Sometimes it was too easy.

Park Harris’ car back on the curb. Gallantly open the door for Buffy. Earn a little smile in return. Follow her in and take off the trench coat. Hang it on the banister next to the carpenter’s ratty blue jean number. Palm the car keys into the right jacket pocket when the slayer’s back was turned. Act casual. Walk into the kitchen.

Squelch the strange, guilty feeling over the whole affair. Make a note to buy the first round the next time Harris wanted to play pool. Scowl at Meret, ignore her arch looks, and try not to pace in front of the sink. Alter mental note to include two rounds, a blooming onion, and one thrown game. Grab a beer from the back of the fridge. Join the others at the dining room table for research.

See?

Easy…

*****

“Well, it looks kinda proto-Germanic, but there’s these funky lines that just screw everything up.” Willow turned Spike’s drawing this way and that, seeing if it made any more sense from a different angle. “Tara, honey, what do you think?”

The blond Wiccan leaned over, her chin almost resting on her partner’s shoulder and brushed her long hair back over one ear. “It’s smeared.”

“What?”

Tara pointed at the irregular squiggles of lip gloss.

Willow cocked her head to the side again, rotated the drawing one more time, and finally burst into a wide grin. “Oh. Oh! Okay, that makes things way easier.” The redhead dropped the receipt back on the table and started flipping through the book in front of her. In short order, she was writing line after line of notes, clicking her multi-colored pen back and forth between green, blue, red, and black, in a manic, irritating fashion. She nodded whenever Tara made a suggestion, but was otherwise deaf to the world, or at least the vampire across from her.

Spike watched the proceedings with great interest.

Tara was standing a little taller, offering suggestions a little quicker, and generally looking much more comfortable in her own skin than Spike had ever seen. Her time in England had agreed with her.

The vampire hid his smile by downing another third of his beer. Good on her.

His own book, some junior watcher’s thesis on necromantic theory, was open, but ignored, on the table. Control over the dead… blah, blah… volatile spells… blah, blah… really naughty... etc. etc. Bloody waste of time. It was the kind of basic twaddle that anyone with even the most passing acquaintance with the dark arts would take for granted. Spike had checked the references for Rowling, J.K. Surprisingly, she hadn’t been there.

The others had long since retired. Dawn had school the next day, and so did Buffy. Xander and Anya had finally left after the former demon had fallen asleep on one of the older, more valuable scrolls. Upon waking, she had been so horrified at the crumpled parchment and potential property damage that her fiancé had finally taken her home to ‘console’ her. Even Meret had slipped into one of the deep pockets of Spike’s jacket, red tipped tail visible in the folds of the leather.

That left the two witches, whose bodies still thought they were in Bath, and the vampire, the consummate night owl, to burn the midnight oil.

“Okay, listen to this!” The incessant clicking finally stopped, and Willow turned her notes so that Tara could see. “I think I have it translated.” She pointed at the middle of the sketched circle. “See, the center sigil stands for protection. These around the edges are modifiers for health, love, conjuration, and the prevention of decay. Pretty basic stuff, even if the touchy-feeliness is kinda weird.”

Spike snorted. “How’s that?”

Willow looked up as if she had only just noticed him. “Well, I mean, necromancers? Not so much with the lovey-dovey protection stuff.” Still the same old Willow. She looked a little confused, but Spike noted with dark humor that Tara was worrying her lower lip between her teeth, probably following the same line of thought as the vampire.

“She’s got her hands on all the members of her family, Red. Hell, I bet even the Bentons loved each other. So did most of the Aurelians, in our own way.” Spike swirled the final swig of beer in his latest bottle, but his eyes were fixed and steady on the redheaded witch. “White hats don’t have a corner market on the emotion, much as you’d like to deny that.”

Willow’s eyebrows scrunched together in a defensive scowl, and the clicky pen started up again. She couldn’t have picked a more irritating nervous habit. “Hey, I just thought it was odd. What’s your problem?”

