Since Spike had personally carried each and every one of the nineteen dead bodies out of the Magic Box and down into the sewers to dispose of them, even Xander could not complain when he left early to avoid the mopping and scrubbing. The faceless demons might have had red blood, but no vampire worth his fangs would have mistaken it for a human’s. Spike could not wait to rinse away the stinking fluid.

Making good his escape, Spike shouldered the bag containing the golden cross and ventured out into Sunnydale. After a quick stop by the crypt for a shower, the vampire continued to the Summers’ household to take stock of the night’s damage.

He was surprised to find Tara sitting alone on the front porch. His nose told him that the slayer, her sister, the ex-demon, and the redheaded witch were all inside. Tara rose to her feet when he emerged from the shadows. She looked seconds away from breaking into tears. Meret flew to her side, distressed and comforting.

“Got somewhere else to say?” he asked by way of a greeting.

“No,” was Tara’s reply. Her voice wavered. She reached up to accept the coatl into her hands. Meret landed in her palms and Tara cradled the little serpent against herself.

“Can’t say it’d make Martha Stewart’s cut, but you can stay at the crypt. At least until you get a place of your own.” Tara looked grateful, if uncertain. “I’ll even sleep upstairs.”

The fact that she was even considering the option staggered the vampire. He knew that if the same situation had arisen just months before, she would never have entertained the thought. Hell, he wouldn’t have offered, but here they were. Life, or unlife for that matter, had a way of throwing people together in the strangest ways.

“I’ll only stay a night or two, until I can reapply at the dorms,” Tara finally replied.

Spike was amazed. Tara, who had more goodness in her than anyone he had ever known, was trusting him with guarding her sleep, sharing a roof. He wondered if she even knew the effect her faith had on him.

Big Bad’s gonna be bunkin’ with a real live white hat. Huh. Reputation’s shot for sure this time.

Even with the sardonic inner monologue, Spike was overjoyed. “What do you need?” he asked through the lump in his throat.

“I already packed,” she pointed at a large duffel bag and three cardboard boxes sitting next to the door, all her worldly possessions stacked in one forlorn, little pile. Spike could see her eyes starting to water again as she looked at it. He wondered where she would have gone if not for his offer.

“L’me check in with the Nibblet and I‘ll help you carry it.” Spike waited until the witch nodded before walking to the door.

Meret, stay with Glinda.

He felt a flash of agreement in response.

The front foyer of the Summers’ household was empty and quiet. He could hear someone crying upstairs, probably Willow. Anya and the slayer were definitely upstairs as well, so the sounds coming from the first floor had to be Dawn.

He walked through the dark dining room and came to a stop in the doorway of the kitchen. Dawn was sitting in front of the microwave, watching two cups of hot water go round and round. Though her back was to him, Spike could tell that she had been crying as well.

“Bit?” he asked in a low rumble.

She did not turn to face him. “Why does the world suck so much?”

Trust in teenage logic to boil the night’s misadventures down to that question.

“Jus’ does sometimes.” He waited as the microwave beeped and Dawn retrieved the cups. Into one she dropped a tea bag that smelled strongly of chamomile, and the other received a packet laced with mint. “For you and Big Sis?” When Dawn shrugged noncommittally, Spike walked up to her and hooked a finger under her chin. “She’s lucky to ‘ave a sister like you. How’s she doin’?”

“Like those first few days. It’s like she doesn’t even hear me.” Spike’s unbeating heart felt like breaking when Dawn’s eyes started to well again.

“You know she loves you. Bloody well died for you, she did. She’s just been through a lot and the slayer likes to think she has to face everythin’ alone. She’ll pull through, and so will you. I promise,” Spike winced inwardly, remembering one failed promise made about this same girl. He dropped his hand at the painful memory.

I won’t fail her. Not again.

Even he was unsure which “her” he meant.

“Cut a vamp some slack and don’t go passin’ this around, but Glinda’s going to be stayin’ with me for a few days. You should come by and see her,” and me, “tomorrow,” Spike added in conspiratorial tones. That provoked raised eyebrows and a little smile. “Now let’s go see to your sis.”

“Thanks Spike.” Dawn gave him an awkward hug, almost dousing him with hot tea in the process, and took off for the stairs. He followed behind her, steeling himself. He didn’t fully trust himself to not do or say something to Willow that would get him right and truly staked. Thankfully, the door to the witch’s room was closed when he reached the top of the staircase and the sound of Willow’s sobbing came from the other side. It still took all of his self-control to keep from kicking the door down and tearing into the girl’s throat, chip be damned.

Spike stood behind Dawn as the girl scratched tentatively on Buffy’s door. Her quiet knocks were answered when Anya appeared. Her eyes opened wider at the sight of the vampire, but Spike was thankful when she said nothing and simply pressed a finger to her lips and opened the door to let them into the room.

The scent of slayer coated everything in the bedroom. Spike allowed himself to bask in the aroma of flowery perfume and power for a brief moment before shifting his features in order to better see in the dim lighting.

