XXIII

His poker face wasn’t hand-winning after all.

His eyes might have been trained on his cards, but all Spike could see in his mind’s eye was Buffy – Angel’s cock balls deep in her quim, his fangs embedded in her breast.

He felt ill. And murderous. And most of all – sad. That pitiful sadness that humans so often felt, hanging like a deadweight from their souls, dragging them headlong into despair.

For the last half hour, he’d barely processed the players around him. His mouth would move in response to something only vaguely understood. His hand would mindlessly tap the table for another card. Whatever.

“Arggh!”

Lionel’s growl was particularly loud this time – and discordant enough to tear Spike away from the horror reel he’d been watching in his head.

“Gorgh fliratend. Wifhruth caalkertuk!”

Clem wrinkled his brow. “What’d he say?”

Spike shifted his eyes to the Caretaker. “Lionel here is calling you a cheat, Milo.”

The shaman gave Spike a small, toothless smile. “And you, Mr. Spike? What do you think has happened here?”

Spike swept his eyes over the table. A mountain of cash sat in front of the little shaman and four kittens meowed in a covered basket at his feet. Milo had won the lot. Spike stood up abruptly, scraping his chair against the concrete floor. “I don’t really give a shit what happened here.”

Grabbing his smokes from the table, he stormed out of the room.

He could sense Clem following him through the overcrowded bar.

“Hey, wait up, man!”

Spike shoved more than one demon out of his way as he headed toward the door.

“Spike, wait!”

He was out of the bar and half way down the block before Clem caught up to him. The sun had only just set.

“Hey, what’s wrong, man? Where ya goin’?”

Spike didn’t answer.

“Spike?”

“She let him drink.”

“Huh? Who–?”

Silence.

They walked another block before Clem did the math.

“Oh. Oh! You mean Buffy?”

Spike stopped suddenly and lowered his head, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Right. So uh, Buffy and Angel, huh? With the blood?”

Spike tensed his jaw.

“Okay. Calm down. So maybe she did–“

Spike was on the move again.

“Hold up, man!”

He could hear Clem start to puff as he tried to keep up.

“So what if she did? That was a while ago, right? When you weren’t around? But you’re back now.”

“That’s not the bleeding point,” he gritted.

“Well why n–“

“It’s blood, Clem. Blood.” His voice was a whisper when he spoke again. “That’s more intimate than sex.”

Silence.

“Oh. So… you’re saying that if she’d actually had sex with him instead, then–”

“She fucking did that too!”

Spike vamped out with a roar and grabbed the nearest trashcan, hurling it violently into the nearest shop window and setting off the store’s alarm.

“Whoa! Spike, man, don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit here?”

“I’m sick of it!” he shouted, waving his arms wildly in the air.

Marching down another bock, he kicked the next trashcan onto the main road.

“I’m sick of that self-righteous prick!”

A hedgerow was his next victim. He took both hands to a thick flowering bush and ripped it up from the roots, hurling it blindly behind him.

“I’m sick of Buffy and her stupid hair!”

“Spike–“

He kicked a lamppost.

“Ow!”

But the bloody thing wouldn’t budge.

“And I’m sick of their whole sordid fucking history!”

“But–”

He turned to Clem, his eyes wide and blinking. “And you know what else?” He pointed accusingly at his mate’s chest. “I’m sick of the lengths she goes to forgive that fucking wanker – all for the sake of his hopeless, pathetic, mind-numbingly boring redemption!”

Clem scrunched up his face. “Um, sorry, man. I don’t mean to be a downer or anything, but… hasn’t Buffy, like, forgiven you for loads of stuff, too?”

Spike dropped his hand and scowled. “Well then I’m sick of her being good to every fuckin’ jerk that doesn’t deserve it!”

Clem nodded once. “Okay, I get it. You’re sick of her.”

Spike glowered. “Let’s go.”

He turned on his heels towards his neighborhood and picked up his pace, Clem two steps behind.

“Where to?

