So a girl vamp with a serious case of Sphinx was in town. Buffy didn’t underestimate her enemy, but when you’ve faced down the beasties she’d squared off against in recent years, it took more than a round of riddle-me-this to shake her.

Nope, this early morning soul search was courtesy of Wil. Xander had left a message about his unexpected house guest, inquiry-free. It wouldn’t last long, she knew, so this little space of quiet was all she had to devise a plan.

Sunrise was an hour off, but she’d already be behind the drive thru window by then. Not that the Doublemeat had much claim on her brain, but soul searching while inhaling grease? Not her style.

“Is it really that bad,” she asked the tops of her work sneakers. She’d summoned the list of reasons Spike was not boyfriend material time and time again. Since before that first kiss, even. Lots of times between that night at the Bronze and the night in the house and … anyway, her mental list was dog-eared by now.

And yet, repetition was draining the force from her objections.

Spike was immortal; Buffy very much the opposite. The classic line, the line that her mother used about Angel, that Giles used about Angel. And yet it was absurd. Telling a vampire slayer that vampires were immortal? She’d never kept score, but she was confident that vampires – even ancient and stealthy and powerful ones – could be ended. Spike would die for her, would give his life for Dawn. Might be stupid enough to die on a lark. She’d bought the logic at sixteen, but five years later? Nah. Nothing was certain in life, definitely not any bets on who’d mourn who.

Spike had no soul. That was a good one. Except that, really, it might be reasonable to think that Anya had forfeited her soul. And equally possible that Dawn was created without one. He was a monster – as in the subject of monster movies – but not very much anymore. He was a former monster.

If actions were the measure, these days he was no more monster than she.

Of course, Spike had tried to kill her. Tried to kill Willow, twice. But then … Anya had delivered a dark alter-reality with Xander and Willow cast as vampire lap dogs to the Master. Even mild-mannered Oz chased poor Tara in a jealous rage. And Willow’s spells-gone-wild? Well, that wasn’t worth thinking about. For starters, she’d convinced Buffy that she was in love with Spike …

Right.

The door of the Doublemeat was steps away now, and Buffy could see Lorraine and the new guy inside, already firing up the grill for another morning’s business.

At the end of the day – or, in her case, at the start of it – the drama was simple. Buffy wasn’t hook up girl. She wasn’t one night stand girl. Nope, she was an old fashioned, buy-me-flowers and take-me-to-dinner girl, and oh yeah, how-bout-holding-the-door-for-me-too girl. But Miss Flowers Dinner Doorholder was trapped in the body of Miss Sacred Calling Demonkiller, cutting the pool of eligible bachelors from many to … okay, one. Really, these days, just one.

Doublemeat work was at least numbing. Times like these, she was almost grateful for the dull repetition and horrible smells.

The door closed behind her, and Lorraine was already telling her that she’d be training DJ on drive-thru this morning.

Yup. Numbing.

***

By 10 a.m., Spike wondered if nonprescription sleep aids worked on vampires. He doubted it, but he’d be willing to down a few pills if it would put Buffy out of his mind. Buffy, and the vampette that he betted, pounds stirling to platelets, that he could positively i.d.

It was high noon before he dropped off. And less than an hour later, he was awake again.

Courtesy of a raging hard-on.

Which was easily explained, once he realized that the Slayer had crawled into his bed, shrugging off her hated uniform and slipping under the bed sheets buck naked.

This, Spike couldn’t help but think, is interesting. Buffy wasn’t faking it – her breathing was even, measured, the rhythm of a body at rest.

There was the option to ignore her enticing figure. Be the gentleman. Pretend he’d do alright with nothing more than a snuggle.

And then there was the option to gently nudge her knees apart and slide in with a whisper, not all the way, of course, but deep enough. He’d slipped in before he fully thought out the consequences and was rocking, eyes half lidded with lust.

Buffy stirred, sighing in pleasure and arching back, burying him deeper.

Emboldened, Spike kissed her shoulders, her neck, her hair. His fingers idly stroked her clit and, still drowsing, he could feel her reaching a climax. “That’s it, Buffy. That’s it. When you reach for me, when you come - if that’s the closest I get to paradise, I’ll die right now - you clutching up around me tight, I’ll take that. Knowing I’m the one giving you that pleasure? Yeah, that’ll do me.” He followed her over the edge with a groan.

“Spike?”

“You’re absolutely fucking adorable when you first wake.”

