Wednesdays were paydays.

Spike had managed to convince Meret to stay at the crypt while he ventured into Sunnydale. It hadn’t been too difficult because the little creature still found sporting in the copper birdbath new and exciting. He had left her splashing in the water, probably soaking the Turkish rug that lay nearby. He tried to feel irritated, but amusement kept ruining his attempts. No matter how much trouble the young coatl managed to get into, it was far preferable to the seething boredom that had dominated many of Spike’s evenings before her hatching.

Walking towards the main entrance of the graveyard, Spike was interested to note that the link connecting his mind to Meret’s did not seem to fade with distance. If he concentrated, he could almost feel the cool water. Her delight was infectious and he found himself wearing a genuine smile, something that few among the living, or the dead for that matter, had ever seen.

With a light heart, the vampire wandered along one of the winding paved roads leading out of the cemetery. He kept an eye out for any stray demons, but the party of Kirkan monks he had found digging up fresh graves the night before had gone far to fill his violence quota for the week. The brawl had been brilliant. Alone a Kirka wasn’t much of a challenge, but together they had put up an impressive fight. He had taken down nine of the rat-like demons and still bore their claw marks across his forehead and down one arm. His nose and cheekbone were already starting to set, but his body had yet to turn its healing attention to the deep gouges left by the Kirkas’ poisoned talons. The marks would be gone by the following evening, but for the present, Spike wore them like badges of honor.

The surprise of the evening had been Meret, who had dived on the leader, biting and battering his face with her wings. Her antics had served as little more than a distraction to the large rat demon, but her attacks had both touched and amused the vampire. When the last monk fell, she had hissed over their bodies like a conquering warlord. Spike had spent the rest of the evening lavishing attention on the little serpent.

She might not be much of a fighter now, but wait until she grows up!

The book he had borrowed from Tara stated that while coatls grew throughout their entire lives, most reached a length of at least five feet before adulthood slowed the rate to a crawl. Adding in their uncanny strength, your average adult coatl could crush bones and choke a human, or human-sized demon as the case may be, with ease.

Spike went over the details of the previous night’s fight in all its gory detail, which helped him stave off his disappointment at the current lack of action.

After a few minutes, Spike reached Sunnydale’s shopping district. The streets were full of people, but for once this fact didn’t provoke a bitter reaction in the vampire’s mind. Humming a little swing riff and with a spring in his step, he soon neared his destination.

Tinkling bells announced his arrival at the Magic Box. A quick glance and a discreet sniff proved to the vampire that the whole gang was there. Giles was unloading a new shipment of books onto the shelves in the back while Anya rearranged her crystal display in the front. Xander had pulled out a trashcan and was sitting on the counter, whittling stakes over the bin. The witches sat at the round table with some old books scattered around, and Dawn was sprawled on the floor behind them, homework spread around her. From the sounds, Buffy was in the back working over her punching bag with a vengeance.

“’Lo all,” he offered. His greeting earned slight waves from Tara and Dawn, a grunt from Xander, and brief glances from Willow and Giles.

Why yes, I just beat a horde of demons in hand to hand combat, but I’m just fine. Thanks for askin’.

“Oh, Spike! Today’s your lucky day,” Anya put down the geode she had been situating and gestured him over to the cash register. “Remember that Verulean glaive you brought me a couple months ago? Well this creepy antique weapons collector who works at the museum came in and bought it! Full price too, I never got around to marking it down.” She pulled out an impressively thick envelope from the cash drawer. “I sold a couple other pieces as well, so here’s your cut.”

Spike took the offered packet and nearly swallowed his own tongue when he looked at it. In flowery handwriting, as if by adding curlicues Anya could convey her excitement over the sale, was the amount of this week’s haul. Two thousand four hundred fifty seven dollars and sixty-eight cents. He had been expecting the thirty or so that was his usual take.

Spike stood staring mutely at the stack of cash in his hand.

“So what’re you going to spend it on?” Anya chirped.

“Huh?” Spike replied with becoming eloquence.

“You know, got any big plans that require money that you’ve been keeping secret? I’m thinking about putting my cut aside for a dress, a white one with lots of beadwork and a train,” Anya commented innocently.

