“Anyone ever tell you god-types that cryptic gets your prophets good and dead?” Spike scowled darkly at Mictlantechutli. Metaphysical rescue aside, the situation was damned irritating.

To the vampire’s horrified indignation, the god cuffed him affectionately across the jaw, as if he was a child. “Yes, you are most likely right.” He released Spike completely, opaque eyes unreadable. “Balance, son of mine. You traffic in the souls of the dead, but the one who watches, he still lives. You need your mirror.”

Spike, who was still trying to decide whether the god’s manhandling or continued roundabout explanations was more irritating. “Cryptic,” he repeated pointedly, picking his poison.

Mictlantechutli chuckled, a dry and rippling sound. “Come now, you’ve heard this all before. ‘Blooded warriors tied with serpents’ feathers.’” The god’s lined face took on a more serious expression. “Get my brother’s daughter, bring your feathered shadow, and then you will prevail. Your meddlesome witch will show you the way.” His tone took on a derisive edge.

“Who? Red? What’s she done?” Spike asked, blinking in surprise, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he knew the answer. As usual, all roads led to Buffy.

The god nodded in apparent agreement. “She’s lucky she called on Osiris and not me for that particular spell. I would not have settled for a fawn.” At Spike’s confused look, Mictlantechutli waved a gnarled hand dismissively. “Bygones. There are politics among gods, the same as among mortals. Only our stakes much are higher.”

The vampire could well believe that. “So get Buffy, get Meret, and let Red do her thing?”

“And your tokens.” Mictlantechutli pulled another feather from his hair and held it up for a moment. It dissolved, green motes swirling up and settling on the sleeve of the god’s robes.

Spike quirked his lips in dark amusement. His ancient companion could have taught Dracula a few things about flashy theatrics. “Right, then. Once more unto the breach, and all that rot,” he grumbled half-heartedly.

Mictlantechutli folded his hands into the sleeves of his green robe. “When all this is said and done, I believe I will owe you a drink.”

The vampire almost choked on his own surprised laughter. The idea of getting four sheets to the wind with the god of the dead was just a little too much for him to reasonably consider at the moment. At the feathered deity’s bemused expression, he managed to get himself under control. “Sorry, just don’t see you as the drinkin’ type.”

“Hmm, yes. You speak of beer.” The god’s thin lips twitched in amusement. “The Chosen One’s mother tells me you like to drink beverages made from the cocoa plant. I know of one you have not tried. We shall share Xocolatl.”

Spike felt like he had been pole-axed, and he was sure that his face was displaying that fact. “What? She said… What?”

Not the most eloquent of statements, but it got the point across. Mictlantechutli grinned, exposing a white row of needle-sharp teeth. “After, William.”

He would have liked to argue, to question further, but Spike suddenly felt like he was falling. The smug god was going to owe him more than drinks at this rate.

*****

“Spike!” The slayer’s panicked voice dragged the vampire back into consciousness.

“’M all right.” He opened his eyes and found Buffy hovering over him, worry obvious on her face. Definitely all right.

“Oh, thank God.” Her hands fluttered over his face. “What the hell was that all about?”

The vampire found himself leaning into the warmth of her hand, still a little disoriented and wholly distracted by her touch. “Huh?”

She pulled her hands away and poked him, hard, in the chest. “You and Giles, making with the fainting. What’s the what?” Her forehead was wrinkled with worry.

He started to answer, but a groan from behind the slayer cut them both short. Buffy whipped around.

Spike half sat up, propping himself on his elbows. The watcher’s eyes were moving rapidly from underneath closed lids. “Knock him back out, and I’ll explain on the way out.”

Buffy looked at him disbelievingly, but when the watcher started to stir, she dropped a solid thwack to the man’s temple with her knuckles. “This sucks,” she said with a pout.

He snorted. “Yeah, a little.”

Meret chose that moment to dive past Spike’s face, chasing the last of the Starlings to the floor. When she struck, looped coils twisted around the bird. It was soon very thoroughly, and very messily, dead. She dropped the mangled mess and started shaking her head, spitting being rather difficult for a lipless being, and projecting her disgust for all who could hear. Spike couldn’t help but snicker at the little serpent’s predicament.

She hissed in angry indignation at him, so the vampire quickly stifled his humor. “I’ll get the watcher,” he said to Buffy. “Getting’ you out in the dark’s gonna be a treat though.” He rolled over and staggered to his feet.

Buffy shrugged. “Maybe.” She bent low and yanked a log out from under the cauldron. The end flared with flame, small but probably adequate for their purpose. “Maybe not.”

Spike replied with a grin and a shrug. He stooped low and grabbed the watcher’s arm, but when he started to drag the man’s limp body up off the floor, he noticed something sticking out of the Giles’ hip pocket: two feathers, one green and one red. He slipped them into his own pocket and slung the limp man across one shoulder.

“Well, lead the way, slayer. And while you’re at it, torch the place.” He patted the feathers to make sure they were safe. “We’ve got all we need here.”

