inside. Kind of hard not to, with parents.”
  
Buffy shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to– I know, it must be hard. I just… well. I was curious.”
 
Spike swallowed. “Yeah. ‘Course,” he said after a moment, his voice husky.
 
Buffy lifted her eyes, watching the flames flicker against his face.
 
Spike scratched hard at his kneecap. “So, you missed out on all that, huh? Never had the sweet pleasure of someone wrenching your gut out through your ear?”
 
Buffy smiled wryly. “Well, I wouldn’t say that." She thought back to the hormone-fuelled romantic sagas that had possessed her and the others back at the orphanage. “Had my fair share of heartbreak. Some of it seems silly now, in retrospect. But it was no picnic at the time. I know it’s not the same, but… well, I didn’t know anything could hurt that much.” She shook her head a little wistfully. 
 
“Yeah, it’s not the same," Spike said. He took a sip from his bottle. “It’s even bloody worse.”
 
“And, I mean, I didn’t have parents, but some of the kids back at the orphanage were kinda like family, in a way. We grew up together. My two best friends left before I did. Both times… well, I cried so hard, I thought I’d never stop.”
 
She looked down, playing with the ends of her hair. “Don’t think I’d have got through it without them. At least not with my sanity intact. And now, well. Not sure if I’ll ever see either of them again.”
 
“Why not?” Spike asked, looking up at her. “You’re free now, ain’t you?”
 
“Yeah, but everyone goes their separate ways, once they leave. They wrote a couple of times, but… they could be anywhere by now. Not really sure how to find them.”
 
“Hey. You forget who you’re dealing with here." Spike sat up. “We can find people.”
 
“Really?”
 
“Really."
 
Buffy smiled a little at him. Spike met her gaze for a second, then dropped his eyes.
 
He rotated the vodka bottle in his hand. “St. Petersburg’s most formidable crooks, ain't we."
 
Buffy raised a brow. “Yeah. So formidable.”
 
“Hey, we’re bad, alright? Bad to the bone.”
 
“Oh, come on. You wouldn’t even steal a couple of potatoes from that old lady. Remember, a few villages back?” 
 
“Well Christ, have a heart, slayer," Spike spluttered. "Can’t go around fleecing grannies.”
 
“But fleecing everyone else? Totally fine."
 
“Oh, yeah, that’s rich," Spike scoffed. "Little miss law-abiding citizen over here, going around giving people that doe-eyed smile like butter wouldn’t melt. Could be a criminal mastermind if the slayer gig doesn’t work out for you. Come to think of it, you could probably combine ‘em. Be unstoppable then.”
 
Buffy smiled wryly. “Nah. My criminality is purely on a needs-must basis. Once we get to Paris, I’m going cold turkey.”
 
“We’ll see. Hard to give up being bad, once you get the taste for it.”
 
Buffy shrugged. “You managed it.”
 
“Hey! I’m still bad, alright?”
 
“Yes, you’re bad,” Buffy said flatly, looking at him. “Very, very bad.”
 
She met his eyes for a second, then looked away, cheeks getting hot. “So, uh, Giles not hungry, then?” she said. She was suddenly very concerned with turning another already-burnt fish over the flames.
 
“Nose stuck in his books, as always,” Spike said. “He’s gonna turn into one soon.”
 
Buffy sighed. “I think he’s planning to drag me down with him. He made me study quasi-mystical rocks for three hours earlier. You’re lucky you were asleep.”
 
“Oh, please. I’ve done my time. At long last, somebody to share the burden.”
 
Giles emerged from his tent a few minutes later. “Buffy," he said. "I was thinking tomorrow we could go over crystals, as an, uh, addendum to our earlier discussion.”
 
Buffy forced a smile. "Uh. Sure."
 
“If she’s not too worn out from training,” Spike interjected. “Might be knackered, after what I’ve got planned for her.”
 
“Ah. Right. Yes,” Giles said. “Well, training is certainly a priority. Let’s see then, shall we?”

***

Buffy lay sprawled on the ground the next day after training, hands crossed behind her head. Spike leant on his side, absentmindedly tearing a leaf to shreds.
 
“How long do you think we can get away with it, before we have to go back?” Buffy asked as she propped herself up on her elbow. She plucked a dandelion from the ground and blew gently on it.
 
Spike watched as the silver dust scattered in the breeze. “Reckon another hour at least." He tossed his ravaged leaf aside, then dug his tobacco out of his pocket.
 
Buffy looked over. “Wanna teach me to roll a cigarette?”
 
Spike raised a brow at her. “Thinking of taking up the habit, are we?”
 
“Nah. But I could roll them for you sometimes.”
 
Spike regarded her suspiciously.
 
She shrugged. “There’s not much to do out here."
 
"Alright," Spike said, though his eyes were still furrowed sceptically. He straightened up and said, “Look here, then.” He sifted some tobacco onto the thin little paper, then spread it out and slowly made a rolling motion between his fingers. Buffy watched carefully. “Just have to get it nice and smooth,” he said. “Then give it a lick. S’not very complicated, but does need a bit of technique.” 
 
“Roll, rinse, repeat," Buffy said. "Then lick. Got it.”
 
Spike delicately handed her over the paper, which Buffy immediately started to crush between her fingers.
 
“Easy,” Spike warned. “It’s not a stake.” He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and put his hands around hers. “Paper against paper, yeah?” he said, moving her thumbs under his.

Buffy nodded quickly, trying to follow the motion of his fingers, her movements suddenly a little jerky.

Spike tilted his head, then reached out and took one of her wrists. “Hey," he said, smiling crookedly as he pulled her hand a bit closer. “You’re getting calluses." He examined the tips of her fingers, where it was dried out and bumpy.
 
“Uh, yeah," Buffy said, arm held up lamely in Spike's grasp. His thumb was pressing into her skin. “From training, I guess.” The wafer-thin paper wobbled a little in her other hand, a few grains of tobacco slipping out onto the ground.
 
Spike hummed. “So you’re a real slayer now." He let go of her wrist and drew away.

“Uh huh,” Buffy said, rolling the tobacco up again. “Vampires, beware.”
 
“Yeah. I’m quaking in my boots.”
 
He watched her carefully. Her eyebrows furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed tightly together. He could still feel the place where he’d touched her, the skin a bit hot, tingling with awareness. Could still hear the quick thumping of her pulse. In trainings it was impossible to tell, what with all the adrenaline pumping. Hard to know if her heart was hammering because she was worked up, with a deadly predator clamped round her neck, or because of something else. But he did remember other times, when he’d tried to gauge a reaction. Stretching out too close to her in Giles’ tent, trying to listen for her breaths. Wondering if he’d catch her looking at him when he undid his shirt. Hoping for it.

Her pulse had been racing, that was for sure. But he’d dropped her hand and moved away all the same. Which was funny, really, because most times after training, when he was back at his tent alone, he thought a lot about her hands. Running back over the places they’d touched him and imagining places they hadn’t. He wasn’t nearly so shy about it in his head. 
 
Spike watched as her fingers trembled over the slip of rolling paper. She seemed nervous, alright. Just didn’t know if it was because she liked it, him touching her, or because, well…

But she hadn’t pulled away, had she? And now she was fumbling, still. It was barely discernible, but he could tell. His chest tightened at the thought that it might be for him, that little tremor.
  
“Okay, done,” she said eventually. She held up a very plump cigarette with a narrow tip. 
 
“Let’s give it a go." Spike took it from her. As soon as the cigarette was lit, one side went up in flames racing towards his mouth. He spat it out hurriedly, stamping over the ashes with his foot. “Jeez,” he spluttered, tobacco dust spraying out of his mouth. “So that was the master plan, was it? To scorch me up?”


Buffy looked at him sheepishly. "Maybe," she said. She reached out and picked up the tobacco pouch. “Okay, fine. Let me try again.”
 
Spike bit his lip, smiling a little. “Alright, then.”

***

“Uh, Buffy?”
 
Buffy shook herself back to reality. "Huh?"
 
“Are you paying attention?” came Giles’ voice again.
 
“Oh, totally!" Buffy said. She swivelled to face him. “Yep. I’m Focus Girl.”
 
Giles narrowed his eyes sceptically, then looked back down at the fat book open in front of him.
 
“As I was saying, the slayer’s power is completely unique,” he said. “It’s the only case of fated supernatural abilities being passed down through generations over millennia. Even more unusual is the lack of connection between the individual girls, at least that we’ve been able to discern. The scale of the mystical forces at play here is, quite frankly, unfathomable.”
 
“One girl in all the world,” Buffy mused.
 
“Yes. One girl.”
 
“But why just one? Wouldn’t it make more sense to have like, a giant army of slayers? Or at least a different one in, you know, every town?”
 
“Well, that would certainly make things easier. But primeval magic doesn’t tend to follow logic or reason.”
 
Buffy picked a daisy from the ground, examining the tiny white petals. “It just seems a little too good to be true."
 
Giles looked at her. “How do you mean?”
 
“Well, that I would be her. The one and only.”
 
Giles smiled. “I can see where you’d have trouble. I haven’t quite gotten my head around the idea either.”
 
“I mean, what are the chances?”
 
“Well, strictly speaking, probability isn’t really a factor here, given you never anticipated becoming a slayer. If you had wished for it, of course, the odds would be astronomical, but simply the fact of already being the slayer, well… it has to be someone, after all.”
 
Buffy hummed. “Guess so," she said. She paused for a moment to consider it, then went on. “It’s just… all these years, I was this sad, unwanted kid with no past or future. I’m not talking bottom of the pile here, Giles. I’m talking, like, deep, deep underneath the rubble the pile’s resting on.” 

She inhaled hard. “It just seems a little convenient, doesn’t it, that I would actually turn out to be… well. Not just somebody, but… a chosen one. The only one.”
 
Giles looked up from his book and fixed his glasses. “Buffy," he said softly. "Even if you aren’t the slayer, I don’t think you’re being entirely fair on yourself.”
 
“Come on." Buffy smiled wryly and pulled absentmindedly at a few blades of grass. “If you hadn’t seen me pounding on Spike, I’d probably be vamp chow in a gutter by now.”
 
“Well… things might have gone differently, alright," Giles conceded. "But I’m nonetheless certain that somebody with your strength of will would have eventually found their way down another fruitful, and decidedly gutter-free, path.”
 
“Maybe," Buffy said, ripping some grass in half. She hesitated. “But, uh, what… what if it turns out I’m not her? Maybe my parents were just, you know, big-timey wrestlers or something. Hence the muscles.” 
 
“Well. Your power isn’t the only auspicious factor here,” Giles said carefully. He paused. “But, uh… if it does so happen that we’ve been mistaken, then… we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

Buffy kept her head down, peering up at him with only her eyes.

“But I have no doubt," Giles went on, "That if we all put our heads together, we’ll figure something out." He smiled reassuringly at her.
 
Buffy's lips flickered, the heaviness in her chest easing slightly. “Alright."

She dusted some earth off her hands, then looked up. “Uh, Giles?”
 
“Yes?”
 
“It’s my necklace," she said. She ran her thumb along the chain around her neck. “It has this… engraving. I sometimes wondered if it, well… if it meant something.”
 
“Oh?”
 
“Yeah. It’s… uh. I’ve always had it. Since I first showed up at the orphanage.” She lifted it gently over her head and turned the pendant around in her outstretched palm.
 
Giles adjusted his glasses, dipping his head closer to examine it.
 
“Together in Paris,” he read quietly.
 
“I don’t know what it means. But when you first told me about Paris, I thought of the necklace, and figured… well, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to go there.”
 
Giles hummed. “Well, the engraving could refer to anything, of course. And a cross in itself is… rather unremarkable. But, uh, altogether, it is another rather strange coincidence, I must admit.” 
 
“Yeah. Another one for the list.”
 
“Indeed."
 
“So, you still haven’t found any more clues, then, about what happened back on the train?” Buffy asked, pulling the necklace back over her head.
 
“Unfortunately not," said Giles. "I admit, I’m starting to get a bit desperate. All I can say is that’s it’s promising, at least, that we haven’t been targeted again. It’s possible that, even if the accident was the result of Angelus’ curse, it was indeed merely the vestiges of spells he cast previously. Even if he is still active, he may have no idea that you’re alive or where you are.”
 
“Here’s hoping. The last thing I need is an evil mastermind jonseing for slayer blood on my heels. I mean, I’m already a little wigged about my first job being very much of the high-pressure.”
 
“Indeed. Being the slayer is… well, it’s hard to express, really, the enormous responsibility it entails. Do you… uh. Do you feel ready?”
 
Buffy smiled. “Think I’m getting there. Did you hear about those vamps I staked last night?”
 
“Spike might have mentioned it. Not sure how accurate his version of events was, however.”
 
“He hardly did anything,” Buffy said, voice rising a little with excitement. “They were pretty flush for vampires, too. We got some good loot.”
 
“I see Spike’s helping to strengthen your moral character as well as everything else," Giles said wryly. "Let’s not mention that to the council, shall we?”
 
“Hey, who was it that said it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there?”
 
“I absolutely concur. But, uh, nonetheless, sometimes a bit of discretion is advisable.”
 
“Well, don’t you think it’s better to at least be an honest thief, instead of just pretending to be all strait-laced?” Buffy asked. She scrunched up her face. “Wow. I have been spending too much time with Spike.”
 
“No, I think you have a point. There’s a certain integrity to… being upfront about one’s, uh, lack of integrity.”
 
“Thanks,” said Buffy brightly. “That means a lot. And hey, if the slayer biz doesn’t work out for me, maybe I could join your criminal operations. We could set the alleyways of Paris alight.”
 
“Gosh. Teaching orphans to pickpocket. How very Dickensian,” said Giles flatly, face furrowing. “But, uh, forgive me for having higher hopes for you, Buffy. Slayer or not, I firmly believe you can do better than the seedy underworld I’ve been loath to inhabit these last years.”
 
“So you didn’t enjoy it? Not even a little?”
 
“I think enjoyed would be a bridge too far. But, uh… as with all things, you do adapt. You begin to feel… at home, so to speak, in your new reality,” said Giles. “And being thrown into such circumstances… well, it forces one to confront the humanity in all walks of life. Even in the shadows, where you might initially expect to find merely darkness, there’s light too. Let’s just say, it’s certainly opened my eyes.”
 
“It’s like you’ve been doing undercover research. You know, watcher in disguise, getting the inside scoop on demonic shenanigans.”
 
“You’re not wrong. To say it’s been interesting would be an understatement. Nonetheless, I’ve long reached the point where I would happily trade the intrigue for a warm bed and steady pay cheque. Suppose I’m, ah, getting old.”
 
“Nah, the appeal of beds isn’t lost on me either," Buffy said. "I’m pretty psyched about sleeping in a room with an actual roof and, like, walls. And at night.”
 
“Won’t that be a novelty," Giles said. "Speaking of, are you scheduled for training this evening? I was hoping, if we got an early start, we could make it to the next town by morning.”
 
“Uh, I think so," Buffy said. She and Spike hadn’t actually talked about it. But recently she’d found herself itching for the next training session, and a little disappointed on days they had to skip it. She supposed she got a kick out of it – that feeling of getting better, stronger, of finding this new power inside herself. “Well, uh, Spike didn’t say for sure, but I mean, probably."
 
“Alright. Well, your dedication is certainly admirable. But you know, Buffy, while honing your strength is of utmost importance, as a slayer, it’s also imperative that you–”
 
“I know, I know,” Buffy cut in, smiling. “I gotta sharpen my mind, too.” She scooted a little closer to the open book. “Come on then. Let the knowledge fest begin.”

***

Spike and Buffy didn’t usually get excited when Giles talked about his maps, but tonight was an exception. 

“These are quite outdated, at this point," Giles said, pointing to a tiny orange dot on the tattered map of mainland Europe. “But this town was once, at least, something of a demon hotspot. Not a hellmouth, not by a long shot. But a satellite of sorts, where dark energies seem to converge.” He adjusted his glasses as he turned to Buffy. “It may be worthwhile to stop by and see if we can, uh… put your budding talents to good use.” 

Buffy side-eyed Spike. His lips were twitching.

Not long after sunset, the three of them set out for the graveyard, which was pretty roomy for the size of the modest village. 

“It’s not fair,” Buffy complained after Spike had quickly dusted a newly risen vampire. “He can hear them coming before I do.”

Spike scanned the perimeter greedily. “Not my problem."

“Giles,” Buffy whined. “He’s taking all the good ones. I thought the whole point was to demonstrate my slaying ability.”

“Ugh. You’re such a rat,” Spike said. “You got no honour.”

Buffy snorted. “Yeah, you’re one to talk.”

“I don’t think either of you can reasonably talk about honour,” Giles said dryly. “The point here is to protect innocent lives. Not bicker over who has the higher kill count.”

“You’re the one keeping a bleedin’ tally,” Spike snarled.

“That’s purely for data collection purposes,” Giles said quickly, fumbling with the notebook in his hands.

“Who’s winning, anyway?” Buffy peered over at Giles’ open page. “Oh, come on! Don’t I get a half-point for that first one?”

“I staked him!” Spike said, outraged.

“I led him right to you!”

“Good heavens,” Giles said. “Slaying is a sacred duty, Buffy. Not a game of checkers.”

Buffy’s face fell, her gait slowing to a guilty shuffle. She mumbled something apology-like.

Giles caught sight of Spike's smug grin. “This is your doing, you know."

“Yeah. You’re welcome," he said.

“Hey,” Buffy protested, suddenly riled again. “He’s just my punchbag. I’m the one getting stronger.”

“Nah,” Spike said. “I’m Frankenstein, and you’re the monster.”

“Uh, your wires?” Buffy said, raising a brow at him. “Seriously crossed.”

Spike smirked and kicked her in the calf, but gently. Buffy reflexively double-took. They both glanced at each other in surprise, then quickly looked away again. 

“Gosh,” Giles was saying, oblivious to this little exchange. “The things you two find to argue about are getting more absurd by the second.”

“Hey,” Spike said suddenly, voice hushed. “Hear that?”

Buffy froze like a rabbit as she tuned in to the sound of rustling. She caught sight of a shiny new vampire in the distance, then elbowed Spike out of her way. “Don’t help me,” she hissed as she darted off. 

Spike huffed, but didn’t follow her. He hopped onto a chunky tombstone and lit a smoke. Giles stood nearby and watched Buffy closely.

“It’s your lucky night,” Buffy announced to the vampire as she sauntered towards him. “The slaying shall be quick and tidy.”

Slightly disoriented at first, the vampire soon shifted into gear and gave a long, low growl.

“Ugh, growling,” Buffy complained as he leapt towards her. “Kinda tacky.” She used his weight against him as he caught her by the arm, then spun around and knocked him backwards to the ground. He blinked up at her in surprise as he clambered to his feet.

“Good lord." Giles grimaced at the sickening crunch of Buffy thwacking the vampire across the face.

Spike's heels kicked back excitedly against the tombstone and he called out, “Nice one!”

Giles shot him a look.

“What?!” Spike spluttered on smoke. “Girl puts on a good show.”

“Are the theatrics your influence, too?” Giles asked as Buffy jumped to dodge the vampire, then flipped herself over a crypt to deliver a kick to his chest.

“Nah. That’s all her.”

Giles turned back around to see Buffy duck down nimbly, then trip her opponent up with an outstretched foot. The vampire landed on his back with a thump. 

“Gosh,” Giles said under his breath. “She’s really something.”

A twist in Spike's chest frizzled deeper as he watched. "Yeah," he said. He dug his fingers harder into the tombstone. “Not bad.”

Buffy rolled over on the grass, withdrew her stake, then pierced it straight through the vampire’s chest. His low rumbling trailed off as he dissolved into the night air.

Spike sucked in a breath. He stirred uncomfortably as Giles turned to him again. 

“It’s her, Spike,” Giles said quietly. His expression was hard to read, his eyes unusually severe. “We’ve really found her.”

Spike took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Yeah,” he said on an exhale, nodding slowly. “Seems we have.”

Chapter Text

The sunlight was fizzling out and the sky was mauve. Buffy unrolled her tent a few feet from the lake’s edge. 

Of all the spots they’d camped in so far, this was her favourite. The rows of pine trees left little gaps every where she could peek out onto the reedy water, which shimmered gently with the reflection of clouds.
 
“Shall we go now to get the wood, before it’s completely dark?” Giles suggested, leaving his tent halfway built. 
 
The evenings had grown warm. So warm, in fact, that Buffy wondered if they really still needed fires at all. But neither she nor the others had suggested a change to the nightly ritual. As the weeks had gone by, she’d become a dab hand at setting them, too. She couldn’t remember the last time Spike had complained that she’d probably suffocate in her sleep from the thick fumes her amateur fires were producing. He usually stuck to his own job now, which was taking care of dinner. Meanwhile Giles would sit quietly by his lantern, perched over maps laid out like a carpet around him, plotting their best route forward.
 
Trees chirped sweetly as the three of them trundled across the leafy forest floor. One song seemed to drown out the others, trilling fast and endless.
 
“God, that bird won’t shut his beak, will he?” Spike said.
 
“It’s a nightingale,” said Giles. “Very distinctive song. Very beautiful, too.”
 
“I’d wring the yappy bastard’s neck if I got my hands on him."
 
“I think it’s a male,” Giles went on. “Probably calling for a mate.”
 
“Bit desperate, isn’t he? Can’t he see nobody’s interested? Give it a bloody rest.”
 
“How d’you know so much about birds, Giles?” Buffy asked. “Thought you only knew about supernatural stuff. Or do nightingales have hidden powers?”
 
“If something’s boring enough, Giles will know about it,” Spike said.
 
“Used to go birdwatching, as a child,” Giles said. “And you know what they say about ornithology. It’s the watcher’s gateway drug.” He chuckled at his own joke, while Buffy and Spike exchanged a baffled look.
 
“What’s that one, then?” asked Spike after a moment, pointing up at a big bird-shaped shadow casting over them, its silhouette stark against the milk-purple sky.
 
“Huh." Giles tilted his head back and fixed his glasses. “Raptor of some sort. Maybe a buzzard. Though, gosh, with a wingspan like that, it could actually be an eagle.”
 
“Watch out, slayer," Spike said, flashing his teeth at her. “Those talons will slice you up worse than any vamp’s fangs.”
 
“I’m not that small."
 
“Are so. Could fold you up and fit you in my pocket.”
 
“Oh, look, it’s landing," Giles said, his eyeline following the bird as it arced its wings through the air, then descended into a tree. “Looks like there might be a nest.”
 
“Well, that’s dinner sorted,” said Spike.
 
“Oh, please,” muttered Giles. “We are not destroying an eyrie.”
 
“Sorry. Forgot it’s only the ugly ones we’re allowed to kill,” said Spike. “Does that count for humans too, by the way?”
 
Buffy clucked her tongue. “Down, boy. There will be no eating of the unattractive.”
 
“Wouldn’t want to, anyway,” said Spike gruffly. “First bite is with the eye, after all.”
 
“God, I wish I had binoculars." Giles pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “It’s rare to catch sight of a nest like this.”
 
Buffy pushed up onto her toes and squinted. “Where is it? I can’t see anything.”
 
“Told you you’re too short,” Spike said over his shoulder. 
 
Buffy rolled her eyes. She hesitated for a moment and then, on rogue impulse, grabbed Spike’s shirt collar, almost choking him with it as she hauled herself up onto his back.
 
“Oi!” Spike yelped as Buffy yanked his head back. “What the-”
 
“Go closer,” Buffy urged, finding a wobbly balance and clasping her arms around his neck.
 
“What am I? Your bloody slave?” Spike said, but he hoisted her up a little under her thighs anyway.
 
Buffy tried to pretend it wasn't weird at all that Spike's hands were on her legs, and kicked his sides to get him moving. He grumbled, but shuffled after Giles all the same. 

Giles narrowed his eyes, pointing into the distance. “It’s the tree on the far edge."
 
“I think I see it," Buffy said, mangling Spike’s face unapologetically as she shimmied herself further up onto his shoulders.

Spike snarled as her fingers dug into his eyes. "I can't see anything."
 
“You wouldn’t appreciate it anyway,” Giles said.
 
“Hey, I can appreciate things,” Spike said as Buffy straightened up on top of him, his hands readjusting to her shins. “It’s lovely, alright? Look at the little worms wriggling about in their beaks. Right touching, that is.”
 
“You couldn’t possibly see that in this light,” Giles said irritably. “Not even with vampire vision.”
 
“You know what I really appreciated about the horses?” Buffy dug her elbows pointedly into Spike’s head. “The way they couldn’t talk.”

Spike jerked his head away. “Oi," he said, pinching the skin behind Buffy’s knee. She flinched and kicked her heel back against his hip.
 
“It’s most likely a golden eagle,” Giles said, straining his neck. “They actually mate for life, eagles. This pair has probably been nesting here for years.”
 
“Boy. Didn’t realise eagles were such old-fashioned romantics,” said Buffy, trying to pull one of her feet free from Spike’s grip. “Stop!” she spat as he started a tug-of-war with her other ankle. 
 
“The male does the bulk of the foraging for the young, too,” Giles went on. “That’s probably him now, in fact.”
 
“Sounds like we could a learn a thing or two from birds," Buffy said, her voice strained from the way Spike was yanking at her. In a flash of divine inspiration, she rammed a finger hard into his ear. Spike arched away with a growl and dropped her legs.
 
“We certainly could,” Giles said. “God forbid humans showed a bit of humility. But we’re so desperately attached to the idea that we’re the exceptional ones, we disregard all evidence to the contrary.” He took a few steps closer to the nest, watching carefully. The outline of the tree was disappearing fast against the darkening sky.

Buffy shifted restlessly. She liked birds and all. Really. But she was a bit distracted, sitting on top of Spike’s shoulders, itching with the constant urge to pull his hair or strangle him or some other mean thing like that. She settled for dragging her fingers across his scalp, liking the way her nails hitched against his roots and probably hurt just a little.

“Stop that, would you?” Spike said with a wince.
 
“Just checking for fleas,” Buffy said. His usually neat hair was flat like trodden grass, and actually, it looked kind of–
 
“The undead don’t get parasites, love,” Spike said. “Unless you count you two leeches.”
 
“Shush. You’re ruining Giles’ magical moment.”
 
Spike rolled his eyes. He hiked her up slightly, then started off in the other direction.
 
“Hey! I was enjoying that,” Buffy protested in a hushed voice. “With the bird-watching.”
 
“No you weren’t. You were wriggling around up there like a maggot on a corpse. Which, hey, if the shoe fits.”
 
“Well. The first minute was fun,” Buffy conceded. 
 
“Best leave the sorry sod to his sad little jollies. God knows he doesn’t get much excitement.”
 
“It’s so cute when he gets all giddy about this stuff,” said Buffy fondly. “Remember when we found those bear tracks? That look on his face– like a little kid on Christmas.”
 
“Yeah. Practically salivating, he was," Spike said. "All over his bloody magnifying class.”
 
“Yeah. And you were practically passing out,” remembered Buffy, grinning.
 
“Was not. I was just bein’ sensible. You don’t go messing about with bears.”
 
“Well. True. I just don’t think we needed to run away quite that fast.”
 
“You ever seen a bear, slayer?! They’re bloody massive,” said Spike, voice rising with an edge of hysteria. “They’d ground you up like a chicken nugget.”
 
“Hey, there are no bears here,” Buffy said, falsely soothing, petting his head gently. She absently pushed a few messy hairs back into place. “Deep breaths, alright?”
 
“Just saying,” Spike muttered. “Not wise to underestimate your opponent.”
 
“Mmm. I learnt that lesson after that teeny-tiny goblin nearly bit your leg off.”
 
“The little blighter was stronger than he looked, alright."
 
“Think he just got extra riled because you laughed at him. That wasn’t very nice, you know.”
 
“Like you weren’t laughing too. Pimply little goit.”
 
“I was laughing at you, not him," Buffy said, giggling at the memory. “The way he was chewing on your leg like an angry puppy.”
 
“Oh, that’s charming, that is! And me being all gallant, trying to protect you.”
 
“Spike, he was the size of a football.”
 
“Well, so are you, but you’re pretty tough, ain’t you?”
 
“Huh," Buffy said. She paused. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. It was only fifty per cent insult.”
 
“Well, cruelty loses its punch if you’re too loose with it. Better to cultivate a false sense of security before you go for the jugular, you know?”
 
“Mmm. Wise words."
 
“Psychological warfare’s a delicate art,” Spike said knowingly. “I’ll teach you that next, if you like.”
 
Buffy snorted on instinct. “Like I need lessons on that from you.” She froze suddenly. “Uh. I mean…”
 
“Well, you’ve really gone and given yourself away there, love,” Spike said, tilting his head back and grinning upside down against her.
 
Buffy fought back a smile. “Okay, fine. But at least I only use my powers for good.” 
 
Spike hummed sceptically as he straightened up. “That what you call what you did to that poor chap’s chickens, is it?”
 
“Oh god, please," Buffy said, fisting some of Spike’s hair. “You promised me we’d never speak about that again. Please don’t tell Giles.” 
 
Spike cackled.
 
“It was an accident,” Buffy whined.
 
“Fairly pre-meditated accident, from where I was standing.”
 
“I just wanted one chicken. One!” Buffy said desperately. 
 
“And the wretched old geezer sharing his hot cross buns with us and all,” Spike said wistfully. “Still steaming from the oven, they were.”
 
“Please, Spike. I can’t think about the buns. Raisins will now forever taste of shame and self-loathing.”
 
“I mean, that little sob story you spun him was so convincing, I was almost crying myself.”
 
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t that–”
 
“Not to mention what must’ve happened to poor old Lassie after that,” Spike went on, shaking his head. “Reckon his next jaunt round the back of the barn was his last, if you know what I mean–”
 
“No, no, not the dog–”
 
“I’m sure it was a kindness."
 
“Oh my god, stop.”
 
“Hey, look. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve done worse myself.”
 
“Yeah. So reassuring."
 
“I mean, I was never quite as ruthless and calculated, but I can think of at least one worse thing–”
 
“Ugh, shut up," Buffy said, knocking him on the head with a fist.
 
“Oi," Spike said. He squeezed her knees, ostensibly threatening but coming off more affectionate.

Buffy tensed.
 
Spike stretched his head back again to look up at her. “Don't worry. Your dirty little secret’s safe with me.”
 
“It better be," Buffy said, reaching her hands around his neck and pressing her fingers to the bump of his throat. “And I’m not just counting on your word, but on your instinct for self-preservation.”

Spike gagged, his head still smushed into her stomach. He looked momentarily helpless and kind of–
 
“I wouldn’t tell, anyway," Spike said, wriggling his neck out of her grasp. “Giles would just end up blaming me. Couldn’t countenance little golden girl here being up to no good.”
 
“Are you kidding?! He’d let you away with like, literal murder. I’m the one who gets a lecture for not listening when he’s going on about optimal wood density or whatever.”
 
“Well, why don’t we test the theory, then, and I’ll tell him all about your little hurrah in the chicken coop?”
 
Buffy throttled him harder. “Can you go a bit faster?” she asked when Spike had stopped spluttering, kicking at his sides. “Or do I need to find a big stick to whip you with?”
 
“Please,” Spike said immediately.
 
“Ugh.”
 
“Hey. Was your idea,” said Spike, shrugging, but picking up his pace slightly. 

Buffy was finding it increasingly hard to make out the path ahead in the dark. Everything was either dark grey or very dark grey, and the trees ahead were blurred and fuzzy. She yowled in complaint when she accidentally whacked her shoulder off a low-hanging branch.
 
Spike ground to a halt immediately, arms tightening around her. “You okay?”

Buffy rubbed at her shoulder. “Yeah. Can just barely see anything. Hey–” she croaked, shuddering involuntarily at the fingertips pressing slightly harder into the underside of her thighs. “That… tickles.”

“What?” Spike asked distantly, sounding distracted. 

Buffy's throat went dry. “I said, uh–”

“Oh, uh…”

“But, no, I mean, it’s okay."

“Uh, what? You mean–”

“I mean,” Buffy interrupted, suddenly praying for the earth to swallow her up like quicksand. “Just, nothing. Nevermind!” She trailed off with an uncomfortable chuckle. Her cheeks felt hot.

“Uh, right." Spike bristled and loosened his grip, fingers hovering awkwardly over her knees instead.

Buffy shifted slightly, suddenly hyper aware of the way his head felt squeezed between her legs. She didn’t really know what had just happened, but she had the impulse to stuff her whole fist into her mouth.

“We better, uh, go back and find Giles,” she said, trying to sound normal.

“Uh, yeah." Spike straightened his neck. “Let’s.”

“Before, you know, the big bird eats him.”
 
Spike sneered. “Oh, he’d like that, wouldn’t he?” he said. “Good heavens, what a magnificent digestive tract,” he continued in a high voice that sounded more like an old lady than Giles. “It’s utterly ingenious how it regurgitates me into the mouths of its young.”
 
Buffy laughed, relaxing slightly. “You’re right. But we should probably save him from a regurgitated fate anyway. For like, his own good.”
 
Spike took off back in the other direction. 
 
“Giles!” Buffy called out.
 
“Jeez, not very stealthy, slayer. God knows what kind of nasties are lurking round these parts.”
 
“Surely nothing you couldn’t protect me from,” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “Wait. That came out sweeter than I meant it. I meant it as like an insult, you know? Because nothing could be nastier than you?”
 
“God, that’s even sweeter. I’m blushing down here.”
 
Buffy groaned.
 
Spike paused as a rustle sounded nearby. “Hey, you hear that?”
 
“Uh huh,” Buffy said quietly. “Think it’s a scary Giles demon.”
 
“Yeah,” Spike said as Giles’ shadowy figure advanced towards them. “Special power is being so dull, his victims actually end up killing themselves. S’clever, really.”
 
“And what kind of demon is this, then?" Giles asked, eyeing them disapprovingly. "I would’ve thought a slayer-vampire chimera would be a tad more forbidding than a hobby horse.”
 
Suddenly self-conscious again, Buffy pressed her weight into Spike’s head and slid clumsily down his back. Spike gave a cursory groan of protest as she tugged his shirt on the way down.

“Not a bleeding climbing frame, you know,” he muttered, stretching out his neck. 
 
“Well, then maybe you shouldn’t be so climbable," said Buffy. She groaned inwardly when she heard her own words. God, her foot-in-mouth syndrome was flaring up bad today.
 
“So, did you get the firewood, then?” Giles asked.
 
“Oh." Buffy felt herself go red yet again. Good thing it was so dark. “Um. We were… uh, waiting for you.”
 
Giles sighed. “Come on, then. Let’s get started.”
 
***

When they got back to the campsite, Buffy began methodically stacking the wood. She had a system now. No one spoke for a long time, the only noise the scuffing of wood on wood and Spike slicing through potatoes in the corner, the chunks clanging as he dropped them into an old metal basin. 
 
Once the fire was lit and blazing away happily, Buffy stretched out on her stomach, idly watching the flames. It wasn’t cold, but she still liked it, the soft heat blaring against her cheeks, the now-familiar scent of charred air. She slipped drowsily off into a trancelike state, half-formed thoughts wafting in and out. The neon orange inching bit by bit along the edges of their carefully collected tree branches. Giles and Spike’s occasional low, muffled voices in the background. The ruffling of Spike’s boots against the leaf-sodden ground. His hands earlier, curled protectively around her knees, the shiver down her spine when his fingers had–
 
Buffy’s eyes flickered to life as Giles nudged her gently, handing her a small dinner tray. “Sorry to interrupt," he said.
 
“Thanks,” Buffy said with a grateful smile, shimmying up from the ground and crossing her legs. She started to eat. 
 
Giles paused for a moment, smiling down at the fire. “There are three things a man can watch forever,” he said appreciatively. “Fire burning, water running, and you kicking Spike in the head.”
 
“Ha-ha,” Spike muttered from a few feet away, stuffing some old dishes back into their carry-sack. 

“Not eating today?” Buffy looked in Spike’s direction as she spooned mushy potato into her mouth.
 
He shook his head, settling on his back on the ground. “Nah. Not much left over.”
 
“But you did all the work."
 
“Well, you’d both get food poisoning if the cooking was left to you.”
 
“Spike is quite a good cook, as long as you don’t ask him what’s inside his meals,” said Giles through a mouthful of something. “His secret stew recipe is rather infamous. The secret, apart from what’s actually in it, is that it tastes wildly different every time, so you can never get tired of it.”
 
“Yeah, good thing rats are such a versatile ingredient, innit?” said Spike. “You know – smoked, sauteed, parboiled. Skins off, skins on…” 
 
Buffy swallowed forcefully, side-eyeing him.
 
“Just messing,” said Spike. “Wouldn’t actually tell you what’s in there. It’s much worse.”
 
Buffy grimaced, placing her mostly empty dinner tray down and pushing it a few inches out of her eyeline. “So,” she said brightly. “What’s for dessert?” 
 
Spike glared at her, but then, to her surprise, rustled around his inside pocket and fished out a small apple. He tossed it in her direction. 
 
“Wow." Buffy caught the apple automatically with both hands. “You’re like an apple vending machine.”
 
“Well. Got some to spare, don’t I, now that Buster’s gone."
 
“And where’s my apple?” asked Giles, offended.
 
Spike’s eyes widened incredulously at him. “Bloody hell. No good deed goes unpunished, does it? Once you get pegged as a soft touch, everyone’s constantly just trying to walk all over you. Milk you for all you’re worth. Don’t know why I bother.”
 
“You can share mine if you like, Giles,” Buffy offered, holding the apple out in his direction. “Want the first bite?”
 
“No thank you, Buffy." Giles smirked. "My sole agenda was winding up Spike.”
 
Buffy nodded. “Sweeter than any apple, for sure.”
 
“Well give it back then, if you’re going to be like that,” said Spike, leaning over and trying to snatch the apple from her hands.
 
“No no no." Buffy said, laughing and squirming as he tried to pry it from her fingers. “I was only kidding. I want it.” 
 
Spike pulled back, ceasing his apple-stealing efforts. “Well, what are you waiting for, then?” He nodded encouragingly towards the apple. “Try it.”
 
Buffy looked suspiciously at him, then back at the brown-flecked apple. “Okay, now I’m scared it’s poisoned or something.”
 
Spike shrugged. “Nah. I just used to get a real buzz seeing Buster eat his apple, you know? Really enjoyed it, he did.”
 
“Makes sense,” said Giles with a thoughtful hum. “So much of our society hinges on mutual reciprocity. But I can imagine a big part of that is actually seeing, at least from time to time, our altruism coming to fruition.” He chuckled. “Uh, no pun intended.”
 
“Yeah. What he said.” Spike grinned at Buffy. “Go on, then. Have a bite.”
 
Buffy laughed. “You are so taking the joy out of this.”
 
“Come on." Spike bit his tongue, eyes glistening like they did whenever he dared her to do something bad.
 
“Nope. I’m going to save it and eat it in peace, away from prying eyes.”
 
Spike made an impatient sound, then lurched forward and again tried to playfully grab at the apple in her hand. Buffy held him back with one outstretched arm as he wriggled half on the ground, trying to push the apple towards her face. 
 
“Come on. Just a nibble,” Spike said, scuffling to his knees and trying to wrestle her down. “Giles, give me a hand over here, would you?”
 
“I don’t tussle with slayers, but I offer my silent support,” said Giles.
 
Buffy mauled Spike’s face with her free hand as she rolled back and forth, sniggering meanly as her fingers squashed his nose backwards. Spike spluttered out a laugh against her palms.
 
“Ew– gross– Spike,” she whined. “You’re getting spit all over– my hands.” She changed tack, trying in vain to tickle under his arms.
 
Spike bent her apple-holding hand back closer to her face, eyes sparkling. Buffy arched her head away and glued her lips together tightly.

“Go on." Spike said, sucking his stomach up reflexively as she pushed her toes against it. He kept advancing on her with this mischievous, toothy grin, like he was also on the verge of bursting into laughter. “Just try it."
 
“Well, it’s just– it’s just–” Buffy started through breathless little giggles, batting his face away. “–being an orphan and everything, nobody ever– ever gave me an apple before, so–”
 
“Oh, give over," Spike scoffed. He eased off her with a final little push and tumbled onto his side, smirking up at her, his hair a tousled mess.
 
Buffy straightened up and held the apple out triumphantly in front of her. “Well, what if it’s bad?” she mused. “What if you watch me eat it, and it’s the driest, chalkiest apple I’ve ever tasted? Or has a little worm living inside it? Then you’d be all sad, and I’d feel guilty, and, well, the consequences could be… you know. Bad.”
 
“The pillars of our society may very well crumble,” Giles agreed.
 
“Well, life’s full of disappointments, innit?" Spike scooched away and stretched out on the ground. “I’m used to it.” 
 
Buffy settled on her back, running her fingers over the apple’s smooth surface. One side was bulgier than the other, and it was pale yellow and red with little tan spots. It was pretty. She smiled, then placed it carefully down beside her.
 
She dropped her head back onto the soft earthen floor and stared up at the sky, letting herself get transfixed. So many stars, it almost made her eyes hurt. She’d ask Giles someday, what the stars actually were. He would know. He was looking up too, she noticed. The reflection of the flames were flickering in his glasses.
 
Buffy twisted her head to look over at Spike. He was lying on his side, jacket bunched up under his head, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell, as if he was really breathing. 
 
After a second, one eye popped open. “Can I help you?” he asked grumpily.
 
“Hey,” said Buffy, lifting her head. “How did you know I was looking at you?”
 
“Just had a feeling.”
 
“That’s creepy."
 
“You were the one peeping, love.”
 
“I was just looking around." Buffy smiled and turned her head back up to the sky. “It was totally innocent.”
 
“Mmm. Alright.” Spike closed his eyes again. He yawned, huddling his head into his jacket.
 
Buffy watched the stars for a minute, then carefully inched her head to the side again. She focused on Spike’s face. His eyes opened a crack. 
 
Buffy grinned at him. “Just testing the theory."
 
Spike smirked back. “It’s not a vampire thing, you know. People can usually sense it, somehow, when somebody’s looking at ‘em.”
 
Buffy hummed. “Never thought about it. But guess you’re right.”
 
“Suppose it’s important. Knowing who’s spying on us."
 
“Makes sense,” Buffy said. “But okay, I promise, no more spying from me. I’ll let you rest in peace.”
 
“Ta,” he said quietly.
 
Buffy rolled onto her other side, snuggling up on her hands and looking out onto the lake.

The navy water rippled gently in the moonlight. She gave a little sigh, her body feeling all warm and velvety. After a moment she shifted on impulse, feeling a little tingle in her neck. She lifted her head to glance back over her shoulder at Spike, but his eyes were closed.

***

Buffy could see nothing but blackness. She crept forward quietly, hyper-aware of her own breathing, which was coming shallow and ragged. Focus, she told herself. She closed her eyes, trying to tune into the forest sounds: the low and constant hum of insects, the odd rustle of scrub. 
 
The damp earth underfoot seemed particularly uneven when she couldn’t see one step in front of her. The faint scent of pines mingled with petrichor from the afternoon’s rain. A good smell, usually, but in the pitch dark, it seemed ominous.
 
She suppressed the impulse to jump as leaves whispered nearby. Then her breath hitched as somebody grabbed her roughly from behind. She wheezed a bit as fingers dug into her ribcage. 
 
“And now, you’re dead,” Spike said in a low voice, mouth hovering over her neck. “Could hear you coming a mile off.”
 
Damn it. Buffy wriggled free of him with an impatient huff. 
 
“Tread more quietly, yeah?” he said. She couldn’t really see him, just a narrow outline of his head in the moonlight.
 
“I’m trying,” she muttered. 
 
“Well, try harder,” he said before disappearing silently back into the trees.
 
Buffy straightened up, then continued walking.
 
She’d dreamt about him last night. Her stomach jolted at the memory. He’d been pressed up right on top of her, pinning her down hard while she writhed, golden eyes glimmering, fangs at the ready. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he’d snarled through a fierce, menacing grin. Then he’d dropped his head. She didn’t scream or cry out, maybe because it was one of those dreams where she couldn’t – because her mouth felt like it was sewn shut – or maybe because she didn’t want to. She couldn’t remember. 
 
She’d woken up suddenly in a feverish sweat, heart thumping. All day, the images had been rushing back to her, itching uncomfortably at something in her chest. She could still feel it, his weight leaning heavily over her.
 
Buffy took a few more steps forward, stake clutched tightly at her side. She tried for deep, silent breaths. She cursed inwardly when she heard a twig snap under her foot.
 
Then there were hands around her waist. “You looking to be killed, slayer?” Spike whispered in her ear, clasping a hand hard over her mouth this time. Without thinking, Buffy bit down on his palm.
 
“Oi,” Spike protested, but he didn’t drop her. Or take his hand away. She could taste his skin on her tongue. She bit harder, trying to get a better grip, until she had her teeth around a finger. Spike squeezed his hand against her more forcefully, tightening the arm around her waist as she started to squirm. She resisted the impulse to bite even harder, to draw blood.
 
After a long moment she broke free, wiping the back of her mouth with her hand, breaths coming quick. She heard Spike swallowing.
 
“Right,” he said, a slight quiver in his voice. “So. Uh. Too much noise. Remember what I told you, yeah?” 
 
The leaves rustled as he scurried off.

***

“How was training last night?” Giles asked as he and Buffy muddled their way through the dense rows of crops.
 
“Um, good," Buffy said. She coughed slightly. “Yeah. Think I’m getting better.”
 
“You must be tired. You were gone almost the whole night.”

“Uh huh,” Buffy said, not looking at him. 
 
It was still early, the air laced with morning chill but the promise of sun ahead. Buffy’s muscles ached with exhaustion, her eyes crusty, but if she could stay awake long enough, she could make the most of the warm spring day. Maybe go for a swim, clear her head.
 
“How much longer, Giles, before we get to Paris?” she asked sleepily, snapping off a head of corn and shoving it into her cloth bag.
 
“We still have a way to go, unfortunately."
 
“Things will be… different there."
 
“Indeed they will.”
 
Buffy wrangled more corn into her bag. “What, uh. What will you and Spike do, when we get there?”
 
“Well, there are still a lot of unknowns. But I’m hoping that reconnecting with the Watchers Council will yield some opportunities for me, at least.”
 
Buffy smiled up at him. “I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you back."
 
“I do hope so.”
 
“I can totally vouch for you. Tell them how you’ve been doing some top-tier watching.” 
 
“Why, thank you, Buffy."
 
“And. Uh. What about Spike?”
 
Giles hesitated. He pushed some tall crops out of his path. “I’m not sure what he’ll do.”
 
“Will he stay? In Paris?”
 
“Honestly, I don’t know. There are… fewer vampires there, I believe. The situation in St. Petersburg is fairly dire by comparison to most places, these days.” 
 
“Well. That’s good, isn’t it? I mean. Since he can’t do vampire-y things, anyway.”
 
“I suppose so.”
 
“But what does a vampire who can’t vampire do, usually?”
 
“Well, there’s not exactly a set path. They’re quite anomalous, after all.”
 
“I guess… it must be, uh, hard, sometimes,” Buffy said nervously. “You know. Not being a real vampire. But not really being able to, like, do normal stuff, either. It’s not like he can just become a pastry chef or get a job in a bank, you know?”
 
“Indeed. I imagine it must be… rather limiting.”
 
“But surely there must be ways,” Buffy continued, trying to sound casual, like she hadn’t really thought about it. “That, uh, vampires, could… well, I mean, aren’t there spells or something that can help? So they can do normal stuff? Like go out in daylight, or not have to drink blood?”
 
“I’m, uh… not aware of any such spells,” said Giles carefully. “Given that most vampires are, well, rather content with their lot… I suppose there’s not much demand, and consequently not much knowledge, about regaining more… uh, human qualities.”
 
Buffy nodded, but said nothing.
 
“But, uh, one thing that I know is possible, is for a vampire to reacquire… their, uh, soul,” Giles said. “I’ve heard of that happening on more than one occasion, in fact.”
 
Buffy's head whipped around. “Their soul?” 
 
“That’s right.”
 
“How do you mean?”
 
“Well, in some parts of the world, there are places one can go to… uh, have their soul reinstated.”
 
“Huh? So you’re saying there are like, stores where demons can just waltz in and pick themselves up a shiny new soul?” she said. She squinted at him. “What, in like, different shapes and sizes?” 
 
“Not exactly. But there are ways. There are forces out there that possess the power to re-ensoul previously ensouled demons. It’s not a particularly easy path, as far as I know, but it has been done.”
 
“But what would it do, exactly?”
 
“Well. I’m not sure about the metaphysics of it, to be honest," Giles said, scratching his head. “But in essence, I suppose, it would make them rather like a human in a vampire’s body.”
 
Buffy considered it. “But, uh, isn’t that, well… what they already are?”
 
Giles chuckled dryly. “Well, Buffy. The literature on vampires, at least back in my day, clearly stated otherwise. But I’ve seen with my own eyes that the theories are sorely misinformed. Of course, some part of their… uh, humanity remains, even without the soul. The memories, the emotions. But when a vampire is created, there’s also a new element, the demon side, that wasn’t there before. I’m guessing the soul would largely strip that away, or, at least dampen it down. Overpower it, perhaps.”
 
Buffy looked down at the corn she was holding, running her fingers over and in between the hard white kernels. “I see.” 

“I suppose nobody is… uh, fully certain, how these things work,” Giles said.

Buffy didn’t look up, just kept fidgeting with the head of corn.
 
Giles cleared his throat. “Are… uh, are things a bit better, between you and Spike? He’s, uh. Being a bit kinder?”
 
Buffy’s stomach lurched as she remembered Spike’s finger in her mouth. His hips pressed up against hers. She felt a pang of guilt, mixed with something else. 

“Uh. Yeah," she said. She rearranged her bag over her shoulder. “Sometimes.”
 
“Well. That’s something.”

***

Giles waved as he spotted Buffy and Spike in the distance.

“At last, you’re back,” Giles said as they neared the campsite. “I’m just about finished preparing.”

Spike and Buffy peered down at the spot where Giles had assembled the spell ingredients.

Buffy smiled crookedly. It reminded her of Willow’s unsuccessful witchcraft efforts back at the orphanage. Plucked flower petals were carefully arranged in a wide circle, a little bundle of sticks and twigs laying by the side. 

“What’re the rose petals for?” Spike asked suspiciously, raising a brow. “Trying to seduce Cloutier? Like those cute little knickers of his, do you?”

Giles rolled his eyes. “It’s not rose. It’s foxglove. Should have a conjuring effect.”

“I don’t know if this is a good idea, mate," Spike said, making a face and shaking his head. “That’s a half-baked bag of tricks you got there.”

Giles sighed. “I admit it’s not ideal. But these village apothecaries leave a lot to be desired." He glanced quickly at Buffy. “And we have to try something.”

“Dunno,” Spike said. “Have heard of trances going wrong. And I’m telling you now, I won’t be wiping your arse and feeding you applesauce if you end up off your rocker.”

“Relieved to hear it," Giles said. He lit up a little stick of wood and blew on the ends to get it going.

“What’s that?” Buffy asked curiously.

“Juniper. It functions as a kind of incense," he said, shaking it out and giving it another blow. He cleared his throat and straightened up. 

“Alright. So, as Spike said, these trances can be a bit… unpredictable,” he began. “So, uh… there’s no need to panic if my behaviour seems slightly… unusual. I’m seeking to achieve a state of higher consciousness, which requires profound depth of focus.”

“Got it," Buffy said, smiling reassuringly at him. “So how will you know if it’s working?”

“If I do manage to enter the trance, it’ll be rather unambiguous, at least from my perspective," Giles said. He stepped over the foxglove petals into the circle. “And in that case, I should be able to observe any traces of magic in the vicinity that aren’t usually perceptible to the human eye. It’s impossible to say how they might manifest, but, uh, I imagine they’ll be fairly easy to discern.”

Buffy nodded as Giles sat down and settled into a cross-legged position. He placed his hands on his knees and closed his eyes.

“Should we, uh, leave him be, then?” Spike whispered to Buffy.

“Maybe we should watch, in case something goes wrong?” Buffy whispered back.

“Might throw him off, though, if we just stand here gawking at him,” Spike whispered.

“True,” Buffy whispered. “Maybe we can go sit over there?”

“Yeah. Will I grab the deck of cards?” Spike whispered.

Giles’ eyes snapped open angrily. “Can you two please whisper somewhere else?”

Spike and Buffy hurried off. Giles closed his eyes again, taking deep breaths, trying to clear his mind. He inhaled and exhaled in a slow, steady rhythm, the sweet, woody smoke from the juniper tickling his nostrils.

***

Giles opened his eyes, taking in the twilight campsite. He looked around at the tents, at the distant forests shrouded in dark, at the mottled blue clouds up above. 

His eyes felt sharper, more focused, and yet everything looked askew, like he was wearing somebody else’s glasses. He took a deep breath and stood up, teetering slightly.

He turned around, catching sight of Buffy and Spike playing cards. He knew they were sitting only a few metres from him, but they seemed far away, distant somehow.

“What’s that up your sleeve?” Giles heard someone say. He re-adjusted his glasses, realising it was Buffy who had spoken. The pitch of her voice was jarringly low, and the words had come out in a drawn-out slew.

“Come on. Like I’d try that one again,” Spike said, his voice also off-kilter. “Give me some credit.”

Giles double-took as he noticed Spike’s face. In the murky light, his eyes were shining, golden and lamp-like, and he was sneering with pointed teeth.

“There’s just no point playing with you if you’re just going to cheat,” Buffy said.

“Well, cheating’s part of the game, innit?” Spike said, his face wrinkled up, fierce and demonic.

“No. That’s why it’s called cheating.”

“I can teach you a few tricks, if you like," Spike said. He grinned and raised a brow at her as he shuffled the deck. Giles hadn’t really noticed it happening, but Spike’s appearance had shifted. His eyes were softer than before and his skin was clear as day. 

Buffy shook her head. “Always with the teaching. Maybe you should try learning from someone else for a change.”

Giles focused his gaze on her. Like everything else, she was a little fuzzy, and her eyes seemed to glimmer slightly, but, well… maybe he was imagining it. Everything was a little shinier than usual, after all.

He blinked, scrunching up his face, feeling a little woozy.

“Go on, then," Spike said. He fixed Buffy with round, jewel-blue eyes. “Teach me a lesson.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start with you."

Spike grinned with human features, pupils dilating cartoonishly. “Not very inspiring, slayer."

“Well, I think you may be a lost cause," said Buffy.

Giles’ skin felt itchy, anxious. Like he’d inadvertently stumbled into somewhere he ought not to be, intruding upon something clandestine. Like peeping through a curtain. He pushed the discomfort down, turning back towards Spike, who was dealing cards, mouth slightly open and fangs poking out again.

Spike looked up, noticing Giles for the first time. Giles thought it odd, suddenly, that they hadn’t paid attention to him before. 

“Giles?” Spike said, voice tinny. His face was suddenly human, skin creamy and smooth, almost childlike. “Alright, mate?”

“Uh, yes,” Giles said with difficulty, trying to stay upright. Buffy suddenly turned around too, catching sight of him.

Giles couldn’t say exactly how, but the atmosphere had shifted instantly when they’d turned to him. It was like, instead of watching from the sidelines, he’d been thrust onto centre-stage – still not supposed to be there, still not knowing his lines, but bare and exposed in front of them nonetheless.

“Are you okay, Giles?” Buffy asked, face furrowed. “Do you see anything?”

“Not… quite,” Giles muttered, edging slowly towards them. His head swirled, prompting a fresh wave of nausea. Spike leapt up and grabbed him under the arm.

“Seems a little out of it,” Spike said, helping Giles to sit down on the log. 

“I’m, uh, fine,” Giles said unconvincingly. He stared up at Spike’s face, which was in near-constant motion. It never seemed to stop, and yet it was almost impossible to recall how it had looked just a moment before. 

Giles watched intently, discomfort rippling through his chest; on one level the face was unnervingly familiar, and yet something about it never seemed quite right, no matter how much it shifted. 

Giles turned again to Buffy, taking her in, squinting hard.

“What is it?” she asked quietly.

Giles blinked and swallowed. “It’s… uh. Nothing.”

He glanced back over at Spike, who was lighting up a cigarette, the ridges of skin protruding across his forehead in full relief again. 

“Do you think he’s okay?” Buffy asked Spike. 

“Reckon he’s just disoriented,” Spike said, face slipping back to normal as he took a puff of cigarette. “Probably a side-effect of seeing the world through another lens.”

Giles hesitated. “Do you have to smoke that here, Spike?” he tried, curiously.

Spike’s face knotted up instantly, eyes narrowing and glistering yellow. “We’re bloody well outside,” he lisped through his fangs.

“Maybe he’s extra sensitive right now,” Buffy said anxiously, looking at Spike. “He looks a bit pasty, don’t you think?”

“Oh, right," Spike said, quickly flicking his cigarette on the ground and stamping it out. Giles watched Spike’s face morph back to human, then back to demon, and then oscillate rapidly between the two. 

“Is it working, then?” Spike asked.

“Yes,” said Giles. “I think it is.”

***

Buffy and Spike were looking at Giles eagerly when he blinked out of the trance.

“So?” Spike asked impatiently. “What did you see?”

Giles pinched his eyes, readjusting to the oddly normal rhythm. His head pulsed. Every sound, every scrape and rustle, seemed loud and harsh.

“Uh, well," he said, clearing his throat. “In short… I, uh, saw nothing on you, Buffy. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see anything… out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe the trance didn’t work,” Spike said. “Since you didn’t have the proper ingredients and that.”

“No,” Giles said. “I know it was working, because I could see your curse.”

“Mine?” Spike asked, surprised.

“Yes. But there was nothing in particular on Buffy.”

They all sat in silence for a moment, taking it in. 

Spike scuffed his foot on the ground. “Bugger it."

“It doesn’t make sense," Giles said. He raked his fingers through his hair. “How could Angelus have located Buffy if there’s no trace of anything mystical on her?”

“Maybe he’s following Spike?” Buffy suggested.

Spike shot her daggers. “No way.”

“I highly doubt it,” Giles said. “Angelus had years to come after Spike. And it also wouldn’t explain those ghostly remnants you saw back at the manor, Buffy.”

“So maybe the train accident really was just… well, an accident?” Buffy said.

“Or it wasn’t Angelus," Giles said. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. “Perhaps we focused too much of our energies assuming it was him."

“But who else could it be?” Buffy asked anxiously.

Giles shook his head, sighing. “I just don’t know.”

“So, in short,” Spike said flatly. “We know even less than we did before.”

“Well… technically, we do know more,” Giles tried, shrugging. “It just, uh… feels like we know less.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Bloody brilliant."

Chapter Text

The water seemed endless. It was kind of dreamlike, how it went on and on, twinkling softly as far the eye could see. Buffy’s gaze traced the horizon, where the navy blue neatly gave way to thick smoke-orange clouds, shrouding the final hints of sun.
 
“Well. What do you think?” Giles asked, coming up behind her.
 
Buffy shook her head. “It’s… uh. It’s wow."
 
“It’s rather special, isn’t it? It’s been years since I’ve seen it myself.”
 
“Feels like the edge of the world," Buffy said. Her eyes roved the vast expanse of ocean, where white diamonds of light danced across the waves.

“Indeed. I’ve always found it rather soothing. To be reminded of how, well, small and insignificant one is, really, in the grand scheme of things.”
 
“Aw, Giles," Buffy teased, twisting her head to look back at him. "I think you’re significant. Plus, you’re like, over six foot.”
 
Giles smiled. “I just mean, it can be helpful – to put things in perspective. Lest we find ourselves over-burdened by everyday struggles. In the end, uh, we probably needn’t fret half so much as we do.”
 
“Unless you’re a vampire slayer charged with saving the world from the forces of evil, right?”
 
Giles chuckled. “I suppose you may be something of an exception. But even then, I don’t imagine slayers are immune to life’s more, uh… trivial distractions.”
 
“So… basically you’re saying, don’t sweat the small stuff?”
 
“In essence.”
 
Buffy hummed. She pressed her toes into the sand, the grains fuzzy and ticklish over her skin. “But, I mean, sometimes you don’t know if something’s, well… small stuff, or if it’s big stuff."

She looked down at the sand trenches she was creating with her feet. She scratched deeper in with her big toe, to an underlayer that was wet and stodgy. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Because what if you don’t worry about something because you think, well, hey, no biggie! And then it turns out, well, actually… major biggie. You know?”
 
Giles quirked an eyebrow. “Yes. Well. I suppose so. I mean, uh, I’m not claiming it’s a one-size-fits-all maxim, but...” he trailed off, then quickly went on. “Were you thinking of something in particular?”
 
Buffy hesitated. “Nah. Just shooting the breeze. Apparently the ocean gets me all thoughtful.”
 