The former demon's words were met with muffled curses from Xander. “Nothing, sorry. Knife just slipped.” Anya was on him in a second, fawning over the injury, which was little more than a scratch. Spike eyed the welling blood longingly. Of all the people in the Magic Box, Xander was the only one Spike still dreamed about biting.

Xander submitted to Anya’s ministrations peacefully enough, but the glances he kept throwing Spike’s way were anything but equitable.

“Y’ know Harris, I could clean that knife right up for you,” Spike flashed him a wicked smirk.

“No thanks,” Xander tightened his grip on the blood-stained hilt while Anya wrapped gauze around his other knuckles.

“Spike, that’s just gross,” Dawn added from the floor, wrinkling her nose. The two witches simply shot him disapproving glances before returning to their reading. A long-suffering sigh came from the corner where the watcher was working.

Can’t even joke with these blighters.

Anya kept her gaze fixed on Xander’s injured hand, but Spike could have sworn he saw a slight smile in response to his antics. It was too bad that the former vengeance demon seemed surgically grafted to Harris’ side. Spike would have loved to trade stories about the old days over a pint with the girl, but not if he had to deal with Xander’s assorted insults and distrustful looks.

Spike shoved away from the counter and headed for the far corner where the watcher was unpacking books. On the way over Dawn caught his eye and looked pointedly at his pocket. Spike gave her the barest shake of his head as he passed.

Looks like the Nibblet is keepin’ everythin’ discreet. Good on her.

Upon reaching the bookshelf where the watcher was working, Spike stopped and leaned against an adjoining display case. Spike knew that the watcher knew he was there. To top it off, Giles knew that Spike knew, but it was a common act of rudeness that the overly stuffy Englishman used to convey how much he resented Spike’s presence. The vampire combated the slight the only way he could, by not reacting at all until Giles finally grew tired of the charade.

The watcher finished putting his armload of books on the shelf before pointedly picking up another stack and arranging them as well. When the last book was placed in the row and every spine sat flush with the front of the shelf, Giles turned to the vampire, who was still standing impassively, face studiously blank except for the smallest quirk of his lips.

“Spike, is there something I can do for you?” Giles asked with bare civility.

“Yeah, was wonderin’ what’s got the slayer’s knickers in a twist,” Spike drawled, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Giles eyed him sharply. “I don’t see why I should be telling you anything about Buffy or her current state of mind.”

Spike narrowed his eyes in irritation. “See, it’s like this Rupes: I was going to go back there and share a little demony info with the slayer, and I would like to avoid any topics that would end with me getting knocked about the head. Now, you can give me enough of a clue to help me avoid a nasty scene, or you can have an even more brassed off slayer on your hands while you scrub vamp blood out of your nice training mats. So what’s it gonna be, mate?”

“You can give me the message,” Giles countered.

“Funny, and I thought you were makin’ it pretty plain that you didn’t want to talk to me at all. I’m touched Rupert. Really.”

Giles had the grace to accept defeat when he saw it. He sighed deeply before relenting. “She’s having some financial problems. Apparently the plumbing in her basement needs to be completely replaced and the cost will be rather high.” Giles removed his glasses and started wiping them down with his handkerchief. “The bank turned down her loan application because she is unemployed, and her slaying has been, shall we say, less than superb of late.”

Spike struggled to hide his concern. “So, wha’s gonna be done?”

“Done? I suppose Buffy will have to find a job. I can only support her so much and she has run afoul of the Council so many times that I’m sure they will not offer any aid.” The rate of Giles’ polishing increased, telling Spike that the watcher didn’t like what he was saying any more than the vampire did.

“So l’me get this straight. Somewhere in between gettin’ over her fun filled vacation in” Not heaven! Can’t tell! “hell, playing mom to the little Bit, and savin’ the world from all things evil and nasty, she’s supposed to what? Flip burgers? You’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” Spike was aghast.

“If that’s what it takes,” Giles’ voice grated roughly.

Spike tossed him a dismissive gesture and stormed to the training room door, throwing it wide before striding into Buffy’s sanctuary.