“Peach’s place.”

“Um… okay. Why?”

“We’re gonna burn the place down. If we’re lucky, with him in it.”

Pause.

“Um, we could do that. Or maybe we could do something a little less… you know… psychotic?”


* * * * * * * *

Earlier in Santa Lucia

“Benji, where are your parents?”

“At work, Buffy. Most people have jobs, you know.”

“Hey! I have a job! I get a paycheck and everything.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to go anywhere at any particular time. And you don’t have a boss or anything.“

“Yeah well, I used to. I’m like… tenured now. Or something.”

Benji opened the garage with a press of a button, revealing Spike’s bike and a collection of boxes to one side.

“Wow. Spike is gonna be so happy to see this.”

“Who’s Spike?”

Buffy looked at Benji conspiratorially “He’s a vampire.”

His face brightened immediately, like it only did when they talked about vamps and Slayers. “A vampire loaned you his bike?”

“Not exactly.”

“You stole a vampire’s bike?”

“No, Benji. He’s a friend. He left it at my house.”

“You have vampire friends?”

“Just the one. Er, and a half. I mean, you know about Angel.”

“So this one’s like Angel?”

“No! Or, I guess. In a way. He has a soul too, only he fought for his. Also, he’s like a descendent of Angel. Angel’s his grandsire.”

“So he’s younger?”

“Yeah but he’s still like, more than two centuries old.”

“Wow.”

Buffy smiled.

Benji’s expression turned intense. “Do you think I could meet him?”

“Of course. I bet he’d show you his fangs and everything.”

“Oh, man.“ Benji shook his head slightly in wonder, before looking up suddenly. “When?”

Buffy laughed. “Maybe once the house is fixed back up and I’ve moved back in.”

Benji nodded, looking somewhat disappointed. “So how are you gonna take back the bike and the car?”

“Oh.” Buffy pouted. “Good point.”

“You could get a bike trailer.”

“Ooh! Okay. Um, a what?”

“It’s just a trailer, Buffy, but for bikes.”

Buffy nodded dumbly. “Right.”

“You want me to go find one online and call?”

Buffy raised her eyebrows in supplication. “Yes?”

Nodding, Benji headed for the kitchen.

“You’d be a great Watcher, you know,” she yelled after him.

He stopped and turned around, a look of hope on his face, as if the world had just opened up. “Really?”

She winked.


* * * * * * * *


“Bingo.”

“The Kum n Go?”

Spike smiled wickedly at the sight of the petrol station. “Let us out here, mate,” he said to the cabby, a barely human-looking demon. “Clem, got any dosh? Lost all mine to that evil booger.”

Clem paid the cabby. “Hey, now. Milo’s not so bad. I mean, he’s not evil or anything. He’s just a little shaman dude!”

Spike turned his head slowly towards Clem. “Your little shaman dude is the reason we have to burn down the Poofter’s house, mate.” Stepping out of the cab, Spike slammed the door shut. Clem followed.

“Okay, first of all, we don’t have to burn down anything. Second, Milo doesn’t mean any harm. He’s a healer. He’s just an equal opportunity one. He doesn’t care who he heals, or what – you know – ingredients it calls for.”

With a growl, Spike grabbed his best mate by the shirt with both hands. “Buffy is not a fucking ingredient,” he spat.

Clem swallowed.

“Um, how much money did you say you needed?”

Pause.

Shit. Spike hadn’t meant to frighten him. Releasing Clem’s shirt, he tried to flatten out the wrinkles with both hands.

“Just buy me a can of petrol, mate,” he replied quietly.

Clem sighed dramatically and walked ahead of Spike into the shop.

Taking the opportunity to light one up while Clem got the goods, Spike was on his second smoke when Clem got back, a can of petrol in one hand and a plastic bag in the other.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Oh. Look.” Clem opened the bag. “Eggs!”

“What the hell for?”

“I thought we could throw eggs at Angel’s place instead, cause – you know – it would be mean, but kinda funny too.”

