Talking to Giles was a wearing prospect, lately. Stepford Buffy came out to play, with the quips and the cheeriness. Like a videotape from five years back, where the life-or-death worry was whether her mother would notice all of the bloodstains on her laundry.

It was a wonder it hadn't cost them more, really. Because quippy Buffy? Not so much with the adequate conveying of information. What, she couldn't have told Giles, "Hey, Angel dropped by with a big shiny amulet. Whaddaya think it'll do?" Nah, she hadn't even got as far as, "Hey, Angel dropped by."

But it was hard, really hard. At least she'd grown up a little bit, enough to get a little jittery instead of melting down or running off. It wasn’t so easy to get back into the habit of trusting him. But he was Giles. It was hard to get into the habit of not trusting him, too.

And so here she was, standing stupidly in front of his motel room door while the clock was
probably ticking. Time to snap out of it. Buffy pounded on the door and half-smiled at the familiar sound of a brandy glass smacking the table and some rustling that meant Giles was hiding the bottle. Some things, at least, never changed.

The door opened with an awkward crunching noise. "Er, good evening," Giles muttered, wrinkling his nose and batting at the blue paint chips that had come to rest on his sweater. He raised his head and saw her properly, his face melting into a familiar paternal smile. "Oh! Buffy. Please come in."

She stepped into the room and hovered awkwardly by the table. Giles reached out as though to grasp her arm, but paused. Like he didn't know whether she'd want him to touch her. Buffy closed her eyes for a moment. This awkwardness between them - that really had to
go.

"What can I do for you?"

She jumped, even though his voice was gentle. Where was her mind sometimes? "It's just... Did we ever research Caleb? You know, how the First makes vessels, how it picks them, anything like that?"

The fatherly look vanished. "Buffy... What..."

She rolled her shoulders uncomfortably. "The First stopped by for a little social call."

"You saw it?" Giles pursed his lips, his eyes focusing hard on her at her nod. "I would not have expected... We've seen it disappear after even a minor setback."

"Well, it's not so much with the disappearing now. It said..." She sighed again. "OK, I don't know whether to believe this because, well, source of all evil and untruth, blah blah." The bizarro-Giles effect was still doing its work, keeping her voice flip even though her stomach was in knots at the memory. "It showed up in my hotel room just now, just kinda announced that I was its brand new vessel and to expect some new strength, and poof!"

"Good lord." His face was pinched, his fingers grasping the bridge of his nose.

"That's about what I said. I mean, that plus profanity."

Giles relinquished the grip on his nose, taking a visibly deep breath. "As alarming as such a visitation might have been, Buffy, there is no reason to believe the First Evil would speak the truth."

Buffy sighed. "I know that. I do. But trust me when I tell you it was pretty convincing." She ran a nervous hand through her hair. "It said - I mean, it said things that made sense. About the Potentials, and me." Oh, God, he had that look on his face. The more-information look, and was it really necessary to delve into the gory details? Nothing more to see here, folks. It's not like you could research whether everyone she knew was evil. Her stomach gave another lurch at that, and in the weird wide world of talking to Giles, that translated into a half-smile. "Would a witch be able to detect, you know, eau de evil?"

"I am sure Willow could..."

"No."

She twiddled with the hem of her top; here's where it got sticky, trying to explain this part. How could you say it? 'Oh, by the way, turns out we're the bad guys? Hope that rehab had a money back guarantee, Willow. Not to mention that eye, Xander.' They'd gone through too much to dump this on them. If it wasn't true, if they got it all in their minds... Buffy pasted on an uncomfortable smile. "From what it said, Willow could be mixed up in it, too."

He was back to looking pinched. "Buffy, forgive me, but that sounds like a ploy to distance you from Willow. That is exactly how the First operates."

"Don't I know it. But, humor me. Let's make with the research, just in case."

Giles' eyes had softened somewhere along the line. Sure, her smile had long since slipped into pleading territory, but it was... Color her girly, but it felt good that he'd noticed. She smiled at him, a little less plastic. His mouth curved a bit. "I would love to, er, make with the research, but..." Giles gestured toward his nightstand, scattered with two or three books, "as you can see, we're not equipped for it."

Buffy felt her shoulders relax a bit. He was going to let her off the hook. “And in what universe do I believe that you didn't save the books?"

A gentle grin tugged at his mouth. "You know me too well. They're safely on their way to England."

Buffy swallowed. She didn't want to rub salt in new wounds, but still. "And the Council's library?"

Giles' eyes closed off. "They were... About half of it was destroyed." He captured
his glasses and began to polish them with a shirt corner. "The other half is under my care."

"Well, then, sounds like we're London bound." Buffy tossed her head, flipping her hair just a bit. "Or, you know, wherever in England bound."