“Just think takin’ off the blinders might help with the research, but never mind,” Spike tossed his book on the table and stood up. “You’re obviously the expert on necromancers, bein’ the only one of us who’s ever raised the dead.”

He had the distinct satisfaction of seeing all the color drain out of the redhead’s face as he stormed out of the room. Two more beers joined the half-full bottle on his way through the kitchen and out onto the back yard. They wouldn’t get him drunk, not when the last six hadn’t, but they gave him something to do with his mouth other than grind his teeth.

He didn’t know why Willow’s words had struck a nerve. If he was honest, the last four hours of fruitless research probably had at least a little to do with it, but that wasn’t the only reason.

Her words had hit a little too close to home.

Spike had come so far.

Patrolling partner, with hopes of becoming more, to Buffy. Confidant and lit. tutor to Dawn. A reluctant but skilled translator to Giles. Pool buddy to Xander and prized cash cow to Anya. A shoulder to cry on and a favorite project to Tara.

But to Willow?

He had no way of telling. She was all over the map, unpredictable in the same way cornered wild animals and junkies between fixes could be. Cheerful smiles and teasing jokes were paired with dark, darting eyes. Wariness masked as oblivious distraction. She was curious and inquisitive one second, cold and aloof the next. And everywhere, the old rallying cry of Scoobies good, demons evil, when even Xander was slowly starting to see the shades of grey around him. It was confusing, not to mention unsettling. But that was just Willow; power harnessed with precious little restraint.

Spike cursed himself for losing his temper inside. She wasn’t the same girl whose shy wit and fuzzy pink numbers had drawn his interest. She wasn’t even the same, inexperienced witch who had kept him from dusting himself because it was ooky or shoved a cookie in his mouth so that he’d stop teasing Buffy about leaving an aftertaste. No, this Willow was powerful and unpredictable. He knew from personal and repeated experience that it was in his best interests to tread lightly around the redhead.

Maybe Tara was right, maybe Willow was learning control, but the vampire would believe it when he saw it.

Spike walked into the yard and dropped tiredly into one of the plastic folding chairs. He lined up the three bottles, one after the other on the little table next to him, leaned back, and stretched his legs out in front of him. Clouds obscured his view of the stars, just one more cosmic slight.

The last of the first beer went down quickly, and the second as well, before the twisting threads of guilt and worry settled in firmly enough to make their presence known. He should be trying to find out what had happened to Giles, hitting the books or pounding the pavement. He should be in there, trying to smooth things over, if only for Tara’s sake. He should be trying to figure out when he had turned into such a mother hen, but that at least could be shoved to the backburner. In his heart, Spike already knew the answer. It was rooted in his own powerful affections and a coiled bundle of borrowed conscience, happily sleeping in his coat pocket. And that was okay. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Spike had finally settled on going back inside once he finished his last beer when the door opened, and Tara slipped out. She looked around, human eyes night blinded by the porch lights.

“Over here, Glinda,” he called from the darkness.

She didn’t jump, only nodded and made her way down the steps and into the yard. She smiled a little as she took the seat on the other side of the little table, and he couldn’t help but return the favor. Spike was convinced that an hour with Tara would make even the most hardboiled bastard smile. She simply had that effect on people.

They sat in silence, Spike occasionally taking a swig of his beer, Tara watching the swirling clouds overhead after her eyes adjusted. “Red still readin’?”

Tara shook her head and sighed. “No, she’s on the phone with Althanea again.”

The vampire nodded. “Found something worth the bill?”

“No,” Tara said. “Willow just needed to talk some stuff out.” At Spike quizzical look, she continued. “She really is getting better. With the magics, I mean. She’s starting to understand how the energy works and why she needs to be more careful.”

“So, Earth Mother off in England is what? Her therapist?” Spike rolled the bottle of beer between his hands and shot a glance at Tara out of the corner of his eye.

“Sort of,” Tara said quietly. “I’m not sure what we were expecting, but Willow has spent most of her time in meditation. Neither one of us could cast a thing at first, some kind of humility shield. We had to accept the limitation before it would let us go. Willow couldn’t even read an aura for two weeks.” Tara favored the vampire with a wan smile. “She kind of latched on to the coven’s leader, Althanea, after that.”