Spike scowled. “And the milk?”

He shrugged. “I told Missy I’d pick some up.”

Spike rolled his eyes and grabbed the petrol from Clem’s other hand. “Cheers, mate. I owe you one.”

Spike swung his can of petrol in one hand as they started the walk towards Angel’s house.

“Spike, you do know you’ve got a cigarette hanging out of your mouth and a can of gasoline in your hand.”

Spike kept walking. “So I better not drink the petrol.”

“I still think the eggs are a better idea.”

But Spike wasn’t listening.

The sound of a few college pukes screaming some god-awful song in a jeep up the road distracted him and made him even angrier than he’d been before, if that were possible. He could see and hear the idiots two blocks away.

“Give me those eggs, mate.”

Clem seemed to brighten. “Sure! I told you it was a better–“

Spike grabbed two eggs and waited for the jeep to come into view.

“Baby, baby,
Let me be your Daddy!”

His aim was dead-on.

“Aggh!”

One square in the forehead.

“Aggh!”

One dead in the eye.

The jeep swerved when the driver realized they were under attack, skidding to a stop before speeding away.

“Bloody hell, that was satisfying,” he said with some surprise.

“See?”

Spike started cackling.

“Okay. See now you’re sounding a little psychotic again.”

“Sod off you limp pricks!” he shouted gleefully, though they were well and truly out of earshot.

Spike was still chuckling when out of the corner of his eye he caught a figure turning on to the main street on the other side, one block ahead. Unthinking, he turned and squinted to get a better look.

“I know her.”

“Who–? Oh. Hey, I do too. That’s–”

“Sonny.”

“Yeah. Sonny. She’s a Slayer.”

Spike glared.

“Man, that sucks. I didn’t know the Slayers patrolled your neighborhood.”

Spike pursed his lips. “They don’t. And it doesn’t look like she’s on the hunt, anyway. Let’s go.”

“To Angel’s?”

“Later. First, I wanna see where this Slayer is headed.”

Keeping a safe distance behind her, they followed Sonny for three blocks – Spike growing more curious by the step, as she walked closer and closer to their own destination.

Spike halted. “What the fuck?”

She’d stopped at the Poof’s.

“Quick!” Spike ducked behind the hedges lining a house across the street, dragging Clem down with him.

“She’s going to see Angel!” Clem whispered noisily.

“Shh! Vamp hearing, mate. It’s a hell of lot better than yours, despite those big, floppy ears.”

Clem nodded, making a zipper motion across his mouth.

Spike peeked through the hedges. The moment Angel opened the door, Sonny rushed into his arms.

“Bloody hell!“

“Shh!” Clem hurried.

Spike winced, hoping like hell that he hadn’t been heard. But he hadn’t, ‘cause Angel was too busy trying to pry the girl’s arms from around his middle.

Bloody hell this was interesting.

Angel let the girl into the house though, then swept his gaze over the street before closing the door behind him.

Spike stared at the now closed door, blinking rapidly.

“So–“

Spike raised a hand to silence him. “Wait. I’m thinking.”

“Dude! What’s there to think about? We both saw that, right?”

Spike nodded.

“Spike, man. This is it! I think we’ve found Milo’s missing ingredient!”

Spike let that possibility sink in and felt the grip around his heart loosen slightly.

So Sonny and Angel were familiar. No, more than that. The girl clearly had a thing for him. And by the look of things, Angel wasn’t all that interested. Or… not any more. Maybe he’d gotten what he’d wanted from her.

Spike tipped back off his knees and into a seated position before falling back in the grass.

He exhaled needlessly. “You know, if my heart were actually beating, I’d say it couldn’t take much more of this.”

Clem was still on his knees. “Of what, man? I don’t get it. Aren’t we happy now?”

Spike was still processing the fact that Buffy may not have been the one to do the deed.

“So you think it was Sonny, Clem?” There was a vulnerability in his voice.

“Duh. Don’t you?”