“Well. I suppose it can have that effect.”
 
Buffy absently brushed the sole of her foot against her shin, rubbing the sand clumps off. “So. Uh. Can we camp right here on the beach?”
 
“Only if we want to be taken out by the tide. We should be safe to set up a little further back, though.”
 
Buffy turned to him with a bright, toothy smile. “So. Are ya coming in for a swim?”
 
Giles wrinkled his face. “Afraid not. Call me old-fashioned, but if humans were meant to swim, they wouldn’t drown nearly so often.” 
 
“Just gonna stay here and build sandcastles, then?”
 
“Yes. Got my bucket and spade at the ready.”
 
Buffy padded down towards the water, watching the sudsy waves roll in. She glanced around, feeling slightly self-conscious as she stripped down to her underwear. The evening air was humid, but goosebumps prickled her skin all the same. She folded her clothes and placed them in a bundle on the dry sand, then took her first steps into the water. She let the gentle waves break over her feet, tingling a little with excitement. It was almost like being in a storybook, seeing for the first time this thing that had previously only existed for her in pictures. Far in the distance, she could make out more land, couched in dense fog.

“Evening.”

Buffy jumped. She spun around to see Spike strolling towards her through the shallow water.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly feeling very naked in just her undergarments. She clasped her hands awkwardly behind her back, her eyes falling automatically on Spike’s glistening chest before swivelling away again. 

“Careful," Spike said, ruffling a hand through his wet hair. “Might be some dangerous predators lurking.”
 
Buffy looked around animatedly. “Really? Where?”
 
Spike rolled his eyes. “Seriously. Better keep your wits about you. There’s, you know, jellyfish and that.”
 
“Ooh, jellyfish. Scary.”
 
“Well, they are. One sting can be fatal.”
 
“But they look so cute.”
 
Spike raised a brow at her. “Yeah, well. Looks can be deceiving." His eyes flicked quickly down her body, then back up to her face.

Buffy’s stomach dropped. It had been brief, but it’s not like– it’s not like he’d been trying to hide it, either. “What’s that?” she asked, quickly trying to distract from the heat flooding her cheeks. She nodded towards the bulky net in Spike’s hand.

Spike grinned and held the net up proudly. “Seafood. Dinner’s gourmet tonight.” 

“Wow. We’re really shaking up the diet.”

“Yeah. About time and all." Spike scrunched up one eye and knocked some water out of his ear. He turned around to face the ocean. “Pretty nice here, innit?”

“Sure is."

“Measure up to expectations, then?”

“Yeah. It’s… uh. It’s beautiful.”

Buffy could see Spike smiling out of the corner of her eye.

“Wait till you see it in the day," he said.

Buffy hummed, then said quietly, “I like it like this.”

Spike stirred beside her. She thought he might turn around and face her, but he didn’t. “Was actually born by the sea,” he said instead, kicking a splash of water up with his bare foot. 

“Really?”
 
“Yeah. We lived by the coast, when I was little. Big old house. One of those posh, austere places, you know? With housemaids bustling about downstairs, and shelves full of dusty books no-one ever bothered to read.”
 
Buffy imagined a little boy with sandy curls and blue eyes, sitting alone in a giant room, the high ceilings making him look extra tiny and lost inside of it. Her chest twinged. “Guess you must’ve spent a lot of time swimming, huh?” she said.

“Not really, actually," Spike said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Was a bit… sheltered. Wasn’t really allowed to, you know. Run amok.”
 
“Ah." Buffy's lips quirked upwards. “It all makes sense. With the whole seriously making-up-for-it later.”
 
Spike grinned. “Suppose. So, uh. You wanna go in, then?”

“Let’s.”

Spike set his net down on the sand as Buffy waded carefully into the water. The further she went, the slower she got, feet inching tentatively over the slippery pebbles. The light had faded fast, the water was getting deep, and she couldn’t see a thing below the surface. She wondered idly what might be down there. How deep it might get, if she just kept walking.

“Look, don’t take the jellyfish thing to heart,” Spike said, quickly swishing past her. “You’ll be alright.” 

Buffy smiled uncertainly. “I’m just… taking my time.”

“Right." Spike hesitated, then turned back to her. “Look, I’ll keep an eye. You know. Make sure you don’t drown.”

His eyes jumped up to meet hers, and he reached out his hand. 

Buffy faltered. “I’m not scared, you know," she said, eyeing him playfully, cheeks flushing.

Spike shrugged. “I know. I'm just being, you know. Chivalrous.”

Buffy pressed her lips together and placed a tentative hand in his. It wasn’t like she needed it or anything. She’d just been… erring on the side of the caution. She wasn’t like, scared-scared. But still, it was nice of him, to try to make her feel better, so it seemed like the polite thing to do. To let him think he was helping. 

The waves were soon sluicing over Buffy’s chest. Spike smiled reassuringly at her. She thought she even felt him squeeze her hand, though it might’ve been an accident. “Well. Guess it’s time to swim,” she said, trying not to sound nervous. She let go of his hand, then took a deep breath and let herself fall forward. 

Buffy shuddered as her upper body hit the water. She took a few quick strokes to warm up, adjusting to the unfamiliar motion of waves towing her back and forth. “There’s no sharks or anything, right?” she asked through a chatter of teeth.

“Think you’re safe enough,” Spike said. He smirked. “Well. Least I am.”

“Comforting. But it’s not like you could regrow a leg if a shark chomped one off, right?”

“No," Spike said, and Buffy could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “You’re thinking of worms.”

“So if a shark did bite you – even if it spat you out because you tasted all stale and cardboardy – you might not die, but you’d probably end up seriously stumpy.”

Spike snorted. “Well, sure. But take it from me. Any predator worth his salt would take one sniff of your warm, fresh blood and–”

Spike's voice went muffled. Maybe because of the waves slooshing around them.

“I just mean, a shark’d be more drawn to live prey,” he continued. “So I’d get a good chance to make a run for it.”

Buffy shot him a look, then pivoted onto her back. She pushed her neck out like a cat, lounging on the waves and staring up at the sky. The blooms of amber sunlight had disappeared, leaving behind an even navy spattered with milky grey clouds. “Wow,” she said to the twinkly stars. The sea bobbed her gently up and down. “It’s really floaty in here.”
 
“Wouldn’t know,” came Spike’s response. “I'm not very floaty.”

Buffy craned her head up to look at him. “Really? There’s no air in there at all?”
 
“Not a molecule." Spike scratched his chest. “Wanna see who can stay underwater the longest, then?”
 
“Wow. That’s gotta be your lamest attempt to kill me yet.”
 
“Well, how’s this, then?” He lunged forward and pushed Buffy down with his palms. Her legs flailed in the air as she sank under, swallowing a mouthful of water through a yelp.

When she resurfaced, Spike was waiting with a mean grin. “Gee. Your chivalry didn’t last long," she said, shaking her head and scrubbing at her eyes.

Spike shrugged, biting his tongue between his teeth. “Got bored.” 

Buffy spat out a few dregs of ocean, then went for him. Spike shielded himself meekly, sneering as she crashed into his chest and knocked him over. He slipped through the waves, smirking up at her. Then he struck back.

Buffy splashed away, something urgent and giddy rising in her chest. She kicked out clumsily, the sea tempering the blow of her feet against Spike's head. She heard him choke on a mouthful of water, his hands still scrambling after her. She giggled. They were often playful when they fought, especially lately, but the water turned it into something else altogether. Something softer-edged. Over her shoulder, she saw Spike’s shadowy outline coming at her, his eyes narrow and predatory. A thrill raced down her spine, one that reminded her of being a kid, when fear and excitement got all mixed up in one.

“Thought you said there weren’t any sharks,” she teased, twirling onto her back, pedalling water at him with the soles of her feet.

Spike crested forward and snapped his teeth. "Lied."

“Guess–” Buffy started through sharp intakes of breath, pulling away from him as fast as she could. “I should know better– than to trust you.”

“Yeah." Spike clamped a hand hard around her foot. “Probably should.”

Buffy wheezed out a laugh as he yanked her backwards. Then she felt something sharp graze her ankle. Blunt teeth scraped over the bone, then slightly up her calf. It was a gentle bite, nothing like a real shark, but Buffy imagined it leaving little imprints on her skin all the same. She could feel it smarting even after he’d let go.

She arched around and met his eyes for a fraction of a second through the wet clamour. The seriousness of his gaze made her insides shiver.

“Told you,” he croaked. “Gotta be careful.”

Buffy swallowed. “It’s gonna take a lot more than that to scare me, you know.” 

She’d been expecting it, but her heart leapt anyway when she felt Spike reach out and catch her around the middle. She squirmed half-heartedly as he pressed his fingers into the small of her back. The bass of her pulse roared up around her ears.

She huffed out a strained laugh, trying to ease the tension as she grappled against his wet skin. Spike held tight. Buffy surged down, dragging them both crookedly under, knocking him in the nose with a knee as they sank deeper. 

“Oi,” Spike rasped as they both bobbed back to the surface, his eyes scrunched up tight, hands still curled loosely at her sides.

“Sorry,” Buffy murmured. She coughed to clear her throat, vision blurred by water droplets. Her movements became less frantic as she rubbed her eyelids and straightened her legs, the waves swaying her slightly further into Spike.

His body felt cool against hers, just like the water. Spike hesitated at the sudden lack of resistance, but he didn’t move away. The frenzied splashing subsided. Buffy’s stomach lurched when she felt his hands around her waist dip slightly lower, the tips of his fingers brushing just above the hem of her cotton shorts. Buffy angled around to face him.

He had gone almost completely still and was looking at her, his face and shoulders lit up by streaks of moonlight. The ocean breeze tickled her skin, but inside, heat was rising up, simmering in her throat and making her face burn. The soft swill of the waves sounded muffled and distant in her ears. Under the water, the tide nudged her hips gently into Spike’s.

There was a long, silent beat. 

Then, a loud shriek.

Buffy’s heart nearly shot right out of her chest. Her elbow whacked against Spike as they both spun around. Back on the moonlit shore, she saw figures moving in the shadows.

***

Buffy and Spike splashed out of the water in a frenzy. As they rushed towards the bustle, two vamp faces whipped around to greet them. There were even more lurking in the periphery, circling the half-erected tents like vultures. 

Spike pulled one off Giles while Buffy slammed a punch up into the other’s chin. She hit him so hard, Spike was surprised her fist didn’t burst right through his skull. Spike wiped the back of his mouth as he flung a vampire down into the sand. His yellowed eyes quickly found Giles. 

“Weapons?!” he managed to snarl before a pair of strong hands dug into his throat. His bare feet were slippery in the sand as he tried to pry the fingers off. Instinctively he glanced towards Buffy, who was driving her opponent backwards with a flurry of kicks. She had him well under control, but she’d have trouble finishing him off without a stake.

Spike choked as the grasp around his windpipe tightened. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a blurry Giles hurrying over, flinging something through the air. Spike reached up to catch the stake, then shoved it backwards through the vampire’s chest. After a long second, the stake slackened and the pressure around his neck evaporated. Spike growled involuntarily as he stumbled free. He caught sight of Giles’ eyes widening at him. More were coming.

“Buffy needs a stake,” Spike hissed before spinning around and lashing out with a foot. He smacked the bigger of the two assailants right on the nose, but the kick didn’t land so hard without his boots. The vampire he'd hit was excessively tall and broad-shouldered. A real hulk of a bloke – presumably leader of the pack. He recovered quickly and rounded on Spike again, expression startled as he took him in. 

“What’re you doing?” the vampire hissed. “Why’re you fighting us?!” 

“Call your guys off,” Spike demanded, lunging forward with his stake brandished. 

“Didn’t your mother teach you to share?”

Spike snorted. “She really didn’t."

The hulk parried Spike's blow, then kneed him in the chest. Spike buckled, feeling his ribcage rattle and ache. He heard Giles yelp, but didn’t have a chance to look back. 

The hulk laughed darkly and came back again swinging. “A little girl, granddaddy and you – I’d say you’re outnumbered." 

Spike felt hot rage swell up inside him as he picked himself up off the floor. “That’s–” Spike grabbed at the vampire’s hair and squeezed a yowl out of him. “–the slayer you’re talking about.”

The hulk's eyes darted over towards Buffy. “Can’t be,” he rasped, but his gaze stayed locked on her.

Spike could hear Buffy giving the others a run for their money – a thwack here, a crunch there. The shock of it was enough to win Spike the upperhand. He shoved his stake in hard under the hulk’s arm, carving out a crooked path deep into the chest. 

Spike immediately spun on his heel. “Buffy!” he called out, signalling with the stake held up high, offering to toss it to her.

“A little busy–” Buffy backflipped onto the sand to get a little distance from her two attackers. “–over here!” 

Spike wavered before turning to Giles, who was being wrestled into the sand. He was desperately straining his neck away from a vampire’s fangs, his wooden cross lying helplessly in the sand a few feet away. 

“Bastards,” Spike hollered, blind fury spurring him on, the rush of it overtaking all sense. He heard himself roar, really roar, as he went for the vampire’s back, grabbing at her jacket and trying to tug her off Giles. He barely flinched when she elbowed him in the face. “Should’ve run when we gave you the chance,” Spike growled, dragging her by the neck and hurling her to the ground.

He dropped down over her, taking in her long dark hair, her marble-gold eyes blown wide. She cried out raggedly as Giles pressed his cross against her forehead. The skin immediately smoked and blistered. Spike’s stomach churned. Then he staked her through the heart.

The furore was dying down as the vamps fizzled out one by one. Spike pushed himself to his feet, Giles close on his heels, and rushed over in Buffy’s direction.

The two remaining vampires had their backs turned, shielding Buffy from view. Spike’s stomach plummeted. If those few seconds had made them too late–

Then he heard her. Whimpering. Spike saw red. 

He dove headfirst into the tussle. He couldn’t think anymore; couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this worked up. Felt like his own blood must be thundering through him, even if he knew it wasn’t. Felt hot, like he should be sweating. He knew he was getting hit, but he couldn’t feel a bloody thing. Couldn’t feel anything but adrenaline pulsing through him like jets. 

Then he was being rolled over, skull smacking against his own head, the ground soft by contrast, something wet and soggy underneath him. He wondered briefly, feverishly, if it was his own brain he’d landed in. 

His fingers were empty. No more stake, and he was on his back, pressed down, like his neck was stretching so far it might break and then–

He heaved a painful breath and then he was staring up into Buffy’s fierce eyes. She was holding the stake. Everything was quiet, except for crickets chirping and a chorus of rough breaths. 

The attackers were gone. Buffy had seen to it.

“Giles, are you okay?” Spike heard her say as she turned away. He clambered to his feet, clumsy like a drunk.

“I’m fine,” Giles stuttered, though Spike could see even through his woolly vision that Giles’ right eye was red and grazed. “Merely sandy. But Buffy… you’re hurt.”

Spike stumbled over to them, his eyes immediately finding Buffy. “Are you okay?” he asked, then swallowed when he caught sight of her neck. 

She raised a hand and pressed it against the wound. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, but Spike could see the blood dribbling down past her fingers, over her collarbone. 

Still not quite thinking, Spike drew near, gently pushing her hand aside to look at the two puncture marks. His chest felt hollow. She was bleeding, alright, but it would heal. Would heal fast, with her strength. “He bit you,” Spike said, stupidly, fingers lingering.

“Yeah." Buffy's chest heaved as she met his eyes. Spike’s hands trembled over the cut, her blood sticking to his shaky fingertips.

“But it’s okay,” she added hurriedly, dropping her own hands and wiping the blood hastily on the exposed skin of her midriff. “It’s… just a scratch.”

Spike’s head throbbed. With pain, maybe, or– or with the rush, the– 

He was still in vamp face, and god, she smelt…

He tried, tried hard, to push down the wave of savage anger washing over him, the impulse to– this violent jealousy, that that prat, the one who’d been swept away into the sand, had gotten a taste of–

Spike rasped, thumb still gently hovering over Buffy’s neck. “It’s–it’s deep,” he stuttered. He heard himself say it, but he didn’t feel fully in control of what was coming out of his mouth. Like anything might slip out. He desperately wanted to lick his fingers. “Gotta– gotta dress it.”

Buffy nodded slowly, and Spike felt her arch away from his touch, her own fingers replacing his over her neck.

He dropped his hand, letting out a sharp huff of breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. She could probably tell. His chest tightened.

Giles hobbled over, bandages held loosely in one hand, pushing his glasses back up his nose with the other. Buffy looked up at him, eyes wide and glossy, the fear seeping through now.

“Giles,” she said. Spike could hear the gentle chatter of her teeth. “I was… bitten by– this doesn’t mean–” 

Spike felt, rather than saw, her eyes dart towards him. So fleeting, but enough for him to notice.

“It doesn’t mean…” Her voice was watery and fading, with a plead in it, like: don’t make me say it.

“Don’t worry, Buffy." Giles' voice was low as he leant down to get a closer look at her neck. “It will heal. And there won’t be any lasting effects.”

Buffy nodded. She didn’t look at Spike.

“I’ll dress the wound,” Giles said, placing a hand on Buffy’s shoulder. “Let’s sit down over there, shall we?”

Buffy let Giles gently lead her away. He met Spike’s eyes over her shoulder for a brief moment before they turned to go. The look didn’t give away much, not to an outsider, but Spike recognised something in it. Understanding, or… pity, maybe. Whatever it was, it made him feel even worse.

Spike looked down at his bloodied hands. They were shaking as he clapped them clean.

***

Spike barely slept that morning.

When he did, he dreamt about her. Dreamt that it was his teeth deep inside her. That it was him getting to taste her. She was sweating and hot like a sauna underneath him and begged him to take more. 

The blood wasn’t even so much a taste in his mouth. More a feeling. One that swept through the whole of him, like coming home. It was the best thing he’d ever felt, sweet like the slow drip of honey, so familiar and good, something he’d surely felt before but knew he hadn’t. Like being complete and needing more at the same time. Every moment, half-moment, every drag of his mouth, an age unto itself.

He remembered thinking he should stop. He really should stop. But she– she kept begging. Her eyes were blown wide and she was braying at him, loud and unrelenting. He didn’t know what she was saying, couldn’t hear the words, but somehow he knew what she meant.

It did cross his mind that maybe she looked scared, sometimes. But he pushed the thought aside.

Just like in real life, the undersides of his fingers smudged at the blood, this time from her neck to the tip of her chin, then gliding slickly down over her collarbone and chest, leaving tracks. 

The blood was thick and lustrous, like a sheet of satin over her skin. He had this vivid memory of lapping it up, flicking his tongue over the grooves, sucking the moisture out. He went gently, for the most part – like he was helping, cleaning her. 

The red spilled everywhere, all over her, getting caught between tangled strands of silken gold hair. He wanted to be covered in it, too, but he managed to hold himself back. Somehow he knew he shouldn’t. That it was too much.

He wanted so desperately for it to go on and on and never end, but even through the pleasure he could feel time pressing urgently on, threatening to strip it all away. 

Eventually, it all changed. The colours, the air. Her cries.

Her body turned grey. Like a statue, but much more sickly, the way her contours were stiff and pallid, with stone-sunken eyes.

Spike's stomach lurched. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had the impulse to vomit. Must’ve been when he was human. He threw up blood, the metal tang grinding against his throat as it jolted out, all over the sand.

The crimson bloomed and spread beneath him, and he watched with horrified fascination, at the way it never seemed to stop, never dried up, just spread and spread.

***

The limp bodies of crabs dangled over the makeshift grill. Buffy winced as a blaze shot up, catching a leg directly in its mouth. 

Giles hurriedly poked the crab with his steel skewer, shifting it over to rescue it from a burnt fate. He swore under his breath when his finger got caught in the crossfire.
 
Buffy's furrowed as Giles brought his thumb to his mouth. “You okay?” 
 
“Fine,” he said through a quick intake of air. He shook out his hand. “I’ve been through worse these last twenty-four hours.”
 
Buffy nodded, shifting slightly on the sand.
 
Giles cleared his throat. “Have you… have you, uh, seen Spike?”
 
Buffy tensed. She shook her head. 
 
“He seemed a little…” Giles began hesitantly. “I noticed he was more, uh, quiet than usual.”
 
Buffy’s stomach started to churn. She said nothing, just listened to the flames crackling.
 
“I think he went for a bit of a sulk in the dunes,” Giles went on, flipping over another crab. “But he’d better come back soon, if he wants a taste of these delicious crab claws.”
 
Buffy slowly moved to get up. “Yeah,” she said distantly. “I’ll… uh. Go get him.”
 
She headed off towards the dunes with a little lump in her chest.
 
“Spike?” she called as she weaved through the mounds of sand. “Spike?”
 
“Christ,” a voice drifted over after awhile. “Fella can’t get a second’s privacy around here.”

Buffy spotted him sitting curled up, knees tight to his chest. 

“Oh. Uh. Sorry,” she said. “I was just calling in case you wanted to… you know, eat something. Giles is making dinner.”
  
“Right,” came the muttered response. “Thanks.”
 
“Didn’t mean to interrupt."
 
“It’s fine.”
 
Buffy turned to go. Then she stopped. “Spike?” 
 
A pause. “Yeah?”
 
“Are you… okay?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Buffy bristled. “I thought you might be– uh. Are you wigged about, uh, Giles?”

Spike's face twitched as he turned towards her. “About Giles?”

“Um, because he was…” Buffy started. She knew it was disingenuous, but– “Because he, you know. Almost got hurt.”

“Oh,” Spike said. “No. I mean, he’s fine, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, but it was just… you know. A close call.”

“Well. We’ve had plenty of those."

Buffy prickled with annoyance. “Right.”

“You clearly don’t know me very well, slayer," Spike said, his voice scratchy. “That kind of thing, it don't knock a feather out of me.”

Buffy chewed her lip. “Okay,” she said coolly. “I can tell you just want to be left alone. So I’ll just, you know. Give you some-”

“Buffy,” Spike cut in. It sounded almost like it'd slipped out by accident.

She didn't move.

Spike cleared his throat. “I don’t,” he said acridly. “Don’t wanna be alone. Look, I’m– uh, I’m coming, alright?” He twisted round to look at her, his face no longer hard. In fact, his eyes were wide now. Almost sad.

Something in Buffy’s chest spasmed. Part of her still wanted to run, to get away quick, but she didn't. Instead, she took a deep breath and sat down. Close to him, but not too close. “Would a fight cheer you up?” she asked quietly. “I’ll give you a few free swings?”
 
“You’re alright."
 
“God. Things must be bad.”
 
Spike shifted uneasily. 
 
Buffy looked down. “It was fun,” she said suddenly. “Uh. I mean, I had fun. Swimming.”
 
Spike let out a tiny, sharp breath. “Me too."
 
Neither spoke for a long moment. Buffy’s heart quickened against the grinding silence.
 
Spike sighed and pinched his eyes between his thumb and forefinger. “Look. Are those free swings still on offer?”
 
Buffy gave a cursory eyeroll. “Yeah. Go on, then.”
 
They got into starting position facing each other. Buffy held herself stiffly, feeling off-centre. They’d fought so many times, but suddenly standing here, looking at each other, felt strange and unnatural, like she’d forgotten what to do, where her arms should be, how to breathe without thinking about it.
 
“Come on,” she urged. “Get it over with.”
 
Spike shook himself a little, like he always did. But this time, he stalled. “You know what,” he said hoarsely. “It’s alright. We can just, you know… fight like normal. Don’t really want to just… hit you.”
 
Buffy blinked, then gave a strained laugh. “Oh, come on. Not like you’ll really hurt me.”
 
Spike bristled, but didn’t move. 

Buffy couldn't take it any longer. The silence, the stillness. Without thinking, she lunged. On instinct, Spike whirled to defend himself, but he was caught off-guard. She knocked him to the ground.
 
“Bloody hell." Spike rolled onto his forearms in the sand. He arched up, looking at her. "Kick a bloke while he’s down, why don’t you?”

Buffy’s nostrils flared and she fixed her eyes on his. That’s when she saw it – a switch being flipped, something in Spike’s face going taut, a sudden vigour in the way he moved. He went hard for her legs. She slipped, spraying sand up as she fell backwards. Then he was on top of her, wrestling her to the ground with this new violence. She thrashed back against him, zero semblance of forethought or tactics in play. Just sheer force. It was awkward, clumsy, the way she wrangled at him and pushed him over. He groaned a loud, frustrated groan as she kneed him hard in the chest.
 
They were caught in deadlock for what seemed an age, Buffy’s face scrunched up, hands clawing through his shirt, scratching into his chest as she tried to pin him down. Then her fingers were splayed over his face, mauling without restraint, and he gave a muffled yowl, squirming under her. It was a dirty move, she knew, but she didn’t care. Her teeth were clenched so hard she thought they might break.
 
Spike dug his nails into her sides and pulled. Buffy could hear cotton tearing. She yelped as Spike rolled her over, and then her head was pressed under his, in the hollow of his neck, and she thought immediately of biting it, but then he had his hands wrapped around her skull, half-pulling her hair and dragging his fingers through her scalp, which did hurt a bit but also felt, well...

Buffy looked up at him on top of her. His chest was heaving, face as fierce and tense as hers felt. Her body was hot. He had to see it: her rosy cheeks, her fast rough breaths. Getting a bit worked up during a fight, that was par for the course. But she knew he’d know this was different. 

His face hung close to hers, her legs trapped tightly between his, his eyes mean but maybe, maybe close to breaking. Buffy’s heart pounded. Her arms were mostly free still. She knew she could use them; she could wriggle out of this if she wanted. But she didn’t. 
 
Spike’s face shifted suddenly. Thickening in front of her, eyes no longer blue, anything decipherable wiped away. Gold-amber now, mouth shaped like a snarl, the easy soft skin of his forehead bulbous and bulging. 
 
Buffy tensed. She still didn't fight back. She knew he could control it, for the most part. What face he chose to wear. That he must be choosing to wear it now. She looked up at him, meeting new and less familiar eyes, then lifted a hand.

Spike flinched automatically, but stilled when she didn’t lash out, just moved her fingers slowly, gently bringing them to his forehead where it was rough and raised. Buffy felt along the ridges, hands quivering. The skin was hard and swollen to touch.

Spike's expression was harder to read like this, but she could still sense the surprise, the slight softening in his gaze. Breath held, Buffy thumbed a little down the bridge of his nose. It was wrinkled and taut.
 
Then Spike growled. He jerked away, letting go of her as he scrambled to his feet. He turned, shaking his head back to normal and putting a few paces between them.
 
Buffy blundered up off the sand. Her throat was dry and it was aching somewhere between her ribs.

“Crab claws,” she babbled, failing miserably to hide the quake in her voice. She was already backing away. “Crab claws. They–they’re ready.”

Chapter Text

Giles landed over the wall with a thunk, crashing into Spike’s back.

Spike grumbled and pushed him off. “Christ,” he muttered, arching his shoulder. “Knew I should’ve taken the slayer instead. You’re nothing but a liability.”
 
“Ta,” Giles said, straightening up and brushing himself off. “But I do think it’s only fair she gets a night off. Wouldn’t want to overwork her.” 

They started down the shadowy path carved out between the rows of squat, spindly apple trees. “Reckon she can handle it,” said Spike.
 
“You have been training extensively this last while,” Giles said.
 
Spike thought back to the beach. Of wrestling Buffy down into the sand. “Yeah,” he said tersely. “Well. Her stamina’s improving, innit.”
 
“Glad to hear it,” said Giles. “I think she certainly prefers training with you to what I’ve been teaching her, anyway.”
 
Spike remembered Buffy’s fingers ramming hard against his face, over his lips, half in his mouth. He suppressed a shudder. “Well. I don’t think she’s the bookish sort,” he said, turning his attention to an apple hanging from a branch. He scouted around for some larger specimens, then shoved a couple into his sack.
 
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Giles. “I mean, she’s a very bright girl.”
 
Spike rankled at the false innocence in Giles’ voice. Bloke was subtle as a bloody brick. “Wasn’t saying she was thick, was I?” Spike said snippily. “Just that… well, you wouldn’t think it to look at her, but she’s a bit unhinged, you know. Has a thirst for violence.”
 
“Well,” Giles said. “I would certainly trust your intuition on that.”
 
Spike remembered two tiny bite marks at the bottom of Buffy’s neck. The bandages were already gone, the skin underneath almost entirely healed. Whenever they trained, he wanted to pin her down and get a closer look. Put his own teeth against the scars, if only gently. Tuck his face under her jaw and hear the thrum of her pulse. He bristled and cleared his throat. “Well, she’s gotta have it, don’t she,” he said. “If she’s going to be slaying demons.”
 
“Suppose so,” Giles said. He twisted an apple off its stem. “She does seem to enjoy, uh, other things, too, though.”
 
Spike swivelled around. “Well, yeah? Obviously? What’re you saying?!”
 
“Uh,” Giles started. He edged away and reflexively glanced at the apple in Spike’s hand, which he seemed to be holding rather threateningly. “I’m not saying anything.”
 
“Bloody hell, what’s with the third degree?!” Spike said, his knuckles going extra white around the apple. “Take me out here to give me a good grilling, did you?!”
 
“Gosh. I can’t imagine why you’re being so defensive.”
 
Spike hurled the apple into his sack. “‘M not.”
 
“Was simply wondering how you’re getting on with her, is all.”
 
Spike’s chest was getting tighter. Like somebody was binding his insides with rope. “She’s fine,” he said. “We’re getting on fine.” He stuffed a few more apples into his sack, then lobbed it over his shoulder. He humphed on down the track. “Reckon she’s a bit lonely,” he said once he’d made it a safe distance from Giles. He lowered his voice and went on. “Missing her mates from the orphanage and that.”
 
“Yes. I can imagine,” said Giles. “Must be a big change for her.”
 
“Yeah, I’d say so,” Spike said. Something in his throat wobbled. “She gave me a few names, of the friends. Said I’d help her track ‘em down.”
 
“Well, that’s nice of you.”
 
Spike’s fingernails dug into wet apple flesh. “And what’s that supposed to mean?!”
 
Giles froze. “Uh… well, it was supposed to mean that it’s, uh. Nice of you?”
 
“Yeah, well,” Spike said, his jaw tense. “It was just the way you said it, you know.”
 
“I couldn’t possibly know what you’re talking about.”
 
“Alright, Mr. Analyse This and Analyse That,” Spike snapped, eyes widening manically at Giles. “Dropped a few IQ points suddenly, have we?”
 
Giles sighed heavily. “Wow. This conversation is making me look emotionally enlightened.”
 
“Just lay off, alright?!” 
 
Giles held up his hands. “Fine.”
 
They collected apples in near silence for a few minutes, Spike occasionally letting out a tiny grumble. “It’s just,” he started again eventually. “She’s looking for something to latch onto, is what I’m saying.”
 
Giles eyed him cautiously. “Right.”
 
Spike swallowed. “And I’m just, you know. A man. I mean, a vampire.”
 
Giles looked at Spike expectantly.
 
“I’m just a vampire man. And you know, on the one hand, you have, you know. Men,” Spike said, making a gesture with both his palms to denote two separate things. “And then there’s, you know, women.”
 
“Yes,” said Giles. “I have heard of that phenomenon.”
 
“And sometimes,” Spike went on tightly. “There’s just one man. And one woman.”
 
“Okay. I’m not I sure I want to hear where this is going.”
 
“What I’m saying is,” Spike said, voice strained, partially from trying to find the right words, and partially from trying not to thump Giles in the face. “It’s like being in prison. You know?”
 
“Uh. Can’t say I do.”
 
“It’s like in prison,” Spike spluttered, face crumpled up. “You know, you get in there. You’re doing time. Long, hard time. And that ugly fat bloke in the cell next door, he was minging before, yeah, but suddenly, he’s looking like a succulent Sunday roast. You know?!”
 
“I emphatically don’t, thank god.”
 
Spike wanted to wring his neck. “Look, she’s just the ugly fat bloke next door, alright?” he said instead.
 
“Well,” Giles said, blinking. “If that’s the case, I do believe she’s been wildly miscast.”
 
Spike made a pained sound. “You’re not getting it.”
 
“I mean, you are being almost entirely incoherent,” said Giles. He paused halfway to another apple, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Plus, I’m not sure where I fit into all this. A firm but ultimately kind-hearted correctional officer, perhaps?”
 
“You’re not in the bloody prison.”
 
“Huh. I’m actually rather hurt to be excluded from this nonsensical analogy.”
 
Spike shot him a look. “Look, you know what I’m saying.”
 
“Well, I think I have managed to follow you around some rather obscure metaphorical bends,” Giles said. He cleared his throat. “But I’m afraid you did lose me at the point where Buffy is the, uh, repulsive and unattractive cellmate next door. I’m just not sure the comparison holds.”
 
An old, familiar feeling pooled in the pit of Spike’s stomach. Kind of like being a kid and homesick. He wanted to reach into his gut and rip it clean out. “Look. She’s not,” he said, fists clenched. “She’s the decent-looking chap next to him. You know, we’re talking six-month sentence, just copped a few apples from the orchard.” He gestured to himself. “I’m the ugly fat bloke next door, alright?”
 
Giles’ mouth flickered with a barely contained smile. “Oh, come on now,” he said. “If anything, Spike, you could stand to gain a few pounds.”
 
Spike glared at him. God. The bastard was just asking for a smack.

“Anyway, love looks not with the eyes,” Giles continued, jaw twitching uncontrollably. 

“Yeah, but with the bloody mind,” Spike muttered, violently snapping an apple from its branch. The gangly tree sprung back like elastic. “That’s the problem.”

Giles hummed. Spike could hear laughter vibrating in his throat. “You do have a point there.”

“Bloody hell,” Spike said. He dragged his nails down his face and gave an agonised rasp. “Why do I even bother talking to you?!”

“Well,” Giles said, “If I understood correctly, the recurring theme of this conversation was a dearth of options.”
 
Spike shook his head incredulously. “Christ! When did you get so nosy? Remember when you were all stuck-up and repressed? Barely spoke? Never asked me a thing? You know, I was dead fond of you back then.”
 
“Really?” Giles said in mock surprise, raising a brow. “Because I can recall you expressing the exact opposite sentiment on several occasions in the past.”
 
“Well, I couldn’t stand you a lot less, is what I’m saying,” Spike said as he marched away. “You’ve crossed the line into completely intolerable now.”
 
“As always, Spike,” said Giles lightly as he followed him, “the feeling is entirely mutual.”

***

“A truth spell?” Buffy echoed.

“That’s right,” Giles said. He slid the fat open book across the grass in her direction. “As spells go, it’s rather uncomplicated. Which is why it might be worth a shot.”

Buffy peered down at the bronzed pages. They were filled with neat lettering, hand-scripted in some old language she didn’t recognise. The drawing in the bottom corner caught her eye. A man with shrivelled, snake-like eyes rendered in scrawl-y ink was tied to a chair, spluttering, eyeballs popping from his head like bloodshot grapes. Buffy squinted. Was he choking on his own tongue?

She lifted her head and eyed Giles suspiciously. “I don’t get it,” she said slowly. “Giles, I haven’t lied about anything. I’m already truthful. I swear, I’m the truthful-est.”

“I believe you entirely,” Giles said, meeting her eyes. “But honesty is a funny thing.”

“It is?” Buffy made a face. “I thought the whole point is that it’s all, you know. Boring and straightforward.”

Giles took off his glasses for a polish, angling his head thoughtfully. “Well. I suppose it’s our brain that’s the funny part,” he said. “The fact is, sometimes we know things we don’t fully realise we know. It’s surprising, really, how much information we hide from ourselves, never mind others. Especially in, uh… difficult circumstances.”

Buffy bit her lip. “You think I’m… hiding stuff from myself? About my past?”

“Not necessarily,” Giles said. “But we don’t know the precise cause of your, uh, amnesia. And it’s not unheard of that people, well… push traumatic memories to the farthest depths of their consciousness. If obligated to speak freely, and entirely without inhibition, it’s possible that we could come to learn something more about you and, uh, your origins.”

Buffy huffed. “Boy. You make me sound like some kinda magical creature. Like a dragon or gnome or something.”

Giles’ lips curled apologetically. “To be honest, Buffy, it’s a bit of a long shot,” he said, refitting his glasses. “I’m at something of a loss here. Between us finding you, the odd occurrences at the manor, the accident on the train, and your, uh, incredible strength… there’s a lot we don’t understand. I’d be remiss if I didn’t explore all avenues.”

Buffy hugged her arms tight around her waist. She inhaled deeply. “Well. If you think it’ll help.”

Giles fixed her gaze. “Are you sure? If you’re not comfortable, then–”

“It’s okay,” Buffy cut in. She shifted on her haunches. “But, uh. Just… in front of you, yeah?” 

Giles’ face furrowed. “You mean–”

Buffy’s cheeks went pink. “As in… it’ll just be you who talks to me, right? Not, uh, Spike?”

Giles smiled reassuringly. “Just me.”

“Because, um,” Buffy continued after a long pause, scratching her elbow. “My childhood is all, you know… with the trauma. Big, big trauma. So it’s very, you know. Sensitive. And Spike… isn’t. Sensitive, I mean. Which is, uh, why I don’t want him there.”

Giles cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “Yes. Of course. That’s, uh, very understandable.”

***

Just like Giles said, the truth spell didn’t need many ingredients. Not compared to his previous flutters with magic, nor to the curious menageries Willow used to scrounge together back at the orphanage. This time, all they needed was the incantation and some perfume-y shrub with orange flowers called lion’s ear, which Giles had foraged en route.

“There are actually several varieties of truth spell. Most geared towards enemies,” Giles mused, pinching his chin as he examined the relevant passages. He muttered something under his breath about tongues being broken.

Buffy raised a hand. “One vote for foregoing tongue breakage over here.”

Giles chuckled and quickly rifled forwards a few pages. “Yes, we can opt for one of the, uh… friendlier iterations.”

Buffy swallowed nervously.

“Alright. Here we go,” Giles said. He swished the lion’s ear over Buffy’s head. “Veritas.”

Giles backed away and watched Buffy carefully.

Her eyes dilated once, twice. Then her lips slackened. Like the tension was withering away. She smiled up at him, wide and dopey.

“How are you feeling?” Giles asked.

“Head’s a bit fuzzy,” she said, swaying a little from side to side. “Kinda like I’ve drank a jug of Spike’s vodka. But without the nasty aftertaste.”

“No queasiness or nausea?”

Buffy beamed with teeth, eyes sparkly. “Nope.”

“Alright. Let’s begin, then,” Giles said. He cleared his throat and unclipped a pen from his inside pocket. “Tell me, Buffy. What do you remember about your life before the orphanage?”

“Nothing,” she said immediately. She shrugged with her whole body. “It’s like, blank. Blankety blank.” 

Giles jotted a few words in his notebook. “Alright. What is the earliest memory you can recall?”

“Showing up to the orphanage,” Buffy said. “It was the middle of the night. It was dark, and super cold, and everyone was asleep, and I was… confused. Like, I couldn’t remember anything. It felt mega weird. Like, weird and wrong.”

“How do you mean?”

Buffy pursed her lips. “It was like… I could tell something used to be there, y’know? In my head. But then suddenly, it’d all gone… poof!” She made a gesture with both hands, like a corn kernel popping. “Like it’d been all locked up behind a door and someone had thrown away the key.”

Giles hummed and tapped his pen to his lips. “Can you say more?”

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut, then shook her head. “Nope! That’s all I remember.”

Giles considered it for a moment. “So how did it feel, then, years later, when you stumbled into the manor, back in St. Petersburg?”

Buffy started to chatter fast. “It was crazy, Giles! I felt like I’d seen it all before. I thought, thought maybe I’d read about it, in like, a book or something. ‘Cos it was familiar. Sooo familiar. Like… like it was part of all that stuff that was, you know. Behind the door?” 

Giles scribbled fiercely. “I see. Were there any other strange feelings, or thoughts, that occurred at the manor?”

“It totally wigged me out, seeing those creepy ghosts. Because, well, duh. Ghosts! But it was also kind of cool, you know? And when you explained all that stuff, about vampires, I knew– I knew I should be like, run for the hills, Buffy! But somehow, it was like… this puzzle piece fitting into place. That’s… why I trusted you.”

She made eye contact with him. “That, and because you looked like, super boring and old and not at all scary–”

Giles coughed loudly into his fist. “You can, uh, say more, Buffy. But you don’t have to mention your, uh, impressions of me.”

Buffy smiled up at the clouds. “It was so freaky, y’know? Because for some reason I totally bought the whole slayer thing, even though the whole story was like, hello? Beyond whack. And I thought maybe I’m being just like, dumb and desperate or something. ‘Cos I didn’t want to chop up fish, y’know?" Buffy's gaze panned around their sunny surroundings, then halted abruptly to focus on the firs along the horizon, which were hazed in golden light. Buffy's mouth dropped slightly, like she'd just taken her first glimpse of Eden.

"Buffy?" Giles prompted after a moment.

“And when I first saw Spike, oh boy,” she started up again, speaking more slowly and still looking awed. “It was like– I got this tingly feeling, maybe because I sensed he was, y’know, a vampire? Like some kinda instinct? But actually, it could also just be because he was–” she widened her eyes theatrically and huffed out a breath, “Like whoa–”

Giles sat up in panic and pointed. “Buffy! What colour are those trees?”

Buffy grinned, eyes falling on the cluster of birches nearby. “Green. Like soft furry moss. And the trunk's all silvery white, like… like a magic horse.”

Giles rubbed his forehead. “I’m, uh, sorry, Buffy… I– I wasn’t trying to pry – I was merely asking questions that were, well, useful for our purposes…”

Buffy giggled. “Boy. This is like, so liberating. It’s like, I’m not ashamed or embarrassed of anything! All the secrets I’ve been holding in are just spilling out and it’s like, I want to tell you all about–”

“Buffy, please! The sky. What colour is it?”

“The sky’s blue. Pretty and blue, just like–”

“Buffy. What do you think happened to your family?”

Buffy’s face fell instantly. “I don’t know. I really wanna know, Giles. But I can’t remember anything. Not a single…” she trailed off and looked down at her feet. “Nothing.”

Giles rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you remember anything more, uh… abstract? Not necessarily details, or names, but… any sensations, feelings?”

Buffy chewed her lip. “Kinda,” she said. “It’s buried. Like deep-down buried. But I sometimes– sometimes felt… like there’s something, under my skin. Something good. Like being warm.”

Giles nodded encouragingly at her.

“It’s nice,” she said quietly. “But when I think too hard about it, it’s… gone. It’s all gone.”

Giles pursed his lips. “Alright, Buffy,” he said softly. He folded his notebook shut. “I think that’ll be enough.”

Buffy’s demeanour flipped in the blink of an eye. She leant back, spreading her palms out on the ground and grinning. “So. Guess that was pretty pointless, huh?”

“Well. No big revelations, I admit.”

“I think it was definitely Angelus, though. I think he wiped the memories,” she said thoughtfully. She scrunched up her nose. “Jeez! I really hate that guy.”

“Uh, yes. Naturally,” Giles said. “But you’re right. It’s possible he had something to do with your memories vanishing. It’s just, ah, odd that I didn’t detect any trace of a memory spell during the trance.”

Buffy zigzagged her fingers through the grass, eyes following her own movements eagerly. “Well, maybe you did it wrong. Spike said you kinda suck at the whole magic thing but you’re like, all touchy about being, y’know, useless or obsolete or whatever, so I shouldn’t say anyth–”

Giles cut in quickly. “Uh, well, certainly I’m, uh, no Merlin,” he said, flustered. “But I do believe the trance would have shown up something like a memory spell. Seeing as I could see Spike’s curse so clearly.”

Buffy gazed into the distance, smiling goofily. “He’s so mean,” she said. She gave a dreamy sigh. “I mean, I want to hate him and all, especially now he’s like, totally blowing me off–”

“Buffy–” 

“–but it’s like he’s kind of, buried into my brain, like… like one of those fuzzy– y’know, the little blind guys with the tiny hands?” 

Giles held up his hands, spluttering in protest.

Buffy bent over and pressed her fingertips hard against her head. “Ugh, stupid vampire with his stupid brain tunnels–”

“Buffy, please!” Giles interrupted, loudly. 

Buffy looked up and blinked a few times.

“The spell should wear off in a few minutes,” Giles said anxiously. “But until then, it may be in everyone’s best interest if you… uh, avoid speaking with me. Or anybody, for the matter. Why don’t you go, er. Take a walk?”

Buffy’s face reverted back to manic-cheery. “Sure!” she said, hopping to her feet. “I can walk!”

Giles watched her plod off. He guiltily pressed a palm to his mouth.

***

Buffy slipped out of her tent, a few strands of hair snagging on a button. She tugged them free, then hurriedly smoothed down her head. She saw Spike, hovering in the distance, waiting, and her stomach roiled. As she got closer, she noticed his hair wasn’t slicked back like usual. It was standing up a bit dishevelled, the roots darker and tips feathery. 

He double took when he saw her. “Oh,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Didn’t know you owned anything except rags, slayer.”
 
Buffy glanced down self-consciously. “Well. It’s still rags, really. It’s just… you know. Dress-shaped.”
 
Spike nodded curtly. He slid his hands into his pockets. “So, uh. How’d the truth spell work out, then?”

Buffy shrugged, angling for extra-casual. “It was, uh. Fine. Didn’t really learn much.”

Spike dropped his gaze to his shoes. “Right. Yeah. Well, I thought as much.”

Buffy crossed her hands behind her back. She glanced around uncomfortably. “So, uh, what’s up with your hair?” she asked, rocking back and forth on her heels. “Looks… different.” 
 
Spike automatically touched his head. “Oh. Um, yeah. Just a bit.”

“It’s, um. It’s…” Buffy started. Spike looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “It’s different. Yeah.”

“Just a bit,” Spike said defensively, again. 
 
Buffy said nothing. She pressed her lips together tightly.

Spike turned away and started pacing slowly. Every so often, he whistled a few notes.

Buffy tapped a foot.

Relief washed over her when Giles finally arrived. He was wearing a fancy shirt and his hair was neatly combed to the side.
 
“Right. You two ready to go?” he asked, and the three of them set off towards the village.
 
“It’s quite a treat, having the night off,” Buffy said as they arrived at the tavern. She pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside was hazy and warm, the room tinged with yellow glow from the fireplace.
 
“Well, we’re not completely off the clock,” Giles said. “Information would be helpful. Or a lift.”
 
Buffy looked around, twinging with disappointment. The place wasn’t exactly hopping. It was mostly full of old guys, nursing drinks by themselves or sitting in booths playing cards. The air hummed with muffled voices and the clinking of glass.
 
Spike surveyed the muted room. “Ready for a wild night, slayer?” 

Buffy glanced over at him. Spike lifted an eyebrow.

They followed Giles over to the bar and pulled up three stools. Spike ordered them up a round of ales, then said, “Blondie, give us that wallet I nicked earlier, yeah?”
 
Buffy pulled the wallet out of her pocket. “You nicked?” 
 
Spike shrugged. “Well. Guess you did help.”
 
Buffy scoffed, a flash of anger flaring up as she caught his eyes. He looked nonchalant, but she knew better. Knew it was just for show.
 
“Uh, I thought we’d agreed to minimise our, uh… misuse… of penniless peasants,” Giles said, glancing between Spike and Buffy.
 
“Oh, bloody hell,” Spike said. His patience was clearly thin tonight. “He wasn’t that badly off, alright. Had a tractor and everything.”
 
“Gosh,” Giles muttered. “You should’ve run for government back home.”
 
Spike shot him a look. “Just give the wallet here, slayer, would you?”
 
Buffy ignored him. She slowly flipped the wallet open and paid the barman herself. Spike just rolled his eyes.
 
“Anyway,” Giles said, cutting through the tense silence. “Can we talk about the route, please?”
 
Spike and Buffy both made unhappy noises.
 
“I think our best bet is to head to the docks in Germany,” Giles started to say. “There should be a cargo ship that can take us a lot closer to the north of France. The route is rather indirect, but, ah, at least we won’t have to walk.”
 
Spike pouted and slumped on his elbow. He took a crooked slug of ale.
 
“Germany. Boats,” Buffy said distantly. She sipped her drink. “Sounds good.”
 
As Giles droned on, her gaze shifted idly around. To the mismatched rows of bottles behind the bar. A pair of dusty antlers, mounted on a wooden plaque. Her own severed reflection, misted in a rusty old mirror, and–

Spike, looking right at her. For a beat, his eyes were soft and still. Buffy’s heart stuttered. It’d been awhile since she’d seen that look. 

As soon as he saw her looking, his expression hardened. Buffy quickly bowed her head to her drink, swirling it around in the glass before taking a gulp. The ale tickled her throat and made her insides gurgle. 

Spike’s eyes flashed through her head. Once, then again, and again. She wanted it to go away, but it kept coming back, like the spots you see after staring into the sun. Then she remembered how his face had shuttered. How the other thing, whatever it was, had just vanished.

Buffy pressed her toes up against the bottom of the bar. She could hear Giles’ voice, echoing in her periphery. Somewhere in the centre of her chest, she felt a pang of loneliness. A pinprick in her eyes.
 
Spike exhaled melodramatically when Giles excused himself to the restroom. As soon as he was out of earshot, something lead-heavy settled over the atmosphere. Buffy focused desperately on the dregs of foam sticking to the mouth of her glass.

“So. Reckon we’ve got five minutes of freedom from shop talk,” Spike said. He sat up straight. “Better make the most of it.”
 
“Wow,” Buffy said flatly, curling her fingers around her ale. “Five whole minutes. Aren’t we lucky.”
 
Spike nodded at her drink. “How’s that going down?”
 
“It’s alright,” Buffy said, feigning disinterest as she took another sip. 
 
“Fancy something a bit harder?”
 
Buffy shrugged. She didn’t look, but imagined he was raising a brow the way he always did when he suggested something Giles wouldn’t approve of. “Like what?”
 
Spike’s eyes scanned the shelves behind the bar. “Dunno. They probably brew some half-decent mead in here,” he said. “Gets the party started a bit quicker, y’know?”
 
Buffy felt him trying to catch her eyes, but she didn’t take the bait. “Sure,” she said noncommittally. “Why not, I guess.”
 
Spike stood up and stepped towards her. His arm brushed her shoulder as he waved the bartender over. Buffy bristled with annoyance, at him probably doing that on purpose, and at the way she couldn’t seem to stop her breath going a bit shallow. She watched, conspicuously still, as the bartender poured a honey-coloured drink into two small glasses.
 
Spike clinked his glass against Buffy’s. “Cheers.”

They both took a mouthful. It was much sweeter than the ale, almost cloying, but it burned. A good burn. Buffy smacked her lips.

Spike leant his shoulder back against a wooden beam. “So. What’s the verdict?”
  
Buffy knocked back the rest of her mead. “Not bad.”
 
Spike grinned. “You want another?”
 
“Why?” Buffy asked, tone biting. “Trying to get me drunk or something?”
 
“No. Just figure we deserve to have some fun, for a change. Been a long trip.”
 
“Well. Some of it’s been fun,” said Buffy. She kicked her legs against the bar, eyes swivelling to the ceiling. “Kicking your ass in training yesterday, for example. Thought you were actually gonna dust when I knocked you into that tree.”
 
Spike sipped his drink, a smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. Well, sorry to disappoint.”
 
“It’s okay,” Buffy said. "Probably wouldn’t be as satisfying to beat up a pile of dust. Not much challenge in it, you know?”
 
Spike hummed, thumb playing with the rim of his glass. “You know,” he said lowly. “I wasn’t being completely honest before.” He leant over the bar, his elbow almost touching hers. Buffy tried not to flinch. “Have to admit," he said, licking his teeth. “I’m curious to see what happens when a slayer lets loose.” 
 
“Yeah?” Buffy said, voice rising challengingly. “I’d be careful what you wish for, if I were you.”
 
Something dark flickered across Spike’s face. Buffy tensed.

“Well,” he said. “Not exactly known for being careful, am I?” 

Buffy scoffed on instinct. “Oh, I dunno,” she said, voice unnaturally high. She made a face into her ale. “I think that's all hot air. I don’t think you’re really as brave as you make out.”

Spike swished his drink around in his glass. “Alright. You got me there.” He raised the mead to his mouth, teeth on display. Glinting.

The air was strained, taut as stretched wire, but Buffy had the feeling that Spike– that he was enjoying it, somehow. Getting off on the tension or something. Yeah, he was pretty twisted like that. She couldn’t see it on his face, but she could feel him smirking, in the narrowing of his eyes, in the way he squared his shoulders.

Ugh. Emboldened by the irk factor, and also probably by the stupid mead, she raised a brow at him. “Oh, so you admit it, then?”

Spike shrugged earnestly. “Admit what?” he asked, suddenly annoyingly blasé. “That I’m all talk, is it?”

“Well,” Buffy started, shifting in surprise. “I guess that’s… one part of it, yeah.”

Spike rounded on her. “Yeah? What’s the other?”

Buffy was taken off-guard by the sudden steadiness in his gaze. She averted her eyes on instinct, hating herself and hoping she wasn’t turning red and suddenly really wishing she’d said yes to that other drink he’d offered.

“You alright, love?” Spike said before Buffy had a chance to respond. “You’re a bit cryptic this evening.” His voice had gone all even and soft, as if trying to level with a kid having a tantrum. 

Buffy felt like hot fumes were swirling round her head. “Yeah, well,” she managed to croak out. “You started it.”

Spike tilted his head. “Started what?”

Buffy let out a noise like a bird being strangled. 

Spike just blinked at her, not quite smiling, but almost. 

What’d happen, she wondered, if she just grabbed him by his stupid flick-y hair and slung him over the bar? Right into all those shelves of glass? Or if she just pulled him by his slightly too-tight shirt–

Spike spoke again, his voice rough but brazen. “You know, slayer. You’re attracting a lot of attention our way.”
 
Buffy sat up slightly. “Huh? What do you mean?”
 
“Everyone in here’s looking at you.”
 
Buffy glanced around automatically. She snorted. “No they’re not,” she said, and then, with a brave tumble through her chest, added, “The only person leering at me in here is you.”
 
Spike’s eyes jumped open in surprise. “Wasn’t leering.”
 
“Fine,” Buffy said. She sipped her drink to hide the way her lips were curling smugly. “Guess you weren’t.”
 
“You were just sitting in my eyeline, is all,” Spike said. He shuffled in place. “Y’know. Where I happened to be resting my eyes.”
 
Buffy shrugged. “Sure.”

“Well, ‘course, I was looking at you a bit,” he continued quickly. “Nothing wrong with that, is there? I mean, I look at you all the time. We both do. Hard not to. Not because– well, just mean, people look at each other, don’t they? Some more than others, obviously, but you know, it’s normal. It’s–”
 
“Uh huh,” Buffy interrupted casually. She kept her face straight, but her insides were crackling with triumph. 
 
“Not like I’m some seedy old lecher, like you’re making out – oh no, that’s Fagin over there, dribbling all down his ratty little beard–” Spike’s voice had sped up and he was gesturing towards a hunched-over old man sitting quietly in the corner, rather decidedly minding his own business and staring gloomily into his ale. His beard, to be fair, was ratty. 
 
“But alright,” Spike continued, more evenly, “I was looking at you, if that’s what you want to hear–”
 
Buffy whipped round in disbelief. “I did not say that.”
 
“Yeah, but just reading between the lines…” 
 
“God!” Buffy exclaimed, giving a loud, bitter laugh. “You are so full of yourself.”

Spike bit his tongue. The sparkle had returned to his eyes. “Sorry, pet. Didn’t mean to touch a nerve.” 

“Oh trust me, you didn’t–”

“Mmm. So why the hissy fit, then?”

Buffy almost hit the roof. “Well, maybe you were right,” she said, trying to keep her voice level, detached. “But y’know what? On reflection, Spike, you’re not even worth the ego boost.”

She felt him stir beside her. 

“Look, I wasn’t actually trying to–” he started, more quietly. “In fact, it was you who–” he cut off with a frustrated groan, then slammed his tankard down hard. The bar rattled with the impact, and heads turned disapprovingly towards them.

“I was only trying to say,” Spike hissed fiercely, fists clenched. “That you look nice. You stupid, stubborn cow.”
 
“Gee,” Buffy said sarcastically, her throat scratchy. “How sweet.”
 
Spike narrowed his eyes at her. For a second, she thought– thought he might just–

“You’re a very difficult person, you know that?” he said, nostrils flaring. 
 
Buffy’s cheeks stung. She swung around to him, half-leaping off her stool. “Me?!” she snapped. “You’re– there’s not even a word for whatever it is you are!”
 
“Can’t you just– ugh.” Spike gave up as he caught sight of Giles returning. He threw his eyes at the ceiling. “Never bloody mind.” He slunk back to his own stool, giving Buffy a final look over his shoulder.
 
Buffy refocused on her drink, heart hammering.

“I was just thinking,” Giles said, pulling himself back onto his seat. “It really would make sense to just start heading directly towards the port. Bypass the cities completely.”
 
Buffy nodded. “Yeah. Sure,” she said absently, not really hearing his words. The hot fury was petering out, leaving behind something hollow in her chest, a little itch in her eyes. She fidgeted with the handle of her glass, not daring to look in Spike’s direction. Buffy had no idea how much time had passed when a new voice cut through her thoughts. 

“You headed west, then?”
 
Buffy turned around. It was the guy sitting a stool away from her. He was older; not like Giles-old, but older than her for sure. His cap shadowed his face, but underneath, she could make out kind brown eyes looking at her.
 
She smiled politely at him. “Uh huh. That’s the plan.” 
 
“You’re not around from here, I take it?”
 
“Nah,” Buffy said. “We’re just passing through.”
 
“Know these roads pretty well,” the guy said. “Well. What’s left of them. Not very well maintained, these days.”
 
“Yeah, we noticed,” said Buffy, relaxing slightly. She made a face. “Talk about bumpy. Thought we were driving through a mini-earthquake at one point.”
 
The man chuckled. “Yeah. Well, you get used to it. Know which paths to avoid, after a couple years getting battered and bruised.” He smiled at her. “Got a long journey ahead?”
 
“Hopefully not as long as what’s behind us. Boy, it’s been–”
 
“Hey. Shove off, would you, mate?” Spike interrupted suddenly.
 
The man wheeled round in Spike’s direction. “Hey. Was only talking,” he said, instinctively edging away.
 
“Yeah, well, don’t,” Spike said. His glare could’ve cut through steel. “Sling your hook, yeah?”
 
Buffy scowled at Spike before quickly turning back around. “I’m sorry about him, he’s–” she began, but the man was already easing off his stool. “Please. Just ignore him,” she tried desperately.
 
“Not looking for a brawl,” he said quietly to Buffy, shooting Spike a dark look before moving away. “Safe travels.”
 
Buffy spun around to Spike, fresh rage coursing through her. “What did you do that for?!” she snapped. “He might’ve been able to help us!”
 
“Yeah. For the right price, I’m sure,” Spike drawled.
 
Buffy stared at him, expression set. “I can make my own deals,” she said icily.
 
“Fine. Talk to him. Whatever. Hey you, get us another drink over here, would you?” Spike snapped at the bartender.
 
Buffy’s stool scraped shrilly against the ground as she leapt up. “Fine. I will.” She stood still for a moment, jaw clenched. She was torn between slapping Spike and, for some stupid reason, bursting into tears.
 
“Go on then,” Spike urged, face so tight it looked like he might burst a vein. 
 
Buffy trembled out a breath, then stomped off.
 
Spike watched her go. He could immediately feel Giles’ eyes on him. “Stop looking at me like that,” he muttered.
 
“Well, she’s right,” Giles said, shrugging one shoulder. “He could have been useful.”
 
“Don’t play dumb, Giles. Saw the way he was looking at her. Eyeballs practically jumping out of his big muttony head.”
 
Giles rolled his eyes. “Hit a bit close to home, did it?” 
 
“Oh, spin me a new one,” Spike said, jerking around in annoyance. “Just don’t want to have to go saving her hide again. Spend half my time rescuing the girl from sticky situations.”
 
“Yes,” said Giles. “God forbid she be in danger of having some fun.”
 
“Fun?!” Spike spat, chugging back his ale. “This is business here, Giles, or did you forget?!”
 
Giles sighed and took a sip of his drink. “Yes. Strictly business.”

***

Buffy fell backwards against a bale of hale, clutching her stomach as the truck rocked over another bump. “Woah. Too much reading for Buffy,” she mumbled. “It’s making me dizzy.”
 
“How convenient,” Giles said. He smiled at her over his shoulder. “But alright. I’ll let you know if I happen upon anything of interest, anyway.”
 
“Is that him?” Buffy asked, pointing to a black-and-white etching of a vampire on one of the pages Giles was flicking through.
 
“Uh, yes,” said Giles. “That’s Angelus.”
 