She squinted and shook her head. “The point was that I wasn’t supposed to be awake.”

“Yeah? Then bundle up in a snowsuit before you crawl into bed the next time.”

“What - I asked for it?”

“No,” he rolled his head back, frustrated. “I just thought …”

“You’re a vampire, Spike, you’re supposed to be sleeping during the day. Not …”

“Screwing the girl who slips into bed in the altogether? Sorry, pet, I think this is exactly what you had in mind. You’re just wound too tight to own it.”

“I am not tight!”

“Not after the way we’ve been shagging!”

Furious, she leapt from the bed. “I have to go back to work anyway.”

“Smells like you’ve already been there.”

“Lorraine asked me to work dinner prep. And what do you care?”

He was silent as she stormed out. Halfway through his compensatory cigarette, Spike remembered that he’d yet to raise the topic of Britta Kessler.

***

“You’re new.”

“I am.”

“Hi. I’m Anya Jenkins. Soon to be Harris.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. So what kind of merchant are you?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, this is the monthly luncheon meeting of the Sunnydale Merchants Association. And I own the Magic Box, or really, part own, but my partner, he’s a silent partner. Well, not silent. Sometimes he talks waaay too much. But he’s in England. And I know much more about magic than him anyhow, but then, I did have a head start … I’m rambling. Sorry. So which business is yours?”

He paused. “Call me Jay.”

“Hi, Jay.”

“I’m opening the Fitness Factory franchise next to the Sun.”

“Oh, well, then, we’ll be neighbors. I thought you might be another consultant or dentist or something.”

“No.”

“You’re from … Sweden?”

“No.”

“Denmark?”

He blinked.

“Finland! I should’ve known it from the accent.”

“Have you been?”

“No, well … I’m from … well, I’m from Indiana, but I have family … well, had family in Sweden.” Anya’s backstory was still thin, even after she’d frantically crammed to get it straight during the Council’s visit last year.

“I see.”

“So a gym, huh? With um … weights?”

“Yes.”

“In Sunnydale?”

“There isn’t one, but the self defense classes taught at the Harrow Grove YMCA are filled with Sunnydale residents.”

“Oh. So you’re teaching defense? Like, how to flip a mugger over your back.”

Jay blinked. “I suppose.”

“Neat.” Anya fidgeted. “Well, I’d better find a seat. Just about time for the announcements.”

“Of course.”

“Good to meet you.”

“If you know anyone qualified to teach self defense, I’ll be hiring.”

“Oh. Okay.” She took her seat next to Hannelore from the bridal salon, eager to confirm a final fitting of her Monique Lhullier. Only after she’d agreed to come in that Friday morning did it hit her … she might just have a lead on the very best self defense instructor in town.

***

Buffy stank. This afternoon, she was grateful. Grease smells covered up sex smells covered up older grease smells. No one had a clue what she’d been doing, apparently. Dead muppet hat over matted hair and thousand-mile stare in place and no one, not a soul, could possibly guess that she’d been tumbling in the sheets between shifts.

Speaking of sheets, Spike’s were nicer than hers. How did the undead score Egyptian cotton while she slept on poly-blends? Life was so not fair.

In the lull between the 4-ish rush of shift workers and high school kids and the 5-ish rush of everybody else, Sophie sidled up to Buffy.

“Lorraine said I should help you fill up the stations with wrappers and ketchup and stuff.”

“Cool.”

“So … um … you’re at UC Sunnydale, right?”

“I was. I’m taking some time off.”

“Cool.” Sophie hefted an industrial container of mustard and dumped it into the dispensers. “So um …. Didjmeethaguyatcledge?”

“Sorry? I couldn’t hear you over the glug glug of the mustard.”

“The guy. Your boyfriend. Is he, um, a college guy?”

“Huh?”

“Well, it’s just that I go to the community college and there really aren’t many guys there, so I thought if that was the kind of hottie at UC Sunnydale, well, my friend Miranda goes there, so maybe I’d see if I could …”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

Buffy sorted wrappers into three neat stacks, just like in the handbook, as Sophie fidgeted.

“D’you know if he’s single?”

“Sophie, you’re a nice girl, but …”

“You don’t think he’d be into me? Yeah, I get that a lot. You’re a good friend, Soph. You’re so nice, Soph. You’re just like my kid sister, Soph. My cousin Toby had to come up from Phoenix to take me to the senior prom. I told everyone he wasn’t a relative, or I mean … I didn’t tell anyone …”

“Sophie, no, it’s just that … he’s a lot older.”