Spike sighed again as he gazed at the night sky.

Relief began to wash over him, even as a niggling uncertainty nibbled at his heart. Patting his coat pockets, he fished out his smokes and lit another cigarette. He stayed on his back and let the smoke fill his lungs with a familiar burn.

“So does this mean we’re not gonna burn the place down?”

Spike sighed dramatically.

“It means everything’s changed, Clem.”

“So you don’t hate Buffy anymore?”

“What? I never said I–“

Oh. He winced. “Yeah. It means that,” he admitted quietly, even guiltily. “It also explains a hell of a lot about Sonny, mate. That girl hates Buffy, you know.”

“Huh. Well, now that you’re back, you can have Buffy and she can have Angel. Problem solved.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

Spike didn’t get a chance to answer, distracted as he was by the sound of the girl in question storming out of the house. He sat up and returned to his vigil through the hedges.

Angel had followed the Slayer outside. “Sonny–“

“No! It’s not fair!”

“Sonny, I’m so–“

“Spare me!” she yelled over her shoulder as she stomped down the street.

Spike looked over to his friend and spoke quickly.

“Mate, sorry for being such a prick before.”

“No problem. I know you–“

“No. There’s no excuse. And I’m sorry to be a prick now and leave you here, but I’ve got a Slayer to tail if I want answers.”

Clem nodded. “Good luck.”

Spike snorted. “Luck is for losers.”

And with a wink, he was gone.


* * * * * * * *

Meanwhile in Santa Lucia

Buffy was feeling pretty pleased with herself. The day had been amazingly productive. She’d walked through the house and salvaged everything that she could – storing the bulk of it in Benji’s garage for safekeeping. She’d gotten a bike trailer to latch onto the back of the Mini. She’d gotten a new cell phone in town. And most important of all, she’d secured a local renovator to fix up the house – the same company that had originally renovated her basement. That left only one piece of unfinished business.

She parked the overloaded Mini a block away from her local car wash, Pimped and Hosed. Whoever had been sniffing around her burnt-out house while she’d been gone, sounded freakily like the guy that had delivered a freshly-cleaned Queenie (and a van full of Dragvloks) to her house before it had went up in flames. She figured it was best to hide Queenie so she wasn’t so readily recognized.

Why a human car wash attendant would be helping the Dragvloks though, she had no idea.

Buffy made her way to the back of the car wash where an older man – the manager she assumed – was overseeing two young guys detailing a Mercedes.

“Can I help you?” the manager asked.

“Yeah. Um, I’m looking for a guy who works here. He’s got blond dreadlocks. I don’t remember his name.”

The two young guys exchanged looks.

“Who are you?” the manager asked.

“Um, a friend of a friend. I was told he could do some work for me on the side – uh, not car wash related or anything.”

The boss stared at her for a second as if deciding whether or not to believe her.

“He doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Oh?”

“He quit. He only worked here a week.”

Shit. Buffy didn’t like the sound of this at all.

She tried to sound casual. “That’s a shame. Any idea where I can find him?”

The manager seemed to debate whether or not to give her an answer before sighing in seeming resignation. “Hillside. The address he gave was on River Street.”

Buffy blinked. “River Street?”

“Yeah. Seventeen River Street. That’s where I mailed his one and only check yesterday. Near that house on Fuller Street that burned down.”

Buffy tensed – her eyes flitting suspiciously between the three men before settling back on the manager.

“Thanks,” she said cautiously.

He nodded.


* * * * * * * *

Spike picked up Sonny’s trail some distance behind. Not wanting to confront her on the main road, he waited until she’d made a turn into an alley and caught up quickly.

“Evening ducks.”

Sonny whipped her head around in surprise.

“Spike?”

Her eyes were red and her face looked pained, making him suddenly a little uncomfortable about the confrontation.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?” She looked mildly fearful and more than a little angry.

“This is my neighborhood, kitten. The question is, what are you doing here?”

She shifted on her feet. “None of your business.”

He decided for blunt honesty.

