“I don’t get it.”

“We’ve covered this. We need the Slayer out of the way. Can’t seem to kill her, so we’re just gonna remove the obstacle until we’ve seized power. Then she can come back … or not.”

“I still don’t get it. What makes you think she won’t just come back angry and on the warpath? I’ve seen Buffy angry. You wouldn’t want to make her angry.”

“Levinson, you man-boy! This is the plan. Are you in or not?”

“Yeah, Levinson.”

“Shut up, Andrew.” Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. “I’m in.”

***

Buffy brushed the dust off her jeans, feeling them droop on her hips from the motion. Since she’d been back, she kept forgetting to eat. And since money was tight, that seemed like more of a bonus than a cause for concern. But if she lost her pants and ended up mooning Restfield? Not ideal.

“Did I miss the action, then, Slayer?”

Especially given the inhabitants of Restfield, and their annoying tendency to show up whenever she least expected.

“Good-night, Spike.”

“So that’s it? You’ve dispatched all the baddies to their graves?”

“Not quite. Care to line up and let me finish the job?”

“I’m not so bad anymore, Slayer. If I were, I’d ‘ve met the business end of your stake some time ago.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He arched an eyebrow suggestively, and Buffy fought back her blush. Lately her feelings towards the vampire were the strangest mix of affection and pure lust, but all jumbled up with her familiar sense of irritation.

“So I heard a rumor, ‘bout some tinker demon selling his wares in an alley downtown. Thought we ought to check it out.”

“What? They give Amway licenses to the undead now?”

“Don’t think they’re peddling vitamins and home cleaning products. More like charmed objects.”

“So?”

“I’m not talking a lucky rabbit’s foot, Slayer. I’m talking a … a … cursed banana peel that could … trip someone really important and make them fall.”

“Huh?”

“Okay, bad example. But I think we should check it out.”

Buffy frowned. For all his outcast status, Spike still had a way of hearing about things that never reached her ears. Still, if she tried to shut down every demon’s cottage industry, she’d be working double overtime. “If he isn’t slaughtering the innocent and selling their entrails, it isn’t my problem.”

“Your call, Slayer. Just thought you’d like to know.”

***

“I think we’re a little outta place here, guys.”

“Duh!” Jonathan shot a scathing look at Andrew.

“Don’t make me turn this evil scheme around, boys. Now just look for something that will get the Slayer out of our hair and be prepared to bid strategically.” Warren headed towards the first table, leaving Andrew and Jonathan staring at a table of full of jars.

“Is that what I think it is floating in that jar?”

“Bidding starts at $600,” said a scaly demon holding a clipboard.

“Maybe that’s not quite what we need. But thanks. For the information.” Jonathan hastily guided Andrew towards another table. “We’re gonna be squashed like bugs by a meaty demon paw before we manage to buy anything.”

“Hey, turn that frown upside down. How about over here?”

The table wasn’t attracting much attention.

“Who pays $1,000 for suntan lotion?”

“Not suntan lotion – it looks like bronzer. For that sun-kissed look without the harmful UV rays.”

Jonathan shot Andrew a look.

“Well, I like to keep up with these things.”

A female demon with a killer bod and an unfortunately hirsute face and piggy little nose sidled up to the boys. “It isn’t what you think,” she said, in sing-songy English.

“So it’s not the Clinique counter on steroids?”

“Maybe, Blondie. These products actually do what the bottle implies.”

“So anti-aging cream …”

“Reduces the average age of the user by 20% or 10 years, whichever is less, with each application, with a maximum regression of 75% of the creature’s normal lifespan.”

“We could make Buffy a little kid. A two year-old Slayer wouldn’t be much trouble.”

“You haven’t been around my nieces, Andrew.”

“Oh. Well, maybe this one.” He picked up an attractive bottle in shades of lemon yellow. “Instant Sun. What does this one do?”

“This one is particularly clever,” Miss Hairy explained. “A single spritz and the user is transported to an island paradise.”

“Permanently?”

“Hey, Warren. Andrew was just checking out this one-way ticket to Club Med. In a bottle.”

“Did you say one-way?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s perfect. How much to buy it outright?”

“Outright?” The demon hesitated. “The bidding is starting at $1200.”

“We’ll give you $3,000.”

