XVII

“Gina, are you asleep?”

“I was, Pip.”

The girls were sharing Gina’s bed, having given Pipa’s to the only surviving Indies, Tori and Mel. There was room enough at the warehouse for the visitors to have their own quarters, but the smoke hung thickly in all but a few bedrooms upstairs.

“Sorry.”

Gina uncurled from her fetal position to lie on her back. “It’s alright. I’ve just been dozin’ on and off anyway.” She turned her head to look at Pipa in the dark. “What’s up? You alright?”

“Yeah.” Pipa was lying on her back too, looking down towards her feet.

“Your wounds?”

“They’re okay. I mean – ow – but they’re okay.”

“You thinkin’ about Carla and Maria?”

“And Sally.”

Gina sighed and looked up to the ceiling. “Sal.”

“I can’t imagine how she’s going to feel when she wakes up.”

“I’m guessing not much different than she felt tonight. She cried herself to sleep, you know.”

“I know.” Pipa covered her face with both hands. “I can’t believe we lost them, Gina.” Her voice was strained.

Gina didn’t answer.

The room was quiet again, save for the occasional sniffle from Pipa punctuating the silence. After several minutes, her sniffles stopped. “How long do you think the Council will be here?”

“Don’t know. The cleanup is done, the funeral home folk have come and gone, so I guess they’ll just stay here to guard the place until it’s secure again.”

The Council grunts had been scarily efficient in their work – clearing the place in record time of all trace of otherworldly creatures. The Slayers had helped carry their own dead out of the rain and into the burnt out common room, and had stayed with the bodies until they’d been taken away. The rain had been just as efficient – washing the blood of their sisters down the sewer drains. To a passerby, Slayer Central would look like little more than an abandoned building with fire damage. Only the goons in black that were stationed at the front and back of the building gave any indication of the place being occupied.

“Oh my god, Buffy!” Pipa exclaimed, looking wide-eyed at Gina. “Do you think she’s awake yet?”

“Well I am now,” Mel snapped from the other side of the bedroom.

Pipa looked over towards the girls in her bed. “Oh gosh. Sorry, Mel.”

“What time is it?” Tori mumbled groggily.

“It’s five a.m.,” Mel replied.

“Why are we awake already? Is something wrong?”

“Everything is wrong,” Mel muttered bitterly.

Gina exhaled noisily.

“What the hell is that supposed to me mean, Gina?”

“What the hell is what supposed to mean, Mel? Can’t a girl breathe?”

“No, Gina. A girl can’t breathe,” she countered angrily. “Twelve of them can’t, as a matter of fact. And most of them were my friends.”

Gina sat up in bed to look over at Mel. “You think they didn’t matter to me?”

Mel sat up too. “I think you lost two friends, and we lost all but two of ours. And for what? If you guys hadn’t summoned us here, we wouldn’t have lost anyone.”

Pipa gasped. That got her sitting up too with a wince. “Mel! There’s no ‘your friends’ and ‘our friends’! There’s just us! We all help each other! And we would have done the same for you!”

“We wouldn’t have needed you to, Pipa! I wasn’t even in on that Dragvlok homestead attack. That was mostly your crew – before you lost half of them, that is, over the last two years.”

“Lisa was in on that attack too,” Gina argued.

“So you’re saying she deserved to die?!”

“Jesus Christ, Mel! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What the hell do you think is wrong with me, Gina?! Everybody is fucking dead!”

“Please!” Tori pleaded, hands covering her ears. “This is too much!”

“Mel, please!” Pipa echoed. “For goodness sake, we’re all devastated by this! Please, let’s not lash out at each other! We—”

“Agh!” Pipa grabbed her wounded side and groaned.

“Shit! Pip, lay back down,” Gina insisted. “You can’t move like that yet.” With one arm behind Pipa’s back, Gina lowered the girl slowly into a supine position. “Better?”

Pipa nodded, before taking a few slow, deep breaths that seemed to settle the pain.