“Let’s see,” Spike said, scooting over. “Ah, bloody hell. That’s seriously flattering. His nose is much more wonky than that.”
 
“Yes, I’m sure he’s a regular Anne of Cleves,” said Giles impatiently. “But the point of the illustration is simply to capture his more, uh, distinctive features.”
 
“What else does it say about him?” Buffy asked.
 
“Only what we already know,” Giles said. “Past atrocities committed. Character description.”
 
Buffy hummed, leaning back with a sigh. Her stomach jolted again.
 
“Doesn’t matter, anyway,” Spike said, glancing at Buffy and then back at the book. “I’d bet good money he’s snuffed the dust by now. He was always a bit, you know. Reckless.”
 
“Fingers crossed,” said Giles. 
 
“So. Uh,” Spike said, coughing. He moved away from the book and sat back against a haystack. “Not bad wheels, these.” 
 
“Yes, this really speeds things along,” Giles agreed. “At this rate, we might even catch the ship tomorrow morning.”
 
Spike’s voice was unusually peppy. “Yeah. It’s great.”
 
“Glad to be of service,” Buffy said, smiling at Giles and distinctly not at Spike.
 
Spike gnashed on a hay stem. “I’m invisible now, am I?”

“Wish you were,” Buffy muttered, folding her arms. “Be easier to ignore you then.”
 
“Don’t know why you’re so wound up,” Spike said. 
 
Giles rolled his eyes, shutting his book and taking off his glasses. “Here we go,” he said quietly to nobody in particular.
 
“Gee. Seems to be really bugging you,” said Buffy, still not looking at Spike.
 
Spike huffed loudly. “Alright, look,” he said, voice strained. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried scuppering your chances with truck boy.” He gave a dismissive flourish of his hand.
 
Buffy groaned unhappily.
 
“I’m sure he’s a right lovely chap,” Spike said falsely, and then, when Buffy didn’t respond, “What?! I’m apologising here!”
 
Again, Buffy said nothing. Giles stared at the ceiling.
 
Spike twitched. “Okay. You’re right. I was wrong. Very, very wrong. And I’m sorry, alright?”
 
“Bloody hell,” Giles muttered.
 
“It’s none of your business who I talk to,” Buffy said, eyes darting over at Spike and quickly away again.
 
Spike nodded eagerly. “Yeah. Dead right. It’s not.”
 
“You were like, beyond rude.”
 
“Bang out of order, I was,” Spike agreed.
 
“And you were just, you know. Generally super obnoxious.”

Spike’s lips tightened. “I was, yeah.”

“Not to mention,” Buffy said, starting to count on her fingers. “Pathetic, controlling, childish…”
 
“Yeah,” Spike gritted out. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
 
Buffy tilted her head and batted her eyelashes at him. “I don’t get why you were so upset, anyway?”
 
Giles also turned to look at Spike expectantly.
 
Spike squirmed like a deer in headlights. “Well. Got a finely tuned sense for danger, don’t I?”
 
“Huh,” Buffy said, falsely pensive. “Guess he was pretty intimidating.”
 
“Look, I’ve spent years honing my intuition, alright? Know a bad thing when I see it," Spike said. “Now, uh, I’m not saying I’m always on the money. But I, uh… had a dodgy feeling.”
 
Buffy smiled placatingly at him. Giles straight up snorted.
 
“Well, it’s good to be cautious, innit?!” Spike snapped, wringing out his hands. “But, uh, anyway. Do you, uh, accept my apology?”
 
Buffy stretched her neck to look up at the truck ceiling, head see-sawing from side to side. She gave a long, drawn-out hum. “I’ll think about it.”

“Right,” Spike said. He sat back and inhaled harshly, like he was in physical pain. 

There was a fraught silence. The truck rumbled over another bump. 
 
“It’s just,” Spike started, inevitably. Giles sighed. “It’s just… you’re kind of milking this, aren’t you? You’re enjoying making me squirm, even though you know I’m bloody well sorry, and–”
 
“Spike,” Buffy interrupted. She looked at him with steel in her eyes. “Just stop.” 
 
Spike met her gaze. His jaw sprang shut. He glanced down guiltily, then shimmied over towards her. “Okay, look,” he said, more quietly, kneeling beside her. “Here’s the thing. It was wrong, alright. Know it was, and yeah, have a bit of trouble admitting it sometimes, don’t I? And again, mea culpa and all that, but look, being honest with you, it is bothering me, how you’re not really talking to me. Quite a lot, actually.” He looked up at her hopefully, eyes all shiny and puppy-like. “Got me in a real tizzy, it has. So, uh, I was wondering if you’d consider showing a fella a bit of mercy here. And, you know. Talking to me again. How about it?”
 
Buffy looked at him with a blank expression. Then she shook her head and barked out a laugh. “Wow,” she said. “You’re just completely shameless, aren’t you?”
 
Spike’s eyes widened incredulously.
 
“I’m honestly offended,” said Buffy. “That you think I would fall for that one in a million years.”
 
“Are you having a laugh?” Spike spluttered. “I’m down on my bloody knees, pleading for forgiveness, and you– Christ, do you come with some sort of bleedin’ handbook or something?!”
 
Buffy groaned and kicked him, sending Spike catapulting backwards into one of the hay bales. He moaned as he fumbled out of the straw mountain, spitting out stems and shaking himself off.
 
“Do kick a little harder next time, Buffy,” said Giles tiredly, picking up his book again. “Make sure you knock him out completely, yeah?”

Chapter Text

Buffy flumped over onto her side, making the old wooden bunk whine.

Her eyes automatically fell on Spike. He was sleeping like the dead thing he was, over on his own cramped bed. On his back, no blanket, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Same old smoky-brown Henley shirt he always wore, first two buttons undone. 

God, did he ever wash that thing? 

Probably not. It did look super worn out. But also– sorta cosy, the way old things sometimes were. The threadbare cotton looked soft, like it’d wrinkle up real nice if Buffy scrunched it between her fingers. 

She shifted on her pillow, but didn’t look away.

He looked pretty uncomfortable when he slept. Like he was on alert, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

Buffy felt a tiny smile coming on. It was just– it was so overkill. And so him. Always the drama vamp, even when he was asleep. A rush of affection burst through before she could stop it.

Ugh. She really needed to get out of this cabin. 

The ship was suffocating her slowly, with its narrow, musty corridors and diesel-laden air. With its total lack of Spike-less places to go. 

In hindsight, she felt silly for carping about tent life. At least they’d been on the move, seeing new places, enjoying nifty perks such as leg-stretching and privacy. 

Now they were all squashed up on top of each other – metaphorically – in one poky cabin. Pretty much nothing to do, other than watch each other sleep.

She continued staring at Spike.

She actually hardly looked at him anymore, when he was awake. Obviously she still looked at him, like, technically. When they trained or talked or whatever. But she didn’t look-look. Not like she used to.

Things had gone back to… well. Normal? Or at least, some sham version of normal they’d both silently agreed to, where they pretended all the things that hadn’t happened hadn’t come close to happening.

It was weird, but in a different way to the former weirdness. Seemed like all they did was scratch the surface these days. No more nicking uncomfortably at each other, threatening to draw out something deeper. Even fights had lost their spark.

Buffy missed it sometimes. The stilted silences. That sort-of sick feeling that made her squirm whenever he looked at her a beat too long.

She hadn’t just been imagining it, obviously. She wasn’t completely crazy. But it occurred to her, with a lance of shame through her heart, that maybe it’d just been… a game, or something, to him. A game he’d lost interest in playing.

Maybe it was just a vampire thing. Because, maybe, vampire feelings weren’t real. Not real-real.

Not that hers were exactly real-real, either. She knew it was probably just… the whole Stockholm Syndrome thing. She’d forget all about him once they got to Paris, where there’d be like, so many people to meet. People-people, not vampire-people.

Something gnawed sharply in the pit of her stomach, for thinking like that.

Pfft. Don’t feel bad for him. He’d probably tell you the exact same thing.

After all, wasn’t he forever saying how he was this bad, bad evil vampire without feelings and stuff? So he’d probably laugh at her for taking it all so seriously, when clearly, it’d just been this– this… road trip thing. Just a way to pass the time.

His nose twitched a little in his sleep, like a rabbit. Buffy nostril-laughed quietly.

His hair was combed back all neat and waxy again. Buffy hadn’t commented on it or anything. Hadn’t told him she preferred it the other way, or that– well, it wasn’t actually that bad this way, either. She used to touch it, sometimes, when they’d fought or play-fought or–

Her throat went all lumpy.

“Eugh, you’re getting grease stains all over my blouse,” she’d complained once after his head had accidentally butted against her. 

She’d shoved him away, hard and unapologetic, but he’d just smirked up at her, which naturally made her want to do it again.
 
“I’ve often suggested we set up drilling rigs in Spike’s head,” Giles said.

“Good idea!” Buffy said, holding a glittery-eyed Spike at bay with the sole of her foot. “Two birds, one stone.”

Then he’d chased her all around the campsite, head-first. Like a blonde, oily-haired bull.

Buffy wriggled on her stupid squeaky bed, breath lodged uncomfortably behind her sternum. He used to grin easily at her. Used to touch her, playfully, roughly – because he knew she could take it – and sometimes even sweetly.

One night, a while back, they’d split from Giles to go stock up on supplies. Food or blood or whatever. They’d ended up walking in big, endless laps around the village. Putting off going home, though neither said it outright. She remembered how her laughs had sounded extra loud and echoey against the empty night, and Spike had nagged her about it, but kept on doing stuff that made her laugh anyway.

Then he’d whispered suddenly, urgently, “What’s that, slayer?”, and tackled her up against a wall.

Buffy had frowned, straining hard to listen, and hissed, “What’s what?!”

Spike kept her pinned to the brick by her shoulders, thumbs pressing in ticklishly under her arms.

“A vampire,” he’d said with a flick of his tongue. His face hovered a little too close and she could feel the faint purr of his words against her skin. “Not very shrewd tonight, slayer.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Nah. I just don’t waste my energy when they’re not actually dangerous,” she said, lips twitching at him. “Anyway, you do realise you’re the hunted one around here, right?” 

He’d given a sceptical hum, then surprised her by slowly curling his finger through the ends of her hair, which was falling loose around her shoulders for once, because it was night time and it was just them. He was looking at it, her hair, and her heart was starting up like a drum as she watched his nostrils flare ever so slightly. Then he’d tugged, gently, at the strands, and Buffy felt herself let out this tiny soft rasp, even though it didn’t hurt. 

Later, in her tent, she’d replayed the moment over on a loop, for once too tired to stop herself. It’d felt indulgent, almost greedy, the way she’d squeezed every last butterfly out of the memory. Worst of all, she’d had this feeling – been strangely confident about it, in fact – that he was thinking about her, too.

Yeah, well. Maybe she’d been wrong about that.

It was all for the best, she supposed. How things had turned out. The whole idea had been stupid and dumb. They all knew it. And anyway, it wouldn’t be long now, until they got to Paris. She just had to get through the final leg of the trip, and then–

God. It made her feel sick, just thinking about it.

Probably because change was scary. It was all new and unpredictable, ergo the tummy ache.

Where would he go, once they got there?

Would he, like… visit?

She scoffed inwardly. 

C’mon, Buffy. You’re embarrassing yourself in front of yourself.

But would he really– 

Could he just walk away from her – from them – just like that?

She got this sudden flare of anger. Even if he didn’t feel… well, the way she sort of had, would he really just turn around and waltz off into the night like it was just, you know, nothing at all?

Ugh. She hated herself for caring. For wanting to pull the quilt up around his shoulders and watch his eyelids flutter. Her insides were all knotted up, the tangles getting tighter with every bitter new thought.

When he did leave, wherever he was planning to go– would he be, like, happy?

Well, yeah. Probably he would be? In fact, he’d probably have the bestest, most fun time ever, running around doing all his murder and violence and degeneracy. Why did she keep forgetting about that? About how he was manipulative, and selfish, with the emotional maturity of a blueberry dumpling, and also– a vampire? The thing she was supposed to kill?

She wrinkled her nose and projected mercilessly onto his traitorous sleeping face. Yeah. The rage felt good, the way it sizzled in her bones. 

Except–

She also couldn’t help noticing, on some annoying pre-verbal level, that he looked super cute and helpless. His lips were parted a little and she kept thinking what it’d be like to stick her finger in his mouth.

Ugh. It was probably just because she was an orphan. Yeah, because orphans were sticky. They stuck to stuff. She’d heard, once, that baby monkeys in the wild who lost their moms sometimes ended up cuddling with rocks and other things like that, just because they didn’t want to be alone. So she was basically just like a sad baby monkey, hugging a rock. Except instead of a rock, it was her pesky vampire roommate. And instead of hugging, it was, well… stuff. Y’know. Miscellaneous et al.

Yup, that made sense. Lots and lots of sense. That explained why all these stupid ideas kept flitting through her head while she stared at him. Like kneeling down on the ground beside him and really gently kissing at the side of his slightly open mouth. Or clambering up over him on his squished bed, putting his head on her chest, having him put his–

Buffy cavorted in place, almost yelped, when the cabin door suddenly swung open.

Giles popped his head in. “Uh, Buffy?”

“Yeah?!” Buffy wheezed, propping herself up guiltily on her elbows.

“Might I, uh. Show you something?” 

***

Deep down below the deck, the cargo bay was dust-filled and crowded as ever, but at least it was an outing. The bar was kind of low these days.

Buffy screwed up her face when Giles told her to close her eyes. The dead rat musk was particularly potent when she couldn’t see anything. “You know,” she said as she heard Giles rummage through some cases. “If you’re gonna kill me, I think Spike would be sad not to watch.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know when that day comes,” Giles said dryly.

The bag-rustling petered out, and Buffy felt him draw back closer to her.

“Well, go on, then,” Giles urged. “You can look.”
 
Buffy’s eyes snapped open. She looked down. Giles was holding his hands outstretched, a large knife laid across his palms. 

It was a pretty impressive-looking implement. The blade was long and curved, the steel glinting even in the murky light. The handle was made of that polished dark wood she didn’t know the name of, but knew was considered fancy by people who did.
 
Buffy blinked. “Is it for me?” she asked, lamely.
 
“Yes,” said Giles. He cleared his throat and glanced down shyly. “A slayer needs good weapons, after all. I had it made in the last village we passed. Seemed like a very, uh, reputable bladesmith.”
 
Buffy’s eyes lit up. “Giles!” She snatched the knife out of his hands, then flung her arms around him. “Thank you!” she muffled out against his shoulder, squeezing him hard and totally forgetting to heed what he'd told her about tamping down the slayer strength when in physical contact with people who weren't Spike.

Giles stiffened and edged away from the blade at his back. “Uh, yes. Careful there.”
 
Buffy quickly drew back, grinning apologetically. “Oops! Sorry.” She beamed, looking down at the knife again. Her index finger traced the curve of an indent in the handle, which she quickly realised formed the inscription of a B. 

Her heart soared and then dipped like a rollercoaster, leaving behind a faint nettling in her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, voice suddenly quiet. “Really, it’s… beautiful.” 

She hadn’t gotten many presents in her life. At least not since she could remember. Back at the orphanage, Willow and Xander had always cobbled together something to give her on birthdays and Christmas, but impoverished kids having limited resources and all, they hadn’t exactly been lavish offerings. They’d maybe managed a limp daisy chain, or – if Buffy was lucky – a half-bowl of grainy rice pudding, which had been something of an orphanage delicacy, despite the bile-ish texture. She’d never gotten anything as special as an engraved knife, made just for her. With her initials on it and all. Well, her initial, singular. It made her feel good. Like she was... somebody.

She had fuzzy-tinglies all over as they headed back, stooping up through the tiny stairwells and out onto the open deck. Inside the cabin, Spike was lying where she’d left him. He blinked awake lazily as the door flew open. Buffy was too excited to be quiet and anyway, it was just Spike. She immediately dropped down at the foot of his bunk and leant over him, pressing the knife’s spine up against his neck. 
 
His eyes snapped open wide and he squirmed like a worm, frenziedly kicking his legs out. “Oi! Watch it!”
 
“Look what I got,” Buffy said proudly, pulling back and running her palm across the knife handle. “Was a present from Giles.”
 
Spike sat halfway up with a grunt, eyes roving suspiciously over the knife.

“Think I’ll call him Baron von Pointy,” Buffy mused, twirling the newly christened baron in her hands. 

“Jeez. Favouritism, much?” Spike said. “I never get anything, and how many birthdays has it been?”
 
Buffy brandished the blade and raised her eyebrows at him twice in quick succession. “I’ll give you something,” she said. “If you ask real nice.”
 
“The knife was intended for slaying, Buffy,” Giles said, dragging the chair out from under the desk and sitting down. “Not for tormenting Spike.”
 
“Aww,” Buffy said, pouting. “Then what’s even the point?”
 
Spike rolled his eyes. “Ever thought about getting a hobby?”

Buffy turned to meet his glare. His face was scrunched up crankily, skin still wrinkled with pillow marks. It was a bit adorable, when he got all grouchy like this. She had the urge to reach over and pinch his cheeks. Which, in the old days, she would’ve gotten away with, so long as she’d followed it up with something more violent, like more knife threats.
 
She turned the handle of the blade over, fingers teasing near the point. “I thought killing things with weapons was your hobby?”
 
“Christ,” Spike grumbled. “I do other things, you know.”
 
Buffy side-eyed him. “I don’t think drinking and smoking count as hobbies.” 
 
“To be fair, he is very good at them,” Giles added.
 
“Didn’t mean that,” Spike said gruffly. "Used to, you know. Read and that. Write, sometimes.”
 
Buffy looked at him sceptically. 
 
“What? I did!” Spike said, voice shrill. “Read everything going. All the classics. Wrote, y’know, the odd poem.”
 
Buffy raised a brow. “Poetry? You?”
 
“Yes!” Spike flubbed.

Buffy just stared at him, lips quirking to the side.

“Not just some brainless mook, you know,” Spike mumbled.

“Aww. We know you’ve got a brain,” Buffy said. “It’s holding up real well, too, considering the extent of the damage.”

Spike snorted and violently slumped back down on his pillow. “Whatever,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “Run along, then, and play with your new toy.”

Buffy’s gaze lingered on him. She felt a pang of guilt, accompanied by an impulse to lean towards him and put a hand on his leg or something.

She pushed the thought down, instead forcing a bright smile.

“Thanks. I will!” she said. She jumped off the bed, knife held out in front of her. “Got imaginary things to stab.”

As she headed out of the cabin, she added over her shoulder, “Hey Spike, why don’t you read some imaginary books and write some imaginary poems while I’m gone?”

The door hammered closed behind her.

Spike shuffled unhappily in place.

Giles arched around to face him, tilting his glasses and peering at Spike from underneath.

“Well. Points for effort,” Giles said. “Appalling execution, however.”

Spike dug his nails hard into his pillow. “Would you ever just shut it?”

“You know, Spike,” Giles started thoughtfully. “You’ve never gotten me a birthday present either. Don’t recall as much as a card, even.”
 
“Gee, I wonder why,” Spike said sarcastically. “Oh yeah! Probably because you’re a stupid bloody git.”

He jerked around on the bed to face the wall.
 
Giles smirked back down at his book, then added, “Twelfth of November, if you’re interested.”
 
“Wouldn’t hold your breath.”

***

The training theatre is warm and brightly lit. Neat spirals of candles flicker in chandeliers, which dangle from the high ceilings.
 
From one end of the vast room to the other, people crowd together in small and big circles. Talking, drinking, clinking crystal glasses. Beneath the uneven swish of voices and occasional trills of laughter, music is playing, mostly unobtrusive, but occasionally making itself known with a jangle of percussion. 

Young girls dart through the sea of people, laughing, boisterous, butting roughly past anyone standing in their way.
 
Buffy is running, too. But the brown-haired girl she was chasing is gone. Disappeared, among the dense throngs of tall grown-ups. 

As Buffy skids to a halt, her eyes catch on the tall oil portraits that line the walls. Each one is of a young woman wearing steel shoulder guards and holding a stake pointed upwards. Their eyes, carefully rendered in oil, stare down gravely upon her. 

Buffy’s eyes flick to the blunt stake clutched in her own fist. 
 
After a moment she spins around, searching for that girl again, the one with the brown hair. Instead, she catches sight of a middle-aged couple who look deep in conversation. She bolts towards them without a second thought.
 
The couple turn their heads as she rushes over. The woman smiles. She has warm eyes, her honey-blonde hair pinned up in crisp curls. The man with her isn’t that old, but his hair is showing hints of grey, and he looks tired.
 
“Vampires, beware!” Buffy declares, wielding her stake high and beaming up at them.
 
The couple regard each other uneasily. The woman crouches down and reaches for Buffy’s free hand, which she manages to take in her own after just a crumb of resistance from Buffy.
 
“Please be careful with that, honey,” the woman says, forehead creasing as she looks Buffy straight in the eye. “It’s not a toy.”
 
“It’s just a fake one, mom,” Buffy says, a ‘duh’ implied as she looks down at the stake’s rounded tip. “I’m not strong enough yet anyway, to really fight.”
 
“Fighting is dangerous business, though, Buffy,” the man says over her mom’s shoulder. “You know that.”
 
Buffy looks up into their anxious faces. She falters briefly, but then her lips stretch into a crooked grin. “Not for me,” she says, eyeing her stake greedily.
 
“Buffy,” the man chastises.
 
“Dad, I’m going to be strong,” Buffy explains. “Super strong.”
 
Her parents exchange another concerned look.
 
“Being strong doesn’t make you invincible, you know,” her mom tells her in a familiar tone that makes Buffy roll her eyes.
 
“Ugh. I know,” she says.
 
Her mom’s lips tighten into a line, and she brushes a few strands of loose hair behind Buffy’s ears. 

“Just take care, okay?” she says, then kisses Buffy on the cheek. 

Buffy huffs and rubs off the spitty residue with her wrist. She hurries off without looking back, momentarily bouncing in sync with a happy uptick of violins. 

She catches sight of a few more girls her age huddled in the corner, whispering and giggling.

She raises her stake, preparing to charge the circle, but then something goes bang.

It's loud.
 
Buffy spins around, reeling back as another deafening clatter rings out, the sweet jingling of instruments shutting off abruptly.

Her ears crackle with aftershocks, and she finds herself coughing into swarms of dust, which seem to have sprung up out of nowhere.

There’s a half-moment of quiet, a ripple of murmurs and gasps, and then– 
 
Screams. 

The lights blink on and off, and the room is thrust into total darkness.
 
Suddenly, Buffy’s world is spinning on its axis. 

Her brain feels steeped in sludge, which stops her thinking properly, and for a flash she assumes she’s not conscious anymore. 

But then, the pitch-black gives way to dull, grey light. Everything is visible again, but washed out and shrouded in pale smoke. 

Buffy groans. She’s woozy and half-slips on the uneven ground beneath her, her knees scraping off the tiles, though it doesn’t really hurt. She just feels… sick.

As she looks at her hands splayed on the ground, everything is hazy, like she’s looking at it through a foggy window. She tries to straighten up, but her body is heavy and lagging. Like it’s not even hers anymore. 

The room is deathly silent.
 
“Mom? Dad?” she calls out, tumbling to her feet with a surge of effort. 

She squints and shields herself from the smoke muddying her vision and tries picking her way through it, stake still held tight in her fist.
 
“Mom?” she calls, more desperately. Her voice is wobbly and sounds distant even to her own ears. “Where are you?”
 
She can’t see much, until the smoke starts to clear. 

Standing a few feet ahead of her, there’s a figure. A tall man, dressed entirely in black. 

After a few seconds, she can make out his face. For some reason, his sombre expression makes her skin crawl. 
 
In the distance, Buffy hears a rattling, high-pitched hum. It builds quickly, getting louder and louder until it reaches its crescendo in a scream. The screams multiply, ringing sharply in Buffy’s ears, so sharp it hurts. 

She tries to block her ears.
 
“Buffy! Buffy!” she hears, and she immediately drops her hands.
 
“Mom?” she manages to call out. She is so dizzy. Weak, like she’s fading away and, as she stumbles forth, the fading threatens to overtake her. But every time it gets too strong, that urge to surrender, she hears another shriek, and it calls her back to life.

She can’t see the man anymore, not in her field of vision, but somehow she senses he’s still there, just out of sight.
 
She takes another step forward, then shrinks back, letting out a small cry when she sees what’s in front of her. What she almost stepped into. 

The room has been torn in two, like the ground was ripped apart by an earthquake, and she’s standing right at the edge of a huge gaping hole.
 
Cries echo up from far below. “Buffy! Buffy!”
 
“Mom? Dad?” she croaks. 

She hears a hushed voice nearby and automatically swerves her head.
 
“Don’t think they can get out on their own,” Angelus says, humming. His hands are clasped behind his back, his coat pooling around him like a cloak. “I think you could still save them, though. If you get down there in time.”
 
Buffy turns back towards the chasm of blackness, looking helplessly at the stake in her hand. It looks more pointed at the tip than she remembers. 

She feels herself rocking back and forth. She strains to pull back, to not let herself fall into the abyss. 

She doesn’t know what’s down there.

Another scream. "Buffy!"
 
“You’re a slayer, right?” Angelus says over her shoulder, unnervingly close. His voice is loaded and her chest sputters with dread. “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”
 
Buffy inches towards the dark pit as the screams grow more shrill. She’s teetering over the side, almost falling.

But something keeps stopping her. 
 
“Time’s running out,” Angelus says, his voice surging with urgency. “Better jump now.”
 
“Buffy! Buffy!”
 
Buffy’s heart feels like it’s going to explode, and then somebody is grabbing her hard and– oh god– she’s falling.

She lets go. She’s falling.

***

“Buffy! Buffy!”
 
Buffy blinked furiously awake. 

Everything was blurred, and noisy, and harsh, and–

Spike was sitting right in front of her. His face was just a few inches from hers, completely out of focus, and he was shaking her shoulders hard.

It was colder here. Water flickered across her skin. 
 
“Buffy!” Spike blurted, again, and she realised it wasn’t the first time she’d heard him call her name. “Bloody hell!”
 
She stared, paralysed, into his wide eyes as rain slashed down viciously, running off either side of his head.

A shock of brilliant white light came and lit him up, and for an instant his eyes flashed bright with terror. Then the light was gone, and Spike’s face and the deck and sky were shadowed in navy again.
 
“What were you doing?!” Spike demanded, his chest heaving. “Walking the bloody plank?!”
 
Buffy couldn’t respond. She lifted her right hand weakly and found it empty, but bunched up in a tight fist, a dull ache in her knuckles.

She uncurled her fingers stiffly. Thunder rumbled, deep and rough, somewhere far away.
 
“It–it was him,” she managed faintly. “Angelus.”
 
“What?!” Spike looked around frantically. “Where?!”
 
Buffy shook her head. “No,” she spluttered, voice coming out wet. “It was a– a dream.” 

There was something tight coiled in the pit of her stomach, twisting sharply, clamouring for her attention. 

Spike shook her again, less fiercely, and started to chatter. “You were gonna jump!” he said, his eyes flaring wide. “You were about to jump overboard. Into the bloody sea!”
 
Buffy’s head was awhirl. Spike moving her made her feel queasy, but even after he’d stopped, she noticed the ship was rocking. For a few sickening breaths, the relentless swaying was unbearable.

“He-he told me to,” she said as soon as the ship had steadied slightly. Her face furrowed as she focused her gaze, trying to settle her stomach by staring blankly somewhere between Spike’s neck and chest. “He told me to jump.”
 
Spike said nothing, as if he was in shock, too.
 
Buffy’s voice broke. “To save them. My parents.”

In her blurred periphery, she could sense Spike’s face softening. Buffy looked back up and saw that his expression had shifted from startled rage into something else. His eyes narrowed gently, a bit like how her mom’s had.
 
“Wasn’t real, love,” Spike said breathlessly, squeezing her shoulders. “Was a nightmare. You were sleepwalking.”

Buffy shook her head desperately and rasped, “No, no.” She wanted to make him understand, but forming thoughts, having to explain them – it was all too much. Her fingers grasped at his arms, at the drenched shirt clinging to his skin.
 
“It was real,” she said. “I remember.”

Spike watched her carefully, his features rearranging slightly.

“I saw it,” Buffy whispered. “I saw everything. The manor.” 

She could feel her heart, suddenly realised it was barrelling hard, and the memory of piercing screams pulsed in her ears.

Then came a stabbing pressure in her chest. Fresh panic seized her. Distantly, she felt Spike’s fingers pressing into the back of her neck and heard him saying, “Hey. Hey.”

“He–he said I could save them,” Buffy said, fear convulsing up from her centre, making her voice warble. “If I’d gone down there. Maybe–”

Something flickered across Spike’s face. “Buffy. You’re alright,” he tried. 

Buffy’s eyes went big and round. She wrenched frantically in Spike’s grip as she stammered out words. “But I could’ve– it was–”

She felt resistance in her neck and realised her face was cupped in Spike’s hands. He was trying to steer her back to centre. 

“Buffy. Look at me.”

“I was too scared,” she said, half-wailing. “I think– I should’ve–”

“Buffy,” Spike said, louder. “Love? Look at me.”
 
Buffy stilled slightly. Echoes from the manor kept juddering through her, but she tried to focus on Spike’s eyes. She screeched out a small, painful breath. 

Spike’s palms were curved round her jaw. “You’re alright, love,” he said, brushing his thumbs over her temples. “You’re safe now. It’s over.”
  
Buffy gasped for air through a dry sob as Spike pulled her towards him. “That was them,” she choked out, burying her face into his chest, her hands scrunching up his damp nightshirt. “It was really them. My parents.” The tears came fast, warming her face before they dried in patches on her cheeks. She could feel her nose streaming too, sticky and uncomfortable.

Spike made quiet hushing sounds, crushing her to him so tight it hurt. The pressure felt good. It sort of blocked out all the other stuff, anchored her heart inside of her even while it hammered. Made her feel like somebody else wanted her here so badly that they wouldn’t let her slip away again, even if she tried to go.

“It was real, Spike,” she muffled into him. “I remember.”

“Know it was. Wasn’t happening now, though. Promise,” he said, pressing his fingers into her scalp. “You’ve been here all along, with us.”

Buffy burrowed harder into him, straining the fabric of his shirt with her fists. “Just felt so real.”
 
“What’s going on?” 
 
Buffy snapped her head up at the sound of Giles’ voice. He was hurrying towards them through the rain, jacket pulled on haphazardly over his nightclothes.
 
“That wanker went and did a bloody spell on her,” Spike barked up at him, still clinging to Buffy for dear life. “Found her hanging off the edge of the bloody ship. Was about to jump, she was!”
 
“Good lord,” Giles stuttered. He squatted down beside them on the wet ground. “Buffy, are– are you okay?”
 
Buffy managed a meek nod.
 
“Bastard won’t let up,” Spike went on, hissing out the words and cradling Buffy’s head in his arms. “I’m gonna rip his neck clean off, Giles.”

Giles looked at Spike, his expression severe. “Let’s get her inside.”

Giles reached out to help Buffy to her feet. She unthinkingly took his hand and stood up, feeling a pang of loss for the safety of Spike’s chest, her body suddenly wobbly and adrift. She let Giles guide her back towards the cabin, spasms jolting through her and rattling her jaw with every few steps.

She realised for the first time, at least consciously, that her entire nightgown was soaked through, the lower half tracked with dirt. The wet clothes probably weren’t helping with the uncontrollable shivering, but she figured they probably weren’t the main cause either.
 
Spike clicked the door gently into its frame behind them, shutting out the roar of wind and rain. He bowed his head and pressed hard at the already-closed door with his palms.

“Gonna get what’s coming to him, he is,” he spat, more to himself than anyone else.
 
Giles ushered Buffy towards the bottom bunk. 

“I’m alright,” she said, not very convincingly, snivelling and wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.
 
“Heard the door going and woke up,” Spike started to say, pacing as he palmed his forehead. “Knew right away something was funny. Went outside and there she was, standing up on the bloody– thought I was too late, to tell you the truth… Christ.” He huffed out harshly.
 
Giles knelt down and placed a hand over Buffy’s knee. “What happened, Buffy?”
 
Buffy’s fingers clutched at her forearms. “I don’t know,” she said as Spike came and sat down beside her on the bed. 

“I– I was just asleep. I fell asleep,” she said, trying in vain to keep her voice steady. “And then, suddenly, I was back at… at the manor.”
 
Giles and Spike exchanged glances. Spike looked livid, his face twitching, like he was trying to not completely lose it.
 
“I–I think it… no. I know. It was a memory. From that night,” she said. She looked at Giles, lip quivering. “It was familiar.”
 
Spike picked up the bedsheets and wrapped them around her shoulders. 

“The party?” Giles asked hoarsely.

Buffy nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Everyone… everyone was there.”

She cleared her throat, feeling a hand rubbing gently at her back.

“And… him. He was there,” Buffy continued.

Giles swallowed. “Angelus?”

“Yeah. I know it was him,” Buffy said, and suddenly it registered that she’d had no real reason to assume, before he’d even uttered a single word, that the man had been Angelus. But she’d known it was. That it must be. “Everyone was happy, at first. My– my parents. They were there, too. But then–”

She bit her lip, trying to stop herself from whimpering. “Everything went dark, and they– they were all screaming and it was… it was awful.”

“Bloody right,” Spike muttered.

“He told me I could save them,” Buffy said. “If I jumped.”

Giles shifted his weight to his other leg. “Buffy, Angelus’ presence – it was only… within the dream?” he asked tentatively. “He didn’t suggest himself in, uh– any other way?”

Buffy shook her head. “No. He wasn’t here. It felt real, but–” she cut off suddenly, mewling and bringing a hand to her mouth. “God. He really killed them.”
 
Spike shot Giles a look. “Better stave off the interrogation till tomorrow, yeah? She’ll be in shock.” 
 
Giles nodded gravely. He got to his feet, then headed to the sideboard.
 
“I’m okay,” Buffy lied again, taking her hand away from her mouth and wringing it out. Spike fussed with the bedsheets, draping them across her legs. 

“I believe Spike is right. It sounds like Angelus cast something on you,” Giles said. He uncorked a glass bottle with a pop. “These kinds of mind-altering spells, they usually work best when the target it sleeping. In other words, when the mind is at its most vulnerable.” He tipped some amber liquor into a tumbler, then went on explaining, “The spellcaster can’t directly control your movements, but if the hallucination is vivid enough, well… It can coax you into doing something you wouldn’t otherwise do.”  
 
Buffy continued trying to rein in her breathing as Giles carried over the glass of whiskey.
 
“Drink this, pet,” Spike said, snatching the glass from Giles and handing it to her. “Will calm you down.”
 
Buffy unquestionably knocked it back, shuddering involuntarily as it burned down her throat.
 
“It’ll be alright, Buffy,” Giles said softly, looking down at her. “You won’t be so susceptible to a spell like that anymore. The mind naturally builds defences to such intrusions, once it becomes aware of them. Won’t be easy for Angelus to take hold of you again.”
 
“Yeah. Nothing can hurt you now,” Spike said, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. “We’re gonna take right good care of you.”
 
Buffy forced a thin smile. “Yeah. I’ll be fine,” she said quietly, but her face slipped again as she tilted her head up. “But– Giles…”

Giles urged her on silently with a nod.

“Do you think it could be true?” she asked in a whisper. “That… that I could’ve– that I could’ve helped?”

Honestly, she already knew the answer. Her body was still numb, wracked with tremors, mind reeling. But even in the short time since she’d woken up on deck, she’d managed to piece together, without really having to think about it, that something had been off about the dream. She was certain she’d seen something real, a true glimpse of her past, of her parents – but not all of it had made sense. The hole in the ground, the way everyone else had seemed to… vanish, suddenly. Angelus himself, just– just standing there…

But for some reason, she’d still wanted to ask.

Beside her, Spike immediately started shaking his head vehemently.

“Buffy,” Giles said, speaking slowly. “It was a trap. Set up to lure you into jumping. It… it sounds like Angelus used every resource in his arsenal to devise a compelling scenario. But… even our own true memories are usually distorted, to some extent. There’s really no accounting for what can happen when they’ve been deliberately tampered with.”

“Don’t let him mess with your head, love,” Spike added. “Bastard’s just playing mind tricks.”

Buffy nodded and pressed her lips together. “Okay. Thanks.”

Giles gave her a reassuring smile. “I promise you, we’ll go into greater detail tomorrow. Answer any… questions, you might have. And we’ll read up further. But, uh, for now, I’m quite certain there’s no imminent danger.”

Giles watched Buffy’s face, relieved to see that she seemed relatively mollified. The tears had slowed, and she wasn’t visibly trembling anymore. He stepped away, taking off his glasses to massage his eyes.

He leant a palm on the back of his chair and exhaled deeply. He hadn’t expected this. His mind raced, instinctively running back over everything he’d read about these kinds of spells, about Angelus, about which books might be useful, cursing the fact he’d had to leave so many behind at the manor–

He looked absently back over towards the bed. Buffy was resting her head on Spike’s shoulder and he, in turn, had an arm wrapped around her. Spike pulled her in a little closer to mumble something against her hair, which made Buffy huff out a tiny laugh, at the same time as she wiped her eyes with a palm. Giles saw her waver for the smallest of moments, then tentatively reach for Spike’s hand. Spike’s eyes flickered, but he took it without hesitation. Then he said something else, very quietly, and rubbed a thumb over Buffy's hand.

Giles turned away, clearing his throat as silently as he could. It had been some time since he’d had to contend with such a hectic flurry of thoughts. He took a few deliberate breaths, trying to quell the heaviness in his chest.

After a long moment of quiet, he spoke again. “Buffy. You should get some rest.”
 
Spike hummed in agreement. “I’ll stay up, keep an eye out. Just to be sure.”

“It’s okay,” Buffy said quickly, eyes following Spike as he stood up, her hand lingering briefly in his before letting go. “I’ll be fine. Really.” 
 
“Staying up anyway, aren’t I?” Spike said.

The air went hushed as they all respectively shuffled around the cabin. Spike wordlessly pressed a bundle of nightclothes into Buffy's hands. She blinked in confusion at first, then simply said, “Thanks."

When she'd put them on, the striped pants covered her feet and hung a bit too loose around her hips, but at least they were dry. 
 
“You, uh, just let us know if you need anything,” Giles said as he climbed into his bunk. “Alright?”
 
Buffy smiled wanly as she lay down. She huddled up into her pillow. “I will.” 
 
“Goodnight, then,” Giles said, tugging the light cord off.

The room fell into darkness.

Spike dragged the chair out from under the desk and positioned it near Buffy’s bed. He swung a leg over his knees and folded his arms, his gaze falling on Buffy, who was turned over and facing the wall. Least he had some good mental fodder to see him through the night. Specifically, conjuring up tailor-made ways to exact bloody retribution on Angelus. The anger had simmered down a touch, but it’d come back again, Spike was sure.

He rearranged his legs, eyes tracing Buffy’s outline under the sheets, which were dimly lit by a few shards of moonlight. Even he wasn’t able to see very clearly in this light, but still he could make out her hair, sandy-gold and bedraggled from rain, spilling over the sheets. Could see she was curled up tight, arms clasped protectively around her middle. 

Made his insides go hollow somehow, seeing her like that. He raked a hand through his hair. God, he just wanted to go to her. Not sit over here, useless, on this bloody chair. She might– she might not feel like she had to take care of herself so much, if he could do it for her. Even just for tonight.

He knew he wouldn’t do it. Knew he’d leave her be. But he couldn’t help wondering if she’d let him.

Spike swallowed. She might.
 
His chest gave a hiccup when he heard her stirring. The mattress murmured under her weight as she twisted over on her side.

“Spike?” she whispered. 
 
Spike tensed. “Yeah?”
 
Buffy hesitated, then asked quietly, “Are you going to just… you know. Sit there and watch me?” She paused. “Like, all night?”
 
“No,” Spike said huskily. He automatically adjusted his eyeline, but not by much. Just a few degrees, so that he wasn’t staring straight at her anymore. “Looking the other way, aren’t I?”
 
Buffy’s sheets rustled faintly. “Right. Thanks.”

Even in the dark, out of the corner of his eye, Spike could tell she was smiling a little.

“Night, then.”
 
“Yeah. Night.”

***

The sky was an unremarkable grey-blue the next morning, with spindly clouds you wouldn’t usually bother to notice, if it weren’t for the stark contrast to the night before.

Buffy’s eyes grappled a little with the fresh light when she walked out onto the deck, mostly because they were still so crusty with sleep.

Giles’ face softened sympathetically when he turned around and caught sight of her, which made her feel mildly embarrassed. It wasn’t exactly fun, being the object of pity. She didn’t want to seem frail, even if she knew she probably looked it right now.

“How are you feeling?” Giles asked.

Buffy joined him at the ship’s edge. She gave a shrug, then leant her elbows over the timber barrier. 

“Strange,” she said simply.
  
“I can imagine.”

Buffy sighed. She sensed Giles waiting for her to say more and so, without preamble, she asked, “Does this mean he’s definitely still alive? Angelus?”

Giles stilled. “Yes. I assume so.”

Buffy’s heart sank. She’d known it, obviously. It didn’t make much sense that Angelus could think up elaborate dream-traps from beyond the dusty grave. But knowing he was almost certainly following her, filing through her weaknesses and trying to kill her in calculating, underhand ways– well. It wasn’t the best start to the morning.

“How did he find me?” she asked.

Giles shook his head. “Well. It’s still not obvious that he knows where you are, as such,” he said. “My guess is that there’s some way to track the slayer powers, so he can locate those magically. Perhaps with some kind of spell. But it doesn’t mean he can, uh, map your exact physical location.”
 
“So you think it’s safe, then? Just being here?”
 
“We’ll keep a close eye, but, uh, the fact that we haven’t encountered him in his physical presence would bode well,” Giles said. “I assume he’s shooting in the dark to a large extent.”
 
Buffy made a face and said wryly, “I dunno. I mean, he’s got this big secret vault of memories to work with. Memories even I can’t remember. I’d say he’s pretty good, ammo-wise.”

Giles’ face furrowed thoughtfully. “Well. Yes, and no,” he said. “Recent events do, uh… point to the strong likelihood that he had something to do with your memory loss. And by being aware of the cause, he can potentially better manipulate your, ah, access to them.”

Buffy’s stomach turned over. It was bad enough being targeted, but knowing Angelus had some kind of hold over her thoughts, that he’d stripped something so deeply personal from her and could use it against her– it was another level of violation. Her muscles tensed with fresh whispers of anger.

“But the memories are still yours,” Giles went on. “I can't imagine any way that he could parse through them and extract information. Even when memories are taken away, it’s not possible for the perpetrator to simply, ah… watch them on a reel, like at a picture house.”

Buffy felt a twinge of relief, at the prospect that, at least, Angelus wasn’t all-powerful. That he had limits.

She considered it for a moment. 

“But then how did he do it?” she asked. “How did he, you know, make me remember exactly the thing he wanted me to?”

“Well. Obviously I can’t be sure of the precise mechanism,” Giles said, stroking his chin. “But I imagine he must have used… a trigger, of some sort. Essentially, something that provoked you into accessing your own memory of the night, but without having full control of what you would see.”

Buffy looked up at him. “A trigger?”

“Yes,” Giles said. “Could be anything. An image, a word. A scent, perhaps. Something he suspected would take you back to that moment. I would surmise that the fact Angelus himself was present that evening – waiting in the wings, presumably – made it the obvious choice. It's probably the one instance he could have prompted you to recall with any reliability, seeing as it’s the only time you were both in the same place at the same time.”

Buffy’s fingers tightened on the wooden barrier, images from the dream flashing uncomfortably through her head. She could still remember everything, all the details, but while they’d felt so vivid, so real, the night before, now they seemed distant, like something she’d just read in a book. 

The golden glow of the hall, the severe young women in the oil paintings, the way her mom’s face had sagged… 

“They were playing music,” Buffy said quietly, as soon as she'd thought it. The vague, merry jingle-jangle of the band reverberated around her head.

The colour in Giles’ face seemed to drain instantly, like memories were also flashing across his eyes.

Of course. He’d been there that night, too.

After a moment, he said quietly, “Angelus can be... profoundly scheming, when he wants to be.”

“Great,” Buffy said bitterly. “Uber evil and smart. What a killer combo. Literally.”

Giles angled to meet her eyes. “We’ll beat him, Buffy. I promise you.”
 
“No,” Buffy corrected on impulse, inhaling deeply and looking at Giles with determination. “I will. I’ll beat him.”
 
Giles’ face broke into a smile. “I don’t doubt it.”

“I think… I think I noticed something was strange,” Buffy started again, homing in on the pale blue waves rippling lazily below them. “Even though it felt so real, at some point, it all went… fuzzy. Like I wasn’t really there anymore, and nothing made sense.”

Giles eyed her curiously.

“I didn’t get it, at the time, but I think… I think that’s why I didn’t just jump,” she said.  “Even though I could hear them. My… parents. Calling me. At first, when I woke up, I thought I’d just been… too scared, or something, to jump. But–”

She paused, fingers fumbling over a steel bolt in the wood. “I think I would’ve. If I’d really believed it. I’m… kind of dumb like that."

She smiled crookedly. “I don’t usually, y’know, look so hard before I leap. But I had this sense, all of a sudden, that I should be on guard.”

Giles nodded, looking away from her to survey the ocean. His lips were twitching, and Buffy felt this rush of pride, like– like maybe he thought she’d done good.

“It’s rather heartening to know that even in a crisis, your cognitive self-awareness remains so keen,” he said after a pause. “It may have saved your life.”

Buffy shrugged, but there was a playful edge to her voice now. “Well. I guess Spike did help.”

“Let’s consider it a joint effort, shall we?” 

Buffy bit her lip. “Giles, what about the other memories?” she asked. “Do you think… do you think I could get them back?” 

Giles bristled, the way he often did before delivering bad news. “Memory spells are… complex and intricate, Buffy,” he said. “And your memories have been gone for a long time. It’s hard to say if they could ever be… completely recalled. Even if Angelus wanted to return them, it’s not certain that he could, at least not in their entirety.” 
  
Buffy felt the base of her eyes stinging with hot tears. She remembered the golden sheen of her mother’s hair, the soft creases of her face. The way she’d kissed her cheek so– so casually. As if it was something she did all the time.

Buffy hadn’t even liked it at the time. Her gut wrenched with the unfairness of it all.

“It was a nightmare,” she said quietly. “But it felt… good, too. To see them. My parents.”
 
“Yes,” Giles said softly. “Naturally.”
 
“He didn’t just kill them,” Buffy said, voice still low but taking on a fierce edge. “He took everything. I can’t even remember them.”
 
Giles laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll do everything in our power, Buffy. No matter what it takes.”

Buffy looked at him. Her entire body was still wrought, thoughts bustling stubbornly even against the strain of exhaustion, but somehow, the look in his eyes, the certainty in his voice– it brought with it this blanket of calm, slightly dulling all that was sharp.
   
For a few minutes, they stood in silence. Buffy’s eyes followed the soft rhythm of the ocean, and she let her mind temporarily tune out all the honking inside, to focus instead on the steady tinkling of waves. She needed it, the brief interval of peace, but– 

Her heart kept twinging, threatening to rupture, to leak uneasiness through her veins. She'd been wanting to ask something else. Felt ashamed of herself for how often she'd thought of it, last night as she'd drifted in and out of sleep, and this morning when she'd laid on her bunk.
 
“Uh. Giles?” she asked, eventually, fidgeting with the ends of her fingers. 
 
Giles stirred. “Yes?”
 
“Um. Angelus’ curse,” she said, without looking up. “The one on Spike, I mean.”
 
Giles hummed and looked at her expectantly.
 
Buffy started stuttering nervously. “Uh, well, if I– I mean, if I–” She took a deep breath, then restarted the sentence. “If Angelus dies,” she said, more steadily. “Would it break Spike’s curse, too?”

She could still feel it, the way he’d held her. The ghost of his arms around her made her warm, and shaky, and sick.

The whole night, she'd been hyperconscious of the fact he'd been sitting there, just a few feet away from her. At first it had weighed heavily on her, how she couldn't ignore the magnetic pull that filled the space between them. She'd felt so depleted it'd been harder than usual not to succumb to it, not to reach out and pull him closer.

Even after she'd initially managed to nod off, she had woken up a lot with her heart pounding, and in her sleep-addled state had found herself automatically glancing over to check Spike was still there. He never said anything, just nodded or smiled faintly in the fuzzy dark, which had pacified her enough to fall back asleep. At one point the chair had been empty, lonely and backlit by the soft glow of a lantern, and Buffy's chest had immediately sparked with panic– but then she'd sensed movement, and seen Spike sitting on the floor, leaning back against the foot of her bunk, reading. He'd turned around right away, murmured something – "Alright, love?", she imagined, but she couldn't actually remember – and then, without responding, she'd turned over and drifted off again.

Buffy was familiar with the irony of it, though it was out in extra-sharp relief this morning. Angelus was a monster. He'd taken everything from her, and yet he still wanted more, unflinching as he was in the pursuit of his savage cause. But she'd sought comfort in a vampire all the same. Yearned for it. Wanted to give away even more of herself to him than she already had.

Buffy's skin itched. She wondered what her parents would think, if they knew the sort of stuff that was preoccupying her mind at a time like this. What Giles must be thinking. It was only thanks to Angelus that Spike was even here. He'd been trying to hurt Spike, the same way he'd hurt her. It was the only reason– or, at least, maybe it was the only reason, that Spike wasn't doing the same himself.

The thought made Buffy's veins run cold. He'd held her so sweetly.

Not surprisingly, Giles seemed taken off guard by her question. It looked like the lines in his face didn’t know which way to settle. “Uh, well. That… can sometimes happen,” he said, swallowing. “That a curse is broken, when the person who casts it dies. Though it’s, uh, not a general rule.”

Buffy remained still, while Giles shuffled in place. 

“But there’s no particular reason to think it would be the case here,” Giles went on. “In fact, uh… I’m quite certain it’s not.”

Buffy nodded and looked down. “Right.”

There was a loaded silence.
 
“What, uh, made you think of that?” Giles asked. “Did you, uh… read something about curses being broken in that way?”
 
Buffy shook her head, tilting her gaze up towards the horizon, to the faint splash of sunlight that made the water underneath glow whiter than the rest. “No,” she said. “It was just… just a thought I had.”

Chapter Text

Spike kicked hard at the wall underneath the desk. The cabin floorboards screeched as he pushed back in his chair.

“There’s sod all about Angelus in here,” he barked at Giles. “Been trawling through these bloody books for days now.”
 
Giles, also perched over a book, sipped his tea without looking up. “We’ll stumble upon something, eventually.”

Spike slammed his own book shut, which almost made it bounce off the desk. “These books aren’t worth a toss." He leapt up and shoved his chair in with a clatter. “Bleedin’ useless, they are.”

His nerves were stretched dangerously thin. Come to think of it, he reckoned they’d just snapped altogether. He could barely sleep these days. Was constantly dreaming he heard the door opening– kept shaking awake at the faintest rattle. Of course, when it actually was the door, it was always just the other two popping in and out. Gallivanting about without a bother, like there wasn’t a deranged nutsack whirling curses at them as they slept.

Spike didn’t even know where Buffy was now. He suspected she was flouncing off just to spite him at this point. She kept getting shirty when he asked where she was going, as if he was just being a prat for the sake of it, trying to… control her or whatever. Which, alright, in fairness, there may have been some precedent for, but– obviously, obviously, he was just trying to make sure she didn’t end up alone and hankering for another late-night, hypnosis-fuelled dip.

Guess there wasn’t an easy way round it. He couldn’t exactly keep her tied up and bound to the bed, much as he’d like to. 

He tried not to get too distracted by the thought.

Giles reluctantly looked up from his reading. “I know you’re upset,” he told Spike placatingly. “But let’s try to restrain ourselves around the books, shall we?”
 
Spike clenched a fist. “I’m not upset.”
 
“No,” said Giles, a sigh implied. “You’re not at all tetchy.”
 
Spike dropped down on his bunk, jittering like live wire. “Well. We won’t be getting a penny if the girl bloody well jumps overboard, will we?”
 
Giles leant back in his chair and folded his arms. “Ah, yes," he said. "I’m sure that’s all it is. Couldn’t possibly be any personal sentiment involved.”
 
Spike bowed his head and covered his eyes. His fingers worried at his brows. “Yeah, well,” he said, a bit muffled. “What of it? I’m… fond of the girl, alright. Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever the opposite is. It’s normal, innit? It’s, only, you know…”
 
“Human?” Giles suggested. He gave Spike one of his snooty know-it-all looks from underneath his glasses. 
 
“Whatever you wanna call it,” Spike said quietly. His hands fell into his lap and he glanced sidelong away from Giles’ gaze. “But… trust me,” he went on. “As soon as I get that money, I’ll be off quick as a whip, yeah? Before she gets all… y’know, institutionalised and stakes me herself.”
 
Giles sighed, loud and frustrated. “Lord give me strength,” he said through clenched teeth. “This has… this has gotten out of hand. Would you two ever just…” His voice strained as he scrabbled for words. “Would you not just, I don’t know. Kiss her, or something?”
 
Spike’s eyes peeled open, and he shrank back with an incredulous laugh.

“What are you– what?!” he guffawed manically. “As if– like I’d–” He cut off abruptly and cleared his throat. “So. Uh. You reckon that’d work, then?” He scratched the back of his neck. “Wouldn’t be better to, I dunno – take her for dinner or that first?” 

Giles slumped in his chair, defeated. He supposed he should be used to it by now, the absurdity of his life, and yet it never ceased to surprise him. 

God, he really should never have left England in the first place. Life would probably have turned out a lot more simply. For starters, he wouldn’t have had to suffer through a vicious massacre that’d wiped out his livelihood and most of his friends. Then, he wouldn’t have had to spend the subsequent years pillaging rubbish bins in below-freezing temperatures, all through the long and unforgiving St. Petersburg winters. And then, he wouldn’t have had to– well. He shuddered. Fortunately, he’d managed to mostly repress quite a few of the other things he’d had to do.

Mostly.

The original point still stood. If he hadn’t left England, he almost certainly wouldn’t be sitting here, having to contend with–

He arched around apprehensively and was met with Spike’s wide eyes, gaping helplessly at him from across the room. 

Giles shook his head pleadingly, in much the same way people do when they realise they're about to be summarily executed. “I don’t know, Spike." He held up his hands in a desperate bid to shield himself from further involvement. “But I don’t think– I don’t think I can handle this any longer. It’s time that you both, well… got a goddamn grip.” 

Spike let out a deep breath, like he’d just been told devastating news and didn't know how to proceed. “Yeah. Right.” He rubbed the side of his mouth anxiously. “What about flowers?” he asked suddenly as he stared down at the ground. “But no– no. Not really grand enough a gesture, at this point, is it? Needs to be something– something bigger.”

He rose from his bunk and started to pace, arms behind his back.

Giles said with exactly zero conviction, “I’m… I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“It’s all gone to hell,” Spike said, still talking to the floor, face furrowed with deep concentration. “Mucked it up– makes it harder to come back from, y’know? Can’t even take her anywhere, seeing as we’re stuck inside this poxy wooden box. Not exactly romantic down in the bleedin’ cargo decks, is it? It’d be easier if I hadn’t bottled it before, obviously…” 

Something tight and potentially ferocious stirred in Spike’s chest. God. It was just typical of him, wasn’t it? To take something so good, that’d been practically served up on a silver platter, and somehow, somehow, still make an absolute shambles of it. 

On the one hand, it was hardly surprising. Things he touched tended to turn to ashes. But that was the whole goddamn irony – because he hadn’t touched her, had he?! Very distinctly hadn’t, as a matter of fact. Repeated elaborate fantasies not withstanding, obviously. 

He must be radioactive or something. Proximity alone was clearly enough to contaminate everything around him. 

Well, there was no getting away from it now. He could already feel himself being crushed beneath the looming inevitability of– whatever happened next. Something was about to give. Felt like he’d finally been kicked out of his craven little purgatory and was teetering on the precipice between heaven and hell. Bound to end up in one, no matter what.

He’d wanted her all along, of course. But he was used to wanting things he couldn’t have. Had crossed the Rubicon of want miles back, countries probably.

But it’d morphed into something else altogether now. Something more dangerous, more insidious. She’d eaten into him. Calcified herself on his bones, gotten inside every little crack. Didn’t even matter, in a way, what happened between them anymore. She was stuck there, and he was stuck caring so much it’d eventually rend him through, even if he ended up watching from the window.

As always, it was that unwieldy, unbeating heart of his that’d buggered him. He wondered sometimes if it was some kind of oversight; a glitch. If maybe when he’d been turned, the demon had forgotten to scrape everything out properly.

But maybe that was the point. That once you got a bit of demon in you, you had two choices: shack up with the devil or get burnt. Channel your passion into brutality and let the world pay the price, or else suffocate for an eternity under the weight of your own impossible desire, feel it grow deeper and more desperate inside of you, all while watching the thing you want get further out of reach.

Spike prickled. He wasn’t sure he was cut out for either. Always found himself wobbling, in the end. Like a good old-fashioned coward.

He took a harsh breath, then looked back up at Giles. “So. It’s a definite no to the flowers, then?”

Giles stared blankly at him. “You’re asking me? I mean. Seriously?”
 
“God. You’re right,” Spike muttered. He shook his head mournfully and his eyes blew wide. “Never thought I’d sink so low.” 

“At least you know how to sell yourself,” Giles said sourly. “I’m sure she’d find this little display irresistible.”

Spike’s demeanour flipped like a switch. As if he’d graduated from problem-solving mode and moved directly on to raw despair. 

He groaned from deep in his lungs, then turned to smash his head against the upper bunk. 
 
“Look. It’ll be okay,” Giles tried feebly. He fumbled with his glasses. “Just… you know. Be yourself.”

Spike rotated to blink slowly at him in disbelief.

“Well, you know,” Giles said with a wince. “The, uh, good parts.”

Spike smacked himself in the forehead. “Bloody hell. It’s hopeless.”

“No. No,” Giles said emphatically. He met Spike’s panic-stricken eyes and shook his head. “Not entirely.”

“Just stake me." Spike sagged dramatically against the bunk. “Bloody well stake me and get it over with.”

Giles wheeled around in his chair. “Oh, pull yourself together, would you?!”

Spike flinched like he’d been slapped. His expression hardened, and he straightened up. “Right. Yeah.”

“Not going to get anywhere with that attitude."

Spike shook out his shoulders, the way he did when he was gearing up for a fight. “Yeah. Dead right.”

“Just. Go out there, and, you know. Be brave.”

Spike nodded firmly, gaze fixed determinedly on nowhere in particular.

Giles continued encouragingly, “I know you have it in you.”

Spike immediately nodded again, then screwed up his face and looked at Giles. “Really? You think?”

“Well. It’s the kind of thing people say, isn’t it.”

Spike scoffed. “Christ. Your support means a lot, y’know that?

Giles bristled. “Please, Spike, just… bloody well get it over with, would you?” His voice rose with an edge of desperation. “Put us all out of our misery.”

Spike exhaled hard. 

“Yeah. You’re right,” he said. His face settled resolutely as he sat back down on the bed. “Know you are. I mean– you’re a miserable old tight-arse, and you've been about as helpful as a sack of piss. But... I suppose a broken clock’s still right twice a day, innit."

***

Buffy drew in a final breath of clean-ish air before she skipped down the stairs to the dining hall. 

It was always dank and muggy down here, probably because of the cooking fumes and the excess sweat of all the big, burly crewmen. Not exactly the most appetising locale, but at least they didn’t serve mangled rat, or whatever it was Spike had tried to pass off as food before. Plus, the hall was always dimly lit, which made it harder to be too grossed out by what they were eating. Silver linings and all.

Giles and Spike had already snagged a table, a heaped plate ready and waiting for her. Buffy climbed onto the bench opposite them and asked cheerily, “What’re we having?”

Giles considered his own plate. “Uh. Seems to be sausages and soggy vegetables, with a side of soggy vegetables.”

Spike remained silent. He was staring morosely down at his food, pushing white-grey squish – maybe parsnip, in a former life – around with his fork. 

“Good thing I’m so hungry,” Buffy said with a grin. “Worked up a great appetite in training. Almost dusted Spike.”
 
Giles smiled politely at her. “Sounds like things are, uh… coming along nicely.”
 
“Uh huh." Buffy tried to eye Spike challengingly as she took a gulp of water.
 
Spike didn’t look up. “Pfft. Do me a lemon. Didn’t even come close.”
 
“Did so,” Buffy argued with a wave of her fork. “Gave him a nosebleed with my elbow and everything. You should’ve seen it, Giles.”
 
“I bloody well slipped!” Spike blurted.