The sight of the slayer literally beating the stuffing out of a punching bag froze Spike in his tracks. She would have stolen his breath away had he real need to breathe. Even as he stood there, transfixed, the small part of his mind that still functioned properly noticed things that he filed away for later.

She’s so thin. She can’t be eatin’. And look at those punches. I’ve never seen the slayer so far off her game. She wouldn’t last five minutes in a real fight against someone like Glory.

Reining in his emotions, Spike struck one of his most arrogant, defensive poses. “Oi! Slayer!”

Buffy stopped hitting the bag and slowly turned to face him. After witnessing the fury of her punches, he was shocked by the blank expression on the slayer’s face. “What do you want Spike?” her voice was equally flat and cold.

Spike took a moment to reclaim his scattered thoughts. “Kirkan demons, nine of them. Caught them grave robbing. Thought it might be important.” He waited for a reaction, any reaction. None were forthcoming.

“I’ll tell Giles. He can look it up,” she commented. Without another word, Buffy turned back to the bag and started hitting it again.

Spike could recognize so obvious a dismissal when he saw it. He stood there for a moment longer, hoping that the slayer would say something else, do something else besides move and speak like an automaton. Hell, he would have even welcomed a swift punch to the nose, but the slayer was completely ignoring him in favor of the bag, which was swinging violently again under her powerful blows.

“Better” Dawn had said. This was not better; this was much, much worse. Spike’s mind cast about, grasping for ideas on how he could help the slayer when she was so thoroughly shutting out everyone around her. His mind latched on the only real thing he had to offer.

Spike burst back through the practice room door. “Rupes, need a word in private.” Seeing the man’s obvious surprise and the refusal rising on the watcher’s lips, Spike ground his teeth. “Please,” he said through clenched jaws.

That did it. Spike never said the word please, especially not to the watcher. Giles nodded slightly and followed the vampire through the side door and into the alley.

The two men stood facing one another for a beat. Then Spike pulled out the envelope Anya had given him, removed a couple twenties, and thrust the rest towards the watcher.

Giles looked at the money as if Spike was offering him a basket full of adders. “What is this?” he asked roughly.

“In some circles, I believe it is called cash,” Spike ground through clenched teeth.

“Yes Spike, I can see that. What I meant is why are you giving it to me?” Giles let his irritation creep into his voice.

“D’ you really need me to spell it out for you?” Spike asked.

Why do you have to make this so hard?

“Look, Rupert, you know that the only gig the slayer will be able to get is some minimum wage, hellish pit of a job with the hours she keeps and nothin’ but a high school degree,” Spike’s façade of anger melted and worry was painted plain across his face. “Something like that will kill her. It’s beneath her. You know that,” he thrust the money a little further towards the watcher and waited.

Giles stared at him, eyes hard and cold behind his glasses. “I suppose this is some kind of sick ploy to get into Buffy’s good graces. I can tell you now that it won’t work.” The watcher turned to go back inside.

It hurt to have his every motivation questioned.

“No ploys. You can tell her whatever you want about the money. Tell her the Council of Wankers is sending her an early birthday present. I could really give a toss what story you cook up as long as she gets the dosh. You know she won’t take it from me. Just, don’t be a git. Let me help her.” Spike was disgusted with the pleading tone his voice had taken.

Giles stood at the door with his back to the vampire. At length, Spike’s outstretched hand dropped and he stared down at the money in his hand.

“I will give it to her,” Giles said softly, “as soon as I can come up with a reasonable explanation.” The watcher faced the vampire and reached out a hand.

“Thanks mate,” Spike said as he handed the money over. “I’ll pass along more as I come by it.”

The two men stood facing one another, neither making a move to reenter the shop.

Spike nodded to himself. “Right then, I’ll just be leaving. Oh, and if I find out you pocketed any of it, I’ll key your BMW.” That almost earned a chuckle from Giles before the watcher schooled his features back to seriousness. “Night Rupes.”

As Spike walked out of the alley, he could have sworn he heard a faint “Goodnight William.”

Nah, Ripper wouldn’t go all nancy on me now. Must be the little one, messing with my head again.

The excuse was empty though. Spike could feel Meret’s sleeping patterns back at the crypt. It was nice knowing he had done something right for a change.

Given time, maybe he could get used to the sensation.