If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

Spike and Dawn never got to their hot chocolate before the Scoobies caught up with them. Spike slipped out of the back during the tearful reconciliation. Dawn might have been able to forget and forgive, but the vampire was less willing to do so.

The next night his favorite liquor store was sold out of Jack Daniels. He had to settle for a cheap knock-off.

Later that week he was forced to leave Meret at the crypt while he ran out to the Sunnydale Mall, of all accursed destinations. His tribulations were in vain though, because the jeweler he had lined up to remove the Sangre de Cristo ruby broke one of the tines of the mounting and had to repair it before he could get to placing the stone in another setting. No amount of yelling, threats, or arm waving could fix the cross any faster, not for lack of trying, so Spike was sent packing with the ruby in a small velvet bag in one pocket.

The knowledge that he and Meret were being hunted by the one thing the vampire could not fight haunted his every waking moment, making matters just that much worse. He convinced the coatl to stay in their crypt more and more in an attempt to keep her safe.

Thoroughly bored and possessed of an ill temper, Spike could only find release in hunting.

That was why he had been roaming the seediest back allies he could find the first Friday of December, danger bound and without a hint of alcohol or serpentine calm to temper his violent mood.

That was why he had picked a fight with four intoxicated Vrilians without a single weapon in sight.

That was why he had a length of rebar sticking through his right shoulder.

Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it was boredom that would eventually get Spike.

Damn that smarts.

Spike was propped up against a dumpster, debating the best way to remove the rebar. Finally deciding that more of the rusty metal was exposed in the front than the back, he gritted his teeth and wrapped a hand around the rod. With an unneeded, if steadying, breath, Spike ripped the length of steel from his shoulder. His strangled roar echoed loudly through the alley: just another scream that the citizens of Sunnydale would convince themselves they had never really heard.

Once the white spots obscuring his vision faded, Spike dropped the bloody rod on the back of the nearest Vrilian. He would not bother hiding the bodies. Not when the light of day would dissolve them into an oily stain, a normal enough sight near the dumpsters behind Alonzo’s Pizzaria. One hand remained pressed over his wound, even as the blood flow slowed to a mere trickle. Removing the rebar had alleviated the worst of the pain, but the open wound still burned and the torn ligatures left his right arm dangling weakly at his side. He would need a meal and plenty of rest to regain its full use.

He walked around the four prone bodies, the Vrilians were much too large to step over with ease, and stopped briefly at each form. A quick pat down revealed that the demons carried nothing of value, so Spike drew the boot knife he had taken to carrying and set to work. One-handed, the task became problematic, not to mention messy, but Spike soon collected eight tusks for Anya’s exotic component inventory. Despite his ongoing avoidance of the Scoobies, he kept to his duty to the slayer.

He dug around in the closest dumpster until he had found a plastic grocery bag to hold the tusks. In the dim street lights, he wiped his hands off as best he could on his ruined shirt and watched as the dark red of his welling blood and the yellow of the demons’ watery secretions blended in with the darker black of his shirt and jeans.

Knew I liked that color for a reason.

Putting as much swagger into his step as his aching side would allow, Spike returned to the mostly deserted streets. Nothing ordered the vampire’s thoughts and improved his mood like a healthy spot of violence. The chaotic events of the past couple evenings were temporarily forgotten in the electrical charge of Spike’s post-fight afterglow.

*****

Meret’s happy thoughts of welcome warned Spike that he had a visitor. Having just washed away the worst of the blood and patched his shoulder, Spike slipped into a t-shirt to hide the wound from prying eyes and scaled the ladder.

He found Tara waiting on him, leather jacket folded neatly and held against her chest. He mumbled a greeting, but his eyes never left the black bundle in her arms. Spike’s fingers itched to snatch the coat and inspect it.

Probably sensing his internal debate, Tara wordlessly offered the trench coat to him and smiled as he grabbed it and shook it out, not even trying to hide his worry. She waited with a bemused expression, arms crossed as he inspected it.