Gina cast an annoyed glance Mel’s way, before returning her attention to Pipa. “We should’ve got Precious back in, Pip. He would’ve sorted you out.”

“No,” Pipa moaned. She took another slow breath. “I doubt he would’ve come with the Council crawling all over the place. And Dawn had already sent for the doctor.”

“That doctor was useless,” Mel grumbled. She seemed to have calmed down a bit after Pipa’s cry of pain.

“Not entirely,” Pipa acknowledged. “I mean… we’ve got proper stitches and bandages, antibiotics, painkillers.”

“Precious doesn’t need any of that stuff, though,” Gina insisted. “A bit of funky paste, and you would’ve been all set.”

“Well, he’s not Council-affiliated, Gina.”

“He’s Buffy-affiliated,” Mel argued.

“No, he’s actually Clem-affiliated,” Pipa corrected.

“But Clem is Buffy-affiliated, Pip.”

“Too many degrees of separation, I guess,” Tori chimed in.

“But Spike knows Clem too, right?” Gina questioned. “Maybe he could get Precious to make something for us off-site, then Spike could slip it in.”

“Yeah, you’d love for Spike to slip it in, wouldn’t you Gina?” Tori accused.

“What? I—”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Tori teased.

“I’m not! I don’t—”

“He is a major hotty,” Tori admitted.

“And he’s Buffy’s,” Gina insisted. “And it ain’t like that. He’s cool, that’s all. Look what he did for us tonight.”

“Yeah, he saved my life out there,” Pipa admitted quietly.

“And mine,“ Tori conceded. “He was amazing in here last night, you know – what with the fire and then the Dragvloks storming the place. He was taking on three at a time and winning easily.”

“And then he came back here to check on us,” Gina rejoined. “He actually left Buffy’s side just to make sure we were alright.”

“Well you should’ve seen how protective he was with all of us during the fight,” Tori continued. “And how he vamped out on that Dragvlok who… took Carla,” she finished sadly.

The room fell silent for several moments after that.

“He’s too short,” Mel blurted suddenly, breaking the silence. “And skinny. Angel’s hotter.”

All three Slayers turned disbelieving eyes towards Mel. But Gina had the last word.

“Loser.”

* * * *

Buffy wasn’t squeamish by nature, but that didn’t mean she was looking forward to seeing what was under her bandages. Most of her body bore small gashes and lacerations that had already closed and begun to pinken. Clearly, no one had bothered to undress her last night to tend to such superficial wounds. But someone had tightly bound her torso under her shirt, and the bandages were almost soaked through with blood.

Standing naked before the bathroom mirror, she resisted her vain streak. So what she was scarred? In a few days time, she would simply have a dozen more white lines to add to the growing matrix on her skin. It was only natural – maybe the only natural thing about her anymore.

Taking a deep breath, Buffy slowly began to unwrap the crepe around her middle. She could feel that there were a few injuries underneath – at least one to her lower back and two to her abdomen. All of them still hurt, but the pain was tolerable. Peeling the last inches of the bandage away, she inspected the worst of the wounds – a long deep gash on the right side of her abdomen, wrapping around to the back. It wasn’t two wounds, after all. The gash was far too deep to have closed fully in so short a time, but it would close in another twenty-fours. At least Dragvlok talons were sharp. The wound had smooth edges, and would leave only a linear scar. To the left of her belly button she had a stab wound – a small but deep hole still oozing blood. It would also close in a day.

Buffy looked at herself in the mirror one last time. Her hair was a tangled mess caked with blood, and her face, a canvas of already yellowing bruises with a smear of angry purple under one eye. A cut across her bottom lip had scabbed but still hurt when she attempted a smile. Resigned to the state she was in, Buffy turned away from the mirror to wash up.