“I saw you leave Angel’s place.”

She inhaled sharply.

“You’re a big girl, I know. But he’s a Big Bad, love, and in more ways than one.”

She frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Time to test his theory.

“It means you should be careful giving that bastard your heart… and your blood.”

Her eyes widened.

Silence.

Bloody hell. It was her.

Spike turned his back to her and shut his eyes – his whole body sinking into a slump of overwhelming relief. In his mind, a three-word refrain wouldn’t end. It wasn’t Buffy. It wasn’t Buffy. It wasn’t Buffy.

He was a fool for having assumed the worst. And a prick. And he’d said he hated her. Ugh. Now his guilt was even heavier than his dread had been. And now there was Sonny to deal with. The poor thing.

He turned back around to face her, and found her looking just as deflated as him.

“I loved him,” she said quietly.

He was equally quiet. “You’re not the first woman to, pet, and you won’t be the last.”

She flinched.

“But you’d be among the best of them.”

She looked up.

“And a hell of a lot better than him.”

He could see her eyes begin to glisten in the street light.

“Better huh?”

He nodded slightly.

“But not as good as Buffy?” She spat the name out with contempt.

Now Spike flinched.

“Why did I even ask?” she added bitterly. “You’re in love with her too.” Wiping angrily at her cheeks and nose, the girl seemed to be finding her inner Slayer again.

Spike swallowed. “I won’t deny that. Yeah, I love her. But nobody is sayin’ that she’s better than you, pet.”

She snorted and looked away.

“But she and Angel are over. Have been for a while now.”

She smirked. “You sure?”

He paused.

“Yeah,” he replied with some surprise. He was sure.

Bloody hell. Angel and Buffy were over. He knew that now. In his bones. Oh god, it felt wonderful knowing that – really knowing that now.

“Well I don’t think Angel got the memo,” she replied angrily.

His own happiness and relief battled for pride of place with his sympathy for the girl.

“Well, Angel was always a little dense. Point is, Buffy isn’t your problem, Sonny. Never was. Angel is. He’s a fucking parasite. Leave him for the dogs.”

She looked down.

Slowly, he walked over to her and with a painstaking gentleness, tipped her head up with a finger to her chin.

“Sonny, you’re gorgeous.”

She gasped slightly.

“You’re strong…. you’re brave.“

Her defenses seemed to be weakening.

“You’re loyal.”

Her eyes were searching his.

“You’re a real man’s dream, love,” he whispered earnestly.

The tears began pouring from her eyes. She looked almost childlike as he held her face in his hand.

“Wait for him,” he insisted.

Withdrawing his hand from under her chin, he brushed a rough thumb across her wet cheek as she stood frozen in his gaze.

He didn’t know what else to say, so he turned to leave.

“Spike?”

Stopping, he turned his head back.

“I think the feeling is mutual.”

He furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Buffy.”

He held an unneeded breath.

“I’ve seen her with Angel… and with Max.” She sighed as if to compose herself and looked him bravely in the eyes. “She didn’t love them. Angel hadn’t been enough. Max hadn’t been enough. I think…” She paused as if to consider her words. “I think she wanted parts of both them.”

Spike tilted his head.

“I think that’s you,” she admitted.

His mouth fell open dumbly.

Oh god. He had to see her.

Now.

* * * * * * * *

Once again, Buffy was forced to park Queenie some distance away, and on Fuller Street instead of River Street – not wanting the dreadlock guy to see her coming. With only a knife in her boot, she wasn’t exactly armed to the teeth, but she knew how to improvise well enough. She wasn’t worried.

But she was confused. None of this was making any sense.

“Think, Buffy,” she spoke to herself, as she made her way to the address on foot. Why would a car wash attendant help the Dragvloks? No, scratch that. He wasn’t really a car wash attendant. He’d only taken the job for… what? To get a van for the Dragvloks? To have an excuse to go to her house?

Whoever he was, and whatever his reasons, he was most definitely evil.