Giles immediately threw him a look.
 
“But, um, no,” Spike corrected quickly. “It was very good. With the elbow. Yeah.”
 
Buffy popped a potato into her mouth and chomped happily. “I know.”
  
“Yeah. Yeah,” Spike went on, expression intensifying. He absently stabbed at some unfortunate beets with his fork as he spoke, impaling them repeatedly. “You always did do great, uh, elbow tricks. Never seen the likes.”
 
Buffy froze with a mouthful of food halfway to her mouth. “Huh?”
 
“You’re really good,” Spike repeated with a fervent nod. “With your elbows.”

Buffy eyed him suspiciously. 

“What’s wrong with you today?” she demanded, scrunching her nose. “You’ve been acting really weird all evening.”

Spike looked up at her. His face was blank for a moment, then suddenly turned stormy. He dropped his cutlery with a clatter.

“Oh! That’s bloody typical, that is,” he exclaimed. “As always, there’s something wrong with Spike."

His nostrils went dragon-like and his knuckles whitened as he dug his fingers into the table.

“Has anyone ‘round here ever stopped to think for one poncy second that maybe it’s not always me that’s the problem? No. ‘Course they haven’t! But sure, go ahead. Blame the vampire, what the hell. Easy targets, ain’t we.”

Buffy stared at him for a long moment.

“Giles?” she said worriedly. “I think… I think I broke him.”
 
Giles sighed. “Don’t worry, Buffy. He wasn’t all there to start with.”
 
“Hey!” Spike shot Giles a wounded look. “All I said was that she fought well!”
 
“And therein lies my concern." Buffy blinked at him like he was stupid. 
 
Spike clenched his teeth. “Bloody hell, woman, just– give it a rest, would you?!”
 
Buffy glanced from Spike to Giles, more confused than ever. Giles avoided her gaze as he patted his mouth uncomfortably with a napkin.
 
“Was just trying to be nice, is all,” Spike gritted out as he angrily sawed a sausage in half with his knife. The plate screeched sharply. “Get some atmosphere going. Keep morale up.”
 
Buffy sipped her drink. “Right. Uh. Well. Thanks, Spike.”

Everybody went quiet, though Spike’s use of cutlery remained aggressively loud. 

“So. Uh. Giles,” Buffy said with a swallow. “How’s… books?”

***

After dinner, Buffy sat near to the cabin window and watched as Spike chain-smoked out on deck. Nerves frizzled in her chest. All through dinner, the air had dripped with tension. She didn’t know why. At least, she couldn’t be sure.

“What’s up with him?” she asked Giles, falsely casual. “He’s even more shifty than usual.”
 
Giles took a gulp of wine without tearing his eyes away from his book, then said stiffly, “Why don’t you ask him?”
 
“Like he’d tell me,” Buffy said. She sighed and watched as a flicker of yellow outside signalled Spike lighting up yet another cigarette. “You saw him earlier, at dinner.”
 
Giles sighed. “Yes. Regrettably.”
 
“He’s wigging me out,” Buffy said. “What was that whole thing, about trying to be nice?” She gasped suddenly. “Hey, d’ya think maybe he’s been cursed again? Or like– maybe he’s going senile? Does that happen to vampire brains? Like, do they start rotting and going mouldy and–”
 
“Oh, for heaven’s sake." Giles shut his book with a violence he rarely directed towards literature. “You are both powerful, highly skilled warriors. You have evaded near-certain death on many occasions. Surely, surely, you can sort this one out by yourselves.”
 
“Jee–ez,” said Buffy, taken aback. “Talk about tension in the ranks this evening.”
 
“Yes, the perils of the road are evidently getting to us all,” Giles said dryly. He took off his glasses and pinched his eyes. “Just tired of being dragged into… into this. I’m trying to read my book, you understand? It’s a good book. Tolstoy himself, in fact. And I’d like to enjoy it in peace. And maybe even, god forbid, one day, talk about it. Talk about any book, really, or about the ballet, or the weather, or anything that isn’t you two, and your never-ending, insufferable–”
 
Buffy jumped to her feet and demanded hotly, “Our never-ending, insufferable what?!”
 
“Buffy." Giles breathed deeply. He tapped his glasses to his lips and managed to steady his voice before continuing. “Life is short. Trust me. So please, for the love of god. Go to him. Talk to him. Kill each other, for all I care. Just… please, spare me another second of this.”
 
Buffy hesitated. She lowered her gaze and scuffed her foot against the ground. “Talk to him?” she asked in a small voice. “You think?”
 
Giles dipped his head to massage his temples. “Yes. I think that’s what people do. Or so I’ve heard.”
  
“But Giles, he’s–” Buffy cut off. She glanced around like she was desperately looking for something, then stamped her foot down so hard she'd probably dented the floorboards. “You know him!” she whined. “This is Spike we’re talking about. He’s so– urgh, and gah, he’s just so–”

Giles tilted his head back and silently appealed to the heavens for mercy. What had he done to deserve this?

Okay, so perhaps he had, on occasion, tested the limits of… the more normative ethical models. But it had all been– well, he’d just been trying to survive. It’d been self-preservation! It seemed rather unjust to punish a man who was, after all, predominantly a victim of circumstance. It wasn’t as if he’d revelled in it… or at least, not as such. Of course one occasionally found the odd sliver of… satisfaction in a job well done, but merely as a means to, well, keep oneself afloat in the face of extreme adversity. Surely, essentially anyone would have derived a certain, well– not pleasure, exactly, but–

His thoughts were severed when Buffy spoke again.

“God, I just–” she’d started saying. Her head was buried in her hands, her words muffled by her splayed fingers. “I just– I can’t stand him, Giles.”

“Well. I do empathise,” Giles admitted.

“I mean. This makes no sense." Her voice climbed hysterically. “In fact, it makes the opposite of sense. It’s like… non-sense. Right?! It’s insane. Or maybe I’m insane. I don’t even– god, couldn’t you have picked an ugly cursed vampire?! Y’know, someone really short and covered in hives or something?”

Giles blinked at her. “I apologise. The selection was rather limited.”

Buffy groaned. “You’d think, at his age, he’d be more– you know. But he’s just this big fat coward,” she said, wheezing. “And he’s not even that funny, like, on purpose. He’s so embarrassing. Honestly, I’m embarrassed for him!”

Giles wished he had a paper bag for her to breathe into. 

“I mean– I don’t even like him that much!” 

“Well, why don’t you go tell him that?” Giles suggested. “You know. Air your grievances. Might clear the, uh… air.” 

Buffy considered it. "Maybe,” she said. She took a deep breath, then nodded. “Okay, yeah. Good idea.” She bit her lip and looked up at Giles, then froze like a cornered animal.
 
Giles made a shooing gesture with his hands. “Well, go on then!”

Buffy sighed heavily, but slowly shuffled towards the door.

“And Buffy?” Giles said. 

Buffy swivelled around hopefully.

“Please don’t come back,” Giles said grimly. “I don’t want to see either of you again until this has been resolved.” His eyes darkened almost threateningly. “Once and for all.”

Buffy’s face drooped again. She heaved the door open.

The wine went glug glug glug as Giles filled his glass to the brim.

***

Buffy shut the door quietly behind her. 

Spike was hunched over the ship’s rail, still smoking as he stared intently over the sea. She followed his eyeline towards the horizon. The sun was hidden, but Buffy could tell it was still there somewhere because the water was veiled faintly orange. It’d be dark soon, though.

Spike either hadn’t heard her come out or was pretending he hadn’t, because he didn’t turn around, not even when she stepped forward.

“Hi,” she said, a little too chipper to not be suspicious.
 
Spike looked over. “Hi,” he said gruffly. Then he abruptly straightened up, flicked his smoke to the ground and haphazardly stamped it out with a foot. “I mean, uh. Hi.”

Buffy’s dinner churned in her gut. The tang of diesel and salt in the air was more sick-making than usual. She tried to focus on the oakwood decking stretched out in front of her, but everything was fuzzy, as if she was tipsy. Which, on reflection, would've been a good shout. Damn it. Giles had probably downed all the wine by now.

Buffy took a final deep breath, then looked up. 

Spike was hovering awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. His shoulders curled slightly inwards like a bashful child. Buffy felt a little swell in her chest. She liked it when he did that. Usually happened after he’d done something nice and was embarrassed about it.

Spike coughed and remembered himself, then turned back to the ocean. 

Buffy tried to ignore her heart jumping all the way into her mouth. She sidled up to him and clasped her hands together over the barrier. “Whatcha’ up to?” 
 
Spike’s pupils darted back and forth, as if his mental cogs were kicking into high gear. “Uh. Nothing,” he said. “Just… Uh. Thinking.”
 
“Whatcha’ thinking about?” Buffy asked. She smiled and batted her eyelashes, the way very chill, nonchalant people do.

Oh boy. With the stomach gurgles. She tried not to wince.
 
“Uh,” Spike faltered as he angled back towards the ocean. “About the water and that. Yeah. Yeah. The water. Beautiful, innit?”
 
Buffy surveyed the waves. Dull grey, but rippling copper in the leftover light. The constant motion actually made her sort of queasy. “Uh huh. Sure is.”

Everything went silent, save for the swish of water.
 
“So…”
 
“So. How are you, then?” Spike tried, his tone ostensibly casual as he inclined further over the barrier.

“Me? I’m fine. Yup, all good in Buffyland,” Buffy said brightly. “Uh, and you?”
   
“Yeah,” Spike said. “I’m great.”
 
Buffy pursed her lips. “Great. That’s great.”

Spike gave a brief, awkward nod. 

Buffy rapped her fingers on the wooden rail. It made a sound like a low drumroll, as if she were trying to crank up the tension on purpose. She stopped abruptly. Which kinda just drew more attention to the resumed silence. Her fingers hovered uselessly.

In her defence, Spike wasn’t being very cool either. She was pretty sure she wasn’t imagining it, the way his lips were pressed tightly together, his body uncharacteristically still and plank-like. 

God, she thought. Giles was right. Life was short. Well, her life was, at least. So it was time for action. Bold, reckless action. She summoned her courage with a silent, shaky intake of air.

She inched closer to Spike, then brushed her pinky finger against his hand. For like, a whole second. Or at least three quarters of one. But clearly way too long to be an accident.
 
Spike didn’t respond, except that he possibly went even more rigid.

Almost immediately, Buffy threw her hands up and exclaimed, “Oh, come on!” 

Spike arched around and blinked at her.

“Like, hello?!” Buffy said, suddenly hyper-aware of her burning cheeks and flustered voice. “I’m–I’m trying here.”

Spike’s face contorted up. “But you’re acting all– all… weird.”
 
“Yeah, well– so are you!” 

She spun around and crossed her arms. “God. You know what? Whatever. I’m done. I don’t even– and anyway, Spike, you’re just– just so–”

Spike snorted and leapt upright, then cut her off defensively. “Yeah, well– so what if I am?!”

“What?!”

Spike’s eyes widened, and he huffed, “Well–”

But it was too late. Buffy didn’t wanna hear it. 

With a swift whoosh, a giant landslide of rage and resentment and general done-ness broke loose. Rampaging down the proverbial slope, unstoppable in its might. The pile had been mounting for way too long, and boy did it feel good to set it free. 

“But it’s not just one thing,” Buffy interrupted, scrambling to put the venom into words. “You’re actually a whole bunch of bad, annoying– things!” 

Spike pinched up his face like he was deeply offended.

“For one, you’re… mean!” Buffy spat. “And you’re always– with the games–”

Spike scoffed. “Well it takes two to play, love!”

“Yeah, but you’re– a grandmaster or something, whereas I’m, y’know–” 

“Oh, you just have a natural talent, is it?!”

Buffy clenched her fists. “I didn’t even wanna play! And I wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t so–” she cut off with a loud groan. “People have feelings, you know!”

“You don’t say?!” Spike drawled scathingly. “Must be why you’re always laughing in my face soon as I try saying anything sodding nice–”

Buffy squeaked in disbelief. “Yeah, well, what d’you expect?! Hard to take it seriously when you can’t even go five minutes without–”

“–could give a bloke a chance, but no, you’re always assuming the worst!” Spike was saying, making wild hand gestures to match his over-animated face. “Not easy, y’know, putting yourself out there only to get shot down–”

“–always with the mocking, and the snide remarks,” Buffy went on. She laughed mirthlessly. “Because of course, actually saying what you really feel, oh no, couldn’t possibly–”

“–winding me up like I’m some novelty toy! Get your kicks tormenting Spike, then toss him aside. Right back in the dirt where he belongs. Don’t exactly inspire confidence–”

“–all mixed signal-y, then expecting me to put up with it because, why?!” Buffy interrogated the floorboards. “Oh yeah! Because for some reason, I actually did! Over and over, even though–”

“–you’re thinking ‘oh, the lights are on’, but is anybody home?” Spike rolled his eyes. “No. ‘Course they’re not. Probably gone skiing in the back-arse of Siberia, not that they bothered to leave a note–”

“–and then, the moment anything gets real, you bolt. Like a rabbit! Actually, y’know what? That’s unfair to rabbits. I respect rabbits, whereas you–” 

Buffy cut off, startled, when Spike grabbed her shoulder, and spluttered on reflex, “Hey! Don’t–” 

He seized her hard. So hard, she briefly thought he might just throw her into the sea.

But then his face was suddenly really close. Their eyes locked.

Buffy hissed, “You’re just– you’re such a coward!” at the same time she realised he was gonna–

He kissed her.

God, she was angry. 

Spike was too. She could feel it in the way he wrestled her up against the barrier and slammed his face into hers. Hands blundered down her shoulders, finding her waist, his coarse breaths grating against her ears.

But Buffy was kissing him back. 

If you could call it that. It was more like fighting, the way she dragged her nails down his back and then clamped around him like a vice grip. 

But usually in fights, there weren’t– mouths, or faces, touching like this, and she couldn’t taste stale tobacco at the back of her throat. 

God. It felt so– raw. Almost obscene, the way his tongue was in her mouth. But she was still pissed. Her jaw was half-clenched, but apparently his was too, because her teeth knocked against his with a clack, then caught on his lip. 

Buffy yanked down his jacket collar, choking him a bit. Usually he’d yell at her for mishandling the leather, but he didn’t seem to care now. She wrenched at it even harder and angled him around. 

Spike stumbled but didn’t break contact. Not till she had him rammed up against the barrier. For a fraction, they were apart. She registered his eyes pulsing, like he was worried she was the one gonna throw him over. 

Buffy couldn’t blame him for thinking it. She did kinda want to.

Instead, she snatched a breath and leant back in. Spike readily took the bait, even as she tilted him over the edge, clinging to him desperately but still wanting him to feel the threat of it.

But it didn’t really work, at least not how it was intended. Which, well, figured. If anything, the tension was leaving him – or more aptly, one kind was replacing another. His hands weren’t jabbing into her sides anymore but sliding over her back, fingertips pressing impatiently at the cotton. He wasn’t any gentler, but his movements were less erratic and the rough drags of air came more steady.

Without warning, he forced her off him. “Wait– Buffy.”

Buffy staggered back a step, still clutching his jacket. The leather was starting to chafe her palms.

“Didn’t want it like this,” Spike rasped. “Not because– you’re angry.”

Buffy trembled out a breath. “I’m angry, alright,” she said, her voice fierce. She hesitated for a beat and levelled her eyes at him. “But… that’s not why.”

Spike’s expression was hard to read. Unsure, maybe. A bit surprised. Turned on, probably.

Buffy was breathing so hard her stomach hurt. The fiery rage still burned inside and it flared up again stubbornly. Who the hell did he think he was, always trying to call the shots?

When she kissed him again, he pulled her in even closer. She guessed what he’d wanted to say wasn’t that important anyway. 

He squeezed her almost possessively, trapped her in between his thighs. Buffy noticed with a pang how hard he was and she ground up against him on instinct. He moaned into her like she’d brushed against an open wound. The sound made her head rush, but also drove home, with a flicker of trepidation, just how fast the walls were crumbling. 

He'd pushed her away for so long. Refused to let her in. Denied wanting this. But not anymore. From the frenzied way he touched her and the noises he made, he seemed to want it quite a lot.

God. It made her hot and hungry and scared and–

They were also right in the middle of the deck, in plain sight of anyone passing by. She quickly batted the thought away.

Spike certainly didn’t care. Buffy inched him back crookedly, kept him on his toes, kinda literally, until his head smacked back against a brass pillar. He growled, but the whole thing just seemed to spur him on. His hands dipped down to sneak under the hem of her blouse and Buffy shivered. His palms were cool against the small of her back, and finally she let go of his jacket, a hitch in her breath as she slipped her fingers underneath instead. Her nails crunched into his shoulder blades for leverage as she arched up into him, and then–

Buffy tore away with a pant, catching herself before her brain shut down entirely.

“No, no– don’t,” Spike begged in a half-whisper as his fingers tried to squeeze her back closer. He pressed his mouth up against her jaw with a throaty whine. “Don’t wanna stop.”

Buffy gave a parched little laugh as she hastily straightened out her blouse. Her face burned. “Think– think we have to.”

Spike hummed against her cheek, and Buffy's stomach fluttered hard as the vibrations shot down her neck. “So, what do you reckon– should we chuck the old man overboard?” he murmured, fingers still boldly teasing at the bare skin above her skirt. “Get the cabin to ourselves?”

Buffy’s lips quirked. “Dunno,” she managed weakly, still trying to regain her breath. “Not sure we could take him.”

Spike drew back and slightly loosened his hold on her. It felt like a moment of truth – seeing each other properly for the first time. Buffy’s stomach dipped in anticipation and bottomed out with a free fall.

His eyes twinkled darkly, but the danger was gone. It was new, the way he looked at her. She’d seen glimpses of it before, maybe. But he never looked at her like this, without reservation, just because he wanted to. His lips were wet and slightly apart, jaw muscles twitching. Buffy wondered briefly what he was thinking.

She relaxed a little in his arms and brought her hands up to rest lightly over his collarbone. Her skin was almost tender with goosebumps. God, it was a relief. Being worked up and able to touch him without having to pretend she didn’t want to. She'd gotten a kick out of it sometimes, obviously. The thrill of the secrecy, the tip-toeing around all the unspoken stuff. But it still felt like a secret, only one they were both in on now. Still thrilling, but less lonely. 

Spike looked down shyly, then cleared his throat. The way he spoke was suddenly tentative. “So, uh– I was– looking for flowers and that," he said. "But you know, not really much growing up here on deck." His hands broke away from her as he rustled around the inside pocket of his jacket. He fished out a few curly sprigs of dried seaweed. “This was the best I could do. Bit, you know, uh…” He gave the fuzzy plant in his palm a flick with his finger and eyed it sceptically, as if it might pop into life. “Well, anyway. Here you go.”
 
The algae flopped into Buffy’s hand. She blinked.
 
“Um. It’s… uh. Thanks,” she said. She looked down at it. “It’s… very pretty. In like, a macabre way.”
 
“Yeah, well." Spike shrugged. “Got a reputation to maintain, don’t I.”
 
Buffy gingerly placed the seaweed down on the barrier, then dipped her head and let out a mean little cackle.

Spike stilled slightly as Buffy cupped her mouth to laugh properly.

“Sorry,” she murmured sheepishly. She cleared her throat to stop the giggles.

“Oi,” Spike chided, but when Buffy looked up, his eyes were rolling playfully.

“Sorry,” she said again. She scrunched up his shirt in her fists and tugged him a bit closer. “I mean, it’s just– you know. It’s a bit…”

“Yeah. Know,” Spike said. He bit his lip, eyes flickering around her face. His hair looked neon white against the brass pillar, one side of his face glowing yellow from the overhead lamps. “Just, uh. I wanted– wanted it to be right.”

Buffy frowned. “How d’you mean?”

Spike squeezed at her hips. “Buffy,” he said, as if she was being coy, even though she mostly wasn’t.

He looked at her intently, like he was going to say something, but then he seemed to think better of it.

He kissed her instead, except differently this time. No pushing and pulling, no jostling for dominance. His hands just held her close. No teeth, his mouth soft. Somehow, the way he was barely touching made her nerve endings spark up like kindling. 

She let herself sink deeper, felt along the curves of his arms and then over his chest. Wanted to slip her hands under the fabric, but his shirt was tucked in tight. Instead she lifted her fingers to brush his cheek and thumbed back the hair above his ear. He whimpered like she’d gut-punched him. 

It couldn’t last, because she was still pretty riled from before, and guessed he was too, from the way his hips started to shift restlessly against hers. She sensed he was trying– trying to be good, or something, to hold back, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“God,” he said when they drew apart, voice soft but strained. “Wanted to touch you for so long.”

Buffy half-smiled. “Yeah?”

Spike didn’t say anything. He was still looking at her, but not at her eyes, as he dragged a thumb over her cheek.

Then Buffy said, suddenly, “But then– why didn’t you?” 

Spike’s eyes jumped back up to hers guiltily. The lines in his face crinkled.

“I thought, maybe, you weren’t sure,” Buffy continued quickly as a flurry of nerves suddenly smacked her right in the chest. “And, I mean, it’s okay, if you’re not– but just, I’d prefer if you– y’know– just said what you–”

Spike looked at her like she was stupid. Then his expression shifted, probably because of whatever he saw in hers, and he curled his arms around her waist and he said, quickly, "Christ, no. S'not like that."

“So… why then?” Buffy asked. She chewed her lip and distracted her fingers with a button on his shirt. “Why the big hold-up?”

Spike huffed self-deprecatingly. “You know me. I’m a total prat.”

Buffy snorted. “Well, okay. Guess there’s that.”

Spike searched her eyes, then said huskily, "Was... complicated."

"Oh, really? 'Cos that never occurred to me."

Spike’s gaze drifted to the side. “Was… safer, somehow." He cleared his throat. “Knew I couldn’t take it if you– well, listen. It's bloody well too late now. So better stake me and get it over with, if this is it, and you’re just gonna hightail it off on me…”

Buffy smirked and pressed her foot down on the toe of his boot, just hard enough to smart. “I don’t think you should get away with it that easy.”

Spike’s eyebrows leapt up and he bit the side of his tongue. “Yeah. By all means. Deserve a bit of roughing up, I do.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and dug her thumbs into his ribs. “Nah. Clearly you’d enjoy that a bit too much.” She hesitated for a moment, then said quietly, “You hurt me, you know.”

Spike's voice was a sharp rasp. “Yeah. I do that.” He picked up her hands and gave them a squeeze, which felt a bit like a plea. “Have to understand, love. I thought– thought I must be dreaming.” He looked down at the space between them as his thumbs traced the lines of her palms. “Felt it, but– couldn’t let myself believe it.”

Buffy exhaled. It didn’t make it all go away. How stupid she’d felt, sometimes. Humiliated, even, when she'd let her guard down and he’d knowingly let her take the hit. But it did help a bit. To hear him say it, for once.

She butted her head against his chest like the horses sometimes used to, except her not being so giant, it didn’t almost knock him over. “Chicken,” she said into his shirt.

“Easy on the throttle, love." Spike pinched her sides. “Seem to remember you being fairly skittish yourself.”

Buffy hummed. “Just a bit.”

Spike cupped her jaw and tipped her chin up towards him. She lifted her head and smiled without really meaning to, a crooked little smile.

When she saw him, his face had changed. His eyes were shiny, but dead still.

“Let me try," he said, his voice wavering. “Promise, I’ll do everything– whatever I can, to make it up to you.” 

Buffy held her breath without meaning to. The sudden intensity in his gaze made her chest twinge. She couldn't quite read it, that look in his eyes.

“Just– please,” he said, or maybe begged. “Let me try.”

Chapter Text

The next afternoon, the desk had been dragged into the middle of the cabin floor and was plastered in dog-eared maps.

“What I suggest we do is disembark at Rotterdam, rather than Calais,” Giles was saying as he trailed his finger west along the European coast. “Of course, many of the connections here are probably obsolete at this point. This map–” he glanced at the fading stamp in the bottom corner, “–pre-dates the war by almost a decade. And, well, you know how enthusiastic countries have gotten about ‘industrialisation’ recently.” 

He shook his head and clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Honestly, it’s unfathomable to me how so many successive governments can fall into the same old trap. People really are just moths to a flame, aren’t they, when it comes to anything new and even slightly shiny.”

Giles paused and side-eyed Spike beadily. He was being uncharacteristically quiet.

Spike suddenly shifted in place, then said with suspicious zeal, “Oh, yeah. Yeah. Drives me absolutely bonkers, that.” 

When Giles just stared at him, Spike continued eagerly, “What’s it you used to always say? Not everything that glisters is gold?” He pursed his lips and nodded firmly. “Dead right. Usually turned out to be copper in the end, didn’t it? Though it was hard to tell sometimes, in the dark.”

Giles’ nostrils flared slightly, but he turned back to the map without comment.

Spike tried not to look too impressed with himself for wheedling out of that one. Old geezer never could resist a bit of brown-nosing, even when it was see-through as plastic. It was tragic, really, how desperate the poor chap was for any crumb of recognition.

“Anyway,” Giles continued. “I know Rotterdam isn’t as close to Paris as we’d hoped, but I still believe it’s the better option at this point. If our current pace is anything to go by, we’re looking at even more exorbitant delays.”

Giles could tell out of the corner of his eye that Spike wasn’t even looking at the map.

“Can you please pay attention?” Giles said impatiently. “We have some big decisions to make.”
 
Spike swivelled around and gave Giles an unnervingly earnest smile. “I’m listening.”
 
Giles’ jaw tightened, but he went on. “So. When we arrive at Rotterdam, it would probably be wise to make our way to Brussels. Likely via Antwerp, and from there, hopefully take a train to…” 
 
Spike flexed his fingers, then glanced down with a smirk. He was still not looking at the map.

Was too busy thinking about the night before, about this morning. About all of it. 

He’d barely been able to sleep, between keeping an ear out for more of Angelus’ tricks, and just generally being way too wound up. 

The zing of adrenaline was keeping him going, in lieu of the sleep. He’d been buzzing all day, ever since he woke up and realised the night before hadn’t been some crazed fever dream, because Buffy was still there, curled up in his arms. Warm and alive, hair spilled loose over his pillow, chest rising and falling with sleep.

When she eventually shuffled out of bed for breakfast, Spike jumped up like an overexcited kid and said he’d come too. He was usually too busy sleeping to bother with breakfast, but he didn’t feel like sleeping. Knew he was probably coming across a bit keen, but whatever. Couldn’t find it in himself to give a damn at this point.

He’d tossed his jacket over his head as they went to leave, then squashed Buffy into the corner between the door and the wall and reeled her into the dark with him.

“You’re incorrigible, you know,” she said. “You just can’t be– corridged.”

“Dead right." Spike edged her up against the doorframe with a thump. “Too much to get out of my system.”

It’d been kind of late when they’d stumbled down to the dining hall and the whole time they were eating, Giles looked like someone had pissed in his sauerkraut. 

Spike tried to ignore him. But Giles had a knack for being a total killjoy, so he’d managed to rope Spike into reviewing the bloody maps.

It was a truth universally acknowledged – at least between Spike and Buffy – that route planning with Giles was the absolute pits. Really brought out the pedant in the bloke, not that it needed much encouragement. He’d already clearly made up his mind anyway, and just wanted to yammer at someone about it, so it didn’t make a blind bit of difference if you listened or not. So Spike didn’t bother. 

Instead, he examined his fingernails, then let out an involuntary little sneer when he remembered last night, when he and Buffy had been huddled up on the steps at the bow, and she had–
 
“Oh, you’re pathetic.”

Spike looked up irritably. He’d just been getting to the good bit.

“Honestly. A vampire of your age,” Giles snapped. “Grow up.”
 
“I’m not even doing anything!”
 
“You’re practically giggling,” Giles said. “Like a schoolgirl.”
 
Spike arched a brow. “Oh, and suppose you won’t be, in Paris?” he said. His tongue poked out between his teeth. “What’s her name again? Dark-haired little something-or-other?”
 
“Oh, shut up. That was years ago. And just– shut up.” Giles folded his arms and leant back in his chair. “This is important. We still have quite a way to go.”
 
“Right. Yeah." Spike nodded. “Sorry ‘bout that, boss. You’re right.”

He hoped that would shut Giles up and he could go back to not paying a lick of attention, but the stupid blighter nattered on.
 
“And– I do hope you’re not forgetting your job here,” Giles said. His eyes flicked over to Spike and he dropped his voice. “To protect her.”
 
Spike blinked at him incredulously. “Uh, what exactly do you think I’ve been doing this whole time?”
 
“Well, you better keep it up,” Giles said. “I’d hate to be… disappointed.”
 
Spike sat up suddenly. “Uh, what’s this?! Giving me the bloody talk, are you, gramps?”
 
“Well. Yes, as a matter of fact,” Giles said. He cleared his throat, then said, more quietly. “She’s… she’s a very special girl, Spike. In more ways than one.”
 
Spike huffed and slumped back in his chair. “Christ. I’m not the only one she’s got wrapped around her little finger.”
 
“She doesn’t have anyone else,” Giles went on, more firmly. “And… well, for better or worse– she trusts you.”

Spike grunted, his eyes trailing the floorboards. “Yeah. ‘M really feeling the trust all round today.”

Giles’ expression tightened. “This isn’t a joke. I hope to god you know that.”

Spike bristled, straining not to make a face but looking petulant nonetheless.

“I’m serious." Giles decidedly met Spike’s gaze. “Hurt her, and you’ll be making an appointment with the end of my crossbow.”

Spike almost fell out of his chair. He’d seen that look before, but actually – surprisingly, really – rarely directed at him. Had always got a kick out of watching Giles do it, though. Meant he was really trying to show someone he meant business. 

Spike had to admit, it was decently effective.
 
“Jeez, watcher. Tough talk,” he spluttered. He squirmed slightly. “And what about me, hey?”

Giles’ eyes darted back to him.

“Well, Buffy’s no shrinking violet, is she?" Spike's voice cranked up. "What if she hurts me?”
 
Giles was quiet for a moment. He took off his glasses for a polish, then gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “Well. In that case, I suppose I wouldn’t be above giving her a stern talking-to.”

Spike kept his eyes on the floor, but relaxed his shoulders a bit.

“Right. Well, I’m glad we’ve got that cleared up,” Giles went on. He placed his palms flat on the desk. “Now. For the love of god. Would you please help me with the route?”
 
Spike inhaled, then slowly leant over to look down at the map.
 
***

Buffy slammed Spike up hard against the wall.

At this point, Spike reckoned he’d been bashed unabashedly into every single hard surface on the deck at least once. They’d probably all have vampire-shaped dents in them by the time they got off this bloody ship.
 
“Ugh. You’re not even trying,” Buffy complained.
 
Spike’s eyes twinkled at her. 
 
“C’mon,” Buffy urged, squeezing his throat all the way back. Spike grinned with teeth as he choked. “Put up a real fight.”

"Fine." Spike rolled his eyes, dug his nails into her waist and shoved her off. 

Buffy staggered, then came right back at him. She threw a few punches, making Spike hiss when one landed in his shoulder.

He snatched her wrist and yanked her round sharply till his arm was crushing into her ribs. Buffy stifled a cry and stumbled a bit when she managed to break loose, enough for Spike to swoop in and tumble them both down to the ground.

“You’re not even trying,” Spike mock-imitated as Buffy strained under his weight. He swung an arm around her neck, then pressed the side of her face down on the wooden decking.

Buffy croaked her disapproval as Spike peppered triumphant kisses down her jawline.
 
“Ugh. You’re getting my face all wet,” she protested, voice muffled from the way her mouth was squashed against the ground. “Like a slobbery dog.”
 
Spike gave a smug little hum. “Should’ve fought better then, shouldn’t you?” He leaned his palm harder into her as he scraped his teeth lightly over her pulse point. 

“Uh. Would you–” Buffy began hesitantly as she struggled to hoist her cheek a bit off the ground. “Would you… want to bite me, if you could?”
 
Spike went still.

“Not to hurt me,” Buffy added quickly. “Just, you know– for fun.”
 
Spike arched his eyebrows and blinked in surprise. “Damn right I would.”

“Really?” Buffy tilted her head up a little more against his palm. “How would you do it?” 
 
Spike’s hesitation was brief, but enough for Buffy to wriggle free and roll to her side. She squished her hand into his face, then pushed him over.

Spike thudded onto his back. “Oi,” he managed to gasp as Buffy pinned him down.
 
She inclined over him and shook her head disappointedly. “Boy. You’re just too easy.”

Spike groaned. “There’s something seriously wrong with you, y’know that?”

Buffy pulled her mouth to one side. “Yeah. Right back at you.”

Spike’s eyes flashed darkly. “You oughta be careful, you know,” he threatened. “Crying wolf like that. Manipulation ain’t a weapon should be wielded lightly.”

Buffy settled over him, then brought her hands up to knead gently at his shoulders. Her eyes were steely but glinting. “Don’t try to talk to me like I’m some stupid kid. You’re the one who needs to guard his weaknesses better.”

Spike hummed in resignation. “Yeah. Probably right.”

“Anyway, I’m just sharpening you up,” she teased. She dipped her face down closer to brush his nose. “Y’know. For real danger.”

Spike scoffed, which instantly made Buffy’s eyebrows jump.

“What?!” she demanded. “Don’t think you can learn anything from me?”

“Not that. Just that– you are the danger, love.”

Buffy’s face softened and she slid partially off him to the ground, even while Spike grabbed her to try keep her in place. Buffy pulled back harder and lifted him half up off the ground. She bit her lip and said, a little sheepishly, “Sorry. I know that was– kinda mean.”

“Yeah. The guilt’s eating away at you, I’m sure.”

Buffy smirked and bobbed her knees on top of him excitedly. “So, did I win?”

“Sure did." Spike jerked her towards him. “Outwitted me by a clear mile. Don’t see how I’ll ever come back from it.”
 
Buffy's face turned sceptical. She started to lean in closer for a kiss, then abruptly knocked him back and tugged away. “Nah." She started to roughly untangle from him. “Think I wanna win fair and square.”

Spike scrambled to catch her waist. “No, Buffy, please–” he pawed after her. “Aw, love, go on, just a minute– come on–” He tickled under her arm and she rebounded a little, but then slipped free and jumped to her feet with a cruel laugh.

Spike pouted up at her. 

Buffy shrugged. “Maybe if you fought better, you’d get what you want.”
  
Spike sighed as he clambered to his feet. “Truly the stuff of bloody nightmares, aren’t you?”
 
“Uh huh,” Buffy agreed. She squared up. “Okay. Ready?”

***

“As always, you’re being far too reckless,” Giles said. He shook his head. “You’ve completely thrown caution to the wind.”
  
Spike huffed as Giles slid his rook to the far end of the board.

“Bloody hell. I was winning before." Spike kicked at the wooden crate that served as a makeshift table and rattled the pieces. “Fine. I give up.” 
 
“Oh, don’t be a child,” Giles chided. “At least fight it out to the end. Give me the satisfaction.”
 
Spike reluctantly moved his king over a square. “Almost had you back there, in the corner.”
 
“It was a decent attack,” Giles conceded. “But how many times do I need to remind you to guard your back rank?”

Buffy ambled up to them, then dropped down on the ground. “Ooh. Who’s winning?”
 
“I am,” Giles said immediately.
 
Spike crossed his arms. “Yeah. He’s very gracious about it and all.”
 
“Fancy a game, Buffy?” Giles asked.
 
“Nah," she said. "I’m more with the brawny. Not so much the brainy.”
 
“Well, chess is an excellent exercise in strategy,” Giles said. “Trains the mind, you know. To become more confident in your decision-making. To balance attack and defence.”
 
Spike rolled his eyes. 
 
Buffy pouted. “Can’t I just beat things up? It’s more fun.”
 
Giles sighed. “Fine.” He caught sight of Spike, who was looking at Buffy with awe, like she were an incandescent bloody angel who’d just descended from on high.
  
“Right… well– there’s no sport left in this." Giles eyed the chessboard and stood up. “I’m going to, uh. Make some tea.”

Buffy climbed into Spike’s lap as Giles skulked off.
 
“I let him win, you know,” Spike said.
 
“Mmm. I’m sure,” Buffy said as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Like how you always let me win in fights?”
 
“Well, you’ll both get all resentful otherwise, won’t you? Gotta throw you a bone sometimes.”
 
“Aww.” Buffy pushed out her bottom lip faux sympathetically and thumbed at Spike’s hairline. “Poor, poor martyr.”
 
Spike took a deep breath and fidgeted with the ruffles on Buffy’s sleeve. “Did you… uh. Did you really mean that?” he asked in a quiet voice. “About it being fun to, you know– beat things up?”
 
“Hey." Buffy drew back and gave him a serious look. “You know I did. You know how much I love beating you up.”
 
Spike grinned and squeezed her tighter, then kissed her on the cheek.
 
“D’ya think Giles is okay?” Buffy looked over her shoulder. “Seems a bit…”
 
“Think he’s getting all fluttery about Paris,” said Spike. “And seeing this old girl of his.”
 
“Giles has a girl?”
 
“Apparently.”

Buffy looked at him inquisitively. “Really? Who?”

“Some other watcher. He won’t say much about it,” Spike said. “But in that real fuddy-duddy way where you can tell he’s bottling up a bloody storm.”

Buffy gave a thoughtful hum. 

“You know what he’s like,” Spike muttered with a bitter edge. “Emotionally bunged up to his eyeballs.”

Buffy pressed her lips to Spike’s temple and huffed out a little laugh. “Yeah. Dunno how you two ever managed to get along.”

“Hey." Spike tilted his head back in offence. “I’m a fount of feeling, alright? Nothing like him.”

“Yeah,” Buffy agreed. “It only took, like, a god-strength sledgehammer to break down those walls.”

Spike gave a 'hmph' as he played with her fingers. “Anyway. Reckon he was pretty cut up about it, whatever happened.”

“How’s he so sure she’s even there?” Buffy asked. “Thought most of the watchers got, well– you know…”

Spike bristled uncomfortably. He actually didn’t know the answer to that one. Just knew that Giles had been even more wound up than usual that day he’d first found the reward notice. Spike remembered with a pang how he’d been entirely focused on the several-digits-long number printed across the centre of the page. Hadn’t really thought about anything else it might’ve said. 

“Uh. Dunno,” he said. “Must’ve heard something, on the grapevine, I suppose.”

“You really think he’d still be so hung up on her, though?” Buffy's face furrowed. “Even after all this time?”

Spike snorted. “A broken heart’s not like a bad case of flu, you know. Doesn’t just get mended with a few weeks' bed rest,” he said. “Not sure if it ever gets put back together right, to be honest.”

Buffy eased her head around to look at him and raised one eyebrow slightly. “Wow. Curious and curiouser.” 

Spike’s nose twitched. “What? Thought vampires don’t feel any of that stuff, did you?”

“No,” Buffy said. Her lips quirked to one side. “Thought men don’t.”

Spike huffed and nestled himself into her neck.
 
Buffy leant her head against his and gazed out over the sea. “Giles in love,” she mused. “That’s– weird. But also nice.”
 
Spike hummed.
 
“Maybe we should, y'know. Be more low-key,” said Buffy, drawing back to meet his eyes. “Don’t want to, like. Rub it in his face.”
 
Spike looked up at her with a sensible nod. “Yeah. Probably right.”

***

“Shhh,” Buffy whispered. “You’re gonna wake him.”
 
“You’re gonna wake him,” Spike hissed. “You keep squirming.”
 
“I’m not! It’s the bed. It’s all creaky.” 
 
“Look. Here,” Spike whispered as he pulled the covers over them as a buffer.
 
“Hey, some of us still need to breathe, you know.”
 
“Reckon you’ve got at least two minutes.”
 
“Fine.”
 
Spike tried to muffle a noise, which came out like a pathetic little hamster squeak. Buffy clamped a hand over her mouth to stop from herself from laughing.
 
“Stop that,” he moan-whispered. “Not gonna be able to keep quiet.”
 
“Okay. I’ll stop."
 
“No." Spike quickly grabbed her hand. “Sod him. Please don’t stop.”
 
“Be quiet, then.”
 
“Okay.”

***

Giles cringed on instinct as somebody violently kicked the cabin door open – again. 

He hoped to god they wouldn’t have to cough up a fortune for repair work once they disembarked. Buffy and Spike were like bulls in an antique shop when it came to the craftsmanship of mere mortals.  
 
It was Buffy this time.

“Giles! I made you some tea,” she announced as she carefully shuttled a nearly overflowing mug over to his desk. She winced as a drip spilled onto his open page.
 
“Oh. Uh. Thank you, Buffy,” Giles said, taken aback. He tore his eyes away from the wet splotch with difficulty and took a sip of tea. He grimaced. “Christ, what is this? Petroleum?”
 
“Sorry!” Buffy said. “I might have brewed it a bit too long.” She dropped down on the bottom bunk and swung her legs back and forth. “So. Having some good old-fashioned fun with the books, then?” she asked brightly.
 
Giles eyed her with suspicion. “What’s the matter?”
 
“Nothing! Just chatting. Saying words. You know, conversing.”
 
Giles glanced towards the door and asked, with barely suppressed irritation, “Where’s Spike?”
 
“Oh, forget about him." Buffy waved a hand dismissively. “What about you? How are you?”
 
“I’m, uh, fine,” Giles said. 
 
Buffy smiled encouragingly. When Giles didn’t elaborate, she asked, “So. Whatcha’ reading?”

Giles stared at her. “Is… uh. Is everything alright, Buffy?”

“Yes!” Buffy spluttered. “I’m just– just curious, that’s all.” She gave a forced laugh. “Jeez, Giles. With the paranoia.”

Giles half shrugged, then leant back and removed his glasses. “Well– I’m reading about a very interesting case, actually.”

Buffy nodded with manic enthusiasm. 

“A ship that disappeared under what I am utterly convinced were supernatural circumstances,” Giles went on.
 
“Ooh, a shipwreck,” Buffy said. “Juicy. And timely.”
 
“Indeed. It’s fascinating, really, how nobody suspected demonic involvement,” Giles mused. “When the signs are all there, in plain sight. It’s no secret in occult circles, of course, that vampire colonies are rampant in the arctic, for obvious reasons, which goes a long way to explaining–”
 
Buffy kept her eyes fixed firmly on Giles, making sure she hummed at the most important bits.

“…they were actually feasting off seals,” he was saying. “Which explains the drop in seal numbers, too. They were coming up with all sorts of nonsense about, uh, ice caps melting, grasping desperately at straws trying to understand–”

Buffy drifted back to earlier. Down in the cargo hold with Spike. Squashed up together in between the rows of suitcases. The smell of old leather, the outline of his teeth when he grinned. So quiet she could hear every tiny breath and shuffle. The way he'd said her name like– 

“According to Spike, there’s actually a saying among vampires that they taste like chicken,” Giles said. “Facetiously, of course, but it’s no doubt grounded in a certain truth…”
 
Buffy’s lips twitched. Come on, Spike chided her in the shower room. He smirked and scrubbed his hair. S’not even that cold. 
 
“…now, I’m not saying it was a vampiric seal – no no, of course not – but the thing is, there actually was a rather widely scorned paper perhaps ten, fifteen years back about a potentially vampiric polar bear, which, believe it or not–”
 
The promenade deck was deserted, at one of those unknown hours of the night when nothing is really real. Buffy was strangely warm, like melty wax, despite the occasional shard of ocean wind. Bed, Spike murmured. But Buffy didn't want to go. Just wanted to stay there, half asleep against him, in that drowsy, happy limbo.
 
“…and of course, some scientists, wilfully blind if you ask me, argued that, well, the bear was merely a bit upset after having been trapped for so long in an iceberg.” Giles scoffed. “But obviously, it goes without saying – or so you’d think – that a non-demonic bear wouldn’t have been able to even survive–”
 
This morning, a feathery kiss to the back of her neck. Fingertips stippling down her spine. An electrical circuit sparking up, and– ugh, then having to stop and pull away, because–
 
“Uh, Buffy?”
 
Buffy shook herself back to reality. She smiled with teeth and went bright red. “Uh huh? Yeah? I’m listening."
 
Giles blinked at her. “Uh. I think– uh, Spike may be looking for you.”
 
“Huh? What?" Buffy asked. "How do you know?”
 
Giles sighed. He leant back and tipped his head towards the ceiling. “Call it a sixth sense.” 
 
“Oh." Buffy chuckled uncomfortably. Giles gave her his best schoolteacher glare, which always made her fold faster than a precariously built house of cards. She cleared her throat, suddenly desperate to escape his judge-y, knowing eyes, and started to chatter. “Well. If that’s what your sixth sense is telling you, then, uh. I better go and, uh, see to him. Yeah. Gotta respect that sixth sense. Yep. Bye!” 
 
She fled from the room. The door swung loudly before it smacked into the frame.
 
Giles rolled his eyes and turned back to his book. He paused over the page, then shook his head and laughed.

***

“She bloody well bruised me up,” Spike grumbled as he hobbled into the cabin. 
 
Giles raised a brow.
 
“In training,” Spike clarified.
 
Giles bit his lip. “She’s come a long way, hasn’t she?” 
 
“Dead quick off the mark, she is.”
 
Giles took off his glasses and shook his head with a smile. “God. I can still hardly believe it.”
 
“Yeah. Watchers Council are gonna be well chuffed with you." Spike sat down on a chair and massaged the small of his back. “For finding her and all.”
 
“Well. I’m just glad we did.”
 
Spike bobbed a knee. “So. Uh,” he said. “You reckon we should tell her about the whole, uh, money thing, then?” 
 
“Uh, well–” Giles coughed into a fist. “I suppose we probably should, yes.”
 
They both said nothing for a moment.
 
“Well, I’m not bloody well telling her,” Spike blurted out suddenly. “I’m already on wafer-thin ice, bein’ a vampire and all. I swear to god, Giles, she’s just waiting for something like this to come out about me.”
 
“Well, I’m not telling her either!”
 
“Why not?! She likes you!”
 
“Precisely!” Giles crossed his arms. “She might not anymore if she finds out we lied to her. And that we planned to sell her like cattle.”
 
Spike groaned and wrung out his fingers. 
 
“Anyway,” Giles piped up. “The whole thing was your idea.”
 
“Oh yeah, and you carried it out masterfully,” Spike drawled. “You hustled her good and proper, alright, with the bumbling librarian act.”
 
“Well, I never lied to her, exactly,” Giles said. “I just told the truth, uh… strategically.”
 
Spike eyed him disapprovingly.
 
“Well. Almost exclusively the truth,” Giles said. “But the lies were all white. Purely… ornamental, really.”
 
Spike hummed. “You know," he began, looking up thoughtfully. “She’ll be expecting something like this from me, probably. But you, Giles, well…” Spike shook his head in feigned melancholy. “It’s gonna be a steep drop off that pedestal, mate. Not sure there’ll be any coming back from it.”
 
“Oh, shut up,” Giles snapped. “I mean. You’re a bloody vampire, for heaven’s sake.”
 
“Ugh. Cheap shot.”
 
Giles’ lips twitched guiltily. “Not my best."
 
“It’s just… when you think about it, what else do you even have going for you, if you can’t be trusted?” Spike went on. “It’s like– alright, he’s dull as dishwater, but least he’s dependable. Take that away, and, well…” he trailed off with a whistle.
 
“Oh, and what are you bringing to the table here, exactly?” Giles demanded. “A punchable face?”
 
Spike shrugged. “Does it for some people.”
 
“Let’s just agree that neither one of us is in line for canonisation any time soon, shall we?” 
 
Spike exhaled irritably. 
 
“Though I still maintain that I’d be higher on the list,” Giles added.
 
“Well, obviously,” Spike said with a scoff. “I’m a vampire!”
 
“Oh, so it’s okay when you say it, is it?!”
 
“Well, yeah?” Spike said. “S’like me calling you a specky ugly git. It’s okay if you say it about yourself, but a bit below the belt coming from me, you know?”  
 
“You’re right,” Giles said bitterly. “It’s not fair for me to call you a vampire. Because it’s not even wholly accurate. At this point, you’re essentially just a, uh, counterfeit copy.”
 
“Yeah,” Spike agreed. He sunk back against the wall. “I’m unique. One of a kind.”
 
“A cheap knock-off, one might say,” Giles said. “It’s woefully tacky, really.”
 
“We’re getting side-tracked here.”
 
“Right." Giles shifted uncomfortably. “Well, it’s not like I care at all about the money now, obviously. I mean, we’re found the real, honest-to-goodness slayer here.”
 
“Yeah,” Spike said. He coughed, then went on cautiously. “Though, we could all just. You know. Split it or something–”
 
Giles shot him a warning look.
 
“But, uh, no,” Spike said quickly. “Anyway. Thing is, maybe it’s not the best time. To, you know, tell her. Being… on the road, and all.”
 
“Yes." Giles nodded fervently. “A lot of upheaval.”
 
Spike joined in with the eager nodding. “And with Angelus and everything–”
 
“Yes, it’s a bit… uh…” Giles trailed off. “I mean, timing is, uh, key in situations like these, really. Wouldn’t want to undermine her, uh– sense of stability.”
 
They sat in loaded silence for a moment.
 
Spike gave a long, frustrated sigh. “So. We say nothing for now, then?”
 
“Uh. Yes. I suppose,” Giles said.
 
Spike shook his head. “We’re right cowards, you know that?” He narrowed his eyes at Giles. “Pathetic cowards.”
 
“Spineless, pathetic cowards," Giles agreed.

Chapter Text

Waves, waves. Everywhere, all the time. Teal in the light of the sunset, and particularly splishy-splashy this evening. They smacked up angrily against the ship’s hull, like they were growing restless and wanted out. Which may have been slight projection on Buffy’s part. 

She hadn’t seen the ocean till recently, but now she was literally blue in the face with it. It was an infinite sea of sea these days, from dawn until dusk.

The ship occasionally stopped for a few hours at greyish, windy ports, which meant that her and Giles could at least get off and walk straight for more than ten seconds at a time. The nondescript little harbours they visited, mostly populated by fishmongers and mean-looking seagulls, had all merged into one for her at this point. 

Buffy’s insistence that these layovers were kind of dull didn’t do much to keep Spike quiet. He’d gotten in a particularly nasty sulk when they stopped in Oslo, and announced that he was coming too, even though it was barely noon and the summer sun was blaring down.

“Even if you don’t end up in minuscule particles, stumbling about with a jacket over your head is likely to attract unwanted attention,” Giles told him, clearly irked at having to even discuss the possibility. 

“I’ll do what I want,” Spike retorted. “You can’t stop me.”

“You’re right,” Giles agreed. “Come to think of it, perhaps the scorched earth version of you will be less of an obstinate child.” 

Spike had turned to Buffy, outwardly pissed, though she could see the hidden plead behind his eyes. She knew he knew, deep down, that there was no way she’d give the thumbs-up to any plan that involved him scampering around in broad daylight. But growing up in an orphanage had its upsides– she was a seasoned pro at nipping tantrums in the bud. 

Always others’, and not her own, obviously. She was only stubborn and unreasonable about stuff when she was right.

“Well,” she started to say, placing a hand on Spike’s shoulder, as if she were genuinely considering it. “I guess– if you really think it’s a good idea. I’d be worried, though. What if one of the vikings accidentally knocks your jacket right off your head?”

“They’re not vikings, Buffy,” Giles said, exasperated. “They’re stevedores.”

Buffy made a mental note to ask what that meant later. She brushed a thumb through Spike’s hair and, pouting out her lip for extra effect, continued, “I’d be pretty bummed if you got shrivelled up into ash. The ship’s boring enough as it is.”

Giles had later remarked that Russia could’ve used a diplomat like her, if she weren’t so busy with the whole prophesied-chosen-one lark. 

Other than the sporadic outings, Buffy spent her time shuffling back and forth between the evermore stuffy cabin and salty-aired deck. Trying to come up with excuses not to do gouge-your-eyes-out boring watcher stuff – she swore Giles was just making up tasks at this point – and itching for sunset.

She stared into the rippling waves. She’d looked at them so much, the pattern was probably gonna get burned onto her retinas. 

“Hey! What’re you doing?!”

Buffy arched around at the sound of Spike’s voice. He was marching towards her, looking particularly indignant.
 
“I’m just looking, okay?” she said. She held her hands up. “No demonic possession here. See?”
 
“Right,” said Spike, with a tiny huff of relief-come-annoyance, like she should know better than to stand around so recklessly. “Careful, yeah? Don’t go giving a bloke a heart attack.”

Buffy rolled her eyes and started to say, “You can’t have a–”
 
“Whatever,” he interrupted. He snaked his arms around her waist. “You know what I mean.”

Buffy tossed her head back to stick her tongue out at him. “Wake up on the wrong side of the bunk?”
 
“Nah,” Spike grumbled. His hands roved over her stomach. “Didn’t sleep much. Too worked up.”
 
A little vibration shot up Buffy’s spine as his fingers edged under her blouse. “Hey,” she chided. “This is a public space, y’know.” 
 
Spike nipped her neck. “Don’t care."
 
“You will care if they kick us off the ship."

She'd tried to sound stern and Giles-y, even though, truth was, she was sick of it too. It got seriously old after awhile, never having any time to themselves. Buffy found herself whispering a lot these days, even about the most mundane stuff.

Much as it bugged, though– a stupid, sensible part of her brain wondered if Giles looking over their shoulders wasn’t the worst thing. It kept her in check, somehow. Stopped her falling too deep down the well, whatever that meant. She was used to having limits. Used to good stuff having a cutoff point, usually sooner rather than later. At the orphanage, she’d lived in a state of perpetual alert– knowing the housekeepers could barge in any moment if she stayed up late, or that she could draw their ire if she smiled too much. 

She’d hated it, obviously. But she wasn't sure what would happen once there was nothing left to stop her anymore. Thinking about it was like looking into a big, black, endless void. She wanted it, but it made her nervous too, because she didn't know what was on the other side.

“Hope they do kick us off,” Spike said, sucking at the same spot under her jaw. “Need to get off this stupid thing. Want to be alone with you.”
 
The knot in Buffy’s stomach tightened. She said, a bit wistfully, “Yeah. Me too.”
 
Spike pressed his nose into her hair. “Really?”
 
Buffy’s face furrowed. She tilted back onto his shoulder to look up at him. “Well– yeah? Would’ve thought that’s been firmly established.”
 
“Yeah.” Spike suddenly sounded tentative, almost shy. “Just– nice to hear something sometimes, is all.”
 
Buffy hummed, mulling it over. “Yeah. Guess it is.” 

She twisted around in his arms to look at him, which by itself made his grin go a bit crooked with excitement. “Well, in that case." She brought her hands up to his neckline and palmed down his shirt, “Why don’t you tell me–”
 
“Training going well, then?” 

Spike groaned dramatically at the interruption. Giles was standing a few feet away, sipping his tea with an arched brow.
 
Buffy flashed her teeth guiltily as she and Spike drew apart. “Oh, did I say that’s what I was doing?”
 
“You don’t need to lie to me about your whereabouts, you know, Buffy.”
 
“Sorry!” she said, wincing. “Force of habit.”
 
“Charming." Giles made a face. “Anyway. I just came to tell you that they’ve issued a weather warning. They’re expecting a storm. Better to stay inside this evening.”
 
“Right, that’s it,” said Spike. He took Buffy squarely by the shoulders. “Inside with you.”
 
“Hey, get off me!” Buffy said, almost elbowing him in the face, only half on purpose.
 
“Nah. Time to lock you up for the night. Back to the barn.”
 
Buffy spat out a ‘pfft’. “Like you could keep me contained.”
 
“It’s for your own good,” Spike said, clearly relishing the Giles-sanctioned opportunity to force her into line.
 
Buffy squinted at him. “I’ll jump off boats into stormy seas if I want to.”
 
“Christ on a bike,” Spike muttered. He let go of her. “Fine, then. Do what you like.”
 
“That’s more like it,” she said, then dragged him by the hand back to the cabin.
 
When the storm kicked off, Buffy knelt on the bed with her palms flat against the rounded little window and watched the sheets of rain pelt down. 

“Ooh,” she said as a thick fork of lightning struck. “That was a good one.”

“Okay, but back to my original question– when are we getting off this sodding ship?” Spike was demanding as he hunched over the desk and inspected one of Giles’ maps with unusual diligence. 

“Would you please get your grubby fingers off the map?” Giles said. He batted Spike’s hands away and delicately ironed out some tiny creases in the precious parchment. 

“We’re sailing round the bleedin’ moon, Giles,” Spike complained. He clasped his hands together behind his head. “I’m on the brink of literal cabin fever here.”

“I don’t see why you’re blaming me. I’m not steering the bloody ship, am I?”

“We would’ve been quicker walking!”

“Well– sort of, but I explained that, didn’t I?” Giles said. “Multiple times, in fact. It’s almost like you weren’t listening.”

Spike groaned and stretched his head all the way back.

“Like I said,” Giles went on matter-of-factly. “It was affordable, and we all agreed – or at least, so I thought – that it would be vastly more comfortable.”

Spike raked his fingers through his hair. “Yeah. S’real comfortable, being squeezed in like bloody sardines.”

“Well. If you’d like to discuss exactly who is suffering most from this arrangement, I’d be more than happy to state my case–”

“Alright, alright.” Spike cut in with an impatient wave of his hand. “Whatever. It’s fine.” He stomped back to the bed and flung himself onto it, the frail mattress springs screeching in complaint. “Shove over." He shouldered Buffy to the side. “You’re blocking the view.” 

Buffy side-eyed him and shouldered him back harder, then said in quiet sing-song, “Someone doesn’t like boats.”

“Don’t like being caged in like a bloody animal, more like.”

“Don’t worry,” Buffy said, falsely cheery. “There’ll be plenty of time for picnics and long walks on the beach when we get off.”

“Yeah, and lashings of ginger beer,” Spike said. He sagged back against the wall. “Read my mind.”

Buffy kept looking out the window, waiting with trepidation for the thrill of the next lightning bolt. She temporarily entertained herself watching water droplets race in squiggles down the glass.

When she realised Spike was being weirdly still and silent, she glanced over. He was fidgeting with his knuckles, forlorn and droopy-faced. 

Buffy’s heart gave a tiny pang. She turned around, her eyes darting reflexively over towards Giles, and nudged Spike's chin up with a fist. “Hey,” she said quietly. “I don’t like it either, you know. Being stuck in here.”

Spike lifted his gaze reluctantly and looked at her from underneath his eyelids.

Buffy picked up his hands and rolled her thumbs around in his palms. “But, y’know. It’s not all bad here. There’s even some stuff I like.”

Spike’s lips twitched. “Yeah. Could be worse, I suppose.” He pulled her against him and hummed something into her shoulder that might’ve been a sorry. When he drew back, Buffy ran her hands through both sides of his hair, which was a bit ruffled from sleep and from the way she was always playing with it. She liked it best all feathery like this. 

“I just–” he started, voice strained and almost defeated. “Just– wish I had you to myself.” 

Buffy’s chest twinged. She knew it was minor in the grand scheme of things, that they couldn’t be alone. But she wasn't sure anymore, if it was just about that. It made a weird sort of sense to her that she couldn't have things the way she wanted. Because that's how things always were. How they were always gonna be, in the end. The inevitability of it was etched deep, and every so often, like now, it nagged at her, reminding her that– good things came in pieces. Halved, or even less, for people like her. It was hard to imagine having the full thing. Hard to believe it was even possible, in a way.

She watched him, her fingers still playing with his hair, and wondered if he felt it too. 

"I know," she said. She brought her hands down to cup his face, and her lips tightened into a tiny, sad smile. "I– I get it. And I want that, too."

Spike's eyes flickered softly.

"But it's not for much longer," she promised, trying to purge all doubt from her voice. She pulled his head towards her and pressed a kiss to his hairline. "We've already made it this far, haven't we?"

"Yeah." Spike hugged her in tighter and huffed a little laugh into the crook of her neck. "Against rough odds, too."

Buffy started as a clap of thunder shocked the cabin. Spike’s arms instinctively crushed in under her ribs.

“Woah,” Buffy said. She pulled away to glance back outside, where the rain had grown more vicious. The window, swaying back and forth, was fuzzy with wet splatters.

“They did mention gale-force winds,” Giles said.

Buffy steadied herself on Spike’s shoulders as the cabin wobbled. “This would probably be a good time to tell scary stories.”

“I do have a lot of those,” Spike said.
 
“I have a lot about him too, but I’d rather not relive them,” said Giles.
 
“Well, we could just make some up." Buffy plonked back down onto Spike’s lap. “What’re you scared of?”
 
“Nothing, obviously,” said Spike. “I’m the thing everyone else is scared of.”
 
Buffy pinched his cheeks. “Yeah. You’re terrifying.”
 
Spike scrunched up his face and twisted away. "Oi."
 