The sleeves were new, but you would never have known it by looking at them. Only their smell, fresh and worked with leather treatment, gave them away. Other than that, they looked and even felt like the originals. Burns still marred the trailing ends of the jacket, but the inner lining had been mostly replaced which thankfully got rid of the scent of charred flesh that had clung to the fabric. Spike raised the coat to his nose and inhaled deeply. Underneath the new fabric and leather smell, he could still find the smoke, whiskey, and blood that marked the jacket as his.

He finally slid into the coat and shivered as the leather and slick lining enveloped him. No matter where he hung the trench coat, the jacket itself carried the feeling of home for the vampire. Even when he turned to face Tara, he couldn’t keep from running his fingers over the leather, reacquainting himself with its texture.

The witch remained silent, but her eyes spoke volumes. She was waiting for his verdict.

“It’ll do,” he said coolly.

She pointedly dropped her eyes to where he was still caressing the hem of the sleeve. Spike snatched his hand away and shoved it deep into his pocket. He scowled at Tara, whose eyes were twinkling with suppressed mirth, and Meret, who was stretched across Dave’s shoulders making her airy, laughing puffs.

“Still doin’ alright in your new digs?” he asked to divert the comments he could feel coming.

Tara graciously let the subject drop. “I’m okay. The rooms are a little empty.”

“You get desperate, I’m sure I could scare up some slightly used decorations.”

“I… uh… thanks but no thanks.”

Spike grinned at the witch, amused by her discomfort. “You sure? No grave goods and nothin’ off a dead body, scout’s honor,” he pressed, just for the sake of watching her squirm.

“That’s really okay. I wwwas going shopping tommmorrow anyway,” Tara stuttered, thrown off guard by his teasing.

Spike relented. “Got somewhere to be tonight?”

“Um…yes,” she replied apologetically. “I have to finish my term paper for cultural anthropology. I just wanted to drop off the coat.”

“Well, maybe later then,” he stifled his disappointment. “Walk you home?”

*****

It had been easy to avoid the Scoobies around town. It had also been easy to avoid them at their favorite haunts including the Bronze and Sunnydale’s various graveyards. It had even been easy, with a little creativity, to avoid them at the Magic Box when Spike dropped off new acquisitions and picked up his paycheck.

Avoiding the slayer when she was camped out in his crypt was another problem all together.

Should install a toll booth if the crypt’s gonna be gettin’ this kind of foot traffic.

Spike stood outside of the crypt, Meret fluttering behind him, and weighed his options. He could come back later and hope that Buffy had gotten tired of waiting and left. Then again, running was the coward’s way out and the slayer had probably already sensed his presence. He measured the indignity of a hasty retreat against his worries for Meret, but that excuse also toppled quickly in the face of facts. The little serpent was calmly serene, without the slightest trace of the fear that had so overwhelmed her in the Magic Box. Buffy, then, was not waiting in the crypt with slaying on her mind.

Finally making his decision, Spike threw the door of his crypt open and stalked inside, fervently hoping that the decision would not blow up in his face.

Buffy was sitting on the edge of the sarcophagus, her legs swinging idly. Despite his misgivings, Spike could not help but be affected. He barely registered the crimson blur as Meret flew for the hole leading downstairs. The entirety of his attention was focused on the petite form perched girlishly in his crypt. She looked so innocent to him, carefree even, as if sitting amongst the dead was the most normal thing in the world. Delicate and beautiful, but perfectly comfortable in the company of death - that was his slayer.

As usual, the vampire’s mouth was wandering in a different time zone from his brain. “Fancy meetin’ you here. I’ll just go warm you up a cuppa. You prefer A positive, right?” He let the door slam behind him and prepared for the usual song and dance routine that had characterized her previous visits to his crypt.

Buffy looked up and arched an eyebrow over a small, knowing smile. “And hello to you too, Spike.” For a long moment, the vampire could only stare.

Someone had changed the choreography.