Despite her inner monologue, her eyes scanned the area with a focused vigilance. Nothing looked too strange in the neighborhood so far. There was an old man talking to himself as he sat alone on a dilapidated porch, a woman wandering about in a housecoat and shower cap like she was a little drunk, some teenagers smoking pot on a corner, and a few gangbangers parked in a car blasting something completely unintelligible over the bass from the speakers in the trunk. Welcome to Hillside.

No one was paying her much mind.

Rather than walking to River Street, Buffy opted to approach the house from the back on Fuller. If the address was right, the guy’s house was the little pink stucco one with no lights on yet, despite it being early evening already. She could see the house number on the twisted mailbox from her position in the backyard.

The house was only three doors down from the Penis Lady’s – or what was left of it anyway. Coincidence? Hmm. Maybe. But Buffy had lived long enough to learn that when it came to evil, few things were.

As she approached the back door, the overwhelming smell of pot filled her nose and turned her stomach. At least it smelled better than burnt Penis Lady eggs.

The place looked too old and unkempt to have the latest Comptel security system – at least she hoped so. But there was only one way to find out. Turning the old-fashioned doorknob on the back door, she used her Slayer strength to slowly and silently break the internal lock. But the door wouldn’t budge. Bolt locked.

“Okay,” she whispered. Time for brute force, she decided. Inhaling deeply, she shut her eyes and pushed slowly – anxious to make as little noise as possible when she broke the lock.

CRACK

Darn.

She shrugged. If he’d heard that, then maybe he’d just show himself and she could stop all the sneaking around.

As Buffy swung the door open, she readied herself to expect anything upon entering the back room. Instead, she found nothing – nothing out of the ordinary anyway. It was your typical open plan kitchen, a little outdated and a lot dirty. She started her inspection there. The cabinets all held what little you’d expect in a pothead’s kitchen: two bowls, one plate, ketchup, a bottle of Tequila. A bunch of take-away packets of duck sauce. An old box of cereal. So far, so normal.

The rest of the rooms were equally uninteresting. An living room with a couch covered in crumbs and a stained coffee table littered with take-out containers. The TV was modern but covered in a film of dust.

The only bedroom contained little more than a few stacked mattresses half covered with rumpled bedding. The floor was invisible under the piles of dirty laundry strewn around.

Buffy frowned. It was only a single-story house, so if dreadlock guy had a secret, it was buried well.

Unless he had a basement or an attic.

Buffy looked up at the ceiling in the bedroom and found no latch doors. Going back into the hallway, she searched the remainder of the ceilings for an attic entry.

None.

Okay. Basements.

Starting from the kitchen, she scoured the floors for a door, swiping away junk with a foot to examine every surface.

None in the kitchen.

She inspected the hallway floors.

Nada.

The living room.

Zilch.

Heading back to the bedroom, she resigned herself to the task of picking up the guy’s dirty unmentionables. Working her away around the bed, she threw all of the clothes from the floor on to the bed.

Nothing.

She pouted. “Phooey.”

Crossing her arms, she scanned the room one last time, before her eyes settled on the closet. It was the last place to look.

As she turned the handle, she stepped away from the opening, expecting a mountain of junk to come out.

She was met with a breeze instead.

She looked in.

The closet was clean. Empty in fact, save for a single coat hanging on the rod and a homemade bong sitting on a high shelf.

She looked down to the floor.

Jackpot.

A latch door took up the majority of the floor, with the faintest light peeking through the cracks.

Buffy smiled. Sometimes, her job was fun.

There was no use being stealthy at this stage. Whatever was down there would hear her coming. So she pulled out her knife and held it in one hand, as she opened the trap door with the other.

A flight of stairs led deep into what looked like an open space, so she decided to jump for it instead. She landed with her knife at the ready and made a rapid three hundred and sixty degree sweep for attackers.

“Oh my god.”

Turning slowly and sweeping her eyes over every corner, she took in the room and its contents.

It was an office.