“Huh.” Spike brought the bottle to his mouth and tilted it back, unwilling or unable to elaborate further on the thought.

“Spike,” her voice was hesitant again. The vampire glanced at her from under heavy lids. “You’re owed an explanation, and I don’t know if Willow can give it to you yet.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “Everyone else? They can act like everything’s okay, you know? And it’s easier that way for her because it helps her to pretend that it is. Okay. She can forget. But not with you.”

Spike took another sip from his beer, ears wide open even if his eyes were not.

Tara twisted her hands into little knots, but she continued. “With you, she always knows that you don’t trust her. And even though she hasn’t really admitted out loud that she was ever in the wrong, I think she knows that you’re right.” The witch stopped wringing her hands and spread them flat on her thighs. “That we shouldn’t trust her.”

Spike looked at the blonde in surprise.

Tara met his shocked gaze. “Yet,” she amended. “Willow’s got to figure out that some things are completely out of her control, and you and Meret, thanks to her own spell, are beyond her power to win over through magic.”

“Hard lesson,” Spike grunted before throwing back the rest of his beer. He couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than relief and savage amusement that he had at least that scrap of defense against the redhead. The bottle joined the others, three dead soldiers all in a row.

Tara reached out and touched his hand where it was still wrapped around the empty container. He looked at her clear eyes, so wise for one so young. “Spike, I need to ask you a favor.”

The vampire softened. “Told you once, you only need to ask.” He just hoped she wouldn’t ask for something he couldn’t give. Like instant forgiveness.

“Just don’t write her off,” her solemn eyes pleaded with him. “Maybe a little distrust is good, because it might help her admit she has a problem, but…”

“But I should keep an open mind,” Spike interrupted, a sardonic twist to his lips. Like you did with me. “Think I can manage that.”

He was surprised when her fingers laced into his own. “Thank you.” She gave his hand a little squeeze before folding her own back in her lap.

They sat in companionable silence. For the moment, Spike was at peace, Tara’s calming presence a balm over his mind.

But the world intruded, as it always did, in the form of Willow. She slipped quietly onto the back porch; Spike could hear her heartbeat and smell her even if she didn’t speak for a long time. Then, when he started to be convinced that she was going to hover behind them all night, she cleared her throat tentatively.

When Spike and Tara turned around, she spoke. “I think I’ve found…” she trailed off and shuffled her feet nervously, making her look surprisingly young and timid. “I mean, could you two come look at something?”

Spike could feel Tara’s eyes on him. What other answer was there?

*****

“Thought you said this didn’t make shit for sense.” Spike scowled at the pages of lists Anya had compiled.

“Well yeah, but that was before I looked at this,” Willow pulled another sheet out of the mess of papers on the table and dropped it on top of the stack Spike held. Tara leaned over and looked at the new page.

Spike’s brow furrowed. “What’s this?”

The redhead’s eyes twinkled, “Anya’s list of shoplifted goods. See anything that wouldn’t fit in a pocket?” excitement overwhelmed her earlier uncertainty, and she spoke quickly, words tumbling out of her mouth.

The vampire started scanning the list. Two Chinese coins and an Etrevian sundial necklace. A set of turquoise hair clips that sounded an awful lot like the new barrettes he had seen in Dawn’s hair the day before. He’d have to talk to her about that. A feather fountain pen. Three quartz crystals… A cauldron.

A bloody cauldron?

Tara must have seen the same thing he had, because she gasped in surprise.

“Think our body hopper’s gonna be brewin’ a potion or cookin’ a nice stew?” Spike’s voice was tinged with sarcastic humor. He wasn’t really expecting an answer, but he got one anyway.

“Um, maybe.” Willow flipped through the pages of a fabric bound book, much newer than the others on the table. When she found what she was looking for, she flipped the book around in front of the vampire. It was a story book. The header leapt off of the page and into his memory.

The Brothers Grimm.

The Juniper Tree.