The shower was a mix of comfort and pain. The hot water was a balm to her muscles and it was mentally satisfying to clean away the grime, but the warm jet stung her open wounds and every closed cut still fragile enough to be felt. A bath would have been more soothing with her injuries, but she was far too filthy for that. And anyway, she didn’t have much time. There were… pancakes waiting, after all.

Washing her hair had been the most pleasurable aspect of the shower, but she refused to indulge herself for long, and opted for only a two-minute conditioning treatment. Once clean, she hastily dried herself – being careful with her middle – and rewrapped her torso with the fresh crepe and tape that Dawn had no doubt set out for her.

Too tired and pained to blow-dry her hair, she combed it back into a smooth, low ponytail and left it loose to dry on its own. Without any make-up to improve her appearance, she decided to try a beauty tip she’d read about in a magazine once, and put a touch of Vaseline on her lashes and lips. The effect was impressive she had to admit, given what little she’d done. She didn’t look half-bad for a dead woman.

“Okay,” she let out in a sigh. “I need clothes…” Returning to Joycie’s bedroom, she was relieved to find that Dawn had laid out a pair of her own underwear and socks for Buffy. It was a bit ick, wearing someone else’s undergarments – even your sisters – but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And at least Dawn wasn’t a member of the middle-aged bloomers set. Scanning what little remained in the closet, Buffy became frustrated by the frilliness of the offerings. Dress… skirt… dress… blouse… Joycie was a real girl’s girl, and Buffy hadn’t worn a dress since Dawn’s wedding. The colors were all wrong too – bright blues, yellows and pinks – the kind of stuff Buffy used to wear when she was in high school. Frustrated with her choices, she could feel a good pout coming on.

Remembering the dresser, Buffy decided to investigate what casual items might’ve been left there, and was relieved to find a pair of navy blue slacks and a fitted tee. The slacks, made of linen, hugged her nicely at the hips, but were an inch too long. The top – a soft, cotton in rose – hugged her small frame well, accentuated her breasts, and dutifully hid all her scars. Pleased with her finds, Buffy slipped on her own shoes, took one last deep breath, and forced herself to walk slowly, as she descended the stairs.

“I’ll just go—”

Shit. That was Spike. Was he leaving?

“Relax, Blondie. She’ll be down any minute.”

“Or not,” she heard Dawn comment from the dining room. “She can take a while in the shower on a good day.”

“Yeah, and she was pretty gross.”

“Fatigued, Xander.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“Look, I’ll just—”

Buffy hastened to the doorway of the dining room.

“Buffy!”

She loved how he said her name. And he so rarely said it.

He was standing away from the breakfast table, as if preparing to leave, and he looked… well, he looked good. He had his own share of bruises and cuts, but he looked flawless in fresh, fitted black, with his hair slicked back and straight. Had he always looked this good? Maybe it was his hair color. He was less Billy Idol now. More James Dean.

“Were you leaving?” she asked anxiously.

“What? No, pet. No. I was just…” He ducked his head. “I was going to check on you.”

She fought back a smile. “Oh.”

“Buff! Look at you!”

“Hey Xander.” She gave him a smile. “It’s good to see you.”

Her eyes drifted back to Spike, who hadn’t moved since she’d walked in. He was looking at her like she was a ghost, which was fair enough. An awkward silence fell over the room.

“Uh… take a seat, love.” Spike pulled out the chair nearest him with a scrape of the floorboards, before tentatively walking towards her. “You must be knackered.”

“Not really. I was out for a while.”

He reached out a hand towards her elbow, but wouldn’t touch it – instead letting it hover under her arm as he walked with her to her chair. Did he think she was fragile?

Taking a seat, she let him push her chair towards the table. It was kind of funny, his manners. But when she thought about it, Spike did always have a touch of chivalry about him, when it came to women. He was a product of the nineteenth century after all.

He took the seat opposite her at the table, Xander and Dawn on either side of her.

“How are you?” he asked quietly.

She shrugged. “Better, I guess.”