“What - 24?”

“Older.” Buffy paused and turned to face her co-worker. “Trust me. He’s not boyfriend material.”

“Is he gay?”

“Oh – no! Not – noooo … not gay.”

“You’re blushing!”

“I’m not - ”

“Oh, I get it. Buffy, I’m so sorry. If you’re into him and just hoping that he’ll be into you, y’know, I totally … sorry, sorry. I never meant to step on your toes. He’s super cute, Buffy. And you, I mean … you’re so the cutest girl here, even cuter than Sarah Swensen, and she’s only like, 17, anyhow. So I’m sure he’ll …”

“Sophie, Spike and I are just … friends. He’s a, well not even a friend, really, just an acquaintance.”

“Oh. Okay. Um … I’m going to go see if I can help with the meat grinder, maybe.” Sophie scurried away, knocking over a stack of frozen Doublemeat patties as she rushed.

“Glad we had this chat.” Buffy turned back to the workstations. “Hoping that he’ll be into me? Yeah. Right.”

***

Spike was back to pacing.

He’d gotten laid, yeah. Should have been able to sleep after that. Not that it was a fraction of what he and the Slayer were capable of, but still. Ought to have taken the edge off.

Instead, he was pacing again, waiting for sunset. If Buffy was back in the land of the grease traps, and if she still wasn’t speaking to the witch, which he wagered she wasn’t to crash on him midday like that, then he might be the only one on the job. And seeing as how this particular job required sunlight, or at least internet access, this wasn’t something he was likely to do so well. Even a telephone would help, a telephone and Giles’ number. Now that would be an interesting conversation. “Rupert, old man, Spike here. That’s right. Vamp you threatened with all sorts of mayhem should I fail to get over my sick obsession with your girl. Funny thing is? She’s all with the throwing herself at me these days, but that’s not why I called …”

Spike knew Slayers. Knew them, knew their natures. He’d stalked a dozen, killing two of them. Buffy made that a baker’s dozen. Shoulda known the 13th would be unlucky. Or a revelation. Whatever it was Buffy was these days …

He shook his head. Not about her. He’d have killed the other ten, easy, too, but they weren’t much in the way of opponents. Green girls, frightened. It might be blasphemy to say so in some circles, but not every Slayer was a formidable sacred warrior. Eight of the girls died before he laid eyes on them. The remaining two were taken out before he could bother. Finding the new Slayer, well … he followed the rumors and marveled at how often one girl was gone, another in her place faster than food spoiled. Now even a young Slayer, fresh and new, could be a major challenge for a newbie vamp or an unsuspecting demon. But Spike? No, not for Spike.

And not for Erich Sahr, that bastard.

If the rumors were true – and Spike hadn’t made up his mind yet, but his recent encounters suggested that they were – then Erich Sahr was the only vampire around who had done the unthinkable. The reportedly un-doable.

Erich Sahr had turned a Slayer.

***

“Hey, Buffy.”

“Hi, Bu-Buffy.”

“Oh, hi. Welcome to the Doublemeat Pit … I mean, Palace. Can I hook you up with a Doublemeat Medley? Homemade. Or, at least … home assembled.”

“Ugh. No thanks. It’s been all Medley, all the time lately. I’m breaking out.”

“Wh-what about a milkshake, Dawnie?”

“Good idea, Tara. Can I?” She turned her most winning grin on her big sister.

“Yeah, why not?” Buffy had barely handed over the drink when Dawn’s cell phone blared a tinny version of Genie in a Bottle.

“Ooh, Janice, she did? … hold on a sec,” Dawn shoved a straw through the lid and made for a booth in the farthest corner.

“Kids today.”

Tara smiled. “We thought you might need a ride home.”

“Oh, sure. You didn’t have to …”

“Actually, there’s a reason. Noth – nothing dangerous or, or bad, I think. Just something I wanted to talk about.”

“Okay. Well, um, let me count my drawer and I’ll be out in a couple minutes, okay?”

Buffy sorted her way through singles and fives, nickels and quarters, faster than ever before. Tara wanted to talk? Had Willow said something? Let something slip? Wait … were she and Willow talking? Did Dawn know something? Even though Buffy expressly forbid it, Dawn had sought out Spike before … well, before Glory. And while she was gone … who knew if she’d fallen into the habit of dropping by the crypt after class. Did Dawn