Buffy was curled in a tight ball under her sheets, fast asleep. Her face was streaked with tears and not even sleep could smooth the telltale marks of grief and pain from her face. Spike moved to the side of her bed as if in a trance. Careful hands pulled the slayer’s pink comforter up around her shoulders. He held perfectly still for a moment before risking brushing a few golden tendrils of hair away from her face. It might have been his imagination, but Spike thought that he saw some of the tightness around the slayer’s eyes fade at his touch. Remembering his audience, Spike snatched his hand back and stepped away from the bed to allow Dawn to take his place at her sister’s side. The girl sniffled a little, and Spike gave her a gruff pat on the back before turning to meet Anya’s considering gaze.

Eyes still golden in the semi-darkness, Spike motioned Anya to join him in the hallway. She followed him willingly enough, but Spike could tell that his demonic features were causing her no small amount of consternation. He walked to the far end of the hall and waited for the former vengeance demon to quietly close the door and join him.

“I have a request to make of you, Anyanka,” he stressed her former name, hoping that it would get his point across.

Anya looked at him in rising surprise and curiosity. “I’m listening.”

“Demon to demon, I’m askin’ you to stand watch tonight.” When Anya opened her mouth to reply, Spike held up a hand to forestall her words. “If you feel the slightest spark of magic coming from that room,” he pointed towards the door that hid Willow from their gaze, “if you smell or hear anything unusual, I want you to stop her.” Anya’s mouth closed with an audible snap as understanding dawned on her face. “I wish that you would keep an eye on Red tonight.”

She was still as human as ever, but there was definitely something of Anyanka in Anya’s eyes when she responded. “Done.”

He wasn’t expecting any miracles, but he knew the former demon well enough to understand that she took her former life and obligations very seriously. He had to take care of Tara, and he knew that the others would never allow him to stay the night, so he did what he could with what he had. The Scoobies liked to forget that Anya had walked the earth for well over a thousand years, sowing all sorts of havoc. Instead of the strangeness the others’ saw, Spike understood her struggle for what it was: a demon trying to fit back into human society. The vampire let his demonic features melt away, secure in the knowledge that even though she was stripped of her powers, he was leaving Buffy and Dawn in the hands of one of the best vengeance demons D’Hoffryn had ever raised.

As he turned to leave, Anya stopped him in his tracks. “Go cheer Meret up. It is disconcerting to have an unhappy coatl in my head.”

Spike eyed her questioningly. “You can hear her?”

“Yes. Now if you don’t mind, I have a slayer and a Key to watch over. Goodnight Spike,” Anya replied with her typical brusqueness. Before Spike could form a coherent reply, the she had retreated to the slayer’s bedroom.

Spike stood on the stairs wondering about the implications of Anya’s revelation. He wondered if Buffy and Willow could hear Meret as well. Finally deciding that he would receive no answers standing on the stairs, Spike walked back down the stairs and into the cool night air.

“You ready, Glinda?”

*****

The walk to the cemetery was slow, even though Spike carried two of the three boxes as well as the heavy bag, slung over one shoulder. Tara was simply too unhappy and distracted to walk any faster and Spike refused to cheapen her mourning by pushing the matter. It was a struggle for the vampire, but he managed to walk most of the way to his crypt in silence, understanding that Tara was in no mood for banter, no matter how witty.

Upon reaching the crypt, Spike burned off some of his energy stripping the bed and replacing his stolen silk sheets with clean, but old, cotton ones. He even managed to collect his laundry and any trash he could find, making the bedroom as presentable as possible on such short notice. The silk sheets found their way upstairs with one of the pillows, where he made a temporary nest on top of the stone sarcophagus there.

The whole time he was working, Tara sat in the easy chair, petting Meret and watching the candles behind Dave in silence. She had offered to help, but Spike would have none of it. Old habits die hard, especially among the undead, and his Victorian upbringing would not let him allow his guest to prepare her own room.

He lit enough candles to suit a human’s vision and dumped her boxes and bag next to the large bed before returning to the main part of the crypt.

“Room’s ready,” he commented. When no answer was forthcoming, he walked around to face the witch. Tara had fallen asleep. Spike watched her: one of his girls. Like Buffy, like Dawn, like Meret, and even though their paths had irretrievably split ways, like Drusilla, once upon a time.

Her eyes were puffy and her face red from crying. One hand was curled under her cheek while the other sat in her lap, cradling a watchful Meret. She looked so peaceful that he was loathe to disturb her, but he knew that she would regret sleeping in that posture the next morning.

He shooed Meret away with a thought. As carefully as he could, so as not to wake her, Spike scooped up the witch in his arms and walked to the back of the crypt. He leapt into the darkness in lieu of trying the ladder one handed and landed with knees bending deeply to take the shock out of the impact. When Tara did not stir, he walked to the bed and deposited her on it, pulling the covers up to her chin. She murmured something in her sleep and rolled onto her side.

Spike pinched out most of the candles and left his lighter on the table next to the bed where Tara would easily find it in the morning. Moving quietly as only a vampire could, he left her to her sleep.

He scaled the ladder and sat in his chair, watching taped reruns of Passions until dawn’s rays chased him under his own covers on the cold stone bier.