“Well!” Xander interjected. “Now that we’re all here, as man of the house, I officially declare this breakfast served! Eat up people. There’s flapjacks, bacon and hash browns.”

The room became noisier as Xander and Dawn began filling their plates. But for reasons she didn’t bother exploring, she and Spike didn’t move, trapped as they were in each other’s gaze.

“I’m starting to feel nostalgic here, Dawnie.” Buffy finally looked away to Xander, who was chewing happily on a flapjack. “It’s kind of like having the kids back at home, no?”

Dawn gave him a funny look. Spike gave him a scowl.

“I’m older than the lot of you put together, mate.”

“Uh, try again, Blondie. My wife is a mystical key. Technically, she’s older than dirt!”

“Xander!”

“What?”

Buffy giggled. “You always did like older women, Xander.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean? I never told you about my Scooby dream!”

“Huh?”

“Um, I think she was talking about Anya, honey,” Dawn clarified, looking suspicious.

“Oh, right.”

Busted. Though Buffy wasn’t really sure what he was busted for.

“Yeah, I guess Anya was pretty old, too,” he mused. “And hey, there’s also Umpala. The Mayan mummy girl. Let’s not forget her.”

“Her name was Ampata, Xander,” Buffy corrected.

“Oh, right.” Xander furrowed his brow. “Am-pa-ta,” he mouthed to himself.

“And I think she was Incan,” Buffy added.

Xander frowned. “What’s the difference?”

Buffy shrugged.

“Stupid Yanks,” Spike muttered.

“Hey! I know the difference,” Dawn whined.

“Didn’t mean you, Nibblet,” Spike assured her with a smile.

“Hey! I’m not stupid either,” Buffy complained with a pout.

“Didn’t really mean you either, pet,” he added with a wink.

“Hey!” Xander exclaimed.

Buffy couldn’t help but giggle at the two men returning to form. Feeling better than she had when she’d woken up, she piled her plate high with pancakes and bacon. As she reached across the table for the syrup too quickly, she cried out unexpectedly from the pain.

“Buffy!”

Spike was standing and at her side the next moment.

“It’s alright,” she said breathlessly. “Really, I’m fine.”

Spike was kneeling beside her and scanning her body. “I don’t understand, pet. What’s wrong?”

Buffy paused to breathe through the pain. “I’ve just got a few injuries that are slower to heal. You know how it is.”

“What? No, pet. I really don’t.” Spike twisted his head towards Dawn. “What the hell is this? What exactly happened to her last night?”

The room fell silent for several moments.

“Have a seat, Spike,” Dawn answered gently. “And we’ll explain things.”

Spike blinked at Dawn with alarm, but after scanning Buffy’s body once more, did as she asked. His eyes never left Buffy’s face, until Dawn started speaking.

“It’s really not that complicated,” Dawn began, her eyes on Buffy as well.

Both blonds stayed silent.

“Buffy can be wounded, just like before. And she heals more quickly than others do, just like before. The only difference is that a normally fatal wound won’t kill her. Or – maybe it does, actually, for a while anyway. But she comes back. Then… I guess the wound just takes longer to heal.”

Buffy shifted her eyes towards Spike, eager to see his reaction. But he’d lowered his head so that his face was hidden.

“So that’s our Buff,” Xander chimed in, a little too chirpily. “Indestructible. Like the Judge! No weapon forged can destroy her,” he finished, throwing a loving smile her way.

“Except maybe a rocket launcher,” Buffy added flatly.

Spike kept his head down. “Willow has a lot to answer for,” he declared, his voice low and menacing.

“Whoa. Hold on there, Blondie. Willow didn’t mean to do this.”

Spike chuckled bitterly. “She never does, does she? But she does it anyway.”

Buffy suddenly felt the tension in the room grow ten-fold.

