"I am worried about Dawn."


Spike opened his eyes. Lethal morning brightness was outlined against the motel room's nylon drapes. After returning to the room from their country night, he'd dropped into sleep almost at once, but not before being certain that she, in her bed, was there already.


She was awake now. She sat up in the imperfect dark.


"She's got no one to protect her anymore. I'm stupid. I didn't try hard enough to stay alive."


"That couldn't be true."


"Were you there? Did you see it?"


"Your fight with him that got you? Told you no." He hated to admit it. Hated that he hadn't been there, dogging her even though she'd banished him, so that he could save her. She'd fallen to one lousy vamp. Just one. And he'd come upon it just too late to do one lick of good. "But I don't think you wanted—"


Her eyes flashed. "Last year you told me every slayer has a death wish. You knew what you were talking about. You wanted to be the one who killed me. So don't tell me goddamn lies."


"Love, there's no point layin' blame on yourself."


"Dawn has no one now. When I was dead before, she had you to keep her from harm. I knew she'd get to grow up, at least. But now she's all alone."


"The witch will—"


"Oh please. Do you think I don't know Willow could finish her off? Hell, she could do it by accident. She can't be trusted." She leaned forward then with a little grunt, rubbing her eyes.


"There's Giles."


"Giles went back to England."


"Could ring him."


"And then what? He's a watcher from a long line of watchers. He'd have no choice but to put out an APB on me. Do you know what the Council does to slayers who get turned?"


"Not so much."


"Well, me neither, but I'm sure they do something. They came after Faith like the Ride of the Valkyries when she went off the reservation."


"Well, what do you want to do?"


She didn't answer right away. In the silence Spike thought of the Little Bit more vividly than he had in a long time. Getting mixed up with her sister, even though they'd kept it secret, still put a damper on their friendship, if you could call it a friendship. Their best times—if you could them that either—had all been when the slayer was dead, and no one questioned the hours he spent with Niblet, because in those days grief was general and made allowances for just about anything. They'd been a comfort to each other then, but it hadn't really lasted.


He had gradually let his sense of responsability for the kid slip after Buffy came back. He'd felt less welcome in every sense. And more interested, face it, in the older sister.


Which was still the case, though it brought him no ease.


Buffy made a noise between a sigh and a groan. "I thought this was over."


"What?"


"Me giving a damn. That it all went away with my soul."


"Trauma of the change, numbs you."


"I expected to feel more evil."


She sounded disappointed.


"A lot of that—" he heard himself sound consolatory ''—has got to be taught. When I— Well, no use talkin' about that. Point is, you don't have to—"


She jumped out of the bed, rushing towards the door. "But it's stupid! I can't go back there and do my duty! I'm not the slayer anymore. So I might as well—"


"Might as well what?" He got up, caught at her hand that scrabbled at the door fastenings.


"Might as well be really evil. Full tilt. Go for the gusto! Except I end up with you, No Balls Spike, Chip In The Head Dumbass Spike. Who is too much of a moron to get that I'm not the goody two shoes slayer anymore! Why did you have to kill my sire? He was probably fun. He'd have taught me—"


She really wasn't ready for his full-on slap. Her head snapped back like a rubber bulb; she staggered.


He followed it with a swipe to her ankles that toppled her to the floor, and dropped with her, pinning her to the rough smelly carpet.


"No more of this shite."


She struggled. "You are pathetic. You are—"


"I'm what you were teachin' me to be. Tryin' to be that, anyway."


"A fangless loser who pretends he's worth anything because he can't kill?"


"No."


"What, then?" She'd stopped trying to pull free, and for the moment seemed actually interested. "Oh I know!" Her voice went high and sweet and fake. "Worthy of Buffy's precious love?"


The urge to punch her again—to cave her face in—was almost too much. That expression, of arch concern, wanted to be squashed out with a fist.


"Not worthy of Buffy's love. Knew I wasn't ever goin' to have that. But would like to be worthy of my love for her. Can't be all filthy, vessel that contains such a thing."


She blinked. Aha, he'd managed to surprise her for one little second. But she scrambled over it. "The Buffy you loved is dead. I'm worse than dead. I'm this now."


"I know."


"You don't love me like this. All right, all right, let me up." She wriggled, pushed a knee up into his belly, and sprang free.


He stared into the dirty nylon pile, the color of shit. "I told you—you're still Buffy. You can still be Buffy. You just told me you care about Dawn. You care about everything."