*****

“Okay, even with the,” Willow crooked a finger at the feathers, “uh, fluffy god parts. And on that note, can I just say, whoa! This is still going to take a little creativity.”

Tara, who was smearing antibacterial ointment on Meret’s various injuries, spoke up. “What about the enjoining spell?” She glanced around the Summers’ dining room. “The one you used when you fought against Adam.”

Willow seemed to think about it for a second before shaking her head. “Who would be the focus? Are vampires’ and humans’ essences even compatible? Not to mention coatls.”

Spike shared a surprised look with the slayer across the table. The old, pre-England Willow would have just jammed them all together, consequences be damned.

“Plus,” Xander spoke up, “I bet the first slayer would go even more postal about a vamp in Buffy’s head than she did with us.” Willow nodded in agreement, her expressive face mournful. “Reenacting Apocalypse Now with a side of Boris Karloff and cheddar isn’t half as fun as it sounds.” He stretched an arm across the back of the empty chair next to him; Anya was downstairs with Dawn, keeping an eye, not to mention a spray bottle of sleeping potion, trained on the watcher.

Spike’s sharp laugh drew everyone’s attention. “You mean the bird dressed like a mummy with dreads? What’s her name, Sineya?” Willow nodded in surprise. “We’ve met. Don’t think she’ll have a problem with me.”

Xander raised his hand.

“Long, long story, Xan,” Buffy said by way of an explanation. “I promise a full explanation over pizza and movies after we get Giles back.” When the boy responded with a nod and a half-smile, she continued. “The three of us have already done some mind meldy stuff. Can you two work with that?” she asked the witches.

Willow nodded. “I think so, but what about the getting Elaine out of Giles part?”

“I’ve got that covered,” Spike said. When Xander started to raise his hand again, the vampire cut him off. “What the slayer said, only with beer and pool.”

Down went the hand, but not without a little grumbling.

“Well then,” Willow’s voice was cheery and eager. “Let’s get to it.”

Anya stuck her head around the corner in the kitchen. “Before you start anything new, could you brew up some more sleeping potion? Dawn got a little spray-happy when Giles started snoring.” She rolled her eyes. “Human teenagers are so flighty.”

“I heard that!” Dawn’s voice, floating upstairs from the basement, was still piercing.

Tara patted her girlfriend’s hand. “I’ll take care of it.” She slid the coatl onto the table and joined the former vengeance demon. Meret just melted into a happy pile of gooey coils, high on the attention her wounds had earned her.

Buffy chose that moment to let out a jaw cracking yawn. She looked surprised and a little embarrassed, but Willow just waved away her stumbling explanation. “Go to bed Buffy. You’ve been running around town all night. Tara and I are still stuck on Bath time.” Spike snickered at that, and it was the witch’s turn to blush.

“I think that’s my cue too,” said Xander. “I’ll go fetch Ahn and take her home.” With a stretch and a gaping yawn of his own, the carpenter ambled into the kitchen.

“Guess I can stick around, maybe keep an eye on the watcher so the ‘Bit can go to bed too.” Spike pushed his own chair away from the table.

When he followed Xander’s path around the table, Buffy stopped him with a soft hand. “Thanks.”

Spike watched the slayer trudge wearily towards the staircase. When he turned around, he came eye to eye with Willow’s twinkling gaze. “What’re you lookin’ at, Red?” he said with half-hearted coldness.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied, sticking her nose back into her books, but her impish face was wreathed with a knowing smile.

Spike glared at her for a moment longer before stalking through the kitchen and into the basement below.

*****

Dawn and Dawn arrived at roughly the same time.

Spike watched the girl skitter recklessly down the staircase, dark blue blanket trailing behind her. Her bright face didn’t even dim in the face of an exhausted vampire sitting on the dryer with a pile of ransacked boxes around his feet, and his loot, Joyce’s old copy of The Complete Works of Shakespeare, in hand.

“Hey, Spike!” The perky tone of her voice was criminal.

Meret, who had finally fallen asleep on one of the piles of clean laundry, didn’t even stir.

The vampire set the book aside and slid off of the old appliance wearily. “Morning, Bit,” he slurred tiredly. She winced in sympathy, but her grin barely wavered.

“Here,” she shoved the blanket towards him. “Get some sleep. You look like deader death.”

“Thanks ever so,” he grumbled, but she was right. He felt like he had spent the evening crawling through sewers, being slimed and nearly fried, getting thrashed from the inside and out by an irate necromancer, and then jerked across metaphysical dimensions.

Oh wait, he had.

The girl shrugged. “No problem. Buffy’s making sure the drapes in the living room are pulled tight.” She shoved the blanket in his hands and prodded at him playfully until she had managed to herd the bemused vampire to the stairs. “Go on… get.” She made shooing gestures with her hands. “We’ll wake you up if anything goes wonky.” Dawn took up her post, spray bottle in hand, as Spike scaled the basement steps.

For the second time in as many days, Spike soon found himself dozing on the slayer’s couch. This time, however, he had the memory of Buffy spreading the electric blanket over him to lull him to sleep.