“That’s not fair, Spike,” Xander chastised. But after exhaling heavily, he seemed to grow reflective and somber. “We all did it,” he acknowledged. “We all wanted to bring her back.” Xander met Buffy’s eyes then and seemed to apologize yet again. He’d spent the last forty years apologizing with his eyes. Or – eye, rather.

But Spike wouldn’t relent. “Willow should’ve known better,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “That bi—”

“Watch it, Spike!”

Oh God. Now Xander was angry.

“You know, I didn’t see you complaining when you were boinking Buffy!”

Dawn gasped.

Buffy suddenly felt naked, like a pinned insect on display.

“Xander!” Dawn scolded.

Buffy was too mortified to speak. Her eyes on the table, she caught Spike squeezing the fork from his place setting. Looking up to his face, she saw murder in his eyes, and they were dead set on Xander.

Oh God. Things were about to get seriously out of hand.

“Spike,” she spoke softly.

No answer.

“Spike,” she spoke more forcefully.

Seemingly startled, Spike looked to her immediately, as if hearing her for the first time.

She sighed quietly. “Spike, that was a long time ago. You were there. We went through all this. And we got past it.”

He blinked.

“We just didn’t realize what Will— … what the spell had actually done until later.”

But Spike hadn’t unclenched the fork in his hand.

She tried again. “Spike, it’s no secret that I wasn’t happy to come back at first. But in the end, I was glad to be back with my friends, with Dawn. Because of that spell, I was able to see Dawn get married.” She looked over to Xander. “And to one of my best friends. I also got to become an aunt, Spike. I’ve got an amazing niece and nephew who I couldn’t love more if they were my own kids.”

Spike’s face seemed to soften.

Buffy continued more quietly. “And you and I would’ve never been… friends, if they hadn’t brought me back.”

Spike swallowed.

“And that would’ve been a shame.”

Slowly, he unfurled his hand.

“I’m sorry, Buff,” Xander interrupted, sounding plaintive.

“I know.” She knew her brother-in-law better than almost anyone, so she always knew where his heart was, no matter where he put his foot. “Tell you what. Hand me the syrup, then all is forgiven,” she added playfully.

“A bottle of syrup for the Judge!”

“Xander,” Dawn warned.

“It’s kinda funny,” Buffy said with a shrug. Pouring an ample amount of syrup over her pancakes and bacon, she’d just raised her fork to her mouth when she noticed Spike wasn’t eating.

“Oh. Spike.” Buffy looked to Dawn anxiously. “Don’t we have anything for him?”

“Ate at home, love. And brought some back,” he assured her quietly. Tipping his coffee cup forward, he revealed a thick, red liquid rather than coffee.

“Oh.” She gave him a small smile. “Good.”

”But I’ll take some pancakes, too,” he replied with a wink, but his heart wasn’t in it. He still seemed upset to her. Grabbing a flapjack from the tray, he rolled it on his plate, dipped it in his mug and took an absentminded bite.

“Okay, that was gross.” Xander, of course.

But Buffy seemed to think otherwise. She found herself distracted by his mouth again – the way his lips stayed tightly sealed as he chewed… the way the muscles of his jaw would clench… his Adam’s Apple again – bobbing as he swallowed… the way he slowly sucked the blood off of his thumb…

“So how were things at Slayer Central, Spike?” Dawn asked suddenly.

That snapped Buffy out of her daze.

Spike frowned. “Depressing, Nibblet. To be honest.”

“How’s Pipa?” Buffy asked eagerly.

“She’s on the mend, pet. Gina’s sortin’ her out. She’s a tough one, that girl. Reminds me of you a little. The heart. The grit.”

Something flipped in Buffy’s gut and her throat went dry. Silently, she chastised herself for being jealous of a seventeen-year old.

“And the Council?” Dawn asked.

“Gone, except for the guards. But the place was neat and tidy for the most part. You wouldn’t know there’d been any bloodshed on that block.”

“Gotta love the Council and their cleaners,” Xander piped up. “They use more Harvey Keitel types than Tarantino.”