"I had meant to discuss that with you tomorrow."

"All right, mister, I know a hint when I see one. I'll let you get some rest." She squirmed again. "Maybe if you could keep this to yourself? It's a bad night to throw something like this at people." Her eyes slipped away from his gaze. "No need to worry them."

Giles massaged his temples, his eyes slipping closed. “That might, perhaps, be for the best.”

"And with that, goodnight. You're asleep on your feet." Buffy slipped out onto the balcony, closed the door behind her. She felt better - lighter, even. It had been awhile since she'd felt that way around Giles. Not since that night he and Robin...

Great job, Buffy. If evil won't hang around and ruin your mood, you can do it all by yourself! And all while standing around on creepy, scratchy fake grass. That was about enough of that. She ambled across the little turf and wood walkway that connected the second-floor rooms, chased by teenage giggling. Who knew survivor's high was an acceptable substitute for pixie sticks?

204 - who was that? Xander? - had something stuck to the door, a big envelope, maybe. She squinted to read the writing scrawled across it. "Patsy Cline - Your drug of choice. Love, Willow." Buffy's mouth twisted. Awfully cold comfort. Not like she had much to offer in that department. Not like anyone could offer much, though. At least Willow had the good sense to leave him to his grief instead of trying to pester him into feeling better.

Stupid thought train. It was always chugging down to wherever she needed it least. This was definitely a bad place to wallow, and honestly, someone was going to think she was homeless if she kept drifting from door to door, stopping to stare at each. Just proof that Giles wasn't the only one asleep on his feet. Time to head for bed like she meant it.

Five or six strides later, Buffy stopped to fumble with the ancient lock. The door opened with a horror movie creak, which you'd expect in a dive like this. But the wave of odor that hit her when it opened? Well, that was new and different.

The bleach blond figure splayed across her bed? Not so new. "You know, you never did know when to make the graceful exit," she growled. If it thought she was going to speak to it again, it had another think coming.

She flicked on the lights and began to wriggle out of her coat, pausing halfway through. This really wasn't the floor to shed jackets on. She shrugged it back on and walked over to kick at the air conditioner. It wasn't even on, so it couldn't be the source of that evil smell. Maybe the source of the smell, was, oh, evil. Since when did non-corporeal include odors? This was about as evil as it came, like the reek that hung around the fridge when Dawn hadn’t bothered to remove the blood she kept hidden for Spike and Spike hadn't bothered to tell anyone he'd changed continents. Just disgusting. Something had to be done to clear it out, but the motel was cheap enough that the maids skipped the window fastenings when dusting. So not going there.

"Great," she muttered. She threw her jacket on the table - that at least looked like it had been wiped down recently.

There was really no more avoiding it. She crossed her arms and glared at the bed.
"You can get out of here anytime. Like, say, yesterday."

She stepped a little closer. "Oh, gross," she muttered. Now that the lights were on, you
could see a pool of clotted blood, mixing hideously well with the loud quilt. That was just taking things too far.

"Give it up already," she hissed. "We've had this conversation already. Not yours, never was, never will be. Now, get out of my bed." Buffy huffed out an annoyed breath when
Not-Spike failed to move. "All right, fine." She wriggled in by the wall until she poised over its spine, and plopped down with as much gusto as she could muster.

Her rear impacted with solid flesh. Solid, not dematerialize-y flesh. Flesh that let out a truly gross gurgling squeak when she landed on it. Oh, God.

"Spike!" she cried, scrambling off him. "God, Spike! Spike, are you all right?" He still hadn't moved. Maybe it was time to do the moving for him. Buffy ran a hand down his spine. No obvious fractures. Would such a thing paralyze a vampire, anyway? She grasped his shoulder and tugged at him. Oh god, oh god. His blood... He was stuck to the blanket. But she had to see it. She had to see it, she had to. She reached a hand down to his chest prying at the blanket. Did vampires get infections? Because this blanket, all tangled in his wounds... It wouldn't come off, it just wouldn't and oh god she was just going to have to yank it.

She seized Spike's shoulders and tugged sharply. He lolled onto his back without resistance, but the blanket rolled with him. Buffy closed her eyes, grasped the blanket and yanked, half-retching at the juicy ripping noise. Couldn't just leave it there, all wadded up in the wound. Had to get it out if she could fix him. Had to, had to, no choice.

Vomit climbed up her throat. She'd seen him beat up before but this, this... She couldn't remember the last time an injury had made her sick. Not even the designs they'd carved on him in the cave. But this... Oh, god.

His shirt had been slit down the front, the ends tied together at his back in a crude bow. Bits of skin had caught on the coverlet, but the writing was still easy enough to read. Carved bone deep, in two straight rows, Spike's chest oozed "Happy Birthday.”