“What about you, Giles?” Buffy asked. She arched towards the desk. “What’s your poison? Snakes? Spiders? Book-eating moths?”
 
Giles paused, looking thoughtful. “None of those, really,” he said. “Though I do sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, when it’s dark, and hear strange noises emanating from an unknown source. It’s rather frightening.”
 
Buffy whistled. “Wow. That is creepy.”
 
Spike hummed roughly, like an engine revving up. “Well, I’ve got a little horror story just for you, then, Giles–”
 
Buffy clasped a palm over his mouth. She inched herself up a little and stretched her neck out towards the window. 
 
“Y’know, it doesn’t seem too bad out there,” she mused. “Maybe I’ll go out. Soak up the atmosphere.”
 
“No,” Spike said immediately.
 
Buffy smirked down at him. “Oh– so you are scared of some things, then?”
 
“Yeah yeah, very clever,” Spike said. He hauled her back down. “Just stay put, alright?”
 
“Jeez. Clingy." She gave his forehead a little flick. “I can take care of myself, you know.”
 
Spike snapped after her fingers with his teeth. “Know. But gotta feel useful somehow, don’t I?”
 
“Just as long as we’re clear,” Buffy said. She giggled as he started piranha-biting down her neck, then along the curve of her shoulder. “Stop– stop.” His chomping sound effects subtly shifted into something less cartoon-y, which made Buffy’s cheeks heat up, and she stifled a tiny shriek as he brushed against a particularly ticklish point. As his mouth dipped lower, she squirmed and whispered urgently, “Stop.”
 
“Gosh. There goes that ghost again,” Giles commented from his desk. “He’s awfully determined, isn’t he?”
 
“Ugh." Buffy rolled her eyes, then broke away from Spike and pushed past him to flop down on her front. When she landed at the head of the bunk, she found a tattered journal lying by the pillow, leather-bound with a pen slotted through the side. “Ooh. What’s this?”
 
Spike immediately fell down beside her. “It’s personal, is what it is.”
 
“Hey, it’s not nice to keep secrets." Buffy playfully yanked at the journal as Spike tried to pry it from her.
 
“Oi,” Spike warned. “It’s mine.”
 
“Is it a diary?”
 
“Not really,” he said gruffly. He snapped it shut and tucked it away safely under his pillow. “I just write… bits sometimes. Told you.”

Buffy’s eyebrows piqued curiously. “Bits of what?”

“Bits and pieces." Spike was distinctly not looking at her, which confirmed her suspicion that she’d just landed on a goldmine.  

“Bits and pieces of what?”

“I told you, before,” he repeated, extra prissy now. “The odd– poem, and that.”
 
Buffy swivelled around and thunked onto her back. “Alright,” she conceded slowly, deciding to bide her time. “I’ll respect your privacy, then.”
 
“Gee. Awfully big of you.”
 
"Well. It’s good leverage for next time you annoy me.”
 
Spike let out a sneer as he dropped his head down beside hers. “Christ. That mind of yours is warped, you know."

They lay in silence, Spike’s fingers absently tracing over her collarbone. Buffy jabbed her feet into his ankles, freshly restless now. When she couldn’t hold it in anymore, which took all of half a minute, she asked, “Do you ever write poems about me?”
 
Spike threw his eyes up. “Knew you wouldn’t drop it."

Buffy pressed her lips together, fighting back a smile. “Do you?”

“Fairly big-headed of you, innit?” Spike said. “Not everything revolves around you, y’know.”
 
“Yeah. You’re right,” Buffy agreed. She snuggled up sweetly against him. “So. What do you write about, then?”
 
“Things,” Spike said tightly. “Experiences. The wonders of life.”

A quiet scoff sounded from the desk.
 
“Such as?” Buffy prompted, batting her eyelashes. 
 
Spike gave a deep, guttural groan. “Oh, bloody hell.” He bolted upright and snatched his pillow, then thwacked her over the head with it. “Fine. They’re about you, alright?”

Buffy braced herself with a squeal.

“They’re all about how you’re–” Spike thumped her again, then again, then again. “A right– nosy– cow.” 

He pressed the pillow over her face for a second, muffling her protests, then peeled it away to glare at her. “Happy now?”
 
Buffy grinned as she uncurled from fetal position. “Just glad to have inspired you.”
 
“Yeah. Thanks very much,” he huffed. He slumped back down and crossed his arms.
 
When Buffy caught her breath, she asked, still a little giddy, “What about Giles? Have you written any about him?”
 
“Nah. Reflecting on the tragedy of middle-age isn’t really my forte.”
 
“Lovely,” Giles said.
 
“Maybe you can write some about all of us,” Buffy said.
 
Spike gave an offended hiss, like it was disrespectful to even suggest such a thing. “It’s poetry, alright? Not some after-school programme. Has to come from the heart.”
 
Buffy hummed. She bit her lip and rubbed a palm over his chest. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”
 
Spike rolled over on his side to face her. “You’d better not read them.”
  
“I won’t,” Buffy said. She lowered her voice, then said, more seriously, “I wouldn’t do that. I promise.”

Spike’s jaw visibly unclenched. 

“I think it’s really nice, though,” she added. Her heart surprised her with a little hiccup that made her voice waver. “That you do it.”
 
Spike’s expression slowly softened, til he was staring at her with perfectly still sincerity. It made Buffy go a bit fluttery. She wished, for the billionth time this evening, that they were alone. She watched him back, a sweet ache welling up in her chest and threatening to brim over.

Then the corners of her mouth started twitching. “You’re writing a poem right now, aren’t you?” she teased.
 
“No,” Spike spat. “Was thinking about something else, actually.”
 
“Yeah?”
 
“Yeah,” Spike said. He reached up a hand to brush a speck of dust off her forehead, then presented his thumb accusingly. “Thinking about how filthy your face is. Ever heard of washing it?”
 
“Yeah, well– I was thinking about how your eyes are different sizes,” Buffy shot back. “And your cheeks are way too bony.”
 
“Well, no one’s forcing you to look at my face, are they?”
 
“Well, what else can I look at when it’s right there in my way?”
 
“Bloody well close your eyes, then."
 
Buffy squeezed her eyes shut. 
 
Spike dragged her in closer by the waist. “Better?”
 
“Nah. I can actually still see you. It’s like you’re haunting me," she said. Then her eyes sprung open. “Hey! Maybe you’re the ghost?”
 
Spike snorted warmly against her temple. “Nah, love,” he said, his voice strained from trying to be extra quiet, and also from trying not to laugh. “Trust me– you’re definitely the ghost.”

***

Buffy presses her mouth shut, stifling a cry.

She sees it. A shadow, shaped like a body, dancing jaggedly over the wall.

Then, a tap tap. Coming from somewhere close. Inside her room. 

Buffy knows the window is bolted shut, but the aged frames let in the occasional low whistle of night breeze. It makes her skin itch. 

Everything is pitch black, save for a tiny strip of light from underneath the doorway. The air smells familiar, like washed linens and old wood, but the familiarity feels sinister, almost makes her shudder, because it doesn’t feel safe like it should.

Buffy calls out, her knuckles tight around her bedsheets. Something churns in the hollow of her stomach– a bad feeling, but one she knows well.

The door creaks open, and Buffy warbles out a sound that’s equal parts fear and relief.

A woman’s silhouette appears in the frame. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“I’m scared,” Buffy says, and a proper sob breaks free, at last. 

Her mother leaves the door slightly ajar, letting the light flood in, then comes to sit beside Buffy on the little bed, which is barely raised off the floor and creaks with the added weight.

“I think– I saw something,” Buffy manages to choke out, shuffling closer to tip her head into her mom’s chest. Her mom puts an arm around her and makes a few hushing sounds. 

Buffy lets the tears spill. It feels good, to cry. To let it out.

“There’s nothing here,” her mom says into Buffy’s head. “I promise.”

Buffy sniffs. “But I think I saw one. A monster.”

Her mom sweeps a hand over her head, then down to cup her jaw. “It’s just your imagination,” she says, her voice soft but assured. “You’re lucky, you know– to have such a big one.”

Buffy whines, clinging tight to the grainy wool of her mom’s pullover. “I don’t think I imagined it.” 

Her mom thumbs over her cheek, smothering a tear, and looks her right in the eye. “But there aren’t any monsters here, sweetheart. They’re not real.”

Buffy twitches a bit in her grasp, then leans in to muffle out against her shoulder, “How d’you know?” 

Her mother hums, considering it as she strokes a hand through Buffy’s hair. The wrenching in Buffy’s stomach has already started to subside; it’s not as hard to ignore anymore. “Well. I’ve certainly never seen one.”

“Yeah, but– just because you’ve never seen one, doesn’t mean they’re not real,” Buffy says, her voice coming out wet, like her nose is full of bubbles. 

Her mother laughs quietly, which makes Buffy pang with irritation, because it’s not funny. “Well. I suppose you’re right,” she says. “But, if they were real, don’t you think at least somebody would have seen one?”

Buffy squirms, pressing her bare toes into the sheets under the bedcovers. “Well, maybe they did, but didn’t tell anybody about it,” she murmurs, her certainty wavering. “Or– maybe the monster ate them. Then they wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.”

Her mom gives a little sigh. “You know, honey, if you paid this much in attention in school…” She combs a hand through her own hair, then changes tack. “Well, okay. Let’s pretend, then, that monsters are real.”

Buffy looks up at her nervously, nose twitching with pre-emptive betrayal. It better not be another tooth mouse situation. 

“What makes you think they’d be bad?” her mom asks. 

Buffy blinks at her like she’s stupid, which is weird, because she’s supposed to know everything, and splutters, “Because they’re monsters!”

“Well. Maybe they’re actually really nice,” her mom says, shrugging. “If we don’t even know anything about them, we shouldn’t just assume they’re all bad, should we?”

Buffy considers it. Her head hurts a bit from crying and from confusion and from straining to see in the dark fuzz. “But then– they wouldn’t be monsters. Then they’d be– something else.”

Her mom nestles back against the low wooden headboard, taking Buffy along with her. 

“Well. Maybe they hide from us because they’re scared what we’ll think of them,” she says. “Scared that people will think they’re a monster, without even getting to know them.”

Buffy bristles. “But they look scary.”

“Well,” her mom says, rubbing circles into Buffy’s arm. “Lots of things look scary. Mr. Vasilovich next door looked scary at first, didn’t he? But when you get to know him, he’s actually a very kind man.”

Buffy grimaces. She still found Mr. Vasilovich’s bulging bug eyes and gaunt, leathery face scary, but he did give her a toffee once. 

“Sometimes– you can’t really know what’s inside, Buffy.”

“I guess,” Buffy says, reluctantly, because she’s not sure she totally buys it, but also because she doesn’t like being wrong. “So– uh, if there was a monster, then, should I just– be nice to it?”

Her mom hums, lips quirking to one side. “Could be worth a try.”

Buffy stares at the foot of the bed, her face set. She’s irked – so much, in fact, she even forgets to be scared – that her mom is taking this so lightly. This is a matter of life or death– not the time for idle speculation.

But she doesn’t know how to say that, so she says instead, “But that’s– dangerous. What if I try to be nice, but it really is a monster? It could– hurt me. It could–” she trails off, shifting uncomfortably at the possibilities racing through her head.

The fear resurges in her chest, but she pulls away anyway, squaring her shoulders and looking up defiantly. 

“Well,” her mom says, very hesitantly. “I wish I could tell you there was an easy answer, honey. But sometimes there just isn’t.”

She smiles crookedly down at Buffy, the faint light from the hall catching on glistens in her eyes, which are crinkled round the edges. Buffy feels a tug in her heart, because she doesn’t fully understand what that look means, but she knows enough to know it means something.

“But I’m sure–” her mother begins. “That if that day ever comes, you’ll figure out what to do.”

Then she leans down, and kisses Buffy on the cheek.

Buffy suddenly seized up with terror, like a crazed animal was trying to claw out of her chest.

Wake up, she urged herself, even as her mother holds her close in warm arms. Wake up.

***

Buffy heard herself strangle out a moan as she jolted herself awake, her head leaping off the pillow. 

Almost immediately, she felt Spike spring up beside her, his hands scrambling to find her shoulders. “Buffy? What is it?”

Buffy was breathing hard. “I had a dream.”

“Angelus?!"

Buffy shook her head quickly. “No– no. Not Angelus.”

Spike’s fingers on her loosened up a bit, his silhouette watching her intently.

Buffy strained to re-adjust her eyes, her forehead knitted up with tension. The room was shrouded in darkness, but dabs of early morning light were starting to filter through the cabin drapes. “It was just– a dream.”

“Uh, so– just an ordinary dream, was it?” Spike asked.

Buffy’s head was swimming as she studied his shadowed face. Her lip quivered. Her mom’s eyes flashed through her head, and Buffy remembered the brush of fingers through her hair. She leant forward on impulse, and Spike folded her into a hug.

“Hey, come here,” he murmured, rubbing at her back. “Tell me what happened.”

She pressed her lips against the bare skin of Spike’s neck and inhaled hard. “I was with my mom. It was a memory.”

“A memory?”

The room abruptly burst into light. Buffy reflexively drew back, squinting and shielding her eyes.

“Is everything okay?” came Giles’ concerned voice.

“She had another dream,” Spike said over his shoulder.

“Good lord,” Giles said, half a splutter, as he stumbled over towards them. “Are you okay, Buffy?”

“I’m fine,” Buffy said. She coughed to clear her throat, which felt thick and slimy. 

Giles clutched the side of the bunk. He wasn’t wearing his glasses and looked dazed. “What happened?”

“Nothing– nothing bad,” Buffy said, struggling to find words, her mind still fog-addled. “But– it started the same way as the last one.”

“At the manor?” Giles asked with round, horrified eyes. 

“No– no. Not at the manor,” Buffy said quickly. “I was just… with my mom. In a house. In our house.”

Spike thumbed over her shoulder blades, his face furrowed.

“We were just– talking,” she said. “But she kissed me, on the cheek. Like– last time.”

Spike met her gaze, expression still but his voice betraying a hint of scepticism. “Right. So, uh– you sure it wasn’t just a– normal dream, then?”

“No,” Buffy said. She dropped her voice. “It felt different. It was… the same woman. My mom. And it was familiar.”

“What happened, exactly?” Giles asked.

Buffy faltered, instinctively clamming up, not quite sure how she wanted to relay the story and not yet clear-headed enough to figure it out. 

“Well… I was just, uh. Trying to sleep,” she started. She paused. “But I got scared of– the dark. So my mom came in, to comfort me. That’s all.”

Spike dropped his hands to Buffy’s knees, and turned around to Giles. “D’ya think it was Angelus again? Do you think he might’ve been trying to set something else up?”

Giles sighed and massaged his temples, his eyes weighed down by dark half-circles. “I, uh, don’t know,” he said. “It’s odd. It would be rather surprising if he tried the same thing twice, knowing that Buffy would be prepared for it.”

“Trying to create a false sense of security, maybe,” Spike said, huffing bitterly. “Building towards something. He always did get off on playing the long game.”

“I… don’t think it was Angelus,” Buffy said quietly. “I think it was just– a memory.” 

“But why would you start remembering something like that, all of a sudden?” Spike said, a bit abrupt. “Doesn’t make sense.”

Giles scratched his head. “It’s possible, I suppose, that it’s some sort of trick.”

“You think Angelus could be putting false memories in her head or something?” Spike asked Giles.

“No,” Buffy cut in, sudden and harsh. “It was real. I know it was.”

Spike turned, eyes flicking over hers. The lines in his face softened and he flashed her a tight-lipped smile, squeezing her knees gently. The knot in Buffy’s sternum came a little undone, and she wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

“Uh, yes. I think the false memory thesis is unlikely,” Giles said. “Unless Angelus himself was there, at the time, I… just can’t imagine how he would be able to do that in a persuasive manner. Even with his power…”

“Yeah,” Buffy said. “The last time, in the dream at the manor– at some point, everything became… fuzzy. When he tried to get me to jump, I could tell it was’t real anymore.”

“Right,” Spike said. 

There was silence for a few moments. 

“Maybe Angelus is losing his power, or the– the curse, or whatever, is getting weaker?” Buffy suggested.

Giles hummed, rubbing his chin. “Yes. I suppose that’s possible.”

“Or maybe he’s giving me back– some memories, for some reason?” she asked.

Giles shook his head immediately. “No. While I’m reluctant to rule any out any possibility, no matter how remote, that’s just– it’s just not how memory works. Even assuming that Angelus is indeed the cause of your memory loss, it’s not like he has them captured in a vial somewhere. He can’t simply choose to re-insert long-lost memories at will.”

“But he did before, right?” Buffy said.

“Yes– but I'm certain he must've used a trigger. Knowing the memory was in you, he managed to unlock it somehow," Giles said.

“Couldn’t he have done the same thing though, now?” Spike asked.

"But Angelus can't see the content of Buffy's memories," Giles said. "How, or indeed why, would he be able to trigger inconsequential recollections he's not even aware of?"

Buffy prickled uncomfortably, her fingertips instinctively pressing harder into Spike’s skin. She didn’t want to share what she suspected the trigger would’ve been for this particular dream. But Angelus hadn't orchestrated her being in bed with a vampire. She’d set that up all by herself. 

Buffy closed her eyes, a bit desperately, searching for something else revealing – something that could’ve been–

Her mom smiling at her, soft and gentle, replayed in her mind. Sometimes– you can’t really know what’s inside, Buffy. 

Thick golden hair curling up at her shoulders, and Buffy could almost smell it– the soap she always used, a faint hint of spice.

Her mother’s face flashed away, and there was– a table.

Buffy squeezed her eyes shut tighter, ignoring the distant sound of Spike saying her name, trying to get her attention.

Strips of silvery fish drenched in oil, laid out on a tray, the sourness tickling Buffy’s nostrils. She hates it. She’s not eating it. 

Buffy’s heart started rocketing. She blocked her ears, curling up and trying to focus even harder.

The bushes whizz by and the clouds are spinning. She’s laughing so much her lungs hurt. Everything slows, and her dad stops swinging her, and she lands on her back in the damp grass, dizzy and–

Spike’s voice, panicked now, cut through her thoughts. “Buffy? What’s wrong?”

Her eyes snapped open wide. Both Spike and Giles were staring at her, looking worried.

“The memories,” she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “I… I remember. I– didn’t like fish. My… my dad. I can see– a doll.” 

She clasped a hand over her mouth. “I remember.”

Chapter Text

Spike peered suspiciously over Giles’ shoulder. 

“Thought we’d be doing something actually useful here,” he said. “Not living out one of your twisted little fantasies.”

Giles squeezed one last number into the final row, so tiny it was like a bloody fly had written it. 

“Indexing is important,” Giles said. “If we’re to find useful information.”

Spike’s nostrils flared a bit as he sat back down. Giles was really starting to take the piss. Losing his marbles, probably, what with being trapped on the ship and lovelorn and everything.

“When are you gonna face facts?” Spike asked. “There’s no useful information in here. We know sod all, and no amount of cross-referencing is gonna change that.”

“Well, a deeper dive into memory spells and associated phenomena can’t hurt,” Giles said, though he sounded a bit unconvinced himself. 

He twisted round to see what Spike was doing and muttered, “Good god. Your handwriting is appalling.”

Spike ignored him, hunching over the desk to add a page number into the ‘chrono-communication’ column. He pushed harder on the nib, trying to get the ink out, and almost ripped through the page instead. He gave the pen a hard shake, making it spurt a few ink blobs onto the page. 

Spike hurriedly glanced over to make sure Giles wasn’t looking– which, of course, he was. 

“For heaven’s sake. Do you know how long it took me to draw up those templates?” 

Spike’s knuckles went extra-white around his pen. “Glad we’re keeping things in perspective here. Remembering the bigger picture.” 

He went back to scanning the book in front of him, accidentally-on-purpose laying an inky thumb over the leaf edge. He quivered with satisfaction when he sensed Giles, blurred in his periphery, watching him and trying not to squirm. 

“You know, you’re right,” Spike said with a hum, flicking through the book and casually leaving a dark smudge on the next page, and then another on the next. “Can’t leave any page unturned. Personally, I won’t be letting up till I’ve gone through every, single, last one of these–”

“Oh, you bastard,” Giles blurted. “You’re sick. Sick and twisted. It’s one thing to wind me up, but the books–”

“Bigger. Picture,” Spike gritted out. “Buffy’s in mortal peril here, and you’re supposed to be watching. Been at this for god knows how long now, and what’ve you got to show for it?” 

Giles sighed.

“Yeah– just like I thought. Big fat load of nothing,” Spike went on. “As always, I do everything ‘round here. Hauling these useless books all over, training the slayer, saving everyone just in the nick of time–” Spike shook his head and tutted. “You’re just not pulling your weight, mate.”

Giles’ expression was sour. “Well, I can’t say you haven’t gone above and beyond the line of duty.”

“Yeah,” Spike said. He jiggled his stubborn pen impatiently. “I’m providing a much-needed morale boost over here, and all you do is get in my way.”

“Your selflessness is quite astounding,” Giles agreed. He got up and wordlessly exchanged Spike’s pen with his own, then braced over him to examine his work so far. “I’m so grateful you’d deign to help out with such menial tasks as this. Now– I’d suggest paying particular attention to any mention of Lethe’s draught in this chapter, and recommend you file it under sleep, as well as memory loss.”

Spike sighed. “Fine.”

“I do admit, we’re close to exhausting our current resources,” Giles said as he returned to his own seat. “With any luck, the Council will be able to help us fill in the gaps.”

“Yeah, they better bleedin’ had do.”

“I believe they keep quite an impressive inventory in Paris,” Giles said. “Should have a lot of ancient foundational texts. The French headquarters is actually even older than the manor in Petersburg.”

“Older? So their books are probably long outdated, then.”

“Well, primeval magic isn’t known for getting swept up in the latest trends,” Giles said dryly. “It’s rather notoriously traditionalist in that regard. And I suspect it’ll be very useful for us to go back to first principles, seeing as that’s what Angelus himself must have done. I dare say he’s done his homework, given how effectively he’s managed to target the slayer’s power.”

He sat back and took his glasses off for a polish. “Can’t say I’m not looking forward to perusing their collection. They’ll have all the classics.”

Spike raised a brow. “Yeah. Bet that’s what you wanna peruse, alright.”

Giles made a ‘hmph’ sound. “It is, actually.”

Spike hummed sceptically.

“Honestly, Spike– have you ever considered that immortal life might be a good opportuntity to refine your crude, boorish humour?” Giles said. He dipped his nib into the ink pot. “You could do better than these lowbrow quips. I urge you, give it a shot.”

“Ugh. Do you always have to be so–” Spike started to snap, but then trailed off. No point trying to teach an old dog new tricks.

“Don’t understand it, anyway,” he went on. “If you wanted to go to Paris so badly – see this bloody inventory of theirs – why’d it take you so long? Could’ve gone back any time, couldn’t you?”

Giles hesitated over an enormous bibliography. “Well. You know. It’s complicated.”

“Yeah. Guess you’ve been busy,” Spike said. “Swimming with us sewer rats. Losing your hair, and getting all–” Spike flicked his wrist in Giles’ general direction. “Y’know, emaciated.”

“I told you,” Giles said impatiently. “I didn’t know how active the Council was. Everyone was trying to keep a low profile, at first, to avoid being targeted.”

“You must’ve heard something, over the years.”

“Just whispers.”

“Right.”

“You know how it was, in the early days. I was– just trying to get by, from day to day,” Giles said. He paused. “And by the time the dust had settled, well– things had changed.”

“Just don’t get it. If you cared so much about this girl, wouldn’t you at least try?”

Giles gave a choke of disbelief. “Well, that’s rich.”

Spike’s expression went flat. “S’different.”

“Well. Yes,” Giles said, faltering. “But, uh– the obstacles weren’t… purely geographical in this case, either.”

“Christ. Don’t tell me you’ve been pining all these years and she was never even bloody interested? That is tragic, mate.”

“Well. She was. But that was a long time ago. Things were different. I was different.”

“Wouldn’t worry about that,” Spike offered. “You haven’t changed much. Still as dull as ever.”

Giles huffed irritably. “I used to be a watcher, for heaven’s sake. Helping to protect the good. And now– well.”

“Yeah, yeah– I know,” Spike said, grinning. “Sold your soul to the devil and all that.”

“Yeah, well, believe it or not, not everyone finds that attractive.” 

“Oh. Stuffy old bint, is she?”

Giles’ lips quirked. “Not quite. But, uh– I’d be surprised if she wasn’t– a bit shocked at what I’ve, uh– become. I’m still getting my head around it myself, to be honest.”

“Yeah, me too,” Spike said. He shook his head fondly. “Hard to believe some of the things I’ve seen you do.”

“Thank you. That’s tremendously reassuring.”

“Sooner the better your face it, old chap– you’re just as bad as the rest of us.”

Giles snorted. “I most certainly am not.”

“Well, it’s only a problem if you deny it, innit? Better to just embrace it, I reckon.”

“I’ve done more than enough of embracing it, thank you,” Giles said wryly. He rubbed his forehead. “Not sure what any of them will make of me now. Bloody hell.”

“Don’t worry,” Spike said. “Trust me. When you got good looks and charm, you’d be surprised what people let you away with.” He looked up and gasped in mock surprise. “Oh– but wait…” 

“Well, I could always take a leaf out of your book and play the tortured soul act,” Giles said. “It’s a bit trite, I know, but seems to have worked for you. Not sure I’m pathetic enough to pull it off, mind– strikes me as something that can’t exactly be learned.”

“Oh, I reckon you’d manage it.”

“Anyway, it’s not– this is not about that,” Giles said, tone suddenly resolute. “Our priority is– Buffy. This whole– uh, other thing, it’s… not important.”

“Yeah. So you’ve said.”

“I mean, it’s been years. She’s probably– well, moved on. Married, probably, you know–”

“Christ, what kind of attitude is that?!”

“Uh, realism?”

“Bloody defeatist, is what it is,” Spike said. “So what if she’s married? Never lasts anyway, does it. People are fickle like that.”

“Sage advice, as always.”

“And anyway, if she is married–” Spike started, lifting a brow at Giles. “I could always, y’know. Dispose of the problem. Get her crying on your shoulder, if you know what I mean.”

Giles wrinkled his nose. “Uh. Yes. Thank you– for that kind offer. But I shan’t be requiring your services.”

Spike shrugged, then went back to flipping through his book. “Just saying. If she’s really worth it,” he said. He bit his lip and side-eyed Giles. “Anyway– s’not like you haven’t done worse yourself, am I right?”

“I most certainly have not,” Giles said, then, wheeling around to Spike, added, “And by the way, you’d better not even think about sharing any ‘amusing’ stories about these past years–”

Spike sneered. “Ah, ah. Making me complicit in your lies and deceit. Very nice, Giles. Very noble.”

“If you go running your big mouth off, Spike, I swear to god–”

“Well I have to get if off my chest somehow, don’t I?” Spike said innocently. “Was very traumatic for me, you know, seeing some of the stuff you got up to.”

“Well, I can think of a very efficient solution for resolving your trauma.” 

“Needn’t worry. I won’t say a word,” said Spike smirkily. “I’m sure you’ll make a balls of it all by yourself, anyway.”

Giles cleaned his glasses on his jumper and sighed. “Well, yes. Most likely.”

***

Buffy sat cross-legged on the floor, frowning as she tried to slide the stupid frayed thread through the stupid tiny needle. 

“Uh– am I having a nightmare?” came Spike’s voice behind her. 

Buffy tipped her head back against the bunk to look upside down at Spike, who was now awake and looking at her with mild to moderate horror. 

“Hey,” she complained. “I’m being useful.”

Spike eyed her sceptically.

“I’m caretaking you." She turned back to the worn-out sock and wet the end of the thread in her mouth. “It’s like, nurturing and good. I read about it.”

“You’re making a bloody hames of it.”

Buffy huffed and flung the poorly darned sock to the floor. “Fine,” she sighed. “Just thought it’d get me out of book-based torture with Giles if I had something, like, industrious to do.”

“Fair enough. Just– don’t be industrious with my things, yeah?”

Buffy yoinked Baron von Pointy out from underneath the bed and hooked underneath the haphazard stitches, then ripped them free in one fell swoop. “See? I can do stuff,” she said proudly. “I destroy very effectively.”

Spike smirked, then fell back on his pillow and stretched out a hand. “Come here.”

“Ugh. We’re gonna get bed sores,” Buffy said, but she climbed up and over him anyway.

“Yeah, well, you never take me anywhere.”

“Hey. We went down to the cargo hold yesterday, didn’t we?”

Spike lifted an arm to make room for her. “Yeah. Swept me off my feet."

Buffy huddled herself into his side and smiled against him when he leant down to kiss her. She liked how the bed smelled all familiar and cosy. It was always her favourite time of day, when he’d just woken up. 

“So– what do we have today, then?” he asked. “More memories?”

Buffy smiled. “I think– we have a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Uh huh. Brown-ish. Fluffy.”

“Got a name?”

“Hmm. Spike.”

Spike grumbled against her head. “Bloody well wasn’t.”

“Nah,” Buffy said. “I don’t remember. But I’m calling him Spike.”

“What was he like, then?”

“Oh, he had one of those wrinkly flappy faces. Kind of ugly, you know?”

Spike tugged at a strand of her hair with his teeth. “Oi.”

“But like, cute-ugly.”

Spike rolled his eyes. “Sleep at the foot of your bed, did he?”

“Uh huh,” she said. “Liked it when I pet him. Got all yappy when I ignored him. Y’know?”

“Not really,” Spike said. “Never had a pet. Unless you count Giles.”

“Giles does need regular feeding and watering.”

“He’s a bit more like a cat, though. Gotta let him come to you."

Buffy wriggled down further and threw an arm over Spike's middle, then rested her head on his chest. “It’s mostly just… flashes, so far,” she said. “But I can see his little face. And a– garden. And my mom.” 

Spike’s arms tightened around her.

“I think… my mom was really nice,” Buffy said quietly. 

“Bet she was,” Spike said. He kissed her hair.

“I think–” Buffy smiled crookedly. “I think– she loved me.”

Spike huffed out a tiny breath. “‘Course she did.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said quickly. She fidgeted with Spike’s fingers. “It’s… obvious, I know. But it’s just– strange. Remembering, all of a sudden. What it’s like.”

Spike hummed, the vibrations rolling through his chest to Buffy’s cheek.

“It’s nice,” she said. “And I remember– well… I loved her, as well.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. That’s... nice, too.”

Buffy played with one of the silver rings on Spike’s fingers. It seemed old, but also neatly polished. She’d always mocked him for it before, but also secretly thought it was kind of sweet, the way he took such good care of his stuff. “You think it’s because Angelus is losing his power?” she asked him.

“Could be.”

“It’s just… it’s– kinda strange,” she murmured. “With the timing.”

“Maybe it’s something to do with the last dream. Might’ve unlocked something, in your head.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Buffy said. “Just… weird that it took so long, y’know?

“Yeah. Funny, alright.”

Buffy angled her head back to look at him and asked, voice muffled, “How about you? Sleep okay?” 

“Not bad,” Spike said. “Though Giles was making a bit of a racket, with all his scribbling.” 

“God,” Buffy said through a groan. “I can’t believe we’re still on this stupid boat. I’m gonna kill him.”

“Hey. I reckon I should have the honour.”

“Share,” Buffy urged, elbowing his side a little. “We can do it together, okay? Just as soon as we get off.”

“Easier to hide the evidence, right?”

“Uh huh.”

Spike nuzzled into her neck with an appreciative hum, then sat up a bit. “Hey. Why don’t we do something special tonight?”

Buffy mock-gasped. “What, you mean play cards and take a shower?”

Spike grinned. “Why not? Wanna spoil you, don’t I?”

“Alright,” Buffy said. “But no cheating at cards.”

“Fine. No whinging in the shower, then.”

Buffy stuck out her tongue. “But it’s so gross and slimy down there. And everyone’s so hairy. And the water’s freezing.”

“I’ll take that as a no to the no whinging, then.”

“We could go down to the cargo bay,” Buffy suggested.

Spike rubbed his eyes and lay back down beside her. “Bloody hell. Not that kip again. I’d rather index with Giles.”

“Please don’t joke about that.”

“S’actually not that bad,” Spike said with a shrug. “Never know. You might enjoy it, if you gave it a proper chance.”

“Oh my god. I knew it." She sat up and leant her palms on his chest accusingly. “I knew I was losing you.”

Spike’s lips tightened guiltily.

“Fine, okay?” Buffy said. She dropped her chin down on top of him. “You can cheat at cards.”

“Reckon the train’s already left the station, love." Spike grimaced. “Got quite into it yesterday. Found myself appreciating how rigorous his systems were and everything."

“God. Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Spike inhaled harshly. “What can I say? This ship does things to a man.”

Buffy smiled. “Fine. You can index with Giles, then. I’ll just stay here in bed. Continue my slow transformation into human pancake.”

“Nah,” Spike said. “Just wouldn’t feel right, leaving you here all by yourself.”

“Nah. Go,” Buffy said. She rolled onto her other side. “Think I’ll just, y’know, have a nap or something.”

Spike dragged her back and whined into the nape of her neck, “Stop. Don’t wanna play this game.”

Buffy laughed, then twisted back so their faces were really close. “Wow. Someone’s losing their nerve.”

Spike just looked at her, then gently touched her cheek. It was emotional whiplash, the way something sweet suddenly frizzled in her stomach.

“Hate it when you get up in the morning, you know,” he said quietly. 

Buffy swallowed.

“Hate getting up,” she said honestly. 

***

The next morning, Buffy settled into the dining hall bench, scrunching her face up at sight of the grey-ish slop in front of her.

“Yum,” she said. “Tasteless goop. Brings me way back.”

Giles smiled wryly, visibly struggling to swallow a mouthful himself.

“Uh, Spike’s not joining us this morning?” he asked.

“Nah. He’s tired,” she said, and then went on quickly, before Giles had a chance to make one of his annoying judge-y faces, “Think he’s a bit on edge about the whole memory thing. Worried it’s gonna backfire and I’m gonna run and hurl myself off the ship.”

“I see,” Giles said, looking a little amused. “Are they, uh, still coming back as vividly? The memories?”

“Little bits, here and there,” she said, smiling. “It’s crazy.”

Giles shook his head incredulously. “It certainly is. I’ve never heard of anything like this. Remarkable.”

“I know. I… still can’t believe it.”

“One area that even the most knowledgeable, well-read occultists struggle with is– well. Memory. Or human cognition, in general, really, but particularly as it pertains to our own… subjective perceptions, or emotions,” he said. “The human brain always stumps us, in the end. Too complicated, I suppose, for us to understand from the outside, when we’re necessarily tapped within its confines.”

“Yeah. Guess that makes sense.”

“Even when there hasn’t been magical interference, it’s rare that a forgotten memory can be re-accessed later. Once it’s been lost for long enough, well… it’s usually gone for good.”

“Guess I’m lucky, then,” Buffy said. “It’s… really nice. I mean, wiggy, sure, but nice. Feels like– like a part of myself, coming back.”

“I can only imagine.”

“And it also feels– right, somehow,” Buffy said. She swirled her spoon in her bowl. “It’s like I knew they were there. They don’t feel totally new, you know? I just couldn’t remember the details, before. But the feelings… well. It’s like I remembered them the whole time, but they were all… float-y. Not attached to anything.”

Giles looked thoughtful. “Yes, I remember you saying as much, once– when we tried the truth spell. All seems to be adding up.”

Buffy hummed and looked down into her porridge. She forced herself to take a bite. “Uh, Giles?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Could it be something…” Buffy trailed off as she watched some watery lumps trickle off her spoon. “It’s just– I have this weird feeling, somehow, that it’s something to do with Spike.”

“With Spike?”

Buffy kicked at the leg of the table. “Well. Just because, it’s started happening now,” she said. “After me and Spike, well– it just seems like strange timing.”

Giles frowned. “You think it could be related to Spike’s curse?”

Buffy shook her head quickly. “No. I mean– no, that’s not what I meant.” She paused. “I thought that maybe it’s something to do with– how I feel.”

Giles tilted his head curiously.

“I’ve been feeling. Well.” Buffy crossed her legs and smiled awkwardly. “Happy.”

Giles’ lips curled. “I see.”

“And, uh, in some of the memories I’ve had, I’m… well, I’m happy too. And I remember, suddenly, what it’s like, to have people who really care about me.”

Giles looked at her softly, which made Buffy want to squirm. 

“It’s just… something about it seems like a coincidence, you know?” she said. She mindlessly stirred the goop round and round. “To, uh– remember it, and also feel it, all at the same time.”

“It’s… an interesting thought,” Giles said slowly, like he was choosing his words very carefully. “Honestly, I can’t imagine what could cause such a turn of events. But–” He smiled at her. “As I said, there’s a lot we don’t know. Stranger things have happened.”

Buffy nodded, her body unfurling a bit. She took a sip of water.

Giles started to speak again, very tentatively. “But, I mean, uh– surely… you’ve felt this way, or similar, before?

Buffy swallowed her water hard.

“Well. It’s not like I’ve never been happy, ever. And I had people who cared about me, but– well.” She paused and scratched her elbow. Her face felt hot. “Not like this. No.”

***

Buffy lay in the crook of Spike’s arm, drawing little circles into his chest. She shuffled a bit onto her other side, then quickly shuffled back again.
 
Spike turned the page of his book. “Jeez, woman. Can’t you keep still for one minute?” 
 
Buffy ignored him and tucked herself a little deeper into his armpit. She lay silently for a moment, then reached out and pinched his nipple through his shirt.
 
“Oi,” Spike chided. He gave her a punitive little kiss on her head, then continued reading.
 
Buffy glanced around the cabin. She gave a tiny sigh, then poked a finger into his mouth. Spike bit down. 
 
“Ouch,” Buffy said as she pulled her finger loose and wrung out her hand. 
 
“Lie with vampires. Get bitten,” he said, shrugging. He placed the book spread open on his stomach. “You could, y’know– just ask if you want something?”
 
Buffy pouted. “But that’s no fun.”
 
“What is it?” he asked. He dipped his head to mouth at a few strands of her hair. “Another memory?”
 
“Nah." Buffy examined her own fingernails. “It’s nothing.”
 
Spike glanced down at her suspiciously, then picked up his book again.
 
Buffy was perfectly still and quiet for about fifteen seconds. “So-oo." She walked her fingers like a spider over Spike's midriff. “You haven’t found anything new about Angelus in the books, then?” 
 
“Well. I’d be surprised if he showed up in Little Women, to be honest with you,” Spike said. He tilted the book sideways to show the cover. “But uh, no. Haven’t come across anything useful, really, ‘bout him or the memory spells. Carted those bloody books across the continent for nothing.”
 
Buffy nodded against his shoulder. She asked, trying to sound casual, “So… you knew him, huh?”
 
Spike tensed under her. “I did.”
 
There was a stilted silence. 
 
“What… was he like?” Buffy asked.
 
Spike shifted in place. “He was nuts. Obviously,” he said. “Power-tripping. Obsessive. Wouldn’t let a damn thing go.”
 
“Right,” Buffy said, her throat suddenly scratchy. “And. Uh– why didn’t he like you?”
 
“Well. It’s a long story," he said. He silently closed Little Women and placed it down beside him. “Never liked the bloke either. We had a bit of a, uh– rivalry going on, I suppose.”
 
Buffy’s stomach seized up. “Do you know how to break the curse?” she asked suddenly.
 
Spike was quiet for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.” He sighed, then pivoted to his side and wriggled down to face her. “Look,” he said quietly. “I’ll tell you everything, alright. If– you want to know.”
 
Buffy searched his eyes. “I want to know,” she said, swallowing. “I think– I need to.”

Spike squeezed his eyes shut and pushed up against her forehead. “Yeah. I know,” he said, rasping a bit. He could feel her heart thumping hard in her chest. He grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t– don’t be scared, love.”

But it was a hollow thing to say, he knew, with his own shaky voice. Hypocritical, since she couldn’t hear his own heart hammering. 

***
 
He held her even tighter than usual that night. 

I’m sorry, he wanted to say. Kept wanting to wake her up and tell her, over and over. Not sorry so much for the things he’d done. Not even that she’d had to hear it– though it had been painful, watching her eyes shutter as he spoke, seeing the muscles jumping in her jaw.
 
Mostly, though, he was sorry that– this was it. That this was what she was getting, when all illusions were shattered. He knew it was greedy of him, really, to take what she was giving, considering what he could offer in return.

He didn’t sleep a wink. Just hung on every rise and fall of her chest, every breath, and squeezed her harder.

***

The next morning, not long after sunrise, Spike gently shook Buffy awake. “C’mon, love. Time to pack.”
 
Buffy moaned and tugged the sheets up around her, face furrowed.
 
“Remember trees, and grass?” Spike said quietly in her ear. He brushed a hand over her hair. “You’ll get to see ‘em today.” He watched nervously as she just coiled up tighter, then leant into her shoulder and murmured, “Want me to pack for you?” 
 
“I have like, five things,” Buffy said, smiling crookedly with closed eyes. “But– yeah. Please.” 
 
She squeezed his hand as he drew away. Spike’s chest lifted a little.
 
Down in the cargo bay, he stuffed things into the bags with a vengeance.
 
“Uh,” Giles started hesitantly. He watched as Spike slammed an overflowing suitcase shut like he was wrestling a shark. “Everything alright?”
 
Spike gave a strangled moan when his hand accidentally brushed off Buffy's cross necklace. “Yeah," he grunted, sucking his singed thumb into his mouth. "Everything's fine."
 
“Lovers’ tiff?” Giles tried anxiously.
 
“Nah,” Spike grumbled. He combed a hand through his hair. “Just. Uh. Told her about the curse and that.”
 
“Oh,” Giles said, looking visibly relieved. “Well, uh. That’s alright then.”
 
Spike arched around to shoot him a scalding look.
 
“Well, what?!” Giles flubbed. “I mean, if anything, you come off well in that story.”
 
Spike stared at him, mouth agape. “Yeah. It’s a real heartwarming tale,” he spat. “What with me being mates with the bloke who killed her parents and is still trying to kill her. Me being, y’know– a vampire who shared quite a lot in common with the bloke who killed her parents and is still trying to kill her.”
 
“Oh. That.”
 
“Crying tears of joy, she was,” Spike went on, increasingly rabid. “Yeah. Can’t wait to tell the grandkids.”
 
“Well, uh, yes. Of course,” Giles said. He cleared his throat. “Not saying it’s easy. But, uh– you know. It’ll be alright.”
 
Spike smacked the lid of the suitcase down. “Christ. Thought about starting an agony aunt column, have you?”
 
“I’m just saying,” Giles said defensively. “I mean, you’ve managed to get this far, haven’t you?”
 
Spike clenched his teeth. “Yeah. By the skin of my fangs.”
 
Giles tutted. “Oh come on, Spike. Self-pity never did look good on you.”
 
“Bloody hell,” Spike said. He wheeled around to Giles again. “Never mind an advice column. You’d do better working for the bleedin’ Samaritans.”
 
Giles bit his lip. He tried not to smile as he started shutting the clasps on his suitcase. “You know, Spike, the eighteenth century got in touch,” he said. “They’re looking for people who’ve suddenly discovered an inner world filled with, uh, rich feeling and emotional insight.”
 
Spike was now stamping on his bag to try get it closed. “Shut up.”
 
“Love truly can make a poet out of anyone, it seems.”
 
“Just piss off, would you?”
 
Giles picked up his bag and shook his head ruefully as he went to leave. “God. There truly must be hope for us all.”

Chapter Text

Buffy kicked off her boots and curled up in her seat, head against the window pane as the pale yellow fields whooshed by.

Grass and trees were nice. Or whatever that tall wavy straw stuff was. Crops or reeds or whatever.

It was a good day, because Buffy was no longer on a ship. She was on a bus now, and had seen many cows and windmills.

She chattered with Giles for the bulk of the afternoon, a new spring in her figurative step, and then the atmosphere grew muted when the sunlight turned soft golden, misting the hills and making green seem like a whole new colour. Buffy wished Spike was awake to watch too. To join them in silence, and see the herds of long-legged white birds shrouded in sparkly fog and that one deer sprinting in the distance. Everything vanished quick as the bus rattled onwards, but in that moment it felt weirdly important. It was a shame he had to miss it. 

The gold passed too soon, but at least afterwards the sky was dark enough – still a bit powdery, but the sun’s remnants hidden by tassels of cloud – that Buffy could turn around and ease Spike’s jacket up a bit.

Spike startled awake, eyes pulsing as he took her in. 

“Hi,” she whispered into the dark. “You can come out now.”
 
Spike groaned, scrubbing his face, and shucked his jacket off. “Hey. Was having a nice dream.”
 
“Really? What about?”
 
“Please– I don’t want to hear about anything that goes on in Spike’s subconscious,” came Giles’ disembodied voice from the seat ahead.
 
Buffy rolled her eyes. “It’s okay. You can tell me later.”
 
“I’ll do better than that,” Spike said. He poked out his tongue. “I’ll show you.”
 
Giles made a disgusted sound.
 
“What?!” Spike said. “I was gonna paint her a picture.”
 
Giles’ sigh was audible. “Did you have to wake him, Buffy?”
 
“Sorry for disturbing you,” Buffy said. She rubbed Spike’s leg, suddenly a bit guilty about waking him so early. He looked kind of dead, metaphorically. “It may have been a teensy bit self-serving.”
 
“S’okay,” Spike said through a yawn, then added, much louder, “Don’t blame you. Giles is rotten company.”
 
“Shut up,” came Giles’ voice again.
 
“So. What’d I miss?” Spike asked.
 
“Lots of fields. Lots of cows. Pretty nice sunset,” Buffy said casually, not wanting him to feel all left out. “Oh, and Giles told me about his girlfriend.”
 
“Uh– in confidence, or so I thought,” said Giles. “And she is not my, uh, girlfriend.”
 
Buffy leant forward and grabbed the back of Giles’ seat to look down at him. “Sorry!” She flashed her teeth apologetically. “I’m just… excited for you.”
 
“Well, don’t be,” Giles said irritably. “It’s. Uh. Well, it was a long time ago.”
 
“Well true love is eternal, innit?” Spike said smirkily. 
 
“So, what are you gonna to say to her?” Buffy asked. She rested her head on her forearms. “Do you have, like, a big speech planned?”
 
“No,” said Giles.
 
“They haven’t seen each other in years,” Spike said. “Reckon the time for talking is over.”
 
“True,” said Buffy. “So are you just gonna, y’know– give her this big, smouldering look and then swing her into your arms?”
 
“Uh, no, because this isn’t an Austen novel, Buffy,” Giles said. He fussed with his glasses. “Real life is a bit more complicated.”
 
Buffy pouted and thumped back into her seat.
 
“Don’t mind him,” Spike said as he slipped an arm around her. “He’s just testy because he’s nervous.”
 
“Well, I just don’t think he should be nervous,” said Buffy. “Any woman would be lucky to have someone like Giles.”
 
“Well, he’s alright, but I wouldn’t go that far.”
 
“I can still hear you,” said Giles.
 
“So, what about me, then?” Spike reeled Buffy onto his lap and bit the side of his tongue. “Would any woman be lucky to have me?”
 
“Nah. You’re a menace to society,” said Buffy. “I’m just trying to keep you out of trouble. For all other women’s sake. It’s like, this big sacrifice.”
 
“Oh, come on now. Don’t butter me up.”
 
Buffy grinned and tugged gently at the neckline of his shirt. “So. Tell me about your dream, then,” she said, trying to be quiet but apparently failing, because Giles immediately snapped, “I can still hear you!”
 
“Well stop bloody well listening, then!” Spike hissed.
 
“I unfortunately lack the ability to open and close my ears at will, though I have wished for it on several occasions of late.”
 
“Sorry, Giles!” Buffy said sheepishly. She fisted Spike’s shirt, dragged him closer, and said against his ear, “Just whisper it.”
 
Spike’s nostrils flared excitedly. He knew that glint in her eyes. Sparked up when she was a little bored and excess energy had sanded off the sensible edges. Her fingers trailed restlessly up his wrist as she fixed him with this loaded look. 

Spike’s head rushed. He scrunched up the fabric at her waist and bit his lip, trying to ground himself.

“Well?” she said.
 
“Stuff the dream. Wasn’t that good anyway.”
 
“Tell me.”

Spike pulled his mouth to one side like he was about to say something. But the words didn’t come. Out of nowhere, he just laughed.

“What?!” Buffy demanded.

“Seriously. Forget it,” he said. He tipped his head onto her shoulder and vibrated with another laugh. “Just glad you woke me up.”

Buffy gave a suspicious smile. “I think you’re losing it.”

“I really am. God bloody help me.”

***

Buffy waved Giles over from her bench by the river, where she’d spent the last few minutes gleefully fuelling up on sugar and baking in the sun.

“Someone looks happy,” Giles commented as he sat down beside her.

“Uh huh. It’s pretty here.”

It really was. The facades of the riverfront buildings were fairytale-esque, with the sharp silhouettes of spiky church steeples and an old clocktower rising up behind them.
 
Giles hummed his agreement. “Yes. Wonderful Medieval architecture.”

“Yeah, and look–” Buffy held out a waffle wrapped in greasy newspaper. “They have cake, but it’s square and got little holes in it. Nifty, huh?”
 
Giles wrinkled his nose. “Gosh. They really will make any old gimmick these days.”

Buffy pushed out her bottom lip, then ripped a bite out of the waffle. It tasted good, despite its gimmicky nature.

Giles dug around in his pocket and took out a scrap of paper with a few items scribbled on it. “Still need to go to the tailor,” he murmured as his eyes trailed the list. “Have a few items that need mending.”
 
Buffy grinned at him with sugar-dusted lips. “Want to look nice for Paris, huh?”
 
“Must one have an ulterior motive to have clothes without holes in them?”

Buffy chewed sceptically. “What else’s on the list?”

“We should also stop by the chemist,” he said. “We’re out of hydrogen peroxide – again.”

Buffy tucked her hair in a little under her cap guiltily. “Gosh. Wonder what keeps happening to it.”

“One of the world’s great mysteries.”

“Guess you must get a lot of paper cuts, huh?”

Giles scoffed. “Well, that’s a new one. I notice you and Spike have stopped blaming one another for its disappearance and become co-conspirators.”

Buffy swung her legs back and forth. “Well, at least everyone’s hair will look spiffy for Paris, hey?”

“Yes. I’m sure that will be of immense comfort when we all expire from gangrene en route.”
 
Buffy arched over Giles’ shoulder to look at the list. “I’ll do the butchers’,” she offered. “I love the look on their face when I go in and ask for a quart of blood. Bet they think it’s for something really weird, like a satanic ritual or–” she cut off and scrunched her nose thoughtfully. “Actually. That’s probably less weird than what it’s actually for.” She shrugged and continued chomping on her waffle.

“Truth really is stranger than a butcher’s imagination, as they say,” Giles said. “But, uh– yes. That would be a great help. And something for the non-blood drinkers, too, if you will.”

“Got it. Think there’s a market in the square.” 
 
“Right, then. I’ll meet you at the Cathedral in an hour.”
 
Buffy polished off her waffle, then jumped up and headed down one of the wider cobbled streets. It was nice to see people again. People looking busy and happy and grumpy. She’d kind of forgotten what it was like, when everything around seemed full of newness and possibility. A wistful pang hit her as she passed a little stall selling smoked herring, steamy from the pan and topped with pickles.
 
She scanned the shopfronts in search of a butcher’s sign, fuzzy recollections starting to dawn on her– of walking through town as a kid, a hand clamped tight around hers, her mom’s face shadowed by a big straw hat. She had worn that hat a lot, Buffy remembered. It had made her head look so small.

Buffy tried to focus her brain, hoping to squeeze a few more details out of the memories, but then she hitched in her stride when the gold lettering on a tobacconist’s sign caught her eye. 

She peered in the bay window and inspected the dusty wooden shelves, which were packed with old stuff– fancy tins, leather pouches, lighters that snapped at the top like cleavers. She hesitated, then rustled around in her pocket and roughly counted her notes. The overhead bell went ding as she pulled open the door.

***

Spike moaned as the cardboard box hit him in the centre of his chest.

He lifted his head and blinked one eye open drowsily. “Buffy?” 

“Hey,” Buffy said.

She hastily buttoned up the entrance flap behind her. Despite the sun beaming down outside, the tent was shrouded and dark, because of all the extra padding Spike had added to keep out the light. Heat still got through, though, so the inside was muggy like a cave. It even made Spike warm to touch. The fabric was worn from use and tiny nets of sunlight filtered in here and there, so it’d probably need a do-over at some point, but Buffy supposed they weren’t gonna be on the road much longer.
 
She dropped down on her stomach beside Spike and announced, “Got you something.”
 
Spike whined as she shook his chest and arched away with scrunched-up eyes. “S’it my chips?”

“No. Giles ate 'em all,” Buffy said. She braced over him and kissed him a few times on the mouth impatiently. “Come – on. Wake – up.”

Spike huffed but sat up, face pockmarked from the pillow. The little box slid off his stomach onto the floor. “Y’know, people always say you can sleep when you’re dead.” He rubbed his eyes and glared at her. “But clearly not with you around.”

“No rest for the formerly wicked,” Buffy agreed. She picked the box back up and proffered it proudly. “Here.”

Spike started trying to snap the lid off the box. “What’s this all about?”

“Just open it.”

Spike wrangled the box open and looked down at the contents. Packed in cotton was a brown briar pipe. His eyes flicked up to Buffy and then back down.
 
She watched him hopefully. Back in town, the shopkeeper had rifled through janky wooden drawers and asked her, “So is it for your dad, or your husband?”

Buffy hesitated, but went with, “Uh– husband?” rather than ‘vampire’ or ‘hey, it’s the twentieth century, y’know’, because apparently neither were options. 

“Right. He might like something a bit more modern, then.” 

Again, Buffy opted for the amiable nod, rather than ‘oh no, he’s like, super old’. 

She’d eventually settled on one: a brown pipe curved like an S with a silver rim around the middle. The shopkeeper waxed lyrical about the quality of the wood, told her it was a classic, and that it’d need to be well maintained but if it was, it’d last forever. 

Buffy smiled wryly at that, because presumably he didn’t mean literally. But she liked the way the pipe felt in her hand, heavy and smooth, like it’d been carved and polished with real care. Spike appreciated that, she knew– attention to detail, and having nice things to look after.

Spike’s lips quirked to the side as he picked up it and examined it. “Got this for me, did you?”
 
“Yep.”
 
Spike eyed her sceptically. He held the pipe to one side of his mouth and said out the corner, “Like the old man look, do you?” 
 
“Don’t, like, artists and poets and hip-happening people like that also smoke pipes?”
 
Spike ran his thumb along the curve of the wood. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Buffy followed his movements with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. His expression was hard to read. 

Spike placed the pipe gently aside, then reached out to knit his arms round her. He tugged them both down to the ground, then murmured into her neck, “Why’d you get me a present?”
 
“Just thought you might like it,” Buffy said.
 
Spike let out a tiny, muffled noise against her. Buffy thought it was a laugh at first, but frowned when she drew back and saw his face. “Hey," she said. His eyes were filmy, lips pressed tight together. Okay, so definitely not laughing.
 
“Oh no,” Buffy said, panic flaring up. “Did your dad smoke a pipe or something?” Her eyes widened and she clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh god– he used to smoke a pipe and beat you with it, didn’t he?”
 
Spike snorted. “Nah, it’s not that,” he said raggedly. He pulled her hand over and kissed it. “Honest to god. It’s just– uh. People don’t usually get me stuff.”

Buffy hesitated. “I know the feeling.”

“Why’d you get it?”

Buffy’s eyes narrowed, a little confused with a touch of irritation. He’d already asked her that. “I told you,” she said. “I… wanted to get you something.”

Spike gave a solemn nod, like she’d just told him terrible news.

“God. It’s that bad, hey?” Buffy said.

Spike squeezed her hip. “Stop. It’s not that.”

“It was–” she said, suddenly nervous. “I… wanted to do something nice. Thought it’d make you happy.”

“Yeah,” Spike huffed against her knuckles. He paused. “That’s the problem.”

“Jeez. I’ve been getting it wrong this whole time, then,” Buffy said. “Thought that’s supposed to be a good thing.”

Her tone was teasing, but it felt hollow. Almost like lying, and a desperate attempt to dislodge the heaviness in her own gut. She didn’t like getting it. She wanted to pretend, sometimes, that she didn’t. It made it more real, to actually say things. They were harder to push back down when they’d already been spoken out loud.

Spike didn’t reply. 

Maybe he felt the same. He looked a bit childlike, the way he covered his mouth with her fist and watched her with eyes still glistening.

The sleeping bag seemed to rustle extra loud as Buffy shuffled in place. She admitted quietly, “It hurts for me too, sometimes.”

The lines in Spike’s forehead creased.

“It’s like– I’m not sure it’ll fit,” Buffy said. “I get worried, sometimes, that… there’s not enough room in there, or something.”

Spike swallowed. “Yeah. ‘M starting to think it might, you know. Burst me open.”

Buffy’s chest went tight. “It won’t,” she promised. She brushed a thumb over his cheek. “I think it’s just… like a muscle. Gets stronger the more you use it.”

Spike, still looking crestfallen, crushed her against him and tucked his face into her shoulder.

“Yeah,” he said. “Probably right.” He gave her head a fierce kiss. 

“I am,” Buffy said. “Trust me.” She forced a smile as he pulled away. When she saw him again, his face had softened a little.

“Love the pipe,” he murmured. His lips twitched and he lifted a brow. “You don’t think I’ll look a bit of a prat smoking one, though?”
 
Buffy snorted. “Oh, more than usual, you mean?” 
 
Spike smirked.

“Well, it was between that and a fancy ashtray,” Buffy said. “Y’know, something pretty to keep you in someday.”

Spike hummed. “Yeah. Bet I’d look dead nice on the mantelpiece.”

“Exactly. But I thought it’d be more of a me-present.”

“You chose well,” Spike said. “Now I won’t have to pretend those fags you roll me are any way serviceable.”
 
Buffy bit her lip. “You know, I make them extra bad on purpose sometimes.”
 
Spike’s head snapped up, scandalised. “I was wondering that! With your dexterity, something wasn’t adding up.”

A smile played on Buffy’s lips. He always tried to smoke them anyway, no matter how terrible they were. She was pretty sure he just didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She loved that– how he was extra sweet when he thought nobody could tell.
 
“It’s just so funny watching you choke every time,” she said fondly. 

Spike knotted up some of her hair between his fingers and skittered against her head. “God. You’re twisted.”

“Hey,” Buffy said, pinching his ear. “Just a bit.”

“Meant it in a good way,” Spike said. “Love that about you.” His eyes flickered and he added softly, “Love everything about you.”

Buffy’s lips did an uncomfortable half-smile. “C’mon. Not everything.”

“No. Everything.”

“Stop it.”

“It’s true.”

Buffy bristled.

“It’s true,” he said again, his voice strained. “Never known anything as perfect as you.”

Buffy’s cheeks felt like they were getting really red really quick. She dropped her gaze. He always did this – switch gears disarmingly fast. Taunting one moment, slicing through her with abrupt sincerity the next. 

It made her feel a little hypocritical, at times. She got so comfortable with the status quo, the levity of it, even though she’d been the one laying into him before for barricading himself off the way he did. She’d even even felt superior about it, if she was honest with herself. But sometimes it felt like they’d swapped places. 

Maybe he’d had good reason to be so hesitant. She knew he’d been keeping her at a distance because he was scared, but maybe she had misunderstood why. She thought it was just a side effect of being disconnected from everyone for so long, of having nobody but Giles for company, normalising the endless sniping and never saying what you really felt.

And, well. Maybe the vampire thing, a bit. 

She’d assumed that’s why he’d had such trouble uttering a real feeling, before. That he genuinely didn’t know how. But no. He knew how, alright. He’d just been afraid of the dam breaking.

Buffy looked up at him with this sharp ache in her chest. He was just staring at her, leaving her no place to hide.

“Oh, okay, so all the fighting–” she started to say. She tried to sound playful, “–and the way I made you totally crazy– and how I always–” When her voice cracked, she let the stupid words die and buried her face in his chest. Her eyes watered as he held her tight. “God,” she said with a self-deprecating huff. She wiped an eye with the back of her hand. “Now I’m the one– with the weird happy-sad thing.”

“What was it you were just saying, about good things?” Spike teased gently. 

Buffy felt a stab of guilt. She shuffled back to see his face, feeling like a coward. The pipe lay on the ground on Spike’s far side, and it suddenly looked to her like another cowardly thing she’d done.

She wrapped herself around one of his arms and clung to it. “I think it’s because of you,” she said in a husky voice. “I think– that’s why I’m getting the memories back.”