No.

A headquarters.

A desk took up one whole wall of the room with multiple computer screens and video equipment. Opposite that wall was a sleek and modern living space, with a tiny, stainless steel kitchen, wet room and modern day bed. A clothing unit made of cream-colored canvas was unzipped and revealed a row of fine dark-colored pants and shirts.

A third wall was taken up with weapons neatly hung – much like in her own basement, only – well, evil.

Buffy turned around to inspect the fourth wall…

She gasped.

…and found herself.

Photos. Pictures of Buffy, her house, her favorite haunts – the coffee shop in town, Lakeview Cemetery. There were pictures of the L.A. Slayers too. And of Dawn and Xander. There were even pictures of Buffy when she was with Angel. Everywhere – on every inch of the wall – hung pictures of the life she’d built for herself since she’d moved back to California.

Turning on her heels, she rushed to the desk in search for clues. The computers were off, and she didn’t even think about turning them on. There’d be some stupid passcode, she was sure. But there were papers on the desk about her comings and goings, more than one of her own weapons – a handmade stake and a pocketknife that she’d thought she’d lost.

She opened a drawer.

“Agh!”

She jumped back, thinking it was an animal that had somehow made a home in the desk. When it didn’t move, she cautiously re-approached and extended a tentative hand to pick it up.

She swallowed.

It was a wig of blond dreadlocks.

She rushed to inspect the remainder of the drawer, and found a set of fake teeth – one part rotten, one part gold.

Shit.

Hastily, she pulled open the second drawer. An American passport. John Reynolds. Born twelfth of June, 2009.. A British passport. Hugh Longueville. Born third of November, 2008. An Irish passport. Ciaran O’Farrell. Born 30 May, 2004. She didn’t recognize any of the names, but the faces were all of the car wash attendant with different hair colors and styles. She pocketed the US passport.

That left the bottom drawer. She pulled on the handle but it wouldn’t budge. Pulling harder, she broke the lock. Inside lay one item: a palm-sized digital tablet. Grey and nondescript. But strangely familiar.

Unconsciously, she swiped the screen with her thumb, causing the home screen to light up with a text message:

Welcome to the complete Library of the Watcher’s Council. Restricted material. Enter passcode to access.

Buffy’s arm dropped lifelessly to her side, tablet forgotten, as she considered the implications of what she’d found.

And then she sank to the floor.


* * * * * * * *

He had to see her. He was done waiting. Done playing it cool. It had been forty fucking years and he wanted her. Period. Sod it all.

Once he’d left Sonny, he pulled out his phone. He’d thought about heading straight to Dawn’s place, but he didn’t want to waste time if she wasn’t there.

So he rang Dawn’s number.

“Hey, Spike.” Xander.

Brilliant. Just what he didn’t need.

“Harris. Dawn around?”

“Really?”

“What?”

“I just mean, did you really call to speak to Dawn? Or were you just trying to reach Buffy?”

Spike clenched his jaw and exhaled through his nose.

“Relax, Spike. Dawn is occupied, and Buffy isn’t here.”

“Where is she?”

“She went home.”

Silence.

“What?”

“She went home.”

“To Santa Lucia?” The question came out in a croak.

“Yeah. She was pretty anxious to get back home. She wanted to get started rebuilding things.”

Oh god. He really couldn’t take any more of this. His stomach was ready to revolt.

“When did she leave?”

“Pretty early. She wanted to get things sorted in time to get back before it was too late.”

Spike tensed.

“Get back?”

“Yeah. Back to L.A.”

“She’s coming back?” He winced at his voice going up a notch.

“Uh huh.”

Spike sighed internally with relief. Wait. She’d gone home, but was coming back. “What’s she coming back for?”

“Not what, Spike. Who.”

“Huh?”

“You, Spike. She’s coming back for you.”

Spike’s arm dropped lifelessly to his side, phone forgotten, as he considered the implications of what he’d said.

You, Spike. She’s coming back for you.

“Spike?”