“Yeah. The doc had come and gone too. I wasn’t needed there, really, so I headed home.”

“And where’s home?” Dawn asked.

“Got a basement apartment across town. But a posh one. Polished concrete floors, fresh paint, nice art work, state of the art appliances. Plus a Comptel 5.”

Xander choked on his bacon. “You’ve got a Comptel 5?”

Spike smirked at him.

“Dawnie!”

“Yes, honey?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Yes, honey. And no, honey. We’re not getting one.”

Xander slumped in his chair and crossed his arms in a sulk. Turning to Spike, he seemed to glare at him with envy. “Alright, I give. How’s the voice recognition?”

“State of the art. Knows my voice, no matter how I change it.”

Xander pursed his lips in annoyance and narrowed his eyes. “Got any games?”

“Zombie Revenge, Mob Wars, Space Assassins.”

“Dawnie!”

“Xander,” Dawn scolded. “You’re about thirty years too old for computer games.”

“Spike’s had a bicentennial!”

“Xander, forgetting the software, the installation alone would cost more than Joycie’s wedding. Which is more important?”

Spike wasn’t hiding his amusement. “Haven’t had a chance to use the home defense technology though. But I almost sicced the system on the Poof today.”

That made Buffy blink. Angel. Had they fought?

“Honey,” Xander whined. “Please?”

But Dawn wouldn’t budge. “So tell us about your life, Spike. Where have you been?”

“All over, Nibblet. You name it.”

“Azerbaijan?”

“Uh… no. Got me there. Was in Sydney for a while though, before I came to L.A.”

“Ah,” Xander chimed in, seeming a little less grumpy with the change of subject. “Australia. Land of the Dingo and the Dundee!”

“You’re stuck in the 80’s again, sweetie,” Dawn teased.

“Home of the shrimp on the barbie!”

“Prawn,” Spike corrected.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Spike shook his head. “Anyway, I ran into a mess of Slayerettes there, of course.” Looking to Buffy, he continued conspiratorially. “Gotta say, Slayer. They weren’t lookin’ too tough, those girls. I don’t mean to boast—”

“Sure you do,” Xander interrupted.

Spike ignored him. “But they wouldn’t have survived a few battles without my help.”

Buffy turned serious. “You mean they were weak, or unskilled?”

“Both, love.”

Buffy sighed and looked to Dawn.

Dawn gave her a nod before turning to Spike. “What do you know about the Slayer line, Spike?”

“Don’t know a thing about how things work now. Haven’t been in the loop, have I?”

“Whose fault is that?” Buffy blurted.

Oops. Three pair of eyes were on her suddenly. She hadn’t meant for it to sound so accusatory. Spike looked surprised, and a little confused.

Dawn cleared her throat. “Well we don’t entirely understand how it works now. We just know what we’ve seen. And what we’ve tested.”

“And?”

“They’re getting weaker,” Buffy offered.

Spike furrowed his brow.

Dawn continued. “Willow’s been the main one researching this – you know – since it’s all about power transference and supernatural forces.”

Spike looked wary.

But Dawn didn’t notice. “We’ve got a theory now that there’s always been a finite amount of power in the Slayer line. We don’t think it was all embodied in the one girl though, when there was just the one Slayer. We think the power was spread amongst the Potentials as well, but in much smaller amounts. Maybe some of the power was also embedded in the scythe, and yet more power in reserve or something. We’re not sure.”

Dawn paused to look over at Buffy. “Anyway, when Willow used the scythe to awaken all the Potentials, the power was disseminated amongst hundreds of girls. Only the girls who reach fifteen gain their maximum power – the younger ones growing into it as they age. So… we think the power is sort of spread thin now, with girls attaining less power than in previous generations.”

Spike looked thoughtful for a moment before he spoke.

“But something’s not adding up there, Nibblet. These girls are dropping off like twigs. Once they die, doesn’t their power return to the source or whatever, for future Slayers?”