“Sold.”

***

The world might end, but dishes seemed infinite. Sweeping mysterious crumbs from the kitchen floor never ceased. And laundry? Laundry went on forever and ever, amen.

Buffy knew that she should be pushing Dawn to do more, and Willow, too. Tara was a huge help, but the other girls were more mess-makers than cleaner-uppers. It was wearing on her. She knew it didn’t have to look like Mom was still on the job, but somehow … she just hated to admit that she couldn’t do it all.

With the last dish put away and the counter sparkling, she dropped down on a kitchen stool with an abandoned issue of a magazine. “Courtney Cash’s island retreat … must be nice.” And it was nice, Buffy couldn’t help but notice, as she flipped past pictures of the actress cavorting in the surf with her puppy and sipping a cup of tea on her patio overlooking the sea.

The article carefully mentioned where readers could go to buy the same throw pillows or votive candles or margarita glasses featured in the article. What was missing was a roadmap for making this your actual, real life.

With a sigh, Buffy closed the magazine and headed up to bed.

***

Outside of Revello, the Trio watched as the last of the lights – finally! – went out in the house.

“Okay, now or never, J-man.”

“How do you know they haven’t cursed the windows?” he asked.

“We checked that already.” Andrew gestured to the laptop he balanced on his knees. “There’s nothing there except the remains of a few old spells.”

“Come on, Jonathan. You’re the smallest and the lightest and if we pull down the roof tiles, you better believe we’ll have some ‘splainin to do.”

“Fine.” Dressed in head-to-toe black, Jonathan stepped out of the shadows and prepared to scale the wall of 1630 Revello Drive.

***

Spike was restless. Nothing new in that, he thought, heading out for a contemplative cigarette and maybe a spot of violence with an equally sleepless adversary.

‘Course, not many adversaries clustered near his tree in front of the Slayer’s house. Still, probably worth stopping by and making sure that the house was still standing.

And so his feet headed that way, even as his brain tried to steer him in some less controversial direction.

***

“Did you do it?”

“Yeah. It’s right in with her stuff … between some mascara and something called Hope in a Jar.”

“Good work, Levinson.”

“Yeah,” Warren added. “She probably uses that Hope crap every day.”

***

A van rolled down Revello with its lights out. Something about that troubled Spike, and he stopped to watch it roll by.

Was it the little boys again, up to no good?

With another pull on his cigarette, he doubled his pace and took up his familiar post.

Chip or no, if those creeps had messed with Buffy, he’d tear them limb from limb.

***

An hour later, Spike was convinced that they’d done no harm. At least not immediate harm requiring violence.

Damn.

He slumped back against the tree. Nearly sun-up and time for a lie down.

And then the light switch turned on in the hall bath, and he decided to wait just a few more minutes.

***

Buffy studied her face in the mirror.

She hadn’t slept much last night, but that wasn’t really the problem. An honest assessment revealed that she hadn’t slept much in days, weeks. Since she’d been back.

And spending all those weeks dead? It would mess with any girl’s complexion.

Her hand reached for her new-but-already-nearly-empty container of Hope in a Jar, but then paused.

“Instant Sun,” she read the label. Had she bought this on her initial yay-not-dead, but-not-yet-aware-that-I’m-broke shopping spree? Or was it in that freebie bag from the new Sephora’s grand opening event last week? Or Willow, or Dawn left it …

The label drew her in. “A revolutionary new formula will deliver that perfect shade of sun-kissed glow. All natural and odor-free. This immersion will create the appearance of a fresh vacation glow. Suitable for all skin types.”

“Immersion? Shouldn’t that be emulsion?” she mumbled, even as she looked for an inconspicuous place to test the product. Extending her arm, she chose a spot, aimed and spritzed.

And poof! She disappeared.

***

Spike had watched her silhouette - her delicious, familiar silhouette – ponytail in place, as she stood at the bathroom counter. He imagined Buffy standing there in Technicolor, imagined being there beside her, or maybe in bed waiting for her to come back to him … yeah, that was it.

And then she was gone.

Damn. She’d be crossing the lawn any second now, demanding to know what he was doing mooning about her house minutes from sunrise.

And she’d be right. With a sigh, he peeled himself from his spot and headed back to his crypt.