She gave off a groan of disgust. "Get up. You look like you're groveling."


"You had a demon in you before. You've traded it for another—or added another—who knows? But you're still Buffy, always Buffy, an' you know well as I do that you're strong enough to be Buffy if you please. You've met challenges bigger'n this before."


"Oh, shut up. I liked you better when you were evil." Dropping to the side of the bed, she cradled her head in her hands. "This sucks."


"Love—"


"All I used to want was to be a normal girl! But: oh no! I had a sacred duty, a calling. Then all I wanted was to be at peace. Oh no again! Drag her out of heaven, we need her down below! And now I'd just like to be a regular, evil vampire. Chomp chomp chomp, die die die. But I can't even have that."


"Stake me then, an' go an have it."


"Shit."


"No. You want rid of me—I'm in your bloody way—" Grabbing up the chair, Spike cracked it in two, yanked one jagged leg away and held it out to her. "I'll give you a clear shot. You want to be wicked, fuckin' do it. You will be Queen of the Damned. Best bloody queen the damned ever had. Go on."


She took the leg, hefted it in her standard stake-wielding stance. eyeing his out-thrust chest.


"Kill me. Then you can kill 'em all. Whole bloody town out there you can suck dry."


She lunged; he flinched. The stake clattered against the wall.


"Do you ever stop talking?"


He was still braced for her follow-through; it took a few seconds, as he registered her new pose, the change in her expression, her hands opening, to recognize that he'd been spared.


He lit up a cigarette. "Was you woke me up, to talk."


"Well, that's all you do. Talk talk talk. Like it's all you're good for." She was close to him suddenly, right up close, her tip-toe feet touching his, her body too. Close enough to be reminded that she was no longer warm, no longer busy with hot pulse, the quick incessant beating of her heart that he'd once listened to with such helpless passionate longing. She didn't quite smell like herself anymore either.


But her fingers worming into his waistband were still small and strong and insistent, her lips still soft and craving where they burrowed against his jaw. "I remember some other stuff you were good for."


"Slayer—"


"I know. I know, but I think we should hold each other now. Please? Just ... let me hold you."


"What part of me you fixin' to hold?" He captured her wriggling fingers, popped them out of his waistband. Then couldn't resist keeping them, as she didn't pull away.


Didn't pull away, and rested her forehead against his chest.


She mumbled against his skin. "—miss this."


"Eh?"


"Miss—okay, I miss you." She looked up, right into his face. Her eyes were wide and apparently guile-less. "Let's not be angry at each other. At least, not right now."


"Sez who?"


"Sez me. Uh ... Buffy. Buffy the vampire." She pressed against him, swaying a little, like she was trying to coax him into a dance. A dance he knew full well. "C'mon. You said I'd be lonely. Well, I am. We are."


"Ooooh, that's persuasive."


"Well, what do you want to hear?"







She knew what he wanted to hear, knew that he wouldn't tell her, because what was the point if you had to say? He'd been angry at her a little while ago, but he couldn't sustain it; his anger always melted away like a snowball on a warm grate.


But even without anger, he wasn't doing what she wanted. Not taking her in his arms, erasing her consciousness, her conscience, with hard kisses.


"Look, it's true, I don't love you. But I don't love anything anymore. I can't."


His pliant lip lifted in a sneer. "You're no less capable of lovin' than you ever were."


"Yeah, well ... that's the thing. Since I came back. From heaven or wherever I was. That's how it's been."


"Bullshit. You've been sad, that's what it is. Doesn't mean you can't love. You're chockful of love."


"I'm telling you, Spike. It's true. Even before I died, last year ... I was losing it."


""Buffy—"


"But it doesn't mean we can't ... look, I just want a little ... comfort. So do you. Don't pretend."


"Was tryin' to get myself some last night, when you—"


She put a hand to his mouth. "Not with that girl. With me. You want it with me." Now her fingers were on his lips, she knew her power would exert itself. He'd bend, he'd comply, he'd make the time pass.


"Go back to bed, Slayer."


"With you."


"By yourself." He stepped away from her now, walked around her and threw himself down on his own bed, rolling the sheet around himself, scrunching down. "Now's when we sleep, yeah?"


""Spike—"


"We'll get you laid tonight. That'll be easy to find, believe me. Now, sleep."


She was inclined to argue, to goad, but a little tingle at her core, raw squirming anxiety, said He might leave you, if you push him too far. He might leave you, and you really don't want him to do that.


So she lay down again and waited for dark.