Buffy and Dawn exchanged knowing glances.

Dawn’s face turned grave. “It was never natural, Spike – this dissemination of the power to so many in one generation. The original spell was very specific. We think the essence of the demon that created the first Slayer wants to return to only one girl.”

“So…”

“Buffy gets the power when they die.”

Spike’s mouth fell open like a broken mailbox.

And Dawn carried on. “There was no clear line after Faith died, since there’d been so many Slayers made at once. So we think the power naturally settled on the last of the definitive Chosen Ones.”

Buffy scrutinized his face. He was stunned, to say the least.

“You’re saying she’s getting stronger?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Dawn stated simply. “But it’s not like it’s additive. She doesn’t have the strength of a hundred Slayers or anything. That’s where our math and our knowledge get fuzzy. We don’t know where the rest of the power is going. But we do know that it’s not going to other girls. The Slayers are weaker in every generation. The power they attain at fifteen is less. And eventually, after the girls die off… Well, we think there won’t be multiple Slayers anymore. Just Potentials again, and just one Slayer.”

“Buffy.” Spike concluded.

Dawn nodded.

“But she’s immortal. If she doesn’t die, then—”

“She’ll be the last and only Slayer,” Dawn acknowledged, her eyes downcast. “Forever.”

Buffy had been quiet and patient with Dawn’s explanation, but she didn’t think she could stand to hear any more. It was enough to have to live with the reality of her life. She didn’t need to hear it being described so tragically.

“So yeah,” Dawn added quietly. “Willow’s been going crazy trying to figure out where the rest of the power is going.”

“Speaking of crazy,” Xander injected with typical dissonance. “How’s Drusilla?”

Silence.

Buffy would have been grateful to Xander for changing the subject, if he’d changed it to anything else.

“Still nuts,” Spike answered curtly.

“Yeah, but—”

“Haven’t seen her in years, mate.”

Spike didn’t seem to favor the subject anymore than she did. And she liked his answer, she had to admit. But she was eager to change the subject again.

“So there’s still the matter of the Dragvloks.”

“Ugh. I really hate those guys,” Xander grumbled.

Spike shot Xander a glare, before taking up the subject with Buffy. “How many do you reckon got away, pet?”

“I’m not sure. I remember chasing three of them down the street behind the warehouse. But there were a few more ahead of them that had started to flee once they’d heard the fire trucks. Good call by the way, having Pipa call the fire department.”

“Too little, too late, love.”

“No, Spike. I’d say just enough, just in time. We could have lost more girls than we did.”

“But I don’t get it,” Xander interrupted. “Big bad, talon-wielding demons. Afraid of the hose jockeys? What’s the big deal?”

“It’s not the hose they’re afraid of, you ninny. It’s being outed,” Spike explained. “The demon world’s got no interest in being known by humans that they’re not about to eat. Look at the Initiative. No demon wants that happening on a grander scale.”

“Huh.”

“Well, they’ve got bigger things to fear now,” Buffy vowed angrily.

“And on that note, I think I’ll start clearing the table,” Dawn announced. As she started to pile up the dirty plates, Spike stood up to help her and swayed slightly on his feet.

“Spike?” Buffy asked anxiously.

“I’m alright, love. Just knackered.”

“Spike.”

“Sun’s out, Buffy. It’s bedtime for me. That’s all.”

“Then go to bed,” she insisted.

Spike frowned at her, but didn’t budge.

“Xander and I need to get to bed too, Spike. We haven’t slept since London.”

“Oh God. Of course, Dawnie. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly, Buffy. We’re fine.”

“No.” Buffy stood up. “Leave the dishes, Dawn. I’ll clear the table. You two go to bed.”

“Buffy, I’m not leaving you with the dishes after—”

“Okay, okay. Fine. We’ll all do them later, then. But you guys get to bed.”

Dawn sighed and gave Buffy that charming maternal look she started sporting after Dawn had became a mother. “Aright then. Xander?”