Spike stilled. “What d’you mean?”

Buffy sniffed and wriggled in his arms.

“The way I felt, when I was a kid,” she said. “I was– happy. But not just happy. I remember now, how things felt… easier. I wasn’t fighting something the whole time. I wasn’t always– on guard, or looking over my shoulder.”

She hadn’t planned to say any of this. It was sort of embarrassing, and she wasn’t even sure it was true. Giles clearly didn’t think it was. But she wanted to say it anyway, because she wanted him to know, since she felt in her bones that she was right about it and maybe it’d be a better present, to tell him something truly honest, than a stupid pipe anyway.

“I know my friends at the orphanage loved me. They really did,” she went on. “But I guess, I was always trying to look out for them. They didn’t ask me to or anything, not really, but still, I felt like… I needed to be the strong one. The one who beat up the bullies, you know?” She exhaled a breath. “But it was different, before all that, when I still had my family. Back then… I had people taking care of me.”

Spike remained silent, but Buffy could tell he was listening intently.

“I mean… the memories aren’t all good,” she said. She squeezed Spike’s forearm harder. “In some of them, I’m scared. Really scared. I forgot what it was like, because after I got to the orphanage I didn’t really let myself feel afraid. I thought it was too dangerous, to let myself feel it. But it’s weird, because– when I remember it, it’s not so bad. It’s like… even when I was scared, I felt– safe at the same time. Because I knew I wasn’t alone.”

Spike’s hand pressed into the small of her back. His body was rigid with how hard he was paying attention.

Buffy slackened her grip on his arm, then tilted her gaze up to meet his.

“It’s the same way I feel when I’m with you,” she whispered. “I think– I think you made me remember.”

Spike’s nostrils flared. His eyes were round and glossy, like he was close to tears. She felt relief seep through her and start to bloom into something sweet. Before he’d kissed her back on the deck, he’d mostly gotten angry when he was upset about something, or tried to get away from her if she came too close. She’d done the same herself, sometimes. 

Now he wasn’t moving at all, and his face was soft. She smiled faintly and wiped his cheek with her thumb. “Boy. We’re really good at this, hey?”

Spike laughed and nudged his nose gently against her palm. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s– a good thing. Swear it.”

Buffy cupped his face and slowly leant forward to kiss him. It was a shaky kiss. Dangerously gentle, as if they hadn’t done it before. Their mouths brushed together so lightly it was almost ticklish, but it felt like anything else would be too much. The moment was too fragile. Not fragile the way things used to be, back when a tiny misstep could send the other running in the opposite direction. No, it was just– delicate, like something precious you need to take care of.

Their lips were still almost touching when they stopped. Buffy could hear her own breath and her heartbeat pounding down below it. 

Spike’s face had slipped back to serious. He brought his hand up and trembled his fingertips across her cheek, then swept his eyes over hers. “Didn’t think it was possible,” he said, swallowing. “But– you make me remember, too.”

Buffy’s heart gave a hard thump. Her mouth slowly curved into a smile.

He gave her one back. A real one, at last. 

She traced her thumb along his jaw and asked softly, “Good things?”

Spike dragged her in closer and touched their foreheads together. “Yeah, love,” he breathed. “Good things.”

Buffy smiled wider. She braced the back of his neck, then kissed him again.

The kiss wasn’t so chaste this time, but still gentle. She curled her fingers up in his hair and felt herself melt gradually into the slow, sweet rhythm of it. Sometimes they stopped and looked at each other. There was something almost shy in the curl of his lips and how his eyes crinkled up, but maybe it was just the way people looked when they were happy and had nothing left to say.

The air in the tent was so warm, almost airless, that time seemed to drip by. As if nothing could pass through at its usual speed. Even Spike himself seemed slowed down. His hands moved carefully over her back, and he kept the pace steady even when he kissed her deeper.

Back on the ship, they’d always touched each other urgently. Under the bedcovers or with clothes half undone, keenly aware that somebody could barge in any moment, squashed into the side of the bunk or behind trunks in the cargo bay. They’d been wary and quiet and hissed at each other to keep watch, blamed each other and complained about everyone else, and then laughed when they got carried away and didn’t care anymore.

It’d been frustrating, obviously. The constant sense of things being pent up with nowhere to go. But Buffy had liked it sometimes, too. The excitement, the desperation, the rush that came with being pushed to the brink and momentarily reckless. Even in the stolen moments it’d been this strangely easy, natural thing. Ever since they’d met they’d been physical with each other, training and fighting and playfighting, so it was like they’d skipped the awkward stage, and started off already in sync. Spike had grumbled a lot about the whole ship thing, but he got off on it too, obviously– on how quickly they both got riled up, knowing they were on a tight clock, and on the way he’d had to press his hand over her mouth, testing how hard they could go without making the bed screech.

Buffy had gotten so used to the secrecy that it took her off guard, how different it was now. There was a thrill to undressing slowly, too. The anticipation of getting to feel more of him bit by bit, the heat sparking up in his eyes as he saw more of her. Even when she was tangled up right up against him and his skin was everywhere, she wanted more. Sort of like a staircase with no end.

The tent was so muted, Buffy barely noticed the pressure mounting, not till her skin was already red hot and her whole body thrummed, like her heartbeat was pulsing all over. “Never seen you so quiet,” she told him, her voice low. She climbed into his lap, saw him watch her with this raw intensity that almost made her shudder.

“Could say a lot of things,” he said. He put his arms around her, his throat sounding as dry as hers felt. “But think you know ‘em all already.”

Even all the nights she’d laid alone in her tent and thought about him, wondering if he was feeling anything like what she was, she hadn’t imagined that he would ever hold her like this. That it would suit him, even, to touch her so sweetly it hurt. His fingers stayed gentle, but she could still tell when desperation started to claw at the edges. His nails pressed lightly into her skin and the stifled moans in her mouth came more often.

But every time he squeezed her harder, any time he seemed close to unravelling, he pulled back, steadied himself, kissed her with renewed caution. Pushed her hand away from him, even though she could tell he wanted it. He liked to tease sometimes, but this was different. Buffy watched him, curious and a little impatient. His chest heaved as if he was really breathing hard, his forehead and cheeks shiny like he was sweating too.

It wouldn’t take much to end his restraint. He was fighting it, but all she had to do was ask, kiss him harder or push him down to the ground. She lifted a hand instead, the muscles in her arm taut with tension, and laid her palm gently on his head. “Spike,” she chided softly.

His mouth was pressed against her throat and when he looked up at her, his eyes were extra bright, almost glowing in the dusky light.

Buffy grinned at him through a harsh breath. Her voice quivered. “Someone’s patient today, hey?”

Spike’s lips quirked. “Sorry,” he said hoarsely. He tipped his head into the crook of her shoulder and scraped his teeth gently on the bone. “Just– want it to last.”

Buffy huffed a tiny laugh. God. He was going to live forever, but he still didn’t get it. She tugged gently at his arms, unhooking his nails from the small of her back. He let go with slight resistance. She took his hands instead, intertwined their fingers.

“Day’s gonna end either way, you know,” she said. “Trust me. There’ll be another one tomorrow.”

***

Spike felt evening creep up on them with dread. He knew it was coming, but it made him sick anyway, when he heard the crickets start up and Giles bumbling about outside.

He was almost unbearably still. He doubted Buffy was fully asleep, but he could pretend to himself that she was if she wasn’t moving or saying anything. His arm cramped a bit underneath her weight.

Cool breeze trickled through the worn mesh of the tent, itching the back of his neck like nettles. In the distance, Giles knocked tent poles together. The clang made Spike prickle with annoyance.

Buffy, awake or asleep or somewhere in between, just lay there. Peaceful. He could feel the gentle hum of her body, skin still hot.

Trust me. There’ll be another one tomorrow.

Thinking about what she’d said made his chest spasm and his mouth go dry. The words were sweet things replaying in his ears and he clung to them like grains of sand. She really believed it, probably. What she said. It was easier for her.

He bristled with the unfairness of it. That was the funny thing about immortality. Didn’t necessarily make you feel you had more time. Only made it starker that nothing really lasts. Nothing except yourself. Which didn’t seem to matter much, without the rest.

She had no choice but to accept that things always passed. But he might live forever and never feel so close to anyone ever again. 

When she eventually stirred, he clenched tighter around her on reflex. Like a kid clutching a teddy bear. She didn’t say anything at first, just turned around and touched the centre of his chest, which was damp from being pressed against her back. Her cheeks were flushed pink, eyes tired but soft. Spike’s heart, or whatever the hell the thing was in there, ached desperately.

“Time to go, huh?” she asked, voice low and rough with sleep.

Spike made an unhappy face. “Yeah.”

Buffy laughed, dragging her fingers over his sternum. “I know. Me neither.”

She looked so easily happy. So earnest, eyes vivid and brimming with life, even when she was tired. She was this perfect thing, and she was looking right at him like that. Maybe it was the universe twisting the bloody knife.

Her hand slowed and caught a little on his collarbone. She looked down and said quietly, “So. We’re gonna get there soon. To Paris.”

Spike automatically stiffened. “Yeah. So I’ve heard,” he said, not really hiding the bitter edge in his voice. He’d planned to, but apparently he didn’t care enough, in the end. 
 
When Buffy didn’t say anything else, he picked up her hand and watched himself rub circles into her palm. 

“You, uh– excited?” he asked.
 
Buffy shrugged. “Guess so.”

Spike felt hope surge up in his chest. “Yeah?” he prompted. Probably a bit too eager, but whatever.

Buffy’s eyes locked onto his, which made him freeze.

A shadow fell over her face. It was subtle, the way her mouth changed shape and her eyes rippled, but he caught it.
 
“I mean… I guess it’ll be nice,” she said weakly. “After all this time on the road.”

Spike said nothing. His lips tightened.

Let’s not go.
 
“It’ll be interesting,” she said. She looked down at her hand in his and started to fidget with his knuckles. “To… see what the Council are like. To talk to them.”
 
Don’t go. Run away with me.
 
“Plus, Giles will be happy,” Buffy tried. Her eyes darted up to Spike’s face, then away again. “I think he needs this.” 
 
Could go anywhere we like. Do anything we want.

“And Paris is supposed to be beautiful,” she said. “Romantic, you know?”

Please. God, Buffy, please.

“We can see the city, eat baguettes…” Buffy went on. “Frogs' legs. That’s a thing. I mean, weird, but it’s good to try new things, so… we could try it. I think there’s cake, too. Wait, do croissants count as cake?”
 
She bit her lip nervously at him. Like she'd just been waiting for him to cut her off. 
 
Spike shifted against her, then pinched his eyes hard. “God. I just– I dunno.”
 
“What is it?” she asked gently, like she really wanted to know and, at the same time, like she already knew. 

Did she want him to say it?

“Buffy,” he managed feebly. 

She leant in closer. “What?”

Spike searched her eyes. Her breath wavered.

Was she tempted?

The air was laced with tension. His own insides were strung so tight it left him paralysed. But he knew her. He knew she’d go to Paris. Of course she would. He bloody knew it, that she always did what she had to do, the right thing, and–

His mouth hardened and he felt a flash of resentment, followed by a wave of something even more rotten. Not shame, exactly– maybe the sharp realisation of its absence.

What would happen if he begged? Did she want him to?

His jaw jutted out and he exhaled a breath he’d clearly been holding onto. “I’d just– rather stay here, to be honest with you,” he said, almost lamely. 

Buffy’s eyes readjusted themselves, like something had shifted.

“Yeah?” she said quietly. “Here? In this tent?”

“Yeah. Whatever,” he said. He sighed from deep in chest, then brought her hand to his mouth to kiss her fingertips. “Just– wanna stay here, with you.”

Chapter Text

Buffy tumbled off the bus. The doors nearly clamped shut on her dress and she crashed into Spike, who gave a petulant little yowl as he fell forward. 

Buffy ignored him as she brushed herself off, then straightened up to take in their new surroundings.

“Well, here we are,” Giles announced. “In fine Paris.”

Buffy made a face. The bus rattled away down the empty road and took the whir of the engine with it. Which left the three of them standing in total silence. Apart from the crickets. Between the battered lonely bus stop and the extreme lack of other people, it didn’t look quite how Buffy had imagined. The tumbleweed was a surprise. 

“Uh. So where are all the guys wearing berets and playing accordions?” she asked as she squinted around. 
 
Giles sighed as he unlatched his satchel to withdraw one of his maps. “In a book about tired French stereotypes, perhaps?”

“Ugh. I was kidding.”

“Well, never fear,” Giles mumbled as he started to inspect the map. “Spike remains firm victor when it comes to cultural ignorance.”

Spike spun around. “Hey!” 

Buffy grimaced apologetically at him. “To be fair, that thing you did with the asparagus didn’t go down well.”

“How was I supposed to know Germans are so touchy about their bloody asparagus?!” Spike snapped. 

Buffy immediately regretted piling on. He looked positively vitriolic. 

He continued, “Not my fault it looks like a vampire’s–”

“Please,” Giles cut in sharply. “I’d successfully purged that from my memory.” 

Spike grunted. “So. How do we get to this Watchers Council joint, then?” 
  
“Oh, it’s a bit further south,” said Giles. He glanced at his watch. “But– uh. It’s already quite late. We should… probably wait until the morning, to stop by.”
 
“Right,” Spike said tightly.

Buffy bit her lip. She knew it wasn’t that late. Sunset had only been an hour ago, two at most. “The morning,” she echoed. “Yeah. I… guess that makes sense.” She turned to Spike. His mouth was set unhappily and his fists were taut around the luggage handles. “But you can do your little coat-over-the-head bit, right?”
 
Spike snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure they’ll love that.” He coughed and went on quickly, “But, uh. It’s fine. I’ll probably just, you know. Have a kip or something. Could do with the rest.”
 
Buffy bristled helplessly. She tried to look up at him, but he determinedly avoided her eyes. Buffy angled around to Giles instead, but he was too focused on his map to notice her trying to get his attention. 
 
“Where we staying then, Giles?” Spike asked.
 
“Oh, the place I had in mind is rather central, actually,” Giles said. He rolled his map back up and tucked it into his bag. “We could, of course, take the scenic route– bypass the Champs-Élysées…” 

Giles left the thought unfinished when he caught sight of Buffy and Spike’s faces. There was a strained silence.
 
“Or we could take a midnight stroll in the Père Lachaise?” Giles suggested with forced enthusiasm. “That’ll have something for, uh, everyone.”
 
“What’s the point?” Spike said. He kicked at some parched roadside grass. “Everything there’s probably long dead.”
 
Giles rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I just thought it might have the right, uh, ambience…”
 
“Let’s just get to the hotel, yeah?” Spike said. He gave the cases a shake. “Bags are heavy and that.”
 
Buffy reached over. “Here. Give me one.”
 
Spike growled as he arched the bags away from her. “It’s fine.”
 
Buffy rolled her eyes. “Jeez," she hissed as she jerked her arm out stubbornly. “Let me help.”

Spike clenched his jaw hard, but reluctantly handed a bag to her. He stepped away and scuffed his boot on the ground. 

Buffy’s prickliness softened a bit. Everyone was just… cranky. It’d been a long journey, and they hadn’t slept much, and change was… unsettling, and Spike, well–

She breathed deep, then stepped over and rubbed gently at his shoulder with her free hand. He ignored her as she tried to catch his eye. When she didn’t give up, he grudgingly turned around. The muscles in his face were so tight they were almost twitching.

“Hey,” she said quietly. She kept her hand on his shoulder and moved her fingertips in little circles between the bone. For a flash Spike looked even more annoyed, but then he exhaled some of the tension, and the scowl eased up. 

God. He was such a brat. Buffy fought back a smile. She lifted a brow at him. 

Spike was obviously thinking equally mean thoughts about her, because his lips quirked as he glared at her. She could almost hear the ream of stupid British names he was calling her in his head. 

Clearly trying not to laugh, he snatched her hand and dragged her over to him. “Right,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let’s have a gander at this triumphant bloody arch then, shall we?”

***

The next morning, Giles and Buffy stood waiting outside the main entrance of the Watchers Council. The headquarters was fancy. It looked like what the old manor in St. Petersburg probably should’ve looked like, had it not been sieged, abandoned, and then plundered over several years by a merciless Spike and a reluctant Giles. 

The French version was a lot better maintained. The facade was a musty beige with lots of pillars and creepy-looking stone faces popping out from over the arched windows. 

Buffy tilted her head. In the triangle above the giant wooden door, there was another carving. Flatter, barely raised off the stone. A shield bordered by swirly flowers, and inside, a side view of two figures. The image wasn’t very detailed, but it wasn’t hard to make out the armour-clad slayer piercing the vampire, his eyes wild and grotesque, straight through the heart.

“Nervous, Buffy?”

Buffy swivelled around to Giles. Her eyes automatically fell on his hands, braced tight and uncharacteristically fidgety. “Uh,” she said. “Not as much as you, probably.”

Giles chuckled. He fidgeted more viciously. “Uh. Quite.”

After what seemed a long time, the towering door creaked open. It was so well fortified Buffy half expected to see a knight with a sword and pointy helmet on the other side. Which is when she realised that, duh – of course the place was well protected. To keep the demons out.

Buffy didn’t have time to think much about this, because a woman, not a knight, was peering out at them through the slightly open door. 

“Jenny?” said Giles.

Jenny’s eyes widened like she’d seen a ghost. Maybe literally for her, since, as far as she knew, Giles was dead. 

Jenny was younger than Buffy had expected and wearing way less tweed. As in, none. She had on a shortish powder blue dress and over it a tight black blazer, almost like one that a guy would wear. When Buffy looked closer, she saw that her eyes were a little weathered and there were hints of grey in the roots of her dark hair, but she still had to be a good few years younger than Giles.

Something about seeing her, after hearing Giles’ stories, made Buffy feel a flicker of warmth. She was pretty.

“Rupert?” Jenny said after a long moment.

Giles’ mouth curled in a strange way. “Yes. It’s me.”

Jenny pulled the door open wider. She sounded almost afraid. “My god. Rupert. No. Is it– it’s really you?”

Giles took a steadying breath. “Yes. It’s me. I feel– uh, rather the same.”

Jenny’s eyes darted towards Buffy, then back to Giles. Her voice shook as she said, “Oh my god,” and flung her arms around him.

Giles froze for a moment, then embraced her tightly. “I know, it’s, uh– quite a shock to the system.”

“I can’t– I mean–” Jenny’s words were muffled against his shoulder. “I thought you were– well. I didn’t know you were– alive.”

“Well, I am. Just about.” 

Jenny drew back, her eyes still wide but with something happier starting to seep into them. She collected herself, then started to fire questions at him. “My god. How is this– even possible? Where have you been? And what are you doing here?!” 
  
Giles looked just as overwhelmed, though you might not notice if you didn’t know how composed he was usually. His mouth hung open nervously and he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. “Well. That’s a much longer story,” he managed.
 
He and Jenny looked at each other for a long moment, then Jenny clasped a hand over her mouth. “I just can’t believe it.”
 
“I know. I’m sorry to have– uh, descended upon you like this,” Giles said, stuttering, even though there was a definite sparkle in his eyes. He glanced over at Buffy. “But I have to warn you– there’s an even bigger surprise coming.”

***

“Nothing about this story makes any sense,” Jenny said.

Buffy fought the urge to laugh. She had that right. The whole time they’d been filling her in, Jenny had been dumbstruck. She listened mostly in stunned silence, slack-jawed, her eyes blowing wide at the extra weird parts. 

Buffy couldn’t blame her. It sounded even freakier when they recounted it to someone new, especially all in one fell swoop. She remembered how unreal it had seemed to her own ears when Giles had first explained about vampires, but there’d been some pretty bizarre new instalments to the story since then. 

Not that they had told Jenny absolutely everything. They’d decided, well– to start with the essentials. Which Buffy had agreed with Giles made sense. But the guilt niggled at her anyway.

“I can scarcely get my head around it myself, to be honest with you,” Giles said. “Hasn’t quite sunk in.”

Buffy sank back against the sofa. She hadn’t realised how engrossed she’d gotten in trying to catch Jenny up. They must’ve been sitting here for hours.

The drawing room was just as lavish as what she’d expected from the outside. It was weird to be sitting somewhere like this, on silken upholstery beside a marble fireplace, everything carefully arranged. The orphanage had been so scantily decorated, and their means of travelling here hadn’t exactly been first class. She wasn’t used to it. It was even weirder to be sitting somewhere like this not just incidentally, but as a guest. Welcomed. Important, even. 

“Jenny, I really am, uh– sorry for having bombarded you with all of this, without warning,” Giles said. “I know it’s a lot of news to take in at once.”

“It is a lot,” Jenny said. She slumped into the opposing couch and smiled with bright eyes. “But it’s wonderful. A lot of wonderful news at once.”

Jenny turned to Buffy and shook her head. Almost as if Buffy was some kind of mystical creature. Which, Buffy guessed, she sort of was. She was supposed to be dead too, after all. Plus the whole superpowers thing.

“You have no idea how happy everyone will be to see you, Buffy,” Jenny said. “We really didn’t expect anybody to respond to our notice. Honestly, it was a last resort.”

Giles cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. We–we… well, uh, it was just an enormous coincidence, really. How things… turned out.”

“Sounds it,” said Jenny. “I mean, what are the chances?”

“I’m personally convinced of some fateful intervention at play, quite frankly.” Giles flashed Buffy a warm smile. “It’s, uh… miraculous, really.”

Buffy zoned out a little as Giles and Jenny began discussing some more Council intricacies, including some morbid gossip about who was dead and who wasn’t. She wondered what Spike was up to back at the hotel – sleeping, probably – and remembered, with a little wrench in her gut, leaving him this morning in the curtain-drawn room. How quiet and listless he’d been. He hadn’t said it, but she knew he hadn’t liked watching her go. She hadn’t liked leaving him behind, either.

Buffy’s eyes idly roved the framed piece over the mantelpiece, a big oil painting of flying angels with swords trying to spear some goofy-looking fish and lizards. 

“Like the artwork, Buffy?” 

When Buffy turned around, Giles and Jenny were looking at her.

“Oh. Uh– yeah.” Buffy’s gaze shifted back to the frame. “It’s– interesting. Seems like a bit of an unfair fight though, don’t ya think?”

Jenny laughed. 

“The Fall of the Rebel Angels,” Giles mused. “We had a copy, too, back in the manor– before.”

“Oh yeah. Bad, bad angels,” Buffy said with a hum. “They should pick on somebody their own size.”

“Oh, those aren’t the fallen angels,” Giles said. “Those are the good ones. The rebel angels are, well– they’ve taken on a rather monstrous form, as you can see, after falling from heaven.”

“Oh,” Buffy said. Her nose twitched. She didn’t see how an angel would turn into, like, a scaly fish or a dog with horns just for being a bit of a rebel, but whatever. Maybe she just didn’t get art. “Right.”

“Everything okay, Buffy?” Giles asked. “You seemed to be, ah– in your own world there.”

Buffy flashed him a smile. “I’m good. Just– you know. Tired,” she said. “It’s all kind of– wow.”

“I can imagine,” Jenny said. “I mean, I’m still trying to get up to speed with you guys, but of course– it must be a lot for you to take in, as well.”

Buffy let out a sigh before she could stop it. “Sure is.”

“Well, there’s no rush,” Jenny said. “We don’t have to, well– you don’t have to meet everyone right away. I mean, don’t be surprised if they make a big fuss. This whole situation is unprecedented.”

Buffy nodded, a little apprehensive. She’d barely thought about it, honestly. Hadn’t known what to expect. When she’d imagined getting to Paris, she’d thought mostly about things like not sleeping in a tent and finding out more about her family. She’d sometimes had vague images of slayer-ing it up, maybe patrolling the graveyards with Spike. She suddenly felt a little naive. Of course there’d be more. Probably stuff she hadn’t even considered.

“But take your time with adjusting,” Jenny went on. “If we’re going too fast for you, well…” She sat back and held up her hands. “Hey, you’re the boss around here, after all.” 

Buffy gave a wry smile.

“Um, yes. Absolutely, time to… adjust will be needed, for sure,” Giles said. He jiggled his glasses on his nose. “But. Uh. We do have the slight problem of Angelus. He has, after all, tried to target Buffy on more than one occasion.”

Jenny’s eyes flashed, and the colour seemed to drain from her face. “Of course.”

“I’m guessing he hasn’t been able to locate Buffy physically, as of yet,” Giles said. His throat made a strained sound. “Otherwise… well. I believe we would have encountered him in the flesh by now.”

The atmosphere in the room went cold. Buffy crossed her legs uncomfortably. It’s not like she ever forgot that Angelus was chasing her down. That he was probably biding his time, planning something even more sneaky and cruel to spring on her when she least expected it. But with so much going on, well– she’d been taking each day as it came. It was easier that way.

“You’re absolutely right,” Jenny said. “Once the others know, we can all put our heads together. See what we can find out.”

“Have you, uh, had to deal with Angelus in any other capacity of late?” Giles asked.

Jenny’s gaze brushed the floor as she shook her head. “No. Fortunately.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “We kept everything here on the down-low. Not that it’s been particularly difficult, since there hasn’t been a whole lot going on. We’ve only really managed to find our feet this last year or so. We’d… well, we’d hoped Angelus had moved on to bigger things, if he was even still around.” She sighed. “Perhaps it was wishful thinking. I don’t think anybody really wanted to consider–” 

When she broke off, Giles’ face softened at her.

“We have a lot more knowledge than we had previously,” he said. His tone had gone firm in a way Buffy knew well. It was how he always talked to her when he wanted her to know everything would be okay. “He’s revealed a lot to us, about his patterns, his goals. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the resources to fully investigate every line of thought, but now that we’re here–” he gave Jenny a reassuring smile, “We should be well placed to counter any future attacks.”

Jenny gave him a weak smile back. Giles bowed forward on the sofa. As if he wanted to be closer, maybe take Jenny’s hand. But there was a coffee table and several feet of floor between them. 

“And, uh, perhaps getting in touch with some of the covens would be useful,” Giles went on. “If Angelus has been active, they may have picked up on something. Some energies, perhaps even a location.”

Jenny’s smile turned crooked. She shook her head. “Full of ideas, as always.”

Buffy swore she saw Giles blush. When he spoke again, he stammered more than usual. “Well. It has been, uh, a rather long journey,” he said. “We’ve had a lot of time to… uh, reflect and brainstorm.”

Jenny tilted her head to the side. “Any other reflections come to mind?”

Giles didn’t seem to know where to look. He said hurriedly, “Uh, no. Not right this moment.”

Buffy had been conspicuously angled away, not really wanting to interrupt their… whatever this was, but then suddenly remembered something. “Oh, um– Jenny?”

Jenny’s eyes swung away from Giles as Buffy started to pull her necklace over her head.

“I wanted to ask something,” Buffy said. “About my necklace.”

She cupped the necklace in her hand and leant forward. “I thought it might have something to do with the Council. It has this engraving, see–” she touched her finger to the fine script etched into the back. “Together in Paris.”

“I've always had it,” Buffy went on. “Ever since I got to the orphanage.”

Jenny was quiet for a moment, though something fell over her face. “Yes,” she said softly. “It’s Council issue.”

Buffy’s heart sped up. It was strange. For so long, the necklace had been the only key to her past. A past that’d previously been completely and utterly unknown. It was an odd feeling, to have the pieces finally click into place. Not bad, exactly. It just wasn’t how she’d always imagined it as a kid. She’d sort of assumed there’d be, like. Fireworks. A sense of everything coming together, at last. But she still felt the same. Just the same old Buffy.

“We gave them out, the night…” Jenny trailed off. Her eyes seemed to swim, but then she straightened up. “We were planning something here, in this very building. It was before we’d relocated, obviously. But the ball was held in different locations sometimes. So they had these made as an invitation. I… haven’t seen one since.” She gave a rueful little laugh. “God, I remember– the stupid arguments about them. About the cost, about which jewellers to hire. If only we’d put our energies–” her tone turned slightly sour, “–into the more important things.” 

“How many times I’ve had the same thought, over the years,” Giles said quietly, his eyes fixed to the carpet. When he noticed Buffy sitting in silence, he remembered himself and said, “Uh, Jenny. Do they have… are there, uh, more detailed records, of that night?”

Jenny’s eyes flicked over at Buffy. Her lips curled sympathetically. “Yes. We do,” she said. “We… we tried to find out everything we could. About everything, everyone.”

“At some point, perhaps we can, well. Go through them,” Giles said.

“Of course. We’ll dig out as much information as we can.”

Jenny combed her fingers through her hair. She glanced at the rounded clock on the mantelpiece, then turned to Buffy.

“I know it’s already been, well, a long day,” she said. “Especially considering it’s barely noon. But I guess the next step is setting everything up, for you to meet everyone. I can make a few calls, if you’re ready for it, Buffy.”

Buffy looked over at Giles. His expression was gentle. She didn’t particularly want to stay. She didn’t particularly want to meet… whoever everyone was. Jenny was nice, but she wasn’t sure what the rest of them would be like. What they’d expect. But the journey had been so long already. There was no point dragging it out even more.

Buffy swallowed and forced a smile. “I guess… I guess I’m ready.”

***

By the time she got back to the hotel, Buffy was wiped.

She’d met a lot of old guys. She had quickly given up trying to memorise all their names. Most of them looked the same anyway, so she wouldn’t be able to tell them apart even if she could remember. Luckily, Jenny had ducked in and helpfully steered her away whenever she got stuck talking to a super rambly one.

She called out “Spike?” as the hotel door clicked shut behind her. 

She felt a little tug in her chest when he didn’t immediately respond. Which was ridiculous. Of course he wouldn’t just be– waiting around her for all day, to run and jump into her arms the second she got back. It’d only been a few hours, really, and–

But a little part of her had wanted it, anyway. She should probably work on that. She was so used to it being just the three of them. But stuff was gonna change, now.

Which was a good thing, she told herself. Willow and Xander would probably think she’d lost her mind if they saw her all clingy and desperate like this. It was just– a bad habit she’d picked up, the clinginess. From the long journey. Plus, she was tired. And everything was so new, and unfamiliar, and her brain was doing laps– so she was probably just in an extra needy kind of mood. 

She heard water running in the bathroom and poked her head through the doorway. Buffy had never stayed in a hotel before. At least not that she could remember. It was pretty special. She loved the crisp smell of freshly washed sheets and how the bathroom seemed way too big. Like they just wanted to waste space for the hell of it. 

Spike was standing at the sink with his back to her, but turned around when she said his name. As soon as he saw her, his eyes lit up. Buffy couldn’t help the bloom of relief in her chest.

Buffy spent an hour or so trying to sum up her first day at the Council while Spike shuffled around the bedroom and ensuite, folding clothes and tucking bags away into the closets.

Boy. She’d done a lot of talking today. 

She told him about the big snazzy building and about how Jenny was way cooler than she’d expected. What she’d found out about the necklace and how the room had slowly started to swarm with eager watchers. 

Spike listened and asked questions dutifully, but Buffy found herself trailing after him, from room to room and back again, to make sure he could hear what she was saying. “Hey,” she said as she leant against the doorframe of the ensuite. “Taskmaster. What’s with the flighty?”

Spike hummed over his shoulder at her, as if he didn’t know what she meant. 

Buffy kept looking at him until he said, “Oh. Just– keeping busy.”

Spike leant over the bathtub and turned the water on, then started to unbutton his shirt. Buffy came up behind him, slid her hands around his middle and pressed her head into the hollow of his back. Her fingers tickled a little up his chest.

“Christ. Can’t a fella do a bit of housekeeping without getting harrassed?” he said, but when he twisted around to her, he was grinning. 

Buffy nestled into his chest, and made a happy little sound when Spike put his arms around her, resting his head on hers. Finally, she relaxed a little. Or maybe a lot. Which probably should have bothered her. Since he was being kind of annoying, and since she could totally look after herself anyway, and she’d never needed a chest to feel better before. But she didn’t care. Not now.

“Missed you,” she said. 

Spike’s chest heaved as he said, “Yeah. Missed you too.” He kissed into her hair, hugged her tighter. “Bit too much.”

Buffy leant back to look up at him, then gave him a kiss. “I know,” she said. She rubbed her hands over his back. “I was– thinking the same. I guess– it’s probably good, that I was gone today. So we can, you know, get used to it, since things are gonna–”

A shadow fell over Spike’s face. He tried to catch it, to force his features back into place, but it was too late. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Buffy said quickly. “I just meant– you know. Because– there’s stuff to do here, so we won’t just be able to– well, hang around all day…” She trailed off and put her head against his sternum, then said again, softly, “Didn’t mean it like that.”

Which felt bad anyway, because they’d both been tip-toeing around the whole thing of what 'like that' meant for a while now. Now it was out of the bag. Even if it was still technically inside another bag. 

Spike had gone a little stiff in her arms, but he tried to loosen up and gave her a squeeze. “Yeah. Know. You’re right.”

“And– Giles is going to talk to Jenny.” Buffy lifted her head to look at him. “So. You know. It’s all just a bit… adjust-y, right now.”

“Yeah.” Spike brushed some of her hair back, then slid his hand down to her jaw. “‘Course.”

Buffy smiled up at him. Her insides still had this uneasy roiling going on, but it was tamping down. She took a breath, then kissed him again. “So. Taking a bath, huh?” she asked, and started to undo the last buttons on his shirt.

“Yeah. S’relaxing,” he said. His face twisted up with offence when she started to wrench her own top over her head. “What d’you think you’re doing?! You’re not coming. Be squirming and yapping the whole time.”

Buffy ignored him and got in the bath anyway. She did squirm and yap quite a lot. But she let him complain about it, so she figured it was even.

When she got out, she found a bathrobe hanging in one of the many closets – she hadn’t realised normal people had so much stuff – and tied it loosely round her waist. She fell onto the bed with a bounce. “Wow. Hotels are nice.” 

Spike sat cross-legged beside her, slicking back his wet hair with a comb. “Yeah. Posh, alright,” he said. “Think we saw a bit of the old Giles, there. Picking somewhere like this and sticking the Council with the tab."

“Well. They clearly have like, a ton of money,” she said. “Everything there is super fancy.”

Spike said nothing for a moment. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Buffy tightened her bathrobe a little and glanced down at it. She liked the way it felt all silky and had swirly gold vines embroidered on it. “Hey, d'ya think it’d be bad if I stole this?” She smiled wryly when Spike just lifted a brow at her. “Nevermind. Wrong audience.”

“But actually– I’m going shopping tomorrow,” Buffy said. She swivelled around and presented her head to Spike so he could brush her hair too. “The dress code at the Council is sort of a step above rags.”

“Hey.” Spike steadied her head with a hand as he combed. “I like those rags.”

“Don’t worry,” Buffy said. “The rags will stay. They’ll just have a well-deserved break in the closet, drinking margaritas with all the other rags.”

Spike grunted.

“I just need some nicer things, too,” she said. “So that I can, you know, have dinner at those really long tables and drink cocktails with really long names. Jeez, why do rich people make everything super long?”

Spike grumbled as he tugged the comb through a knot. “You don’t need fancy clothes,” he said. Buffy couldn’t see his face, but she could tell it was probably contorted up in that way it did when he got all grouchy but knew he was wrong. “They’re for ugly people. To distract away from how minging they are.”

Buffy gave a placating hum. “I’ll let you explain that to them, shall I?”

Spike went a little harder on the knot, which tugged Buffy’s head back slightly. “Come to think of it– it’s bloody cruel, you know? Taking them away from people who really need them.”

Buffy snorted out a laugh. “You know, you used to mock me about my clothes, too.”

She regretted it as soon as the words were out. She hadn’t really meant to say it. Not like that. Not now. God, Buffy. With the timing and the saying-without-thinking. She turned and put a hand on his arm. “Sorry. I didn’t–”

“No.” Spike dropped his gaze. “I did. Did– do that.” He screwed his eyes shut and tipped his chin lightly to her shoulder. “Know I did.”

“It’s okay. Well– I mean. Not really. But, you know, things were different then, and I also–” Buffy cut off and bit her lip.

“No.” Spike said again. “You’re right. I was–” His nostrils flared. “You know I don’t even– god, I couldn’t care less, ‘bout any of that.” He steadied himself with a hand on her other shoulder. 

Buffy did know that. He didn’t care about her clothes or about her being a penniless orphan or whatever. Even at the time, she’d known that. Hadn’t stopped it from stinging, though. The rest of the world looked down on her for it, after all. It wasn’t exactly fun, to have it pointed out and wielded like a dagger. 

“Didn’t even mean it,” Spike said. His voice was low and she could hear the fierce clench of his teeth. “God. I was… I was just trying to hurt you.”

Buffy swallowed. She felt a little shaky all of a sudden. “I know.”

Spike tentatively lifted his eyes. They were so sweet. So sad. And yet– he used to look at her, and want to hurt her. For no reason. For fun.

“But– why?” she asked weakly. Her eyes watered before she could help it. “Why– would you want to do that?”

Spike squeezed her shoulder harder. “Don’t know, pet,” he said. His voice cracked, dry and painful. “I just don’t know.”

Chapter Text

Buffy had seen many graveyards. 

It was messed up, probably, but she’d actually had some good times in them. She and Spike had gone a lot when he’d been training her. The evenings had sort of fused together into one long and blurry cemetery montage, but a strangely happy one. That edge of danger, always simmering, and the thrill of the unexpected fight. Her body breathless and warm against the night chill. Wanting to impress Spike and tick him off at the same time. The tension, the competition.

This was different. This was the worst graveyard she’d ever seen.

Jenny had spread the photographs out in rows across the wide table. Folders were stacked high at the side. Neatly colour-coded and ordered alphabetically. 

The air in the room was heavy. 

"We tried… to leave no stone unturned,” Jenny said quietly. “Documentation, photos of everyone present that evening– we got copies of it all. And any details of previous contact we might have had, with the attendees.”

Buffy’s eyes swept over the assemblage of black and white photographs. People young and old, from every corner of the globe, stared back at her or at each other. Many were children.

Buffy’s chest felt hollow. Her fingers found the edge of the table as she reached out, unsteady, for a small, square photo near the back– its edges bronzed, with a shadowy blemish in one corner. “That’s them,” she said in a low voice. She felt Giles put a hand on her shoulder.

She studied the image of her parents. They seemed younger than in her memories– the photo had probably been taken before she was born. Their smiles were carefree, newly wed-like. The look of people unburdened by responsibility. They held blurred hands and the camera had caught her mom mid-laugh, the rim of a hat shadowing her face.

Buffy felt a sharp lash of frustration. She wanted to see her eyes. She felt a desperate, almost angry yearning to reach in and tip the hat back. On the blank side of the photo, the date and place were scrawled in pencil. Along with their names: Joyce Summers. Hank Summers. 

“I’m so sorry, Buffy,” Jenny said gently. “I hope– you’ll at least have some answers, this way.”

Buffy felt a hard lump in her throat. “Do you… do you know anything more, about what happened to them?”

Jenny’s voice was weak. “Well, Buffy… they didn’t make it out. We don’t know any more than that.”

Buffy nodded mechanically and, dazed, pulled out a chair to sit down. Jenny sat beside her and rummaged through folders until she found the Summers file. She spoke in a hushed voice as she guided Buffy through a handful of official-looking documents. Unfortunately, there were no more photos.

Jenny assured her the Council would help however they could. They could track down more information, if she wanted. Answer any specific questions she had. She said some other stuff, too, but the words washed over Buffy. Her eyes were tethered to the photograph. Her father’s hair looked fairer than she remembered. Maybe it was the light in the photo, or just youth.

At some point, Buffy registered that Jenny was gone. She had slipped silently from the room. 

Giles hovered nearby. “Are you alright, Buffy?” he asked. He sighed and touched his forehead. “Sorry. Of course you’re not.” 

“It’s just– so final,” Buffy said. She bit her lip hard. “They were innocent. They weren’t even– you know, slayers, or part of the Council, or anything. They were just… normal people.”

“I know,” Giles said. “What happened that night was… a savage act of cruelty.”

Buffy took a deep breath. “Do you think– I can keep these?”

“Absolutely.”

Buffy stumbled a little as she pushed back the chair and got to her feet. She clipped the photo back inside the file. “Um, if it’s okay–” she said. “I know it’s–it’s still early, but I think I’ll just… head back.”

“Of course,” Giles said. “Would you, uh, like me to come with you?”

Buffy immediately shook her head. “No. It’s– okay.”
 
Giles rubbed her shoulder and gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Let us know– if you need anything. We’re here.”

Buffy’s feet walked her back to the hotel. She barely remembered the journey. Her head was crowded in a thick fog that bore down on her thoughts like an anvil. She didn’t cry, though. Not yet.

As soon as she let herself into the room, she heard her voice call out shakily. “Spike?”

No answer. Buffy padded into the bedroom. The drapes were still shut, the room veiled in soft shadows. But Spike wasn’t there. She checked the bathroom. Empty. 

A little odd, since it was still daytime. But maybe he’d gone out for something. Buffy felt a stab of disappointment, tinged with something meaner. Which was unfair, because he hadn’t known she would be back already. But she couldn’t help it. She’d thought he would just be sleeping, and had wanted to crawl under the covers and into his arms and hide away with him until it didn't hurt so much.

Buffy didn’t dwell on it for long. As soon as she sat down on the bed, a wave of agony hit. Her nostrils dilated and tears squeezed their way into her eyes. She pulled the photo back out from the folder. With a trembling finger, she followed the curve of her mom’s smile.
 
Buffy felt her heart give way. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.

***

Jenny set the tray down on the table with a harsh breath. “Wow. Some day, huh?”

Her return snapped Giles out of his glum rumination. He leant towards the table, palming his forehead. “Yes. Harrowing indeed.”

Jenny placed a teacup and saucer down beside him. “Tea?” She raised a brow. “Or would you– prefer coffee?”

Giles gave a little laugh. “Come on now, Jenny. Not that much has changed.”

Jenny smiled ruefully. “Well. After all you’ve told me, figure I can’t take anything for granted.”

Giles smiled wryly. She was right. Unfortunately. He picked up the steaming teapot and started to pour. “Oh– would you perhaps have some–” 

Jenny slid a small jug of milk towards him. He flashed her an appreciative smile as something bittersweet panged in his chest. “Ah. Yes. Thank you.”

Jenny fell back against the sofa and dragged her palms down her cheeks. “Poor Buffy, though. God. The look on her face.”

Giles sighed. “Yes. God knows she hasn’t had it easy.”

“Must’ve had a tough life,” Jenny said. “I mean, it’s been hell for all of us, but god– she was just a kid.” She leant over to fix her coffee. “It’s a shame she felt she had to– I don’t know. Run off. Be alone. Guess she must be used to dealing with things by herself.”

The jug of milk wobbled slightly in Giles’ hand. He cleared his throat. “Uh. Well. She’s not quite– alone.”

Jenny took a sip of coffee. “Oh?”

“I mean, uh–” Giles said. “Well. Spike’s there.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She sounded uncertain. “Of course.”

Giles hesitated. He set his teacup down with a faint clank. “Uh. Jenny. There’s– something else you should probably know about, uh. Buffy. And Spike.”

Jenny turned to look at him curiously. Giles bit his lip and let out an awkward laugh. “It’s, uh… profoundly strange, talking to– an outsider. It’s just been, well, the three of us for a long time now, and, uh… well, circumstances start to seem– well– things just become, you know–”

“Rupert.”

Giles swallowed. So much had changed, but not the way she said his name when she wanted him to get to the point. “Uh. Well,” he tried again with a cough. “Spike and Buffy. They’re– well. In… a relationship, of sorts.”

Jenny blinked at him.

“As in, together,” Giles clarified. “With one another.”

Jenny’s lips went a funny shape. She laughed. “What?”

Giles scratched his head. “I’m not, uh, sure how else to put it. They’re– well–”

“A relationship?” Jenny’s eyes narrowed. “Like– a couple?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

Giles shifted uncomfortably. “It’s– uh. Well. It’s been a long trip.”

Jenny sat up and combed a hand through her hair. “Uh– wow. Okay. How– Rupert, he’s a vampire?”

“I’m aware of that, yes.”

“And she’s– well. The slayer. As in. The vampire slayer.”

Giles tapped his foot. “I understand how– uh, odd it must appear, at first glance, but if you– uh–” He gave a tense sigh and paused. He tried again. “Jenny. The last years have been truly unexpected, in a myriad of ways. And Spike, well– as we explained, he can’t bite anyone, so–”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Jenny cut in. “I mean. The whole story– it was insane. But this– I mean, god… is she okay?”

“Buffy?” Giles blinked. “Yes– of course. You’ve seen her. She’s… good. Better than we could have hoped for, by all accounts.”

Jenny’s voice was toneless. “But she’s– in a relationship. With a demon.”

“I know how it sounds.” Giles started to speak more quickly. “But you must remember, they are… part human, in the end, and it’s remarkable, in fact, how–”

“She’s supposed to kill them,” Jenny broke in, as if she hadn’t realised Giles was talking. She gave an incredulous laugh. “Not– well–”

“I understand your concern,” Giles said, a little more firmly. “Truly. But Spike is– well, I think the Council have underestimated, quite a lot in fact, the humanity of vampires, and–”

“How could– how could you have let this happen?” Jenny blurted. She squeezed a hand over her mouth. “Rupert–”

Giles flared with irritation. “Let happen? I assure you– Buffy has a mind of her own.”

But even as the words were leaving his mouth, he knew they rang hollow. If not to Jenny’s ears, then at least to his own. It perhaps bothered him all the more that her reaction was far from outlandish. Frankly, he might have responded even more poorly if he were in her shoes.

Her concerns were valid. He’d had them himself. He still did. The guilt simmered in his chest. Even worse, though, was the thing buried deep beneath it: a kernel of raw terror. 

Giles had been carrying it for some time. The sort of terror that comes not with mere awareness of a frightful possibility, but with knowing that, should the worst materialise, your own hands were drenched in blood.

It was true: Spike and Buffy made their own choices. And yet, it felt wholly disingenuous for him to deny having played any part. He was a watcher. His responsibility was to Buffy– to guide her. To teach her to protect herself and the rest of the world from vampires. But he’d handed her over to one instead.

It had been utilitarian at first, of course. But he’d also encouraged– well, patience. Urged her to keep an open mind. He’d disclosed his own feelings, too. His own hopes. And then, well. It’s not like he hadn’t seen the rest coming. Christ, he’d seen it coming like a great big blinking neon sign.

And no, he couldn’t control it, not entirely. But he could have acted, had he chosen to. Could have told Buffy the very idea was unthinkable. Could have warned Spike not to dare. There had been ample opportunities– if Giles was being honest, they’d been served up on a silver platter. Spike and Buffy might be the two most bullheaded people he’d ever known, and yet, he still suspected– if he hadn’t given the nod...

Things might have, at least, transpired differently. Instead, they had both tumbled in head over feet. And at no point had he tried to stop it. If he had, well. There may still have been an escape hatch. Now, it seemed wildly apparent to him, there was only a detonation switch. 

Giles bristled. He had never been a complete cynic. Of course he hadn’t. He would never have become a watcher in the first place, had he been somebody entirely devoid of faith. But, in this case, he had to admit – he’d taken quite the leap. He took a deep breath and attempted to gather the whir of thoughts.

“I’ve known Spike for a long time now,” he said. “And I didn’t plan for this. I wouldn’t–wouldn’t have expected it, not in a thousand years. I can say that with utmost certainty. But it has, and–” he faltered. “I– don’t think it’s a bad thing. He– well– Buffy is happy, with this situation, and–”

“But she’s a girl, Rupert.” Jenny chewed her bottom lip. Her eyes were wide, almost desperate. “She’s just a girl. And she– no family. Nothing. I mean, what– what does he want from her?”

Giles paused. “The same thing she wants from him, I imagine.”

“Is it some– vendetta thing, for him?” Jenny asked, a dangerous hush in her voice. “You mentioned he was cursed, by Angelus too–”

“No,” Giles said immediately. “It’s not like that.”

“She’s the slayer,” Jenny said, again. She rose from her seat and began to pace absently. “I know your views on vampires may have– well, changed. Evolved. But god, Rupert, this is… I don’t understand how you could think this is–” her voice grew shrill as she spun round to him. “You’re gambling, here. With her life. With the slayer’s life. And she’s the only one we’ve got. I don’t know how things have looked for you these last years, but my god, to take such a risk, I don’t–”

“You’re right,” Giles cut in. His voice was cold. “You don’t know.”

Jenny pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I know. God. Neither of us… know. What the other’s been through,” she said. “I’m sorry. There’s just so much, well– baggage…”

“No, uh– I’m sorry,” Giles said. He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. “Emotions are bound to be, uh, running high. And it’s only natural that we should be– well, coming from different perspectives.”

Jenny gave a tight-lipped nod. “That night–” she began. She gazed at the carpet as her voice started to crack. “I know it was a nightmare for– everyone. Must’ve been, for you too…”

Giles’ heart started to hammer with greater force. He’d never had the chance to speak to anybody else from the Council about that evening. He’d mostly let it fester inside him, to the point where speaking about it was an excruciating exercise in pulling teeth. 

He’d never heard how it was for anybody else. How it was for Jenny. For a time, however, he had thought about it with a frequency bordering on compulsive. Wondered what had happened to her. Wondered how. If it was quick. If it was painful. How he might have been able to stop it. 

“I barely made it out,” Jenny said quietly. She dropped back down to the couch and held her forehead in a hand. “I– god. I was so selfish, in the end. I just ran. I didn’t know–”

“Jenny, we all–”

“The screams. And– the bodies. I– I just tried to get out of there. But he caught me.”

Giles angled sharply towards her. “Who?”

“Angelus,” she said. She swallowed. “I’m sure he didn’t– he couldn’t have even known who I was. Or cared. He just saw me running, and god, he probably could’ve just, you know, used a spell or something–” 

Her voice trembled and became childlike in a way Giles had never before been witness to. Jenny had always seemed poised and cool-headed, even in a crisis. She’d usually been the one telling him to get a grip. His stomach churned.

“But he chased me,” she went on. “Like– like it was a game, or something, to him.”

Giles barely registered himself standing up and moving to her side.

“I was so sure I was dead,” she murmured. Giles put an arm around her as she arched over. “And I just kept thinking– how… barbaric it was. He was going to murder me. Wring my neck with his own bare hands, and for– fun. Just for fun.”

Giles’ voice came rough and strained. “Jenny. Good lord. I’m… so sorry.”

“No. I mean. I was lucky, in the end.” Jenny sniffed and wiped a tear from her eye. She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes were newly disbelieving, as if he’d just arrived on the doorstep again. “I know that. God–” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself into his shoulder. “I really thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Giles managed. He swallowed. “I’m– sorry I wasn’t there, that night. With you.”

“It’s not your fault. You know that.”

“I suppose I do,” he said, his throat dry and his tone a little bitter. Jenny released him and pulled back. “But if I hadn’t been holed up in that goddamn library. Cross with you over such– such nonsense–”

“Then you would probably be dead, Rupert.”

Giles took off his glasses and massaged his eyes. “I never heard anything,” he said quietly. “Never heard you mentioned. Never saw anything–”

“I know. I tried to get away from it all, for awhile,” Jenny said. She straightened out her skirt, then laid her hands in her lap and stared at them. “I had to.”

“Of course. I– understand.”

“Realised eventually that I couldn’t run forever. And when I got back, well. Nobody had heard anything from you, either. I assumed…”

Giles’ mouth hardened as he gave a nod. The ache for what might have been suggested itself, but he pressed it back down. It wasn’t the time.

“I assumed, too,” he said. He refitted his glasses and allowed himself to look at her properly. “But then– well. I found the notice. In the manor postbox.” The muscles in his face softened. “I don’t know why I kept checking it. After all these years. I hadn’t found anything of interest in there for… god knows how long. But I–” He broke into an open-mouthed smile and shook his head. “I knew right away. The handwriting. I… could scarcely believe it.”

Jenny’s lips curled faintly. Her eyes were still wet, but they were brighter now.

“I mean, it was practically illegible,” Giles said. “Doesn’t the Council have a typewriter?”

Jenny laughed. A proper, earnest laugh. She put a hand on his knee.

“It was such a last-ditch thing. I didn’t expect–” Something more tentative flickered across her face, and she drew back slightly. Brushed a tendril of hair behind her ear, collected herself, but continued to study him.

Giles tensed. He knew he looked older than his years. The grief and the hardship had left their mark. He could see it somehow, too, in her– a tell-tale grit behind her eyes. She was no less beautiful, though. The same could hardly be said for him. Not that there’d ever been any comparison.

Giles turned away and reached for his teacup, a slight tremor in his movements. There were a few moments of silence. Awkward, perhaps, but not entirely unpleasant.

Jenny settled herself back against the sofa. Giles heard her exhale a long, shaky breath.

“Is–” she started tentatively. “Is she safe? Buffy, I mean?”

Giles stilled over the table, then turned to her. “Yes.”

Jenny’s gaze was serious.

Giles paused. “I– I trust him.”

The deep-set terror made itself known once more. Because it was true. Giles hadn’t clocked it consciously before. He knew, obviously. He must have. But he had never said it outright to anybody. Not least to Spike himself. Unease prickled in his veins.

Jenny gave a slow nod. “Wow,” she said. Her eyes crinkled with the hint of something playful. “Things really have turned on their head, huh? Never thought you’d be the more open-minded one.”

Giles chuckled.

Jenny looked towards the ceiling. “I mean, I’ve heard of– well, you know. It’s not like there have never been reports of relationships – romantic ones, I mean – between people and vampires,” she said. “But I guess– nobody really thought much about them before. They were pretty much written off as… freak cases. Think everyone assumed there must be extenuating circumstances, or something, to have led to–” She tapered off, then gave a low whistle. “And, I mean, a human and a vampire is one thing. But– a slayer…”

“I… wouldn’t have believed it was possible myself,” Giles said. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

Jenny hummed and took a sip of coffee. “Well. I don’t think we should tell the others,” she said, her tone dry. “At least not yet. Their heads might actually explode. If they’re not ready for a telephone, I don’t think they’re ready for this.”

“Yes. I– think that’d be wise,” Giles said. “Buffy has quite enough on her plate.”

Jenny stared ahead of her and laughed. “God. When you think it can’t get any crazier.”

“A sentiment I have become intimately familiar with,” Giles said wryly. “But Jenny. I– have to warn you. This– this is not just about me, or my judgement on the situation. I don’t expect you to simply take that at face value, after all these–”

“I do,” Jenny interjected. She shifted around to him. “I believe you.”

Giles smiled crookedly.

“Maybe I’m being naive,” she said. “But as nuts as the last few years have been, I don’t believe there’s anything on this planet that could stop the wheels in your head turning.” Her expression was teasing. “If you think this is… well, if you don’t think we should be panicking, then– I trust it’s because you’ve gone over it a thousand times already.”

Giles felt a swell of affection in his chest. His shoulders relaxed on reflex. “You can say that again.”

“Even if it is–” Jenny huffed out air. “Bizarre. Still gotta get my head around it, honestly.”

“Naturally,” Giles said. He inclined forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “But, uh. What I wanted to say is that– well. This isn’t about me, or you, or how we feel about the situation, at the end of the day. It’s about Buffy.” Giles raked a hand through his hair. “She has been very committed to training. And she did come all this way to be here. I believe… she takes her duty seriously,” Giles said. “But– it’s early days for her yet. If the Council wants to keep her on side, well… they may need to tread carefully.”

“Right.”

Giles seated himself into the corner of the sofa to face her. “I suspect it would be a grave mistake to test her loyalties.”

Jenny clicked her tongue. “Boy. She cares about him a lot, huh?”

“Yes,” Giles said. “And… he cares about her, too.”

Jenny’s eyes furrowed slightly. But the manner was less accusing than before. More inquisitive.

“You say it with such– certainty,” she said. “But even if it seems that way. Even if he acts like he–” she looked almost amused. “Surely… you can’t know that the feelings are, well– real?”

Giles laughed softly into his fists. “You’re right. Of course you are,” he said. He tilted his eyes up to smile at her. “I don’t suppose one can ever be certain of that.”

***

Spike found an empty seat and collapsed into it with a heavy sigh. 

Christ. He sounded like some wheezing old fossil. And he felt like one and all. He scanned the lobby. Bustling and ritzy – everyone dolled up but him, the cloying stench of perfume sparking ancient memories he’d rather stayed buried – but no sign of Giles. 

Spike sank back and flung open his book. He read and reread the same line a few times, then stared blankly at the gutter instead. The afternoon had been long. He’d spent most of it sat on the floor, leant back against the bed, with a tearful Buffy huddled between his legs.

“God. I’m always blubbering all over you,” she said, clearly embarrassed, as she wiped her nose with a forearm. She tried in vain to scrub dry a wet patch on his shirt before slouching back against him.

Spike had wanted to laugh. If only she knew how much it meant, that it was his shirt covered in tear stains. A twisted thought, probably. But that was him.

Buffy’s head had snapped up the second he walked in the door. The look in her red-rimmed eyes had got stuck on a reel in his mind. Hard to believe it, what he saw there. But he recognised it, plain as day. Need. Filled him with sick, visceral gratitude. He stroked her hair as she whimpered and clung and he wondered, with a lump in his throat, what he had done to her. 

Buffy kept rifling through the narrow folder the Council had given her, filled with old papers and photos, and showed Spike odd bits they had collected about her, about her family. 

Made him seethe, honestly. That these were the lousy scraps the bastards had to offer, after what they’d let happen to her. Wasn’t enough for them, though, was it? No. They still had the gall to turn around and ask for more. 

“Oh, and– I have a name,” Buffy had told him. She gave a sniff, then pulled a document out and held up a faded copy of a birth certificate.

“Summers,” she read. “Buffy Anne Summers. I hadn’t– I hadn’t remembered that, yet.”

“Huh.” Spike gave a curious smile. “Funny. What you think, then? Like it?”

Buffy hesitated. The thin sheet swayed a little in her hands. “Guess so. I mean, it’s– nice.”

Spike nosed the side of her head. “But?”

She shrugged. “I always wanted a last name. I… wanted it really bad, actually,” she said. She bit her lower lip. “But now– well. I’m not even sure anymore, why I felt so…” she trailed off. “I probably just need to get used to it.”

“Maybe.”

“Turns out they’re not that big a deal, anyway. I mean, you don’t have one.”

Spike smiled wryly. “S’pose not. Not anymore.”

“And look at Giles. He doesn’t have one, either.”

Spike pressed his mouth to her ear and said softly, “‘Fraid I got something to tell you, baby.”

“Don’t you dare. I choose the sweet bliss of ignorance.” Buffy gave a tiny smirk as she laid the birth certificate down on the carpet. “It’s still useful to have, I guess. For… you know. Filling out forms and stuff. Plus now, when people are mad at me, they can say my full name – y’know, all outraged and Giles-y – and I can be like, oh boy. They sure are mad.”

Spike huffed against her temple. “Yeah. Can take it for a spin later.”

Buffy sighed and trailed her fingers along the inside of his arm. “I do– I do want it,” she said. “The name. Because it’s my parents', you know? So it’s like– a connection to them. I guess I just…”

Spike nudged her gently in his arms. “What?”

She smiled thinly and shook her head. “Nah. It’s… nothing. Never mind.”

Spike brushed her hair back and watched her face. Said nothing, in case she ended up saying more. She did that sometimes, he'd learnt, if you gave her the time.

“You ever miss it?” she asked quietly. “Your old name.”

Spike shuffled in place. “Not really. Maybe, sometimes.” He swallowed. Something sharp clawed at his insides. “Not really sure, to be honest with you.”

Buffy snuggled into him. “Well. I like Spike.”

Spike’s stomach did a somersault. “Really?” But beneath the initial flare of excitement, the poisonous thing still bubbled. He’d told her a lot about his past. Answered all her questions straight as he could, and tried not to sugarcoat. Still– he hadn’t exactly hammered home the point about his re-christening. The reasons behind it. Not that he’d glossed over it intentionally. Just hadn’t been that important, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe she’d forgotten. Probably been overshadowed by all the other depravities. Must’ve been hard for her to keep track, in fairness. 

It should have disgusted him, that she liked it. But he just wanted her to tell him again. Christ, he loved it when she said his name. When she called for him. Nearly broke him every time she said it in bed, like she really wanted him to know– it was him. Hell, even when she was brassed off, said it harsh or in a huff, he still liked it. But it felt like a deception. One of many on an ever-growing pile. As always, he reeled her in with half truths, then shucked off the unpalatable parts and pushed them farther out of sight.

Buffy had just leaned her head against his shoulder with a hum and said, “Yeah. I like him quite a bit.”

Spike snorted softly. “Meant the name.”

“Well.” Buffy tilted her head. “I probably wouldn’t have like… picked it or anything. But. You know. It’s you.”

She looked up at him so sweetly it made him sick. He kept waiting for her to see it. To look in his eyes and realise what was behind them. What wasn’t. It was a human weakness, the very one vampires preyed on, and probably the reason they’d survived as long as they had. People never could tell, when they looked at him, that so much was missing. They just filled in the blanks. Every time. But it meant nothing that he couldn’t bite. He still had to take the life from them to keep going, even without the teeth. And he would keep taking. He’d take and take and take. That was the sort of thing he was. 

“Good lord. Are you alright?” 

Spike lurched in his seat. 

“You looked even more sepulchral than usual,” Giles said, eyeing him wryly. “But seems you’re alive, at least in a manner of speaking.” 

Spike blinked up at him and wrinkled his nose. “You’re late.”
 
Giles ignored him. “What’re you reading?”
 
Spike shut Little Women quickly and tucked it into the side of his armchair. “Dostoevsky.”
 
Giles slipped out of his jacket. “Oh. Which one?”
 
“Crime and Punishment.”
 
Giles took a seat in the armchair across from him. “Gosh. How many times is that now?”

“Well. It’s a classic, innit.”

“It is, alright. And I can see why the themes might resonate with you.”

“Yeah,” Spike agreed. “Can never decide which bit I prefer, to be honest. I’m leaning towards the punishment – you know me – but the crime’s right good as well.”
 
“Indeed,” Giles said. He took off his glasses and started polishing them with this smart-arse glint in his eyes. “Personally, I just can’t believe she turns Laurie down.”
 
Spike grunted. “Yeah. Dunno what she sees in that other old coot.”
 
“Uh– refinement? Maturity?” Giles suggested. He put his glasses back on. “Intellect, perhaps?”
 
Spike scoffed. “Yeah. You wish.” He stood up and angled towards the bar. “So. What’re you having, then?”

A few minutes later, Spike returned and handed Giles a tumbler of brandy.

“Where’s my ice? I clearly said on the rocks.”

Spike ignored him as he fell back into his armchair. He took a gulp of his drink. 
 
“So,” Giles said. He sipped his inadequate brandy. “How is she, then?”
 
“Sleeping like the dead,” said Spike. “Tired herself out eventually, with all the crying.”
 
“Dear lord,” said Giles. His gaze drifted to the the side and he rubbed at his mouth. “Well. The Council are being… understanding, at least. They know how hard it must be for her. They’re giving her plenty of time to– you know, settle in.”
 
“Yeah,” Spike said tightly. “I’m sure they’re a real understanding bunch.”
 
“Well–” Giles started to say, but then clearly thought better of it and gave a helpless shrug. After a moment, he went on. “They’re organising a bit of a do for her. To celebrate her, uh, grand return. Might lift her mood.”
 
Spike sneered. “Yeah. A party. That’ll vanquish the soul-crushing grief.”
 
“I’m not saying that,” Giles said impatiently. “Just that it might be a nice distraction. For all of us.”
 
Spike raised a curious brow at him. 
 
“I’m sure she’d appreciate it, if you joined,” Giles said. 
 
Spike leaned back in his chair. His nostrils flared as he knocked back another mouthful of brandy. “Yeah. Right.”

They sat silently for a moment.
 
“So how’s it going, then?” Spike asked. “With this bird of yours?”
 
Giles’ lips quirked a little. Was clearly unintentional, against the will of his priggish Victorian soul. 

“Yes. Uh.” Giles coughed. “Not bad.”
 
Spike smirked. “Yeah?”
 
“Yes.” 
 
“So. Not even a little bad, then?”
 
Giles rolled his eyes. “You know what your trouble is, Spike?” 
 
“Ugh.” Spike groaned and pinched his eyes. “Do we have to pull that thread?”
 
“Actually, no. We’d be here all night, wouldn’t we.”
 
“Fine. But you know what your trouble is?” Spike snapped. “You’re uptight. Wound up like a bloody spring.” Spike illustrated with his forefinger. “But hey. Guess some women like that.” He bit his tongue between his teeth and shot Giles a dark look. 
 
“You’re vulgar.”
 
“Well some women like that too, don’t they?”
 
Giles shook his head in resignation. He slipped the deck of cards out of his pocket and began to shuffle. “Let’s just play, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Buffy slumped against the arch and surveyed the ballroom. The party was starting to kick off. More people had begun to stream in, their collective voices rising to a steady hum, and the dancefloor was now a sea of finely tailored suits, plus a handful of dresses sparkling in the rose-gold light. At the top of the room was a low-set stage, and the gentle tap of piano had been joined by bursts of brass as the musicians started pulling on their trumpets. 

Suddenly self-conscious – slouching probably wasn’t ladylike – Buffy straightened up. She squirmed a little at the unfamiliar tightness of her dress hugging her middle. All in all, definitely less slay-friendly than her rags. When she had gone with Jenny to pick it out, she had braced herself for extreme awkwardness. High-end Parisian stores weren't exactly her scene, and she wasn't really sure what she was supposed to, like, say or do around rich people. She'd heard, mostly from books, that there were rules and stuff you were supposed to follow. Luckily none of them had really come up, and Jenny's eye-rolling about their fellow clientele had helped her feel less like a poor orphan fish flapping around out of water.

“These people are such snobs,” Jenny muttered when she caught a disdainful side-eye from a pair of ladies, then continued leafing through a rack exorbitantly priced items. “I swear, half these women are stuck in the dark ages. They probably couldn’t even look at a pantsuit without clutching their pearls.” She pulled out a hanger with a sleek grey blazer and matching trousers, then swivelled round to show Buffy. “Lucky Chanel feels differently, hey?”

Buffy was overwhelmed by the endless rooms of pretty things, but one dress eventually caught her eye. Silky and cool to touch, a deep shimmering red, with a broad neckline that left the top of her shoulders bare. Buffy held it over herself and asked Jenny, “What d’ya think of this one?”

Jenny whistled. Then her eyebrows went a slightly funny shape, and she barked out a laugh. “Love it. Bold choice.”

“Uh– Jenny?” Buffy asked hesitantly as the cashier rang them up. “Since I got here, the Council’s been spending, like, a lot of money–”

Jenny waved a hand dismissively as she bent over to scribble in a chequebook. “Don’t worry, Buffy. The Council’s not short on cash. Not like Angelus ever got into the bank accounts.” She gave a wry laugh, then went on. “The access has changed hands quite a bit though, since everything’s been reshuffled. Which is definitely a good thing.” She ripped out the cheque and handed it to the clerk. “The guys who used to run the show were pretty tight on the purse-strings when it came to, well– anything that didn’t directly benefit them. But as far as I’m concerned–” she smiled at Buffy, “The proper use of Council funds is you.”

Buffy smiled back, a little shy and a little uncomfortable. She guessed it was… well, nice, to have money thrown at her. But it did make her twitchy. She wasn’t sure what it meant, or if she even wanted it.

Afterwards, Jenny took her to the hairdresser’s, which was another in a long list of firsts for Buffy. Inside, the salon was balmy with a sweet tang. She spent most of the time sitting with a spaceship-like contraption whooshing air around her head. Buffy didn’t really get why they needed machines just to dry hair – her hair usually stopped being wet all by itself – but she wasn’t complaining. This new world was fun. 

She patted her head a little self-consciously as she looked around. Her hair had been fastidiously woven into short, thick waves that she kept worrying were gonna fall out. Buffy searched the ginormous room for some sign of Giles or Spike. Jenny had mentioned Giles was on his way, but Spike– well, she wasn’t sure where he was or when he’d arrive, but he'd promised to definitely come. She’d barely seen him the last few days, on account of the Council's kinda Spartan schedule: endless strings of people to meet and mind-numbing lectures to sit through, tours of the headquarters – apparently a giant labyrinth – to go on. Plus they’d shown her around the local cemeteries, where she was supposed to patrol on nights she wasn’t otherwise engaged. By the time she got back to the hotel at night, she was always beat and, on top of that, she was usually expected to crawl out of bed at the break of dawn, then head straight back for more orientation.

Buffy smiled politely as a man with neatly combed hair and way too much aftershave ambled her way. She desperately hoped he wouldn’t try strike up conversation, but it was hard to avoid that, sometimes. People tended to be curious about her. She jumped when she felt a gentle hand on her back, and when she spun round she almost stumbled on a heel. “Giles!”
 
Giles looked down at her with a warm smile. “Oh, Buffy. You look stunning.”
 
Buffy grinned. “You don’t brush up too badly either.” 

“My goodness,” Giles said as he scanned the room. “They’ve really gone all out, haven’t they?”

“Sure have. Watching clearly brings in the big bucks.”

Giles snorted. “Old money. I suppose centuries of stinginess have finally– oh, bloody hell–” he yanked Buffy and wheeled them around to shield his face, then muttered, “Didn’t know that prat survived.”

“Huh?” Buffy peered obviously over her shoulder. “That guy?”

“Wesley Wyndham-Pryce,” Giles said tightly. “God. Truly nothing good came of that night, did it?”

They discreetly shifted away from the wall as Wesley disappeared into the crowd.

“So, uh–” Buffy glanced around again. “Have you seen Spike?”

“Uh, no. I haven’t spotted him anywhere,” said Giles. He cleared his throat. “I suppose he’s probably feeling a bit– uh. Unwelcome.”

Buffy dropped her eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

“For all its merits, it’s not the most… demon-friendly institution, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Buffy said. Something in her chest hurt; the bruise was familiar by now. It flared up a lot when she thought about Spike these days. “But… you know. He’s– different.”

“Indeed,” Giles said. “Well. All going well, I hope I could use my influence here to uh, reshape the mindset a bit. The consensus on vampires has been... Well, it’s been rather simplistic until now.”

"We can start a campaign," Buffy said, nodding eagerly. "I’ll make leaflets.”

“Speak of the devil." Giles gestured to a figure descending the stairs. “Hard to miss, as always. Sailors could chart courses with that hair.”
 
Buffy forgot to say goodbye to Giles as she took off and wormed through the crowd towards the grand staircase. Jenny had warned her the heels might be tricky to get the hang of, but Buffy actually found running in them pretty easy. Maybe it was a slayer thing.
 
“Evening,” Spike said when Buffy almost skidded into him at the foot of the stairs.
 
“Hey,” she said, grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. Her heart tripped a little as she looked him and up and down. She'd never seen him all dressed up before. “You look nice. Really nice.”
 
“So do you.” Spike’s eyes flicked down to her dress. He bit his lip. “What’s this then, some sort of political statement?” 

“Uh huh. It’s very political.”

Spike’s face furrowed a little, but then his eyes snapped back up to her face. 
 
“Where’d you get a fancy suit?” Buffy asked. 
 
Spike cracked his neck. “Nicked it."
 
“Aww," Buffy said, pressing her palms up against his lapels. “You did that for me?”
 
“Who else, baby?” said Spike. He smiled out the corner of his mouth, then glanced around. “So. What’s this bash about, then? Showing you off to society and that?”
 
“Guess so,” Buffy said. “Lots of Gileses talking about theories and papers. Think it’s mostly an excuse to dress up and drink champagne.”
 
“Wanna go find a shady corner?”
 
“I wish," she said. "But I have to talk to people. Or just, like, stand around and look pretty.” She met his eyes. “Later, though.”
 
“Promise?”
 
“Promise.” She leant in closer, then said in a low voice, “I’m glad you’re here. Me and Giles were all worried.”
 
Spike looked a little surprised. “‘Bout me?”
 
“Well. Yeah,” she said. “We thought you’re probably feeling all left out.”
 
“Well–” Spike exhaled, then tugged at his collar as his eyes darted around the room. “I can’t imagine anyone would want me here. If they knew.”
 
The sore spot in Buffy’s chest gave another pang. “Me and Giles want you here."
 
“Well. The rest of ‘em. Bit against their ethos, innit?”
 
Buffy shrugged. “Maybe they need a new ethos. Me and Giles were saying.”
 
Spike paused. “So you’re not. Well. You’re not– worried at all. What they’ll think?” His teeth clenched slightly. “Not exactly the best first impression, is it, showing up with a vampire on your arm. Sort of antithetical to the job description.”
 
Buffy hesitated, but tried to keep her tone light. “Well. It’s not like they can fire me, is it?”
 
Spike’s mouth remained hard. “Guess not.”
 
Buffy touched his cheek. “We wouldn’t even be here, if it wasn’t for you.” She coaxed his face gently back towards her. “And I’ll– I’ll tell them that. And they’ll deal. Okay?”
 
Spike looked at her for a long moment, then gave a stiff nod. “Yeah. Alright.” He straightened his back. “Let’s, uh– go get a drink then, yeah?”
  
Buffy took his hand and said, “Yeah. Let’s.”

Over at the bar, Buffy clambered with some difficulty onto a tall stool and ordered some cocktail she’d never heard of. It was bronze-coloured, served in a tall glass with sugary crystals around the edges. Her lips smacked when she took a sip. Spike got his vodka neat, which looked extra drab by comparison.

“It’s an open bar,” Buffy pointed out. “You could afford to be a bit more, like, adventurous.”

Spike knocked back half his drink with a grimace. “Nah. Fine with this.”

Buffy started to chatter about the day and the latest goings-on at the Council. She could tell Spike wasn’t exactly rapt: his eyes jumped about shiftily, even while he nodded along. But Buffy had the relentless impulse to keep talking anyway. To act, well, normal. 

“Ooh, and–” she said. “They showed me the armory at the headquarters.” She licked some sugar off her fingertip. “You’d like it there. Thought maybe we could try out some of the weapons on patrol. You know, shake it up a bit.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Buffy hesitated a little over her drink. “So, uh– what’d you get up to today? Or– well, last night?”

“Uh. Not much.” Spike scratched the back of his neck. “Mean, was with you, wasn’t I?”

“Well.” Buffy smiled wryly. “I was asleep. Like, knocked-over-the-head-with-an-axe levels of unconscious.”

Spike’s grin was lopsided. “Yeah. Noticed.”

“So you could’ve been doing anything, for all I’d have known.”

“Never went anywhere. You know it.”

His tone wasn’t accusing, but Buffy felt a sting of guilt anyway. Of course she knew he’d been there the whole time. He never left when she was there. She just usually preferred to avoid thinking about it: the fact that his day so often began and ended like that now, just lying beside her while she slept. But it wasn’t like she asked him to do it or anything. He just did.

“You should probably get a life, y’know,” she teased.

Spike snorted. “Yeah. Bit difficult.”

“Well. The undead equivalent.”

“Nah,” Spike said. He shrugged and swirled his drink around his glass. “I like staying with you.”

Buffy felt another wrench of guilt. She liked it too, even if she probably shouldn’t. And she never wanted him to go. She wasn’t sure why she’d pretended she wouldn’t notice if he did. 

Spike’s eyes turned to study her face, which made Buffy suddenly hyper-aware of her breaths. His fingers seemed to twitch against the side of the bar, like he wanted to touch her, but he didn't.

“Uh, Buffy?” 

Buffy turned towards the hand on her shoulder. It was Jenny.

“Sorry to, uh– interrupt again,” Jenny said. She flashed Spike a professional smile, and Spike responded with a curt nod. Jenny turned back to Buffy. “There’s two occult anthropologists here who’d like to meet you. They just got in from Constantinople.” Jenny leant over and whispered in her ear, “Really ancient. Really boring. I’m sorry.”

Buffy forced a smile, then slid off her stool. “Sure. Let’s meet them.” She was about to say something to Spike over Jenny’s shoulder, but he already had his back to them and was shuffling away. 

Buffy sucked in her cheeks as she followed Jenny. As promised, the anthropologists were kind of a yawner. Not only did Buffy not know what they were talking about most of the time, but they seemed to be eyeing her up like an animal in a zoo.

“Do you know how many ethnographic studies have been done on slayers?” one asked, a fiery zeal in his eyes. “Zero! But now that the opportunity has presented itself, we wanted to inquire with the Council about the possibility of field research. As you know, full-time participant observation can yield such rich insights…”

Buffy saw Jenny’s eyes widen with alarm. “Uh– well– yes– we’d have to run that proposal by the ethics committee,” Jenny said quickly, almost choking on her drink. “Gotta warn you, though, they’re pretty exacting.”

Giles appeared after a while, and his apparently genuine enthusiasm to meet these guys gave Buffy the chance to slip away quietly. But she’d barely walked two steps when she was whisked into another conversation, this time by a younger man who tapped her gently on the elbow.

“Ms. Summers.” He nodded his head, almost like a tiny curtsy. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to say hello. I can see everybody wants a piece of you tonight.”

Buffy laughed and shook his hand. "Well. Just a little."

He introduced himself, explaining that he was a more recent recruit to the Council – part of the new guard, as he put it. Which explained why he looked so young and fresh-faced compared to most of the others. His dark hair was thick and parted down the middle, his eyes soft and honey-brown, and Buffy found herself chatting with him less reluctantly than with the others.

Within a few minutes – as if on cue – she sensed a shadow over her shoulder. Buffy smiled awkwardly up at Spike. His glare was steely. 

“Oh– This is– um–” Buffy hesitated for a moment. She hadn’t thought about the fact the name might raise eyebrows. But maybe lots of hip Parisian youths had offbeat nicknames and it wasn’t weird, so she just said, “Uh, this is Spike.”

“Ah–” The other man’s eyes widened a little as they bounced back and forth between Buffy and Spike. He looked about to offer Spike a handshake, but then, for some bewildering reason, seemed to change his mind. He gave a blatantly discomfited smile.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve already got your personal life in order, Ms. Summers,” the man said. He flashed Spike a friendly but nervous grin. "Because I can't imagine you'll have much time for one once the Council is through with you! Ha ha!” 

Spike fixed him with such a death stare Buffy began to worry for his safety. Probably sensing this, the man mumbled a few more words, then excused himself before drifting away.

“Gee,” Buffy said, crossing an arm over her waist. “You make a real good first impression.”

Spike huffed, but his shoulders had already loosened up. He actually looked quite pleased with himself.

“You know I hate it when you do that,” Buffy said. 

“Do what?” 

Buffy shot him a disapproving look. 

“Come on,” Spike said. “Both know what he was after.”

Buffy angled sharply towards him. Spike’s eyes were twinkling in that way they always did when he was trying to get under her skin and it was working. Ugh. If they weren’t here, she’d like– hit him, or something. 

“Isn’t it possible that somebody would just want to, you know– talk to me?” she said, the surge of anger burning too hot to just let go, even though she knew it was probably exactly what he wanted.

“Doubt it,” Spike said casually. 

Buffy’s throat made a strained, rough gurgle. “It’s like, so old-fashioned,” she went on, jaw tight. “Like women are just these– these, like, things to look at. As if we couldn't possibly have something to say–”

Spike hummed like he was enjoying himself. He sipped his drink and stared into the crowd.

Buffy tilted her head. “Oh, so is that what you think too, then?” When he didn’t respond and just carried on watching the room, she demanded more fiercely, “Well, is it?” 

Spike threw his eyes back with an exasperated sound. “Bloody hell. You know it’s not,” he said impatiently. “You know I’m just jealous. And, well– an arsehole.”

Buffy inhaled deeply. “Firstly– just because you admit it? Doesn’t make it okay.” She levelled her eyes at him. “And secondly– no you’re not. I know you’re not, so stop pretending.”

Spike grunted. “Fine. Was jealous, though.”

Buffy smirked. “Well. He was pretty cute. You thought so too?”

Spike pouted. He dug his hands into his pockets. “Nah. Reckon you could do better.”

Buffy’s lips quirked as her eyes flitted around the room. “Probably. I’ll take a look around.”

Spike made a low rumbling sound, like a dog about to growl. “Okay. Getting close to the line here, love.”

“No. You crossed the line. Now you gotta deal with the post-line world.”

“C’mon, you can hardly blame me–”

“I can, actually. It’s easy. And also, fun.”

“Would have to be out of my mind not to be jealous, when you’re swanning around looking like–”

“Nope. Nuh-uh.” Buffy swung her head from side to side. “You know I don’t fall for that.”

Spike rounded on her and leant in closer. “Picked that dress to taunt me, didn’t you?” he said, looking down at her with dark, narrowed eyes. His voice was low. “You’re cruel, slayer.”

“What? I liked the colour,” Buffy said innocently. “Not everything’s about you.”

“Yeah. ‘M well aware.” Spike dragged his gaze away from her with a heave of his chest. He surveyed the room. “You know. Probably are some decent, solid blokes here. With good prospects and that.”

“Probably.”

“Normal types, you know?”

“Uh huh,” Buffy said. She tapped her fingers to her cheek. “Probably even some who aren’t, like, way manipulative.”

“Reckon so,” Spike said with an exhale. “Bet they’re ten a penny. So you can see my concern. ‘Cos I guarantee you, there’s not a single woman in the world, never mind in this poxy room, who’s got a patch on you.”

Buffy’s lips twitched. “Well, you’re right. There’s only one slayer.”

“Not what I meant.”

Buffy's cheeks were going hot from the way Spike’s eyes were drilling into her, which made her mad again. She hated feeling like a fly about to get trapped in his stupid sexy web. “Ugh. You really are the worst.”

Spike licked the rim of his teeth. “Thanks. Nice of you to say.”

Buffy gave a frustrated sigh and practically flung her empty glass at him. “Here. Just… go and get me another drink.”

Spike arched a brow. “Bossy.”

Buffy eyed him threateningly. “Go.”

Spike hurried off.

***

“And where are you going?”

Spike, who’d been ruffling through the coat rack in the foyer, immediately spun around, looking shifty. Giles knew that face well– like a child caught with its hand in the jam jar.

“Nowhere,” Spike said gruffly when he saw it was Giles. “Just nipping out for a smoke.”

Giles raised a brow. “Oh, and Princip was just nipping down to the deli, was he?”

“Yeah,” Spike grunted. “I’ll get you a sandwich.”

Giles looked unimpressed. “You’re not leaving already, I hope?”

“No,” Spike said fiercely. “But actually, I was off to do a bit of a perimeter check. These watchers aren’t the brightest, are they?” He shook his head. “Did they forget what went down at their last little blowout? They’ve only gone and gift-wrapped themselves for Angelus all over again.”

“Well.” Giles hesitated. “It’s not like they haven’t considered that.”

“Yeah? So what’re they doing about it?”

“They have people… keeping an eye out. And there are protective wards on the place, which would alert us to any unusual demonic activity.”

“Right. So if Angelus and his mates rock up, we’ll all be safe as houses, will we?”

Giles bristled. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that the Council could do with a bit of firsthand insight. Straight from the vampire’s mouth, so to speak.

“As I thought,” Spike muttered when Giles didn't reply. “Look, you can drink yourselves into a stupor and risk your worthless lives much as you want. Don’t care. But shouldn’t be dragging Buffy into it.”

“She’s the slayer, Spike. She’s well able to fend for herself.”

“Yeah. Well. She trusts you lot, don’t she.”

“You underestimate her, sometimes.”

“I don’t,” Spike spat. “All she’s ever done is bloody fend for herself. It’s about time she had a bit of back up.”

“She has it,” Giles insisted. “She’s the Council’s priority. There’s no doubt about that.”

“Well, they let her down once already,” Spike said. “It’s their fault, isn’t it, that she even ended up the way she did.” 

“It’s not that simple."

“Yeah. The Council are all about the complexity, aren’t they?” Spike said sourly. “Wouldn’t be like them, to see things in black and white.”

Giles sighed. “You’re here, aren’t you? I don't see the problem. It’s not as if you’ve been cast out.”

Spike’s nostrils flared. “Yeah. ‘M eternally grateful for the opportunity.”

Giles levelled his eyes at him. “You know this situation is… delicate. You don’t need to turn it into a battle. Nobody else is.”

Spike made an indignant face and mumbled, “Haven’t done anything."

“For Buffy’s sake, if nothing else," Giles went on.

Spike’s gaze shifted to the floor and he said quietly, “You shouldn’t have brought her here.”

Giles’ voice immediately hardened. “We brought her here.”

Spike palmed his forehead. “Yeah. Wish I hadn’t,” he said, then again, “Wish I hadn’t.”

“It’s her destiny, Spike.” 

Spike’s tone was acrid. “Yeah. Guess it is.”

“I don’t mean–” Giles said. “Look. We all just need to– keep a level head, here. You know you’ll only hurt yourself–” Giles paused, then added quickly, “–and Buffy, by acting out.”

Spike clenched his jaw. “Fine.”

“Look– uh. Let me just, uh, grab my jacket. I’ll come with you.”

Spike scrunched up his nose. “Nah. You’ll only slow me down.”

“Well we’ve managed to get by so far, haven’t we?” Giles muttered. “Despite my blundering pace.”

"Fine," Spike said through gritted teeth, giving the air a little kick. “I'll wait here.”

***

Buffy’s eyes lit up when she spotted an elusive seat at an empty corner table. She quickly nabbed it and turned around to rest her elbows over the back. She felt a little dazed as she watched the room thrum. The dancefloor had exploded with crowds. People still wanted to talk to her, but it had gotten easier to evade detection among the throngs, especially now that everyone was distracted by boozy merriment. Buffy wondered where Spike had got to. And Giles, for that matter. She hadn’t seen either of them for awhile.

She twisted her head when she sensed movement in her periphery, and spotted Jenny practically staggering towards her. Buffy gave her a knowing look as Jenny flumped down on a nearby chair with an exhausted huff. 

“That’s it. I’m off the clock,” Jenny said. She took a generous gulp from her champagne flute. “If anybody asks, I’m too wasted to talk to anybody important. Okay?”

“Noted,” Buffy said. Her eyes absently roved the room.

“Looking for the boys?” Jenny asked.

“Uh. No,” Buffy said. “Well– sorta. Just– haven’t seen them for awhile.” 

When Jenny started to cast her gaze around too, Buffy added quickly, “But, uh, I’m sure they’re all good, wherever they are. They’re pretty sturdy.” She flashed Jenny a reassuring smile, then poked the olive in her glass with a cocktail stick. The red centre was oozing out like a bloodshot eyeball. “So, uh, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Buffy said. “You knew Giles when he was, like, young, right?” 

“I did,” Jenny said. “Well– when he was younger, at least.”

“I just can’t imagine it,” Buffy said as she popped the olive into her mouth. “‘Cause he seems like someone who’s always been–” she cut off, suddenly fumbling for words as she chewed. “–so… uh, wise. And mature.”

Jenny gave an affectionate smirk. “Yeah. He was always like that. Hasn’t changed much.” She paused, hesitating. “Well, I mean– he has, obviously, changed… a lot, in same ways. But I just mean– the same guy’s still there. Underneath it all.”

“Yeah. I get it.”

Jenny shook her head wistfully. “It’s crazy, how much I’ve missed out on. How everything’s... turned out.”

“Yup,” Buffy said. “Stuff is, uh– unexpected.”

“Must be a relief, though, finally being off the road,” Jenny said. “Sounded draining.”

Buffy stirred the cocktail stick through her drink. “Yeah. It… wasn’t always super comfy, in the tents and stuff. But, uh– it’s still kind of weird, being here. With the big changes.”

“Well, I hope we can help ease the transition for you,” Jenny said. “We’ve been– well, we’ve been trying to rejig things around here. Update, move with the times. Even if some of them do need to be dragged kicking and screaming into the twentieth century.”

Buffy smiled wanly.

“The Council’s history is far from perfect,” Jenny continued. “But I hope… well. I hope we can do better. Pry those stubborn minds open.”

“Yeah. Open minds are good,” Buffy said. She bit her lip a little nervously. “I just hope– well. I just hope nobody’s brain falls out.”

Jenny laughed. “Well. History suggests that people are pretty good at adapting. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Buffy swished her drink and then took a sip. Her head was fuzzy, from the alcohol and exhaustion and the general whirly vortex that was her brain these days.

“You know, Buffy, we’ve also been thinking,” Jenny said. “We have so much space back at the headquarters. I’m sure you noticed how big it is.”

Buffy looked up curiously.

“There’s a place for you there, to stay, if you want it,” Jenny said.

“To stay?” Buffy echoed.

“Yeah, you know– your own accommodation. We need to fix it up a bit, but– we’ve got rooms that are pretty sweet, actually. Self-sufficient. Lots of space. I mean, you’ve got enough work to do without having to worry about coughing up for lodgings somewhere.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right,” Buffy said. She hadn’t thought about that. She hadn’t thought about a lot of things, apparently. But she guessed Jenny had a point. It’s not like she could keep living the way they had been on the road, and they couldn’t stay in the hotel forever.

Buffy was distracted by the sight of Spike and Giles appearing in the doorway. She felt a pang of relief, both that they were back and for the opportunity to put a pin in the current conversation.

“Well, look who it is,” Jenny said.

“Hey,” Buffy said, bright and playful, as Spike and Giles approached. “Was getting a bit worried there.”

“Worried?” Giles said. “Whyever so? You know us.” 

Jenny made a sceptical noise as Giles sat down beside her.

Buffy reached out a hand to Spike. “Where’d you go?”

“Just having a smoke.”

Buffy’s brows went up. “For an hour?”

Spike shrugged. “Dependency’s a nasty beast, isn’t it.”

“Why are you being all weird?” Buffy asked, shaking exaggeratedly at his hand, which was limp, like she was holding onto a reluctant child. “Embarrassed to be seen with me or something?”

“Just don’t wanna steal your limelight, do I.”

Buffy scoffed. “Like you could.” 

Spike’s eyes darted briefly towards Jenny and then back. “Nah. Just don’t want to– you know.”

“What?”

Spike grumbled. “S’nothing.”

“Ugh. Come here,” Buffy said as she tugged him over. Spike thumped down onto the seat next to her, shoulders hunched and face sulky.

“Fine, then,” Buffy said. She smirked into her drink. “If you're gonna be like that. Whatever. I know how to break you.”

Spike turned to her, his eyes sparking with interest. “Yeah?”

“Uh huh.”

“Go on then.”

“Nah. Won’t take long," Buffy said, lounging back in her chair. “It’ll be more fun for me if I drag it out.”

“Christ,” Spike said. He bit the side of his tongue and rapped his fingers on the table. “The Council approve of your methods, do they?”

"Dunno. Guess I don’t really care what they think.”

Spike met her eyes. He gave a thin smile, then reached across the table and gently laid his hand over hers.

***

Giles leant his hip against the bar, absently watching Spike and Buffy in the corner as he waited for his drink.

“So, what were you two up to?” Jenny asked.

“Oh, you know,” Giles said. “Larceny. Pawning snake oil. The usual.”

“Wow. Incredible what you can get done in an hour.”

“What can I say? We’re professionals,” Giles said. He thanked the bartender and picked up his vodka. “So, uh– you’ve met Spike, then?”

“Briefly. Didn’t seem very, uh– chatty.”

Giles snorted. “Wow. Do tell me your secrets.”

“He seems– uh–” Jenny strained her face, as if searching for words. “I mean, I can see why you– I mean, I’m sure he’s–”

Giles gave her a sceptical look from underneath his glasses.

“Okay, fine. So he seems kind of rude. But not everyone makes a good first impression! Big deal,” she said, then shrugged a shoulder in Giles’ direction. “I mean, look at you.”

“Ta,” Giles said dryly.

“But– uh–” Jenny hesitated. Her eyes also fell on Spike and Buffy. “Don’t you think it seems– maybe, well– a bit one-sided?”

Giles furrowed his eyebrows. “Did Buffy say something?”

Jenny blinked. “No– no. I just mean– him. I saw them tonight. He seems so… distant,” she said. “Always looks like he’s brushing her off.”

“Oh, no,” Giles said with a wave of his hand. “Spike’s very invested in this. Quite frankly, I’ve always considered that to be the greatest liability."

Jenny placed her drink down and held her hands up. “Look– just, hear me out, okay?”

Giles watched her expectantly.

“Don’t you think there’s a chance that maybe– maybe, you’re… well, seeing what you want to see?” Jenny said. “I know the last few years have been rough, and, well, pretty bleak, by the sounds of it. I can imagine why you’d want– why you’d want him to be… something– something good…”

“No. Jenny– I assure you.” Giles said, shaking his head. “Spike’s just– he’s out of sorts. He’s feeling a bit misplaced, all of a sudden. It’s just, you know, an adjustment.”

“I mean, sure. I get it.” Jenny gave a little shrug. “I just don’t know why he’d take it out on Buffy.”

Giles felt himself bristle inexplicably. He pushed a hand through his hair. “I don’t think– I don’t think that’s what he’s doing, as such–” 

He cut off when he saw Jenny looking at him with a bemused smile. “Rupert Giles,” she chided playfully.

“What?!”

"It's not just Buffy." Jenny stared at him and shook her head slowly. “It's you, too. You’re loyal as a dog.”

Giles chucked uncomfortably. “No. Well–”

“C’mon, don’t deny it. You defend him at every turn..."

“I mean– it’s just, he has a lot of information on me.” Giles scratched the back of his neck. “And he’s not above extortion. He’s several leagues below it, in fact.”

Jenny picked her champagne back up, still smiling. “Just… wouldn’t have expected it.”

“Gosh. What did you take me for before, some sort of flighty turncoat?”

“No.” Jenny took a careful sip of her drink. “I just don’t remember you ever letting your heart rule your head.”

Giles huffed a laugh. “I’m not so sure you were right about that.” He tapped a foot on the floor and watched as, in the distance, Spike leaned over to Buffy and said something directly to her face. “People always say the young are fearless, but, uh– I have my doubts.” He saw Buffy laugh, then tip her head forward a little shyly. She pushed Spike’s shoulder and he rebounded into his seat. “They think they have so much to lose,” Giles said. He looked over at Jenny. “I was always terrified, back then. Held my cards too close to my chest.”

Jenny arched a brow. “And now?”

“Well. I suppose I'm still terrified,” Giles said dryly. “Otherwise I surely would have asked you to dance by now.”

“Guess some things never change,” Jenny said. She put a hand on his wrist, then fixed his gaze with glittering eyes. “Like how it’s just as fun as ever making you nervous.”

Giles glanced into his drink, lips quirking. “And you remain remarkably skilled at doing so.”

Jenny pushed off her stool, gently pulling Giles’ arm with her and gesturing over her shoulder. “So. You wanna dance?”

***

Buffy pinched up her nose and asked, “Giles, are you drunk?” 

The tempo of the room had mellowed. The music had grown hazy and the dimmed lights had turned everything to bronze shadows. Buffy was grateful for the gradual gentling of energy, and much relieved she couldn’t see what the progressively intoxicated watchers were getting up to in full technicolour.

Giles took a clumsy swig of his drink. He wobbled a little. "Yes. Very much so."

Jenny stumbled over and clutched at his waist to steady herself, her eyes rolling around in their sockets like a bowling ball.

“O-okay,” Buffy warned, shrinking back and holding her hands up. “Let’s not get too handsy here.”

Jenny sneered something in Giles’ ear and they both cackled. Buffy was halfway to an eye-roll when she caught sight of Spike in the distance, her view of him partially blocked by the person sitting opposite.

“Who’s that Spike’s talking to?” she asked automatically, pushing onto her toes to get a better look. 

“What?” Giles said through a skitter. He dragged his head away from Jenny and tried to take a sip of his drink, but it splashed all over his nose, which made Jenny snort with laughter on his shoulder. “Oh, uh, that’s Lydia. Fabulous researcher, actually, she’s quite–”

“She just touched him!” Buffy’s eyes blew wide open. “Did you see that?!”

“Ooh.” Giles made a shrill, scandalised sound. “Better watch out, Buffy.”

Jenny slapped him lamely on the chest. “Rupert!” But then her eyebrows almost jumped right off her face as she pointed, extremely obviously, at Lydia and said, “Though I’d be careful of her if I ‘ere you, Buffffy. Spends half her time in the library, and those ones–” Jenny prodded Giles hard in the chest with her index finger, “–are, the most dangerous–”

Buffy scolded them both with a look before she stomped off, their whoops of laughter fading into the background. She slowed her pace as she neared Spike and Lydia, at which point she tried to look deeply calm and unperturbed.

“I’ve always said it. Always!” Lydia was saying animatedly. “The narrative is far too reductive! Always has been!”

Buffy smiled sweetly at Spike. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he said. His expression was even, but with a touch of amusement.
 
Lydia did not heed the interruption. She took an exciteable gulp of her drink, then continued to babble. “I mean, it’s been blatantly apparent for decades now, that the human-demon dichotomy is utterly inadequate to describe such a, such a complex spectrum of creatures–”

Buffy dropped down pointedly beside Spike, who continued to nod along diligently to Lydia’s breathless monologue.

“The bias is patriarchal in origin, of course,” Lydia went on. “Always is, isn’t it?! Quentin Travers has a lot to answer for, obviously. Goes and writes the field’s most seminal work of the last century, but of course, it’s complete anthropocentric tosh. What a pity he went and got himself blown up! Ha ha!”
 
Spike, seizing quickly upon the brief conversational lull, jumped in. “Yeah. Couldn’t have said it better myself.” He got to his feet. “Uh, should I get you another drink?”
 
“Oh yes, please. A martini, if you will.” Lydia slumped slightly in her chair and considered Buffy for the first time. She shook her head fondly. “God. How wonderful it is to have you back. We’ve had testosterone coming out of every orifice around here.”
 
Buffy gave her best polite smile-and-nod, then followed Spike up. She latched onto his arm. “Uh, so– to the bar?”
 
“Don’t think she needs another one,” Spike said as they edged away, smirking over his shoulder at Lydia.
 
“So, uh, what was all that stuff she was saying?” Buffy asked.
 
Spike shrugged. “Who the hell knows. She’s jarred. They all are.”
 
“But, uh– all that stuff about vampires. Did you– uh, tell her?”
 
“Nah. Just likes to mouth off, don’t she?” Spike said, but then added quickly, “Seems alright, though.”
 
“Yeah. You seemed to be getting along."
 
Spike paused, then shook his head at her in grave incredulity. “Christ. How the mighty have fallen. Didn’t take much, did it?”

Buffy glanced sidelong and wrinkled her nose, then crossed her arms. “Well, you know these– these watchers, they’re all– in their dusty libaries and then– they have two drinks and get all, like, fumbly, and, eugh–”
 
Spike was watching her with a dangerous look in his eyes. “Could make you properly jealous if I wanted, you know,” he said. He lightly touched his fingers to her hairline. “Think I’d like to see it, in fact.”
 
“Pfft. Like you could,” Buffy said, though she sounded unconvincing and petulant even to herself.
 
“Yeah. Reckon I could.” Spike trailed a hand down her side and along her hip. He hummed. “Know what I’ve been thinking about?”
 
“What?”
 
“Yesterday morning,” he said. He tilted his head innocently. “You remember?”
 
Buffy’s lips twitched. “Come to mind while talking to your new friend, did it?”
 
“No. Just haven’t been able to think about much else, to be honest with you.”
 
“Well, maybe you should expand your horizons a bit,” Buffy said with a shrug. “Read a book or something.”
 
“Nah. Don’t wanna read a book.”
 
Buffy bit her lip as Spike zeroed in on her. “Stop.”

“Dress looks good on you,” Spike said, like he’d just noticed it.

“Thought you didn’t like fancy clothes.”

Spike ignored her, just looked over her shoulder and asked, “You wanna go dance?”
  
Buffy glanced back towards the dancefloor, where tipsy watchers bumbled around. Dancing, presumably. She made a sceptical face. “Really? There?”
 
Spike leaned over, his lips brushing her temple. “Well I’d prefer a dark corner, obviously. Trying to be gentlemanly here.”

Buffy twitched restlessly. She ran her hands under his dinner jacket with a thoughtful hum, excitement kindling.
 
Spike raised a brow. “Or– we could just get out of here?”
 
Buffy felt herself immediately nod and say, “Yeah. Let’s.” She looked up at him – at his stupid, triumphantly smug face – with the hairs on the back of her neck standing on edge and the tight little ball in her stomach getting even tighter. She pressed up to kiss him, then froze. “Wait. What about Giles?” she said. “He’s seriously out of it. I'm not sure he'll make it back.”
 
“He’s a big boy. Can take care of himself,” Spike said, with the blatant subtext of not actually caring.
 
Buffy looked over towards Giles, who was buckled over laughing with Jenny at the edge of a small crowd.
 
Spike followed her eyeline. “See? He’s well looked after.”
 
Buffy watched for another moment. “Guess so.” She spun back round, her patience finally shot. She fisted Spike's shirt and yanked him hard towards her.
 
His eyes pulsed a little in surprise. “Sure this is the look you’re angling for, pet?” he asked, even as his hands found their way around her waist.
 
Buffy pressed her face up to his and murmured, “Nobody’s watching.”
 
“Yeah, not very good at their jobs, are they? Letting their precious slayer slip off in the shadows with–”
 
As Buffy kissed him, she let a thousand thoughts die. Thoughts like– the fact he’d annoyed her about ten separate times tonight. Or– that it should probably be a burden, to want him this badly, even now, even here, when she should be thinking about other stuff. There was always so much other stuff to think about. Big, important things, and yet–

It did scare her, because she knew the danger of it. She knew she’d already crossed that sneaky, invisible line. The one you don’t realise you’ve stepped over till the door slams shut behind you. But it was too late now. There was no turning back, not even if she wanted to. Which she didn’t, obviously. Not even a little. That was the scary part.

Bang.

Crash, clink, clink–

A flurry of sharp clatters sounded nearby. Buffy pulled away from Spike on instinct. Her eyes darted around a little frantically. Then she spotted–

Giles. 

He was splayed out on the floor, a table’s worth of drinks scattered alongside him. Jenny was standing over him and laughing hysterically.
 
Spike groaned at the sight. “Oh, that bloody git,” he said. “Could never hold his liquor.” He gave Buffy a mournful look, then tipped his head back with a sigh. “Come on, then. Let’s get him home.”

Chapter Text

The day after the ball, Buffy arrived at the Council headquarters in high spirits. Everyone had gotten the morning off, presumably to allow the watchers to nurse their sore heads, so she’d been able to sleep in until almost noon. Which counted as basically two nights’ worth of sleep these days. Spike had still whined when she’d dragged herself out of bed, but she’d told him he was just being greedy and to stop complaining all the time, even if she did secretly find it kinda sweet how much he wanted to keep her there.

Buffy’s good mood was short-lived. As soon as she stepped inside the drawing room at the headquarters, her stomach started roiling. Jenny and Giles were both waiting for her, wearing nervous expressions she was pretty sure a straight-up hangover didn’t account for.

“Uh oh,” Buffy said. “Not happy faces.”

“Please, uh, sit down, Buffy,” Giles said. He was hunched over with his hands clasped together, which Buffy knew meant he was in solemn watcher mode. “I’ve been researching. And we’ve had, uh, some new theories come to light.”

Buffy gave a drawn-out sigh. There was always something. She was getting seriously fed up of somethings. “Come on, then,” she said, sitting down on the sofa opposite them. “Hit me.”

“Well, now that I have the Council’s full archive at my disposal, I’ve been able to be more, uh, thorough… in trying to understand Angelus’ actions to date,” Giles said, adjusting his glasses. Buffy noticed for the first time the row of fat books laid out on the coffee table in front of them. “It’s obviously been eluding us how he’s managed to track you. I always assumed your slayer powers were traceable somehow, but I’m not convinced that that’s the case anymore. At this point, I’m not sure it’s even possible.”

“Oh?” Buffy raised a brow at him. “What else could it be?”

“Well… I can’t confirm anything, but I have my suspicions. One thing that did strike me as odd was just how dramatically your abilities seemed to shift under Spike’s training,” Giles said. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s been a very competent teacher and you, uh, a… devoted student. But… the progress you’ve made under his tutorship has been truly remarkable.”

Buffy huffed a tiny laugh. “Yeah. He can barely scratch me now.”

“Indeed,” Giles said, clearing his throat. “So, uh, one thing we’ve been discussing – and it didn’t occur to me, until Jenny mentioned that your necklace had been issued by the Council – is the possibility of objects being enchanted.”

On instinct, Buffy glanced down at her neck. It was bare. Her cross necklace was back in the room, tucked away in one of her bags where Spike wouldn’t accidentally stumble upon it and get himself all sizzled.

“The night of the massacre, there were so many spells and curses flying around. Angelus wanted to make sure nobody escaped unscathed,” Giles said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if, amid all the chaos, some black magic managed to attach to the necklace.”

“But why the necklace?” Buffy asked. “Why not just, you know, me? Or all of us?” 

“Well, it’s a lot easier to enchant objects,” Giles said. “They’re much less complex. It can happen even by accident.”

Buffy nodded. “Right.” 

“If that’s the case,” Giles continued. “Then the necklace might have tipped Angelus off; given him some way to find you. Those with great magical power can, to some extent, track spells they’ve previously cast, or identify places they’ve deployed their own magical energies, as long as the effects still linger. With sufficient skill, it would have been possible for Angelus to locate any physical manifestations of his own power. But it requires extraordinary focus and discipline, especially when dealing with vast geographical regions. Which would explain why he’s been having trouble finding your precise location. It’s most likely a very good thing that we were on the move for as long as we were.”

“But if it was the necklace all along, why couldn’t he find me before? I wore that thing for years, Giles.”

Giles rubbed his mouth. “Well, we can only speculate. But something may have activated that evening you found your way back to the manor in St. Petersberg. Those ghosts you saw– it might have set off some kind of alert system,” he said. “Maybe Angelus suspected that if any slayers were left alive, they might eventually return.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Buffy said slowly.

“It would explain why I couldn’t see any spells on you that time I entered the trance,” Giles said. “You mustn’t have been wearing the necklace that evening. And I suspect that having it on your person at all times might have somehow been… well, hindering your power, too,” he said. “Do you, uh– have it with you now, so we can take a look?”

Buffy shook her head stiffly. “No. I– I hardly wear it, anymore.” She bit her lip and added quietly, “Because of Spike.” 

Giles nodded, his lips pressed together knowingly.

Buffy blinked hard as realisation started to dawn. “The– memories. They started coming back when… oh boy.” She pressed her palm against her forehead. “I thought it was– thought it was because–” She looked up at Giles. “So you’re saying… that maybe, if I hadn’t had the necklace, maybe the memories would have come back earlier?”

“Possibly, yes.”

Buffy curled her arms tight around herself. Seemed like a lot of times she came to the headquarters, they dropped some kind of bomb on her, one she didn’t even know how to begin to make sense of. Made her feel like this tiny, lonely thing drifting in a huge sea. Made her wish Spike was here.

“Buffy, I really think it’d be best if we tried to destroy it, somehow,” Jenny said. “The possibility that it could be luring Angelus to you is too strong. It’s just not worth the risk.”

“I know,” Buffy said, bowing her head and fidgeting a little. “It’s just– it’s the only thing I have… from my past. The only thing I’ve always had, from… before.”

Giles looked at her sympathetically. “I know, Buffy,” he said softly. “I know… the necklace has, uh, sentimental value for you. But, uh, with it gone, it’s possible you could have something more. Your memories, your power– everything in full. And you’ll be safer. We all will.”

Buffy nodded. She was getting used to this, and getting used to knowing how to deal with it. 

“Yeah. Of course. Of course,” she said. She took a deep breath, straightened up, and forced a tight-lipped smile. “So. How do we destroy it?”

***

The Council didn’t let up. As time wore on, Buffy’s days all seemed to bleed together. They were mostly the same, and mostly dull: lots to do, lots of smiles to fake, and not a lot of free time to think about much else. Buffy leant her cheek in her palm and tried not to doze off as a Giles-esque voice droned on in the background.

“You’re going already?” Spike had asked her this morning when she’d shuffled up and over to the edge of the bed, a sliver of sunrise already streaming in through the curtains. “Can’t cry off another hour?” 

Buffy started buttoning up her blouse. “Demons wait for no man,” she said dryly. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Well. Apart from you, apparently.”

“What do they even have to show you? You’re the chosen one. You should be showing them.”

Buffy felt a tug of guilt. She didn’t always fill Spike in on the exact contents of Council trainings. Giles and Jenny were forever assuring her that the organisation was undergoing a huge transformation: that some of the watchers’ ideas were a bit dated, but tides were turning, and all three of them were part of that tide. Still, Buffy didn’t think Spike would enjoy hearing the gory details, so she tended to keep reports about her days vague.

“Well, some of it’s useful,” she tried, grasping a little. “Giles is figuring out a lot now that he’s got all those extra books for researching. You know, like the thing about the necklace? So it's, uh... important.”

Spike, who hated not having free rein to rag on the Council almost as much as he liked projecting, grunted and said, “Still think it’s a bit excessive, the way they want you there all day every day. They’ll be cuffing you to the wall next.”

Buffy swallowed. Another pang of guilt. She also hadn’t told Spike that Jenny had offered her a place of her own at the headquarters. She just… hadn’t had much time to think it through. So she guessed there wasn’t much point telling him, in case… well, in case it didn’t happen anyway. She tried to change the subject. “So, what’re you gonna do? While I’m gone.”

Spike scratched his elbows. “Got some business.”

“Yeah?”

He made a hmph sound as he stared off into the distance. 

“Very mysterious of you,” Buffy teased.

“Yeah, well. I’m mysterious, aren’t I.”

Buffy snorted. 

“Know what? You’re dead right, actually,” Spike said, stretching a hand out towards her. “Not nice to keep secrets. C’mere a second and I’ll show you.”

“No. I’m gonna be late.”

Spike hummed thoughtfully as he looked at her. “You know, I like your hair like that,” he said. “Windswept look.” Which gave him the upperhand as Buffy twisted around to check herself in the mirror, just in time to see herself being tugged over onto her side by an invisible force.

The light change from the switching of slides snapped Buffy back to the present.

“This was our very first headquarters,” the speaker was saying, pointing with a stick to a painting of an old building. “London was actually a hellmouth back then, but they managed to seal it up in the late sixteenth century. The puritans were a very effective people, albeit not much fun at parties. Ha ha!”

Buffy shifted in her chair, trying to blink herself awake. The Council’s slideshows were never riveting, but this one, which detailed the organisation’s long and boring history, was extra yawn-inducing. Buffy’s thoughts once again drifted back to the morning, to how worked up Spike had gotten when he was making her late. Her being even mildly insubordinate to the Council was a giant turn-on for him, so he’d been like a dog with a bone. “You gonna tell them, Buffy?” he’d asked, his eyes flashing at her. “Gonna tell them why you’re so late?”

“I won’t have to be late if you hurry up.”

Spike ignored her. “Their syllabus clearly ain’t much use,” he went on, pressing his face into her neck. “Thought this’d be first thing they teach you not to do.”

Buffy shivered. “Stop.”

“Why don’t you make me?” he asked, voice low and dark. “Thought that’s the whole point.”

Buffy shook herself to life when she felt Giles’ elbow digging into her side. She had been slumped over the table, daydreaming at the wall. She sat up a little, feeling flushed and hoping nobody except Giles had noticed the spacing out.

“These foundational principles have, of course, evolved over time,” the speaker was saying. “But the values at the heart of our work have remained the same.”

The slide flipped to two black-and-white ink etchings positioned side by side. The first was a dog looking at itself in the mirror, and the second was a man doing the same. Neither had reflections.

“For centuries, thinkers have posited that it is the ability to self-reflect that sets humans apart from other creatures,” he said. “Just as a dog cannot recognise himself in a mirror, neither can a vampire.”

Buffy wrinkled her face. “Um,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “Those pictures don’t really make sense, though? I mean, dogs actually have reflections."

The speaker gave a curt laugh. “Yes. Uh, of course,” he said. “It’s merely illustrative– of the lack of ability, common to both animals and vampires, to reflect upon themselves. Of course, in the vampire’s case, it’s not purely figurative.”

Buffy’s stomach started to churn. She felt a flash of dislike for this guy, followed by a flash of guilt. She wasn’t sure it was fair to not like him for saying all this stuff when a lot of other people clearly thought it too. Maybe even she had, once upon a time.

The speaker continued, “At the same time, what is perhaps the most thorny element of the vampire – the one that has fascinated and gripped us for millennia – is its closeness to the human,” he said. “They may look much like us. They might even walk and talk like us. But it is, of course, merely a facade, albeit a profoundly persuasive one. Unlike us, they can never see themselves. Neither literally nor in any other meaningful sense. They do not have a human’s capacity to reflect upon themselves; to feel regret, to feel ashamed, to grow.”

Buffy’s hand shot into the air before she had even realised it. “But, um–” she started to say without really knowing how the sentence would end. “How do you really know that? It’s not like we can, you know, see inside a vampire’s brain and play spot the difference?”

The speaker blinked at her. “Well– no, but we can deduce it, based on fairly solid empirical data,” he said. “The lack of remorse; the lack of empathy; the craving for violence that vampires display… it all points to the same animalistic lack of self-awareness.”

“Okay, but it’s not like all humans are big bleeding hearts either,” Buffy said. “Some people are like, super mean. I had this bunkmate once, and I’m pretty sure she never actually bit anyone, but I would not have trusted her with bloodlust and a pair of fangs.”

“Uh, well.” The speaker hesitated. “Of course humans are, uh, a diverse species… and there will always be outliers…”

“Oh, so there could be like, vampire outliers too, then?”

The speaker bristled. He seemed to be shifting from confusion to annoyance. “There may be outliers, but a fly will never be a man,” he said, more firmly. “I am sure we can all agree on that.”

“Uh– but Buffy raises a good point,” Giles suddenly piped up. “I mean, let’s not forget one of Darwin’s most important lessons. That the differences between humans and other creatures are merely of degrees, and not of kind.”

The speaker eyed Giles up and down like he was stupid, then said in a sceptical tone, “I’m not sure those theories apply to demons, Mr. Giles.”

Giles blinked incredulously. “Oh, so the comparison only holds when it’s supporting your own point?” he shot back, but seemed to immediately regret it, because he quickly went on, “But, uh– I mean, I suppose what I’m trying to say, is that we shouldn’t be too quick to assume that the differences between us and other creatures are somehow… fundamental.” He took a breath and nodded in Buffy’s direction. “As Buffy noted, the bottom line is that we simply aren’t privy to the inner workings of other minds. It’s hardly outlandish in this day and age to suggest that the distinction between humans and other creatures, including demons, might not be so neatly drawn. Many have argued that it’s a simplistic and, dare I say, old-fashioned view.”

Buffy nodded fervently, even though she didn’t fully understand everything Giles had said.

The speaker sighed impatiently. “As I’ve stated, I am far from oppposed to participating in such intellectual debates,” he said. “But, uh, for practical purposes, sometimes generalisations must be made. Based on evidence that we have been accruing for centuries.” He looked at Giles, guardedly hostile. “And just because we welcome critical engagement, doesn’t mean we should use it to wholesale dismiss scientific expertise.”

“But like,” Buffy interjected. “Have you ever actually, you know. Talked to a vampire?”

The speaker scoffed. “Well, they’ve usually been too busy trying to kill me for idle chitchat.”

Buffy looked down at the ground and crossed her arms tightly. She was simmering with indignation, but she also didn’t know what else to say. It annoyed her even more when he said something that wasn’t totally crazy. She didn’t want anything he said to make sense. She wanted him to be stuffy and unreasonable at all times so that she could hate him without reservation.

“Uh, if I may add,” Giles said. “I think what Buffy is trying to get at, and I agree entirely, is that– well, we have a tendency to measure things by our own standards,” he said. “And sometimes this can stop us from looking deeper. We all bring our own biases, our own assumptions to the table, and so can end up drawing rather, well… black and white conclusions. Ones that fit with the way we already see the world.”

The speaker’s nostrils flared. “I hardly think any of us need a lecture on academic rigour, Mr. Giles.”

“Uh, of course,” Giles said quickly, coughing into a fist. He looked as flustered as Buffy felt. “It’s just, uh– I think it’s an exciting time, is all. And we should keep an open mind, and be conscious of new approaches, rather than stubbornly trapped in old mindsets. We all know the Council is undergoing a rather dramatic shift the moment, and it’s a good opportunity to… take stock, and question things, as we move forward.”

“Well. Alright,” the speaker said reluctantly. “I suppose we can all agree to that.”

“Uh, excuse me,” Jenny chimed in, standing up and tapping her wrist. “But we’ve actually run overtime. Buffy is scheduled for other orientation activities as of– oh! Ten minutes ago. Sorry.”

As soon as Buffy and Jenny shut the door behind them, Buffy let out a long sigh of relief. “Jeez. Thanks for getting me out of there.”

“It was self-serving, but I’m glad I could rescue you too,” Jenny said. “Though actually– I did want to show you something.” 

Buffy looked at her expectantly.

“Your rooms,” Jenny said with a bright smile. “Everything’s pretty much ready.”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” Buffy said, though her heart started to speed up as she followed Jenny down the hallway. “Great.”

A few minutes later, Jenny unlocked the door of the maisonette and they stepped inside. Like pretty much everywhere else in the headquarters, it was beautiful. The red carpet was so new it crunched underneath Buffy’s feet and everything smelled like wood varnish. It was huge, too. She had her own little lounge area with a sofa, and at the back were a few open doorways leading to other rooms.

Near the entrance, a black telephone sat on top of a hall table. It made a little ding as Jenny picked up the receiver and held it to her ear. “Got you your own slayer hotline,” she said. “In case you need anything urgently.” 

Buffy laughed, blinking a little in disbelief. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a telephone before, never mind owned one. She didn’t even get how they worked.

Jenny led her from room to room, tugging lights on and off as they went, even though it was still daytime. “It’s so convenient having electricity, you just wouldn’t believe,” she said. “But oh man– the trouble we had convincing some of the guys to let us install it in here.”

Inside the bedroom, Buffy ran her fingers down the silky hangings of the giant four-poster bed. “Wow,” she murmured. “This place is… wow.”

“The bathroom’s in here,” Jenny’s voice called out from another room. “And there’s a kitchenette down the hall. Used to be the servant’s quarters, but we had it converted.”

Buffy ambled over to the tall, deep-set window by the bed and perched at the edge. The view was pretty; overlooking the courtyard, with its neat pathways and well-pruned bushes all encircling the water foundation. Buffy sighed.

“You can shake up the decor, of course,” Jenny was saying, emerging from the bathroom and pulling the light off. “You could even borrow some paintings from the Council’s collection, but I warn you, they’re a bit old-timey. It’s all, you know, destruction and smiting, that sort of thing…”

Buffy just nodded. It was a little hard to listen to Jenny at the same time as taking everything in. Her mind was awhirl as she paced the room, eyes latching onto different pieces of furniture. It was so fancy she didn’t even know what some of the stuff was for. She headed towards the vanity, which was painted white with a triptych of mirrors on top. She vaguely recalled her mom having one of those when she was small, but it hadn’t been ornate and gilded like this one. Buffy sat down on the velvet stool and looked at her reflection staring back at her.

“Uh, Jenny?” she asked tentatively. “I don’t… um, I don’t have to live here, right?”

“Have to?” Jenny sounded confused.

“I just mean– uh, it’s not a requirement or anything, right?”

Jenny laughed. “No. Of course it isn’t,” she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “It’s supposed to be a perk, Buffy. Not an obligation. But– don’t you like it?”

“No,” Buffy said quickly. “No, it’s not that. I mean– it’s beautiful.” She gave a disbelieving little laugh as she pulled open a drawer in the dresser – empty – then pushed it shut again. “I mean, god. I never dreamed I’d get to live anywhere… well, like this.”
 
She bit her lip. It was true. Back in the orphanage, where she’d been stuck sleeping for years in a cramped, freezing old bunk, her and Willow used to play Anywhere But Here and dream up fancy houses they wanted to live in someday. Fancy houses exactly like this one.

Not for a second had Buffy ever thought she’d really get the chance. She certainly couldn't have fathomed having a reason to turn it down.

Buffy caught herself in the mirror again. What she’d wanted had always seemed so simple, back then. Her eyes were drawn to her bare neckline. It was funny. She’d thought she would barely recognise herself without her necklace. It’d been one of the only constants in her life. A source of hope, a promise of something better. She had taken it as given that she’d have it forever. 

She’d taken as given a lot of things that had turned out not to be true.

Watching Giles destroy the necklace had been hard to stomach, obviously. It was so final. But she’d stopped wearing it long before that, and she hadn’t thought twice about it then. If she was honest with herself, she hadn’t missed it. Her nostrils flared and she felt her eyes heat up a little. She glanced away from herself in the mirror and reflexively touched her eye.

“Buffy?” Jenny said. She was looking over, her face furrowed in concern. “Are you okay?”

Buffy nodded briskly, pushing the stool back and getting to her feet. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Buffy, it’d be your place, you know,” Jenny started to say. “And you could do… well, whatever you–”

Buffy cut her off, half by accident and half on purpose. She really didn’t want to cry in front of Jenny and she didn’t want to talk about why, either. Not least because she barely knew herself.

“Yeah. I– thanks,” she said, swallowing. “It’s just, uh– it’s really nice.” She straightened up and tried to blink the oncoming tears away, then forced a smile. Her cheeks were starting to hurt from how often she was having to do that. “Thank you. For… doing all of this. I’ll– uh. I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Text

Spike shouldered into his jacket and let the hotel door slam shut behind him, then started off towards the cemetery. The evening air had a new bite to it. Autumn already.

As soon he stepped inside the cemetery, he could smell people. Graveyards were usually pretty empty, but he could sense crowds nearby, even though he couldn’t hear them or see them. He picked his way down the path, following the scent, and saw a figure coming towards him. The man met his gaze as he got closer.

Vampire.

Spike hitched in his stride– it was instinctive at this point. But the vamp just gave him a nod of acknowledgement and walked on.

Spike hesitated, then continued along the path. He was used to killing them on sight. Couldn’t even remember the last time he’d gone out without a stake.

As he shuffled deeper into the cemetery, he heard the hush of voices. Voices that thought they were being discreet, probably, but to his ears they were clear as a whistle, and no doubt to any other vampires lurking about. Spike hung back behind a tree, eyes roving over the rows of graves. This must be the place. When he focused, he could make out clusters of people in the dark, huddled together in small groups and dotted in and around the graves and scrub. Probably the watchers’ clumsy attempt at stealth. Spike rolled his eyes.

He lit a cigarette and leant back against a tombstone as he waited, hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach. His eyes wandered about – at the trees, the stars, the tombs – and then down to trace the inscription of the headstone he was resting on. Some dead french bloke. 1811–1896. Eighty-five years. Not a bad run, Spike reckoned. But not as good as his.

After a couple minutes, he sensed her. Buffy. 

Spike’s eyes darted around and he spotted her in the distance, creeping out of the shrubbery on the other side of an open square. All dressed up in some breezy white frock, which the stupid twonks must’ve put her in, because she was probably freezing. Right away he thought of marching over there and throwing his jacket over her, but he stopped himself. Might get annoyed with him if he interrupted the Council’s precious charade.

She looked good, though. The hunger inside him stirred again, coiling tighter. She moved slowly along the path, gaze sweeping over the unlit cemetery, falsely casual. Christ. She was some trap, alright. Would’ve snared him in a heartbeat, back in the day.

Someone was coming towards her. The same vampire Spike had run into earlier. For a moment, the scene was normal: two strangers about to pass each other without incident, just as he and Spike had done. But then Buffy huffed, cutting through the quiet air, and whipped out her stake. The vampire leapt back with a growl, game face at the ready.

Spike snorted. The vamp was clearly no plant. Just the first unlucky bastard to cross her path. Spike felt a spiteful pang of regret for not strolling up to her with the jacket and tossing a spanner in their poncy little ritual. Could’ve given them a real spectacle. Gave Spike a delicious thrill just imagining it was him up there instead, sparring with her for all to see. 

Once the vampire was dust, a round of applause erupted. The watchers started emerging from the shadows like earwigs crawling out of the woodwork, all swarming towards Buffy. A giant flaming torch blazed to life from nowhere, and they all formed a processional line, marching up to her and blocking Spike’s view.

Stupid prats. Spike sparked up another smoke. Casting his eyes about, he spotted Giles among the throngs, all spruced up in his suit and shuffling through the crowd towards Buffy. People chattered away, laughing, the cemetery transformed on a dime into some kind of Mansfield-esque garden party. In the centre of the square between the graves, they were putting together some kind of makeshift platform. Soon as it was finished, one of them stepped on up, dinged a glass, and started giving a speech.

“Good evening, everybody,” he called out, voice carrying across the quietened cemetery. “Thank you all for being here to mark the slayer’s inaugural hunt.”

Applause rippled through the crowd.

“As you all know, it’s the first one in a long while. Too long, you might say. In fact, until very recently, we thought– we thought we would never see one again.” 

The speaker’s eyes found Buffy and a crowd of heads turned towards her. Buffy smiled shyly, not sure where to look. Spike’s chest ached. He suddenly felt the distance between them in sharp, bitter relief. 

“We cannot overstate how special this evening is. For years, we were convinced that the slayer was lost to us forever. We are keenly aware how fortunate we are, to have been given this second chance.” 

Cheers and claps.

“The world was a darker place without the slayer around. We all felt it. Fighting the forces of evil is a slayer’s sacred duty, but it is not hers alone. It is a responsibility we bear together. Vampires, demons; they represent the worst of us. At times, it can be hard to truly fathom the depth of cruelty, and barbarity, that exists in our world. Unfortuately, many of us here don’t need to imagine. We have been firsthand witnesses to savagery that has changed us, that has moulded us and our lives, forever.”

A tense hush fell over the crowd.

“But what we have endured brings with it renewed commitment to the struggle for good. It will never be over, but we, in turn, will never capitulate. With a new slayer, we have fresh hope. I invite you all to join me in raising a glass tonight to new beginnings. To the beginnings of a better world.”

He raised his champagne flute in Buffy’s direction, and the crowd broke into even louder, more effusive applause. 

Spike exhaled a long, harsh breath. He glanced over at Buffy one last time, but she was obscured between the vigorous clapping of hands. He flung his smoke down and crushed it under his boot, then shoved his hands in his pockets and headed back to the hotel.

***

Buffy consciously tried not to shiver. The dress they had given her to wear was pretty – they’d had it tailored just for her – but the fabric was light against the night’s chill. In front of her, people lined up to shake her hand. She was relieved when she saw Giles and Jenny at the front of the queue.

“Congratulations, Buffy,” Giles said with a wry smile. “I suppose it’s official now. Defender of the good.”

Buffy chuckled uncomfortably. “Thanks. Kind of a big responsibility.”

“It is. But I’m confident it’s in good hands.”

Buffy bit back the question she wanted to ask, about whether he’d seen Spike anywhere. She didn’t want Giles and Jenny to think she was always looking for him. That she couldn’t handle stuff alone.

Maybe he’d got the wrong time, or the wrong place. Her stomach felt all wriggly. It was stupid, she knew, to be freaking out about it, but he’d been sort of quiet and distant the last while, a bit like he used to be sometimes, and it set her on edge more than she wanted to admit. She knew the ceremony wasn’t exactly his scene. But he could’ve just told her if he didn’t wanna come. 

Something inside her twinged anxiously. Maybe she was asking too much of him.

Buffy shook a few final pairs of hands and soon found herself standing in a circle of chattering people. She was too distracted to keep up with the conversation; something about the last ceremonial hunt back in St. Petersburg. She glanced around the cemetery one last time, then gave them a polite smile and excused herself.

The evening air was sharp, but the Parisian streets were aglow with warmth, twinkly lights, and music as Buffy hurried through them towards the hotel. She still had a key to the room, even though she didn’t sleep there anymore. Inside was dark, but Buffy sensed it wasn’t empty, and when she pulled the drapes aside, she saw the balcony door slightly ajar.

Outside, Spike was leaning against the wall, clouded in a bloom of smoke.

“There you are,” she said.

Spike didn’t turn around. “Hey.”

Buffy bristled with a mix of nerves and irritation. Obviously he would’ve known she was here the second she walked in the door. She guessed he wanted her to come to him.

She hadn’t felt this uncertain around him for a long time. It reminded her of how things had been before, way back when, when everything between them had been tense, half-hidden, and full of pretence. She hadn’t liked it back then either, but it felt way worse now, after everything.

“Enjoying being a lonely vampire cliché out here?” she asked.

Spike took a long drag. “Something like that.”

Buffy edged closer. “Aw. Is someone feeling all neglected?”

Spike sighed wearily. “Just a bit.”

“I know it’s been a bit... full on.”

“Yeah. So I’ve noticed.”

“I was looking for you,” she said, and it felt like stepping onto a wobbly old bridge with lots of slats missing. “At the inauguration thing. I… thought you said you’d come.”

Spike kept staring into the distance, nostrils flaring. “Yeah. Just– not sure I’m the right crowd. Reckon I stick out a bit,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Must be the hair.”

“I know. I mean, I get it,” Buffy said, faltering. “It’s just– you said you would. And this one was sort of important.”

Spike scoffed. “Thought they all were.”

“Come on. Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

A lash of frustration. Buffy wanted to be mad, to just straight up call him out for acting like a child. But her thoughts were all tangled up, knotted together with self-doubt and guilt. So he had his guards up, but maybe she’d put hers up first. Maybe she’d never taken them down fully in the first place, at least not the way he had. 

She hated it, obviously, that they were playing this stupid game of chicken. But it seemed kinda unfair to pin all the blame on him when she suspected that actually, deep down, the dice were loaded in her favour. Of course it hurt when he acted cool and pulled away, but at least he was obvious about it. He wanted her to see it. When she did the same, it was cloaked in well-trained normalcy. Honestly, her performance was so convincing, she bought it herself half the time.

“You know this stuff is important to me,” she tried. “You know I have to go.”

Spike gave a sceptical hum.

“Or– well. I just mean– it’s hard, because I’m expected to go. And there’s all this… pressure, and the Council is doing a lot for me, and– well, I mean, I like it too, sometimes–”

“Well not everything’s about you, is it?” Spike snapped.

Buffy recoiled like he’d slapped her. She gave a disdainful laugh. “Well. If you’re gonna be like that…”

“Buffy,” Spike said immediately, reaching out for her. “I didn’t mean that. Swear to god, I–”

She covered her face with her hands. “No. You’re right. I know– I’m being selfish, I–”

“No,” Spike cut in, so sharp he sounded almost angry. He pulled her over into his arms. “Told you I didn’t mean it. Was just being a git.” 

“But I know you hate it there,” she said. “It’s not fair, to always expect you to come.”

“‘Course it is.”

Buffy tipped her head into his shoulder. “I’m all– with the hypocrisy. Because I don’t feel comfortable there, either. And I know it’s way worse for you,” she said. “But it’s just– it’s easier, when you’re with me.”

Spike huffed a laugh. “Takes the heat off, does it?”

“Nah. Just doesn’t feel so– daunting.”

Spike coaxed her head up to face him. “Sorry I didn’t show,” he said, more quietly, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “Know how much it means to you.”

Buffy watched him for a long moment. She didn’t contradict him, but she wasn’t sure it was true. Maybe she’d just said it meant a lot to her because that’s what she was supposed to say. Because it was easier than telling him the real reason she wanted him there. 

“How’d it turn out, then?” he asked.

“It was okay,” she said, curling her arms around him under his jacket. She made a brrr sound. “Boy, you’re cold tonight.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmured. “Sort of comes with the season.” As he leant back to slip off his jacket, his expression froze. “Almost forget. Got something for you.” He rustled through his pockets, then fished out a slip of paper and held it out. “Information. Hopefully not dead ends.”

Buffy took the crumpled paper from him and unfolded it, squinting in the dim light at the scrawly handwriting. Spike’s own, she realised. Two names were written there – Alexander Harris, Willow Rosenberg – with an address scribbled underneath both. One in Moscow, one in some city she’d never heard of.
 
She blinked at the page. “How… how did you find these?”
 
Spike shrugged. “Got ways, don’t I.”
 
Buffy was staring at the letters so hard they started to blur. A tremor in her hand made the slip of paper wobble. “Spike,” she said, voice catching in her throat. “I– Thank you.”

She remembered Spike promising he’d help her find them, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. She’d barely had a chance to think about them this last while. Even worse, she’d barely had time to miss them. Made her heart feel achey and unfamiliar, that Spike had remembered when she’d barely spared it a thought. 

And here they came again: the tears, welling up behind her eyes. She was just always on the verge of crying these days, apparently. She didn’t want to – not now, when she had to go back to the reception, and not on Spike, again, when he already did so much for her, and it was always about her these days, and what did she even have to be crying about anyway, when basically everyone was swarming around her the whole time, giving her stuff and doing things for her?

A little shaky, she folded the piece of paper up carefully. “I have to go back,” she said quietly. “There’s– there’s a reception. Do you want to–”

Spike nodded before she had the words out. “Yeah," he said. "I’m coming.”

Chapter Text

The Council’s commitment to ridding the world of evil apparently played second fiddle to their main goal, which was ridding the world of overpriced champagne. When Spike and Buffy arrived, watchers were guzzling it down by the boatload, the party having been relocated to the courtyard of their palatial estate. Spike had half expected an alarm to start blaring when he’d stepped through the gates, but it seemed an invitation was only needed inside the building. Which was a bit of an oversight, if you asked him. Not that anybody did.

As always, Buffy was mobbed by streams of people vying for her attention. Tonight, though, she hovered close to Spike, never seeming to let herself be whisked more than a few feet away. Over by the fountain, where marble cherubs took leaks for all eternity, Giles was standing looking jolly as hell, his face rosy with booze. Jenny said something which made him spurt out a laugh. Spike flickered with irritation. 

Buffy suddenly materialised out of nowhere again, wearing an overwrought grin and announcing, “Got you another drink!” She pushed a wide-mouthed glass of white wine into his hand.

“Cheers,” Spike muttered, frowning as wine sloshed onto his shirt.

“Oops!” Buffy’s attempt to scrub out the stain was manic but futile. “Sorry!”

“S’alright,” Spike said. “Just– take it easy, yeah? Here.” He held the wine glass out for her to take a sip. “You’re getting yourself all worked up.”

Buffy gave a tight-lipped nod. “No. I’m all good. Just wanna make sure you’re having, you know, a good time. It’s totally fine, and I’m– Giles! Hi!” She whirled round to face Giles, her smile starting to verge on demented at this point.

Giles acknowledged Spike with a nod. “Ah. There you are.”

Jenny glided in behind him, balancing a giant silver platter of hors d'oeuvres in one hand. She nudged it in Spike’s direction, then fumbled and hastily drew it back. “Oh, er– sorry. I guess you don’t– well–”

“Oh, Spike loves to eat,” Buffy chirped. “He’s like, super epicurious.”

“Er, Epicurean, I think you mean, Buffy,” Giles said.

“Yeah. That!” Buffy said.

Spike waved the platter away. “Nah, you’re alright.”

Some old wanker with a mustache tipped Buffy on the shoulder, then snatched her away into another conversation. She beamed and nodded vehemently at him as he spoke. Lights on, but clearly not a soul home.

Jenny set the platter down on the nearby table. “So, uh, Spike,” she said, then hesitated. “Uh– sorry. I mean– can I call you Spike?”

Spike scoffed into his drink. 

When the silence dragged on, Giles said coolly, “You can call him Spike.”

“So,” Jenny went on, fixing Spike with a look of well-practiced polite interest. “You must have some interesting stories about the last few years, huh?”

Spike snorted. “You can say that alright.”

Giles shot him a warning glance. 

Spike gulped back his wine. “Yeah. Lots of do-gooding and charity work,” he said, nodding his head in Buffy’s direction. “Taking pity on orphans, that sort of thing.”

Jenny laughed, but Giles’ face was stormy. Spike felt a pang of mean satisfaction. 

“So how long do these things usually go on for, then?” Spike asked, twirling his glass. “Bit of a drag, innit? Free booze hardly takes the edge off.”

Jenny looked about to speak, but Giles cut in through clenched teeth. “Spike.”

Which was exactly what Spike had been angling for. “What? Not allowed tell her any stories, so what else d’you want me to say?” he asked with feigned innocence. “Might be easier if you just gave me a script for the evening.”

Giles’ eyes darted towards Jenny, who quickly excused herself under the guise of needing to offer the platter to more people.

“For god’s sake,” Giles snapped at Spike as she hurried away.

Spike shrugged and muttered, “Doesn’t like me anyway.”

“Really?” Giles asked, faux incredulous. “After you made such a monumental effort?”

“Already started out in the red, didn’t I.”

“You could give it a bloody chance.”

“Oh pack it in, would you?” Spike spat. “Hate when you get on your high horse like this. Bossing me about, telling me what to do.”

“Why on earth would I ever tell you what to do, Spike, when I know damn well you’ll just do precisely the opposite?”

“You know what I’m like, alright?” Spike said. “If you don’t like it, well. Not my problem, is it?”

Giles’ jaw hardened. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”

“Plenty of nice new mates for you ‘round here, aren’t there?” Spike said, wrinkling his nose. “Ones who follow all the polite little rules. Must be nice having the slate wiped clean.”

“Ah, so your belligerence is purely to spite me, then.” Giles took a vicious swig of his own drink. “All because I might dare to enjoy myself. I knew you were petty, but that’s a new low.”

“Just don’t see why you’re having a go. Never promised I’d play along, did I? What the hell did you expect?”

Giles stilled, then said icily, “Too much, Spike. As always.”

Spike clenched his glass so hard he was surprised it didn’t break. “Yeah, well– I knew you’d do this, too.”

“And what exactly have I done?”

“Knew you’d get like this the second you didn’t need me anymore,” Spike said, nostrils flaring. “Strutting around like lord of the bleedin’ manor. Suddenly it’s your way or the highway, innit?”

Giles shook his head gravely. “You know what, Spike? It’s about time.” He placed his empty glass down on the table, his voice becoming fiercely quiet. “About bloody time I stopped making excuses for you. Tired of being a lightning rod for your bitterness and your foul moods.”

Spike glared at him, chest heaving, as Giles turned on his heel and stomped away back into the crowds. Spike cracked his neck, then pressed his hands down on the table and inhaled hard.

“Sorry!” Buffy reappeared behind him. “That guy rambles, like, a lot. Hey– everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Spike mumbled.

Buffy eyed him suspiciously. “Giles looked pretty mad.”

Spike scratched his knuckles. “S’nothing. You know what we’re like.”

Buffy touched his jaw. “Yeah. I do,” she said, smiling wryly up at him. Made Spike’s chest feel hollow all of a sudden, seeing the gentle sparkle back in her eyes, tired as she was. “So, you wanna go?” she asked. “Figure I’ve done a respectable amount of face-showing.”

Spike swallowed as he let her take his hand and lead him away. 

***

“Stay with me,” Buffy said to Spike when they reached the entrance of her maisonette.

Spike stared down at his boots. “Should probably get back,” he said. “Might be some anti-vampire radiation or somethin’ floating about.”

Buffy hesitated. “Fine. Then I’ll come back with you.”

Spike’s eyes flicked up to hers. He sighed, then nodded towards the door. “Let’s just go in, then, yeah?”

Buffy gave him a small smile, then unlatched the door. As she stepped inside, Spike hesitated at the threshold.

“Um,” he said.

Buffy turned back around and reached out a hand. “Come in.”

She led him past the lounge and through the open arch into the sleeping area, chattering nervously about telephones and electricity, mostly parroting things Jenny had told her, but adding on at the end how weird it all was. She felt sort of embarrassed about Spike seeing the place. It was just a little too much, with the everything.

Buffy guided him over to the bed, where he dropped down and shucked off his jacket. When she slipped into the bathroom to get ready, she leant over the sink and took a deep breath. She stared at herself in the mirror, heart thumping fast. She had gotten used to being uncomfortable, to pretending she was happy. It was second nature by now. But she hadn’t usually done that with Spike. 

She splashed her face with cold water, changed into a pair of pink silk pyjamas the Council had given her, and headed back out. Spike was sitting where she’d left him at the foot of the bed, shoulders sagging, staring out the window into the night, his gaze glazed over.

She bounced down beside him, acting just like she would’ve if nothing was wrong and everything was normal. “You gonna sleep like that?” she asked, raising a brow, reaching out to the top button of his shirt.
 
Spike immediately shrank back, arching his head away.
 
Buffy froze. He’d been a little distant lately, but he’d never flinched when she touched him before. Made her stomach almost drop out, and she shifted away from him on the bed. “Okay,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “You’re gonna have to be real with me here.”

Spike didn’t look at her. His knee bobbed a little.

Suddenly Buffy felt the edge of desperation that’d been clawing at her all night – or god, for days, or weeks, really – starting to leak out. She’d been trying so hard to keep it all together. Whatever that meant. She was just holding things in all day every day, even though she wasn’t sure anymore what she was supposed to be holding in and letting out. Either way, whatever semblance of composure she had left was ebbing.

“If you don’t want–” she started, feeling sort of pathetic but too exhausted to care, “If you don’t want this, anymore, then you could at least–”

“Buffy,” Spike cut in, rubbing his palm hard against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “It’s all I want. Every second.”

Buffy’s heart slowed slightly. 

“Hate being away from you,” he said quietly. 

“Yeah?” Buffy inched a little closer. “But I’m right here. You’re the one who’s not.”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said. “Shouldn’t be, should I. But I am.”

“I know you don’t feel welcome in here. I get it,” she said. She tried for a smile. “I don’t either, you know. It’s all a bit fancy.”

Spike said nothing.

“It’s like, sometimes I just miss my rags, you know?”
 
“Yeah, well.” Spike inhaled sharply. “Maybe you shouldn’t, is the thing.”

“What? I shouldn’t miss my rags?”

“Just saying. You can do better.”

“I don’t think of you as a rag,” Buffy said flatly. “If that’s what you’re getting at.”
 
Spike sighed, clenching his teeth. “I’m not even–” He flicked at the corner of her bedsheets. “It’s perfect here, innit? Perfect, for you. These sheets, look, they’re brand new and everything. Barely been touched.” He turned his head away so she couldn’t see his face. “Feels like… feels like I’m…”

“What?”

“Tarnishing it. And dragging you down with me.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Buffy said quietly.

“They all think it,” Spike said. “Think I’m scum. Not even supposed to be in here.”

“I invited you. And you know I don’t care what they think.”

“Yeah, well you used to think the same about me, too. When we first met.”

“That was different,” Buffy insisted. “Things were different.”

“Not so sure about that.”

“They are,” Buffy said fiercely. “You treated me badly, back then. And now– well. It’s not like that anymore.” She ignored the tug of doubt in her chest– the anxiety that had been building as she’d felt him pull away this last while; the way he'd acted defensive, always testing her, like he used to.

“Still me though, wasn’t it,” Spike said. “Still like that, sometimes. Don’t even know why.”

“Spike,” she said, and she gently placed a hand over his. “I know why. We all do. It’s because– well, it’s because you’re kind of an ass.”

Spike huffed a tiny laugh. He turned back towards her, and Buffy pulled him in closer by the hand.

“I know what it’s like,” she said quietly. “Not to belong somewhere. It’s… all I ever felt.”

“And now you’re finally here,” he said. “Whole place is built for you.”

Buffy hesitated. “Well. Technically. Doesn’t really feel like it yet, sometimes,” she said. “Feels like it’s happening to someone else, sometimes.”

“Guess it is, in a way. It’s a new life. A new you.”

Buffy bristled. “No. It’s still me,” she said carefully. “It’s just… a big change, is all.”

“You’ll get used to it,” he said. An undercurrent of hostility crept into his voice, almost accusing. “Won’t take long.”

“Is that what you think of me?” Buffy asked, her voice cool but wavering. “That I’m… what? Shallow? That all it takes is some fancy linens and bam, I’ll change into a different person?”

“No. Just– mean that, well– you’re used to settling for less, aren’t you?”

Buffy scoffed. She gaped at him in disbelief. “Jeez. Good to know you trust my judgement.”

“Just don’t think you realise yet, how good you could have it,” Spike said lowly. He fidgeted with his hands. “Not sure you really believe you deserve it.”

Buffy’s stomach was doing somersaults. Spike was the last person on earth she had thought would say things like this. “Yeah, so I deserve good things,” she said, the words coming out a little shaky. “And I’ll have them. What’s the problem?”

“Drop the innocent act,” Spike said. “I’m getting in the way of all that. You know I am.”

It was true. Of course it was. 

Not like she hadn’t thought about it. She’d thought about it ad nauseum. What everyone else would say. How Willow and Xander would react, if they saw all the crazy-nice things she was being offered and how reluctant she was to accept them. What Giles would think if he knew that her duty and the Council weren't always the main things on her mind. And her parents, if they were here? What would they say? If they could see her now, given this chance to do something good, to finally escape the life of squalor she'd been thrown into after they’d died– after they'd been murdered. How could she even think about– even consider throwing any crumb of it away for– well. For him.

“You’re not,” Buffy told him, her voice weak and desperate. “You’re not in the way.”

He fixed her gaze. Of course he'd know she was lying.

“I want you here,” she pleaded. “I want you on the new sheets. Please. Just– stay.”

She didn’t tell him the rest. That he was in the way. That he made things more difficult, and that it was probably only gonna get worse, the way she was being yanked like a ragdoll in two opposite directions. That he made her not want those things at all, if that was the choice, because they were getting in the way of him and not the other way round. 

It was safer, letting him think there were things that mattered more than he did. She just wasn't sure it was true anymore. Sometimes when he looked at her, she thought– he looked like he’d give up the world for her. Heaven and earth and everything in between. But probably she was just seeing what she wanted to see. Probably everyone thinks that, when they want something real bad. When they love someone and need them to be worth all the other beautiful things they’re willing to sacrifice for them.

Spike just nodded, like she knew he would. Well– not knew. Hoped, probably. 

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes sad, almost empty. “‘Course. ‘Course I will.”

Chapter Text

Spike crept out through the window before daylight. The night’s minutes had ticked by, hushed and tense, while he lay there on the perfect unworn sheets, feeling more than ever like a dead thing, all the shame and guilt he’d been ramming down finally catching up with him like a noose tightening round his neck. 

Buffy was tentative too. The whole time he sensed her nerve wavering, the harsh thump of her heart like a corkscrew twisting in his own chest – this wasn’t how it was supposed to be, not with them – but she forged on bravely, as she always did. Tried to hold his gaze as she crouched over him, like she wanted to tell him something. Sweet hair falling around her shoulders, longer now than when they'd first met, and they'd done it up nice for her, so the ends weren't choppy like they used to be. He’d liked it like that, missed it even, but it’d take a real spiteful prat to say it didn’t look good now too. The hair, the dress, the soft flush in her cheeks that came with a warm bed and fine food and not having to eke out a miserable life in the gutters – all of it suited her. She’d take to it, that world. Might do it on her own terms, but she'd carve out a place for herself in the end, a place that fit, and take what she wanted from it. He knew she would.

Spike’s fists bunched in the slippery fur throw beneath him, eyes catching on the empty fireplace at the end of the bed as Buffy laid him out across it, so carefully, like he was one of her new finespun dresses. She unbuttoned his shirt, pressed soft kisses over his chest and shoulders, while he lay there stiff, hyper-aware of everything around him: the dim electric light, the tang of furniture polish. Then she presented her neck.

Spike swallowed. He was starving. “Don’t,” he croaked.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

But it wasn’t. Not like this. She pressed him down between the shoulder blades and he lay there, this desperate thing, like a fish wriggling about on the shore. He kept the demon caged these days, for good reason. But she knew his limits, knew his body, almost as well as he did himself, from fights and sex and everything in between. She'd be able to coax the demon out, if she wanted to.

“Please,” he begged. “Please– Buffy. No.”

The thrumming pulse, the beat of her heart. Blood rushing fast. Spike still remembered the last person he’d ever bitten. Not because it’d been particularly special, but he'd gone over it again and again when he was first cursed. Not even on purpose; it just kept coming back to him. He’d thought of it so many bloody times, the memory was probably warped beyond anything resembling the reality by now. Some fair-haired girl, a little older than Buffy. She hadn’t gone down easy, and he’d known she wouldn’t, and he’d liked that. 

As Buffy leant over him now, breath hot on his cheek, he could almost see it, the blood streaming out of her in beautiful, delicate rivulets. The cruelty of the moment almost cleaved him to pieces. So close yet so far. The way she wanted him, the painful sincerity of what she was doing, only because she didn’t know what he knew.

Still tense as a board, Spike strained away from her neck with a sound like a strangled sob. “I can’t,” he gasped, arching his head, panting through fangs. “Buffy– I can’t.”

Probably she saw the terror in his eyes as they slipped from gold back to blue. Her own were confused, dark with hurt. 

He couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Told himself there was probably no point now, anyway.

After he’d climbed down from the window, he slunk through the Council’s maze-like grounds and out the gates in the early morning dark, feeling, for once, just as empty as he really was on the inside. She’d always felt like sand slipping through his fingers. It’d been like that from the very start – from before the start, even. But now the hourglass was finally running out, once and for all.

Sunrise was hot on his heels by the time he arrived in the hallway outside Giles’ room. For a moment he leant against the wall, stretching his neck all the way back and squeezing his eyes shut. He took a deep breath. Then he turned around, and barged through the door.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty,” he sing-songed, forcing a boom in his voice that cut through the quiet musty room, where the thick curtains still blocked out the beginnings of morning. “You know, you should be over watchin’ with all the other watchers by now,” he chided.

Giles groaned awake at the interruption and mumbled, “Bloody hell.” The brass bedframe creaked a little as he shuffled out from under the duvet, peeking over at the clock on his bedside table.

“How many times is that this week?” Spike asked. “Beginning to worry you got a problem, mate.”
 
Giles squinted as he sat up a little, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. “Would you keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake?”

Avoiding Giles’ gaze, Spike hesitantly set a bottle of water down on the nightstand, then quickly retreated to the other side of the room, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “Rough night, was it?” 

“You could say that.” Giles clutched his head, and then his eyes suddenly widened in horror, presumably remembering something he would’ve preferred to forget from the night before. “Oh god.”

“What’d you do?” Spike asked, raising a brow. “She hasn’t chucked you already, I hope?”

“She has not,” Giles said bitterly. “No thanks to you, mind.”

Spike watched tentatively for a moment as Giles unscrewed the glass water bottle and took a sip. 

“Anyway, why the unwanted alarm clock?” Giles asked. “Come to repent, have you?”

Spike grunted. “As if.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Just, uh– dropping in. Let you know I’ll be heading off soon.”

Giles finished his glug of water, grimacing. “What?” 

Spike drummed his fingers over the back of the armchair. “Amsterdam’s supposed to be good,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Vamps can have a good time there, or so I’ve heard.”

“I see,” Giles muttered, massaging his temples and wincing at the blare of a horn from the streets below. “Well. Good riddance, then. I await your postcard.”

Spike bristled. “I’m being serious here.”

“Deathly, I’m sure.”

“What else should I do, hey? Spend my evenings playing gooseberry at Council wine receptions? Or lurking in the shadows outside her window?” Spike's words came out as more of an angry splutter than he’d intended. He pulled irritably at a loose thread on the chair, half-unravelling a silk-embroidered leaf. “‘Mean, it was always the plan, wasn’t it? Get in, get the money. Get out.”

Giles gave a deep sigh. He sounded unimpressed. “And I suppose you’ve talked with Buffy about all this?”

“‘Course not,” Spike muttered, turning around to stare at the closed drapes, fingers still worrying the back of the chair. “You know her. She’d only tell me not to.”

“Heaven knows why.”

“Actually trying to do a good thing here,” he said, shooting Giles a fierce look over his shoulder. “‘Mean, sometimes someone’s got to make the hard call, don’t they?”

“Ah. So it’s a noble running away, then.”

Spike huffed. “Could be dragging her to hell by the coattails and she’d still tell me to stay,” he said, more quietly. He looked down and scuffed his boot through the carpet. “Wouldn’t wanna hurt my feelings.”

Giles hesitated. “I know the Council’s been taking up a lot of Buffy’s time. They’re rather… exciteable at the moment. But, uh. It won’t always be like this.”

“Yeah. It’s only the beginning,” Spike said. He started to pick at his fingernails instead of the chair. The varnish was chipped, as it often was, but worse than usual. Buffy had done it for him last time, but of course she was rubbish at it, so he’d had a go at her for rushing it and not doing it the way he said, and she’d accused him of being worse than what Giles was about his books, and he’d got into a right strop. The memory smacked him like a punch in the gut, leaving behind a hollow panging in his ribs.

“Known it all along, anyway, didn’t I,” he went on, his voice low. “Not like any of it’s news or anything. Always knew what she was. What she’d have to do. All are what we are, at the end of the day. Can’t change it.”
  
Giles turned to look at him. “No?”

“What, you got a magical frog I can kiss or something?”

“That’s a rather confused analogy. Surely you’d be the frog in this scenario.”

“You’re missing the point.”

“You’re missing the point of the parable.”

“Look, you know what she’s been through,” Spike said. He exhaled, eyes fixed on the narrow slivers of lights starting to stream in through the closed drapes and lighting up the carpet. “Could be a fresh start for her, all this.” He purposely avoided Giles’ eyeline. “Fresh start for all of us.”

There was a moment's silence.

“Well, I refuse to be complicit in this,” Giles said, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and starting to get up. “I won’t collude with you behind her back to decide what’s best for her. It’s between the two of you."

Spike tapped his foot on the ground. He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Guess it is."

***

Pack dynamics and vampire initiation rituals

Vampires social groups are often comprised of complex hierarchies, usually violently enforced by dominant members of the pack. For this reason, initiation rituals are common.

Giles’ eyes skimmed the next paragraphs, finger tracing down to the bottom of the page before carefully turning it over.

A common ‘rite of passage’ among vampire packs is the cursing of weaker vampires, stealing them of their ability to bite and therefore feed independently. Colloquially known as ‘love’s first bite’, it is referred to by scholars as Morsus Amoris, and is usually studied together with other forms of vampiric edentulism. The curse is usually cast by an alpha vampire and serves the function of severing a young vampire’s connections to the human world, as well as strengthening social bonds within the pack. While most commonly cast on vampires in infancy as a means of securing their loyalties, any vampire can be afflicted. For most vampires, the imperative to feed is sufficiently powerful to ensure the curse is a temporary handicap. In order to regain its ability to bite, the vampire must–

“More light reading?” 

Giles jumped, glasses bumping down his nose as he haphazardly snapped the book shut. Jenny’s shadow cast down on him from behind.

“Jeez,” she said. “What’re you hiding this time?!”

“Oh. Uh– it’s nothing.” Giles cleared his throat as he placed the ragged old book down on the coffee table, hurrying to shove some pages that had come loose back inside the sleeve.

Jenny hummed, eyes twinkling darkly, the way they often did when she got him flustered like this. She moved around the chair closer to him. “Believeable.”

“Just– uh, idle curiosity, really,” Giles went on, giving another rather unconvincing cough. “It’s, ah– nothing to do with Buffy, I swear. You know I’m just– finding it hard to resist the library’s offerings.”

Jenny lifted one of his hands up and slid into his lap, then wrapped an arm around his neck. “You’ve always been the worst liar, you know.”

“Well. Then you’ll know I’m being entirely sincere when I tell you my idle curiosity has shifted quite, uh, abruptly.”

“We have to leave in awhile,” Jenny said, brushing her fingertips through the sides of his hair. “We should probably get ready.”

Giles glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Soon,” he said. “But not yet.” 

***

Down on the empty stage, the thick red velvet curtains slowly drew together as the theatre lights returned to a soft glow. Buffy, hunched over the balcony railing with her chin resting on her arms, shifted slightly at the change of scene, watching as people on the far end of the theatre began to rise from their seats, breaking into chatter and heading for the lounge or restrooms.

Boy. How were they only halfway through? 

Under normal circumstances, she’d probably be enjoying this way more. Ballet was definitely a cut above the usual Council fare. But her mind was elsewhere tonight.

Behind her in the box, Giles and Jenny bickered, their voices occasionally breaching containment, with Giles in a frenzy over Jenny’s irreverent claim that some newfangled composer was, in fact, even better than some old-fangled composer.  
 
“Open your mind, Rupert,” Jenny was demanding, to which Giles hissed back, totally scandalised, “I most certainly shall not.”
  
Buffy angled sideways to face them, and saw Jenny leaning forward in her seat, gesturing to Giles with two emphatic hands, frustrated on the surface, but also probably enjoying it, in a weird way. Or at least so Buffy imagined. Some people liked that sort of thing.

“What Rachmaninoff’s doing is modern,” Jenny continued. “It’s exploratory.”
 
“Scarcely even music,” Giles retorted. “Just wretched keysmashing. Tchaikovsky would be turning in his grave.”
 
Buffy spun round, eyes widening in feigned shock. “He was a vampire?!”
 
Giles’ stern expression softened, lips quirking at the edge. “Not that we know of,” he said, then adjusted his glasses and cast his gaze up at the ornate domed ceiling. “Though, I suppose, if you were to read his works allegorically… rousing from deep sleeps when given the kiss of life, enchanted dolls coming alive at night… people turning into, uh, swans…”
 
“This would be a lot more exciting with vamps,” Buffy said. Her heart gave a hard double-thump as she heard her own words, and she dropped her gaze.

There was a moment’s silence. Giles asked, a little tentative, “Uh, not enjoying the performance, Buffy?”

“Guess ballet’s not really my scene,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t get it. Slayers are young, right? So why are all these Council outings always, for like, old–” She cut off at the sight of Giles and Jenny’s expectant faces. “–er people. Older, more mature, but very nice, people.”
 
“Don’t even get me started,” Jenny said, thumping back into her seat with arms crossed. She side-eyed Giles. “Believe it or not, last meeting of the treasury, typewriters got bumped so we could keep this ballet membership.”

“Well, it is a longstanding tradition– and these seats are–” Giles started, but he cut off when he saw Jenny staring at him with narrow, disapproving eyes. “Oh, fine. Obviously you’re right. The Council’s use of funds leaves a great deal to be desired.”

“You can say that again,” Jenny said, then added, with a grin, “Well, at least it got her back, hey?”

Abrupt silence. Buffy had barely registered what Giles and Jenny had said, but she frowned when she saw how both their faces suddenly blanched.

“Huh?” Buffy asked, stomach doing an unhappy swirly thing. “Me?”

Jenny looked deeply uncomfortable. “Oh, uh–”

Buffy’s eyes swung from Jenny to Giles. “Uh– oh– it’s nothing, Buffy,” he said awkwardly, suddenly very focused on polishing his already-spotless glasses.

“Okay,” Buffy said slowly, heart ratcheting up another notch. “You’re making me nervous. Spit it out.”

Jenny said quietly to Giles, “I’m sorry, but I did tell you it’d probably– that you needed to–” she sighed, placing a hand on Giles’ shoulder as she rose from her seat. “Excuse me, Buffy. Need to use the, uh– the ladies’.”

“Giles, what’s going on?” Buffy demanded as Jenny’s heels hurriedly clacked away. “Was there–” she paused, her face hot, the flush creeping down her neck with panic and unwanted realisation. “Was there– money? Nobody told me anything about money?”

“Uh– a small detail,” Giles said, practically squirming in his seat. “And it’s not really my place, at least not solely, to disclose the full, uh–”

Buffy fixed his gaze. “Giles.”

“Well– there may have, at some point, been uh… a financial reward offered, to the people who could locate the lost slayer–”

The blood rushed between Buffy’s ears, muffling out the crowds in the background. “What? You were gonna, like, sell me?”

“Well, not exactly–” Giles coughed, tugging his shirt collar before another slew of words spilled out. “I mean– it became apparent rather quickly, that you were, uh, the real deal, so to speak, which rather, uh, superseded the financial incentive, at least, uh…”

Buffy gaped at him in horror, fingers clutching the side of her seat. “Wait. You didn’t even think it was really me?”

“Uh, well– of course we couldn’t be certain, at first, I mean–”

Buffy let out a sharp breath of disbelief. “You lied to me.”

“Well… yes. Concealed the truth, I suppose you could say–”
 
“What most people call lying,” Buffy snapped, jumping to her feet as a hot blaze of anger roared inside her. 
 
“Buffy, we did think about telling you, but, uh– well, we knew you’d react badly,” Giles said, and then, as Buffy’s mouth dropped open even further, added quickly, “Because it was bad! We are aware of how wrong it was, but please– Buffy– it may have been the intention, at the beginning, but… things are different now.”

“So it was like– a business deal,” Buffy said flatly, the words acrid on her tongue.

“Buffy– please. Listen to me,” Giles begged, trying to steady his voice. “Look. I suppose we didn’t tell you at first, because, well… we wanted you to trust us.”

Buffy’s heart rocketed. This couldn't be happening.

“And we didn’t tell you after that, because… well, we realised we’d found something far more precious than any sum of money,” Giles continued. “And neither of us could bear to jeopardise that.”
 
Tears stung Buffy’s eyes and she turned around, gripping the railing, a flash of vertigo hitting her at the sight of the blurred crowds and seats below her. She’d suspected early on, of course, that there was more to the story they’d spun her. Something was off about it: about the extreme lengths they’d gone to, just to accompany her the whole way across the continent… and it was one thing for Giles to do it, but for Spike–

She’d stopped thinking about it. She hadn’t wanted to. 
 
“Buffy,” came Giles’ voice from behind her. “I’m so very sorry. We absolutely should have told you, long before now.”
 
Buffy’s fingers tightened around the railing harder. She sniffed. “I feel… I feel all icky.”
 
“Of course I don’t want a penny of it. Truly,” Giles said. “Buffy, you must believe me when I say that… your happiness means more to me, than any amount of money ever could.”
 
A tear rolled down Buffy’s cheek. She could barely get the words out as she angled over her shoulder to look at Giles. “And– and Spike?”

Giles hesitated. 

“That’s why he helped me, isn’t it?” she said, everything in front of her fogged with tears. “At the start. Before…” 

She couldn’t control it anymore. Her shoulders were shaking, and a cracked sob wrenched itself free from deep in her chest. 
 
“Well, initially, perhaps–” Giles faltered. “Back then, things were… uh…”

“I knew there must be a reason,” Buffy said, the words wet and ragged. She wiped her eyes with the back of her palm. “I knew it, but– god, I’m so stupid.” The tears spilled out hard and fast. “I didn’t wanna see it.” 

Giles shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he watched her for a moment. Watched her stand there alone, scrubbing the tears from her face.

That was one good thing about Spike, he thought wryly. No hugging was required. He took a deep breath, summoned his bravery, then rose up and reached out to her. “Buffy,” he said again, gently.

She came to him instantly, almost stumbled into his arms. 

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said, and she was sobbing even harder now against him, his shoulder becoming wet with tears. His arms wrapped around her slight frame with unnerving ease. He forgot how small she was, sometimes. She didn’t seem it. 

“Is that why– I mean, he’s been so–” she hiccupped, body shuddering. “Giles, all that stuff they say– what if–” She tilted her head up towards him with big, desperate, red-rimmed eyes. “It’s not true, is it?”

Giles hesitated. “Buffy, you know him– you know him better than anyone–”

“I thought I did,” she whispered. “I trusted him. More than… god, I thought he would never–” her voice hitched, and she broke off with a whimper.

Giles watched helplessly as she dissolved into further tears. He remembered Spike bursting into his room this morning; all the things he had said. Thought about the information he’d stumbled upon in his late afternoon reading. Realised, with sinking dread, that there were other things Spike was keeping from her.

“It will be okay, Buffy,” he tried, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate and pathetic as he felt. 

“I don’t know what to do, Giles,” Buffy whispered, burying herself further into his shoulder. “I love him. I really love him.”
 
In the distance, the orchestra started tinkling to life again, the long gentle strokes of violins rising up from beneath them. The lights dimmed through the theatre, and below, a single, still ballet dancer was spotlighted on the dark stage. 

Giles held Buffy tight. Of course he put little stock in the Council’s crude theories. Even he had to admit, sometimes, that the books didn’t have all the answers. But, well. Spike had said it himself, hadn’t he? He was what he was. 

Giles felt a knot in his chest. At the end of the day, he couldn’t be sure that it would be enough for her. That it would be as much as she deserved. But he hoped. By god, he hoped.

Chapter Text

The sun didn’t set until after eight, so Spike ended up being late for the ballet. Which didn’t bother him much, because he didn’t fancy it anyway. The thought of sitting for several slow hours in the theatre with Giles and Jenny, drowning in posh, stilted pretension, made him come over a bit queasy. 

Worse than that, though, was the prospect of facing Buffy. After last night, Spike had this sticky dread churning like gum round his gut the whole time. Wasn’t completely new, the feeling, but it was worse now. More insistent. The day had been agony on the one hand, being alone, his thoughts crushing down on him, squeezing his insides to pulp. But he reckoned it was still better, for the most part, than being with Buffy and feeling that unbearable, prickly strain stretching the air between them. Made it feel like neither of them was really there – or worse, like they were, but couldn’t find each other, even when they were looking right at each other. 

Spike remembered another time when staring right at her had made him sick, but sick in another way, a better way, back when they’d looked at each other and he'd felt like they were both seeing the exact same thing. Even though he couldn't know for sure what she saw, that's what it felt like. And even wrapped up in the warmth of her gaze, there'd been this dizzying thrill to it. A cloying sort of nausea. Like standing at a precipice, about to jump. Wanting to. So close, like the final frontier was but a thin sliver between them. Probably would’ve drove him nuts, if it hadn’t felt so good, because of how desperate he was to reach out and grab the feeling in his hands, cage it up, knowing full well it could disappear in a blink. But it couldn't be bottled. Nah. It'd just slip away, as always. Leave him always wanting more and never getting it.

Soon as Spike stepped inside the theatre, he almost collided head-on with Buffy. She was striding down the hallway with determination, eyes pink and puffy, lips pressed into a tight line.

"Hey–" Spike said without thinking, catching her by the arm. “What’s wrong? You do know she wakes up in the end, yeah?”

Buffy wrenched free, shouldering past him and hissing, “Leave me alone.”

Spike’s mind raced. “What? Is it– ‘cos I’m late?” He hesitated. “Or– uh, is it– about last night?”

She spun around and blurted angrily, “You lied."

Panic swelled in Spike’s chest. He had alright. But he wasn’t sure which one she was talking about. Frozen like a deer in headlights, he stared back at her until she snapped, “The money, idiot!”

Oh, bollocks. He’d almost forgotten about that one.

To be fair, they were idiots. They should’ve at least had some kind of plan or something, for when she found out. Christ, they were thick. Lousy crooks, really. 

“Oh. That,” Spike managed through his dried-out throat.

“Yeah– that.”

Spike was rooted to the spot. He had this nasty feeling he was standing in front of an almighty dam, one that’d been gradually cracking a long time and was now finally about to burst. And there he was, right in the firing line, about to be walloped full force.

“Oh, c’mon–” he tried, waving a hand, almost laughing, at how bloody ridiculous it was, comical really, that this of all things would be the clincher. “Like anybody cares about that now–”

Buffy gaped at him, open-mouthed. “I care!” she spluttered, her brows furrowing hard. “You tricked me. You used me.”

“No, yeah– I know, we should’ve told you, alright,” Spike backpedalled, raking his fingers through his hair. “But it’s not like it was gonna hurt you or anything– wasn’t like we were handing you over to be tortured or imprisoned or anything–”

“That’s the reason you were nice to me,” Buffy cut in, spitting the words. “Well, you weren’t even. But it’s why you… tolerated me.”

Spike scoffed on instinct. “In all fairness, love, you couldn’t stand me either."

“Was it all pretend, then?” Buffy snapped, her bewildered eyes making Spike wilt a little. He opened his mouth to speak, but she got in first. “Is that why you acted like you cared? Why you protected me? Because I was–” her voice quavered with disgust, “–valuable?”

Something gave a sharp, brutal twist in Spike’s gut. His helpless scrambling, like a cat with its claws in the tablecloth, was transformed into something darker, a heady anger that tore through his body. He shook his head incredulously, narrowing his eyes at her, his voice becoming deathly quiet. “How can you even ask that?”

“Uh, can you blame me?!”

Spike could barely see straight all of a sudden. His nostrils flared, the muscles in his jaws squeezing together tight, the seductive impulse to violence flickering in his chest. He wanted to break something. Instead he clenched his fists so hard his nails probably drew blood from his palms.

“You know that’s not the reason,” he said, and he could hear, distantly, how vicious the words sounded, almost like it was somebody else saying them. His tone, his demeanour – everything had flipped like a switch. “You bloody know it’s not.”

“Well I didn't think you would lie to me," Buffy shot back, louder, her own fury still climbing, like she was trying to match his. “But apparently I was wrong.”

“You know damn well there was no pretend about it,” Spike went on, ignoring her, and again his words were low but fierce, mouth contorted into a snarl. It occurred to him that he might be shaking. “But yeah, go on. Play that card. Bet it’s dead convenient, innit, all this coming out now? All makes sense now, yeah?”

Buffy blinked at him. “What are you talking about?” She started to look a little flustered, cheeks reddening. Her voice dropped and took on a desperate note. “I– I trusted you.”

“Did you?" Spike snapped. "Or have you just been waiting for me to bollix it up this whole time?”

Buffy flinched. She looked at him for a long moment, then laughed mirthlessly. “Clearly I should have been. You’re not even sorry, I mean– it’s like you’re angry with me–”

Spike's hot fury receded, like a tide swishing out, replaced in a flash by deep-seated panic, a fear he couldn’t put a finger on, one that threatened to take him over. Desperation clawed at his chest and suddenly he wanted to touch her, right now, to not be having this conversation– wanted to reel back the minutes, or the weeks really, while he was at it.

“Buffy, look–” he said, not really sure what he wanted to say, a tremble in his voice as he reached out to her again. “Look– let’s just–”
 
“Don’t,” Buffy hissed, her voice icy and bitter. Like she was already far away. She tugged roughly out of his grasp. “Just– don’t touch me.”
 
Spike dropped her arm like she’d slapped him. Buffy spun on her heel and started marching off.

Something thudded hard in Spike's chest where his heart used to be. He tried to call after her, but she was already hurrying out the door, her footsteps on the carpet rapidly petering out. He watched her disappear, frozen in place, and the hallway around him looked suddenly drained, hollow, like somebody had carved it out, all its insides and everything else that mattered.

***

Giles would’ve recognised those indignant footsteps anywhere. The pattern was seared into his brain after years of Spike’s relentless tromping across creaky floorboards back at the St. Petersburg manor. It was a talent, really, how much Spike could communicate through the medium of footfall. 

Giles’ suspicions were confirmed a moment later by the mind-rattling slam of the door that followed. He braced himself with a deep sigh.

“Well thanks for that one, mate,” came Spike’s snarl as he stormed through Giles’ door for the second time that day. “You and your big gob.”

“Wasn’t me!” Giles said defensively, holding up his hands. He paused. “Though that’s, uh, besides the point, I suppose. But go on, blame me anyway. I’m sure that’ll solve the problem.”

Spike let out an exasperated noise as he collapsed onto the sofa. “Well, we should’ve had a gameplan, shouldn’t we?!”

Giles was forced to agree. That had been quite the oversight on their part. Honestly, how they’d managed to survive all those years in a demon-infested Petersburg was beyond him. They were lucky, really, to have made it out unscathed. Physically, at least.

“Most definitely,” Giles said.

“She’s livid,” Spike went on. “Bit my head off. Won’t even talk to me. Won’t even–” he broke off, looking away.

“Well, you can hardly blame her for being upset.”

Spike narrowed his eyes at him. “Oh, so she’s in a real snot with you as well, then?”

Giles hesitated. “Well, yes. She was, uh– angry. Understandably.”

“Bet she forgave you right quick,” Spike muttered.

“Well, I tried to explain,” Giles said. “That the money’s not important. That I value her happiness, above all. I mean, for goodness’ sake, Spike– it can’t seriously come as any great shock that she would respond like this. We did lie to her.”

“Yeah. We lied,” Spike said, gesturing between them both. “Both of us. But who’s getting it in the neck?”

“Is punitive justice really your main concern here?”

Spike slowly shook his head in disbelief. “How can– I mean... after everything. I just– I can’t do anything right, can I?!”

Giles sighed. “Must you always be so dramatic?” 

“Told you this’d happen, didn’t I?!” Spike pressed on, clearly in one of those moods where no amount of logic or sense would curtail his pursuit of a blistering tirade. “Told you this morning.”

“Oh, you mean when you marched in here and threatened to hightail it off without consulting her?" Giles said flatly. "Amsterdam, was it?"

Spike wheeled around, eyeballing Giles like he were a total idiot. As he always did whenever Giles failed to follow his tortuous, nonsensical trains of thought. In Giles’ defence, he’d become rather adept at interpreting Spike’s words, even when, like now, he was sputtering garbled non sequiturs at him like there was no tomorrow. While Giles wasn't always able to fully grasp the nuances, he could usually catch the gist of what Spike was saying, much like a parent learning to understand the babblings of a toddler. 

“She’s figured it out,” Spike spat, as if it was obvious. “Realised she deserves better.”

Indeed; just as Giles had suspected. Spike had been doom-mongering about this for quite some time, and now, having tolled the death knell himself, he was about to lose his head entirely.

“Surely you’ve heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Giles said dryly. “But frankly, if this is how you’re going to behave every time you two have a disagreement, well, then…”

Spike groaned. “I just–” he clutched his head in his hands. “It's just– what else do I have to prove to her?” He looked up at Giles, hesitation suddenly flickering across his face. His voice dropped. “Or to you, for that matter?”

Giles stilled, taken off guard, though he instinctively sought to conceal his surprise. Spike seemed frozen too, as if startled by his own words. Giles said nothing for a moment, just let the air hang heavy between them. Eventually he exhaled a long-held breath and replied softly, “I’m not sure it’s us you need to persuade, Spike.”

“Ugh. Don’t even start with the mind games," Spike muttered.

Giles hesitated again, his chest constricting. “You lied about the curse, didn’t you?”

Spike’s head snapped up. “What? What d’you mean?”

“About how to break it.”

Spike crossed his arms with a pout. “Didn’t lie.”

“But you didn’t tell the whole truth either, did you?”

“Didn’t see the point. Didn’t change 'nything.”

“Well. Some people evidently value qualities like honesty.”

Spike just sat there, not looking at Giles, his gaze fixed on the floor, knee bobbing. The lines in his face, which had been scrunched up in vexation since he’d arrived, slackened a little. 

“Couldn’t do it,” he said quietly, breaking the strained silence. “Tell her, I mean. Thought if she knew, she’d look at me– different.” He leant forward, clasping his hands together and swallowing hard. “Didn’t matter, though, did it, in the end? She saw through me all the same.”

Giles frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Saw it,” Spike said, a slight tremor in his voice. “Saw it in her eyes.”

“Saw what?”

Spike screwed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose hard. “Dunno,” he managed in a hoarse rasp. “But– it wasn’t good, Giles, whatever it was.”

Giles dropped his shoulders as he angled in Spike's direction. “I can imagine what you saw, alright,” he said. “Disappointment. Hurt. Anger.”

Spike looked up at him, nostrils flaring.

“That’s the way people look, Spike, when somebody they trust lets them down.”

Spike shook his head helplessly. “You didn’t see her," he croaked, rubbing an eye with his knuckles. "No way she looked at you like that.”

“Probably not,” Giles admitted with a wry laugh, remembering, earlier in the theatre, how abruptly Buffy’s demeanour had shifted from anger to despair. The way she had collapsed, almost childlike, into his arms. “I’m sure I did get off lightly. She was... rather desperate. Devastated, by the revelation.” He glanced in Spike's direction, then down, coughing quietly, a twinge of sadness gnawing at his chest. “You know it’s not me she usually comes to when something’s amiss. I... was merely a last resort. I suppose, uh– the deeper the feeling, the worse the betrayal.”

Spike’s lips quirked slightly. “Or it’s just the bloody glasses,” he mumured. “Always said they make you look a lot more innocent than you really are.”

Giles rose from his seat, heaving a sigh, and slowly started to pace the room, a hand running through his hair. “I envy you sometimes, you know. Being a demon.”

Spike glanced up tentatively.

“Must be rather convenient. The rest of us, well–” Giles gave a hollow laugh. “The rest of us have to take responsibility for our deficiencies all by ourselves.”

Spike tapped his foot anxiously against the carpet.

“It’s rather unpleasant, I’ll have you know,” Giles continued. "Not having anything to hide behind when we're afraid. Of ourselves, and what we might be capable of. Of all the things we're not and never will be."

Spike snorted. "You seem to manage it alright. The hiding."

“Yes.” Giles squeezed hard at his forehead, then gave a self-deprecating huff. “For all the good it’s done me.”

Spike straightened up with a small sniff, discreetly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Should’ve told you,” he said, clearing his throat, his voice still thick. “Uh, about the curse. Wasn’t right, keeping it from you.”

Giles nodded. “I, uh, appreciate that,” he said. “Even if, uh– in the end, it makes no difference.”

Spike met his gaze briefly, then his eyes darted away again.

“We have tried, Spike,” Giles said gently. “I can't imagine it's easy, all this, for Buffy. This situation she’s been thrust into. But despite the challenges, all the, uh… internal wrangling, she’s– well. She's been fighting for you.”

Spike shuffled in place, shoulders hunched, his eyes determinedly fixed on a spot on the floor. "Yeah. 'Know," he said, so quiet and choked, Giles barely heard it.

“Seems to me like you’re the one keeping his foot out the door,” Giles said.

Spike swallowed hard. “And what about my door, hey?"

Giles looked over his shoulder at him.

"Neither of you’s got so much as a toe in my door," Spike said wetly. "Always me, isn’t it, who has to fight for it? To be something else. To be–” he cut himself off, like it was too painful to even speak the words. Regardless, Giles could fill in the blanks by himself. Perhaps too readily.

“We all have to make compromises, Spike," he tried.

“It’s not the same," Spike said. He tilted his head up to look at Giles, his eyes red-rimmed. “You don’t know what it’s like for me.”

Giles paused. He had never seen Spike cry. Not in all the years he'd known him. It didn't surprise him, at least not in theory. But it was admittedly rather jarring to experience it for himself. Of course he had seen glimpses of this man before. He'd seen them long before Buffy had entered the picture, even.

Realisation struck him with a lash of guilt. As if being a slayer wasn’t enough of a burden, Giles had left her to handle this, too. To do what he couldn’t. And she had. Of course she had. 

She was truly far braver than he was, in all possible ways.

“No,” he said finally. “I suppose I don’t.” 

Spike’s turned his head in surprise, like he'd been expecting a different response.

“I do admit that it might seem… unfair, from your perspective,” Giles continued carefully. “But I see no way around that. Forget Paris. Forget the Council. No matter where we are, you know the world Buffy and I live in. It’s where we have to be.”

Spike chewed on his lower lip. 

“All we can do is invite you in,” Giles said. “Whether or not you accept... well. That's up to you."

He paused for a moment, the pressure in his chest mounting. He removed his glasses and dropped his forehead into a palm, then cleared his throat.

“But, uh– there is something I want to say,” he continued, his voice speeding up in step with his heart, which pounded harder than before. “And, uh… I believe I should have said it before now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Spike lift his head.

“I should have told you that, well… it’s not a courtesy invite,” Giles said. He felt his own voice starting to falter, but he pushed through. “I don’t do it as a favour… nor out of guilt, or pity. Nor for Buffy’s sake. I ask it… well– I ask it for myself.” He took a steadying breath. “It’s... something I’ve hoped for, already for some time now. For you to accept the invite.”

He turned around to face Spike, who was watching him with wide, almost nervous, eyes.

“I do believe it’s possible,” he said, urging himself not to look away again. “If– you so choose it, Spike. To make it yours, too. This world, with everything that’s in it.”

Spike swallowed.

Giles refitted his glasses. "I don't know. Maybe it’s a lousy offer," he said, trying for a smile. "But, well, Spike– I would like it very much if you said yes.”

Chapter Text

Buffy kicked out a leg, then twisted over, eyes screwed up, fists balled in her duvet and face half-smothered underneath. 

A flash of feverish heat. Somewhere, a cramped foot. A groan.

A scream pierces the drum of her ear. It unleashes a blistering cacophony of shrieks and wavering keens, reverberating across the vast, hard-floored hall, looping on and on. A tall man is dressed in black, wearing a wide, oily smile. Buffy’s heart snaps with panic, races faster till it feels like it’s gonna explode, and then–

Everything plateaus. There’s a smooth, easy descent.

“Scared me half to death, to be honest with you,” Spike murmurs, and his thumb rubs gently across the cavity of her palm, over the veins, tingly, soft sparks down her spine. Buffy just came in from the storm. She’d been about to jump overboard. Spike’s arm comes to rest heavy around her shoulders, holding her like an anchor.

Buffy’s brain shook halfway back to life as she felt herself thunk back over onto her other side, mattress springs shuddering under her. She burrowed herself deeper into the pillow. 

Her body was hot. Too hot. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought of getting out of bed, grabbing a glass of water, maybe opening the window. But she couldn’t move. She was flitting too hard between states – asleep, awake, asleep – and always getting stuck in the middle.

Early evening campfire blazes. Spirals of pine-scented smoke. One side of Buffy’s face itches from the breath of flames. She turns to escape it, sees an opportunity, and shoves her nose into the stiff little shocks of white-ish hair beside her. She knows she shouldn’t do it, so she covers it up by complaining, “Ugh. You smell like the horses.”

Spike makes a guffaw sound, but right away lays his bottle down against a log, scooches over, drawing close, and does the same back. “We all do. Why’s it okay when it’s them?! You’re always smelling them, getting right up in their business, kissing ‘em everywhere, and I keep telling you they’re full of fleas, and ticks, and all sorts, and I swear to god–”