Trying to stick to the script despite the slayer’s uncharacteristic politeness, the vampire walked past her and fetched a beer from the fridge. Twisting off the cap with a deft turn of the wrist, Spike took a long pull. “Got somethin’ that needs killin’ or are you just looking for information, ‘cause we both know this isn’t a social call.”

“Neither,” Buffy said cheerfully, still wearing the look that told Spike that something new was afoot.

“Bit’s missing?”

“Nope.”

“Red’s cast another crazy spell that’s gone sour?”

“Uh uh.”

“Apocalypse?”

“Not that I know of.”

Spike crossed his arms, beer dangling precariously, and scowled. “So you’re what, hidin’ from the others? Rupes being stuffier than usual or did you just get tired of stories about the Whelp’s sexual prowess?”

“No and no and ew,” Buffy replied with a wrinkled nose, but her voice was still light.

Spike opened his mouth to snap at the slayer’s continuing line of cheerful denials when Meret reappeared. The little serpent carried something in her mouth and the vampire’s jaw slammed shut when he recognized it. His mind was racing to find excuses as he watched Meret drop the delicate silver choker, found so many weeks ago and saved for this very girl, into Buffy’s lap.

Meret!

The coatl was confused by his strangled mental shout, but most of what the vampire felt from her was an overwhelming affection for the slayer: an emotion he recognized because it was a pale echo of his own.

The fact that Buffy could sense those same feelings through the link slowly dawned on the vampire. What little blood existed coloring his face drained away leaving him a ghostly shade of grey. With a detached kind of horrified fascination he watched the slayer pick up the necklace and look at it.

He expected her to laugh. He imagined that she would look at him with disgust or cast the choker aside. He waited for her to tear into him and shred anything that remained of his self respect, but she did none of these things.

Buffy simply glanced at him out of the corner of her eye; he could see the hazel from beneath her lowered eyelashes. She ran the silver links through her hands. The metalwork was very fine and the links moved loosely, like a ribbon of lace. Her hands froze and the slayer looked straight at the coatl, who had come to rest next to her on the sarcophagus. “Thank you Meret,” she murmured, and Spike’s jaw dropped open again as the slayer pulled her hair aside and looped the necklace around her throat.

Meret preened and fluffed her feathers at the praise. She hissed in pleasure. Spike couldn’t even blink.

Once the choker was settled against her neck, Buffy slipped off of the sarcophagus and walked over to the mute vampire. Her eyes twinkled as she looked him over. If it wouldn’t have been crazy to assume, Spike would have thought that she looked amused, even happy.

“You still in there Spike?”

Say something you ponce!

“Huh?”

Oh, bloody brilliant.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Buffy said with exaggerated slowness. Her lips twitched into an almost-smile. Spike gaze cut time between her mouth and the silver band encircling her throat. He felt as if his entire world had been turned upside down and inside out. “I came to ask you to drop by the Magic Box tomorrow night. Willow and Giles think they’ve found a way to shield Meret from being used in a spell. They want to try it out on a feather or scale or whatever before doing the real thing.” Buffy’s face turned suddenly serious. “No tricks, no stakes, and no danger to Meret, I promise.”

Spike managed to clear his throat and force words past his lips. “Not that I don’t trust your word, love, but it’s the others I’m not too keen on believin'.”

The slayer’s hazel eyes turned hard and cold. “We had a… talk. No one is going to hurt her. Not now.” Spike was taken aback. Having been on the receiving end of some of Buffy’s finer “talks,” he was shocked to think that she had drug her friends over the coals for Meret’s sake. It seemed far out of character, especially since the slayer’s resurrection.

Meret landed on Buffy’s shoulder and rubbed her jaw against the slayer’s cheek. It was a gesture the coatl had previously reserved for Spike alone. Once her surprise faded, Buffy’s eyes softened and reached up to pet the little serpent.

“Not now,” she repeated in much gentler tones. “So you’ll come, right?” Wide hazel eyes met confused blue ones.

He had no better luck denying her than he ever had.

“I’ll be there,” he said dully.