Xander grabbed a cold pancake from the plate, swiped it in syrup and stuffed it in his mouth. “Coming, hon. See you in the afternoon, Buff.” Walking over to her, he gave her a tight hug. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks, Xan.”

Dawn smoothed Buffy’s hair back with her hand. “Good night, Buffy.”

“Night, Dawnie.”

The couple left the table then, arm-in-arm, and ambled slowly up the stairs.

Spike and Buffy were left standing across the table from each other, and the silence stretched between them.

“So uh, just point me to the basement, love.”

Buffy frowned. “Don’t be silly, Spike. You can have Jesse’s room. Come on.” Buffy started walking towards the stairs, Spike one step behind her.

“You’re really not tired, pet?” They were lumbering up the stairs rather slowly.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted. “But I‘ve had enough dreams for one night.” Buffy quickened her pace at the top landing and reached Jesse’s room ahead of him. “Wait here.”

The morning sun had pierced the darkness of the room, so Buffy hastily drew the shades tightly closed.

“You can come in now.”

Spike walked in slowly, a scowl marring his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“Willow,” he uttered darkly. “She did this to you, Buffy.”

Buffy lowered her head. “I know.”

“How the hell can you forgive her?”

Buffy sighed. “How can I not?”

Spike screwed up his face in confusion.

“It wasn’t a malicious act, Spike. And we covered this. She gave me the chance to see Dawn grow up. To see my family expand.”

Spike clenched his jaw. “Why was her power bound, Buffy?” His tone was demanding.

Buffy suddenly felt very tired again. There was no avoiding it now, so she answered him matter-of-factly.

“She tried to steal my immortality, Spike.”

Spike’s eyes grew two-fold. He almost looked… afraid.

“Bloody hell, Buffy.”

“It didn’t work,” she tried to reassure him. “Obviously. I’d had a protection spell placed on me years ago, after a warlock in Brazil had tried to control me. The Council’s coven had cast the spell to protect me from magic.” Buffy paused. “Willow didn’t know.”

Spike shut his eyes and shook his head. “Jesus Christ. What would have happened to you if the spell had worked?”

Buffy sighed. “Willow says I would have gone back to being mortal. That it wouldn’t have harmed me or anything.”

Spike let out a chuckle, brief and resentful. It disconcerted her.

“Anyway, Willow’s spell backfired. It actually weakened her for some time, enabling the Coven to bind her power. So now she’s brainy, reliable Willow again.”

Spike looked up sharply. “You’re saying you still trust her?!”

Buffy shrugged slowly. “She’s my oldest friend. And she’s a wonderful, loving and generous person ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s only when she thinks her power is threatened that she forgets herself.”

“I’d say binding her power constitutes a big, bloody threat, love.”

Buffy considered his point for a moment. “Maybe. But her power is bound, Spike. And anyway, she has a different kind of power now. She’s Head of the Council. She’s responsible for a world full of Slayers, a multinational organization, hundreds of watchers—”

“All of whom will become rapidly irrelevant when you’re the only Slayer left standing, and having grown more powerful with every Slayer that dies.”

“I could use a change of subject now I think.”

“Buffy—”

“We need to focus on the Dragvloks, Spike.”

“I’m more concerned about you, love.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m feeling better every minute.”

“I’m not talking about your wounds, Buffy.”

“Then what are you talking about?” She was getting angry, and she wasn’t sure why.

“How do you feel about all of this, love?” he asked earnestly. “… this life that’s been thrust upon you?”

Buffy felt her chest tighten, but kept her face a mask. “It doesn’t matter what I feel, Spike. All that matters is what is, and what I do about it.

Spike sighed wearily.

“Alright then, Buffy. So what do we do now?”

“There’s still a half dozen Dragvloks out there somewhere, celebrating our misery. We do what we were made to do, Spike.”

Spike tilted his head in a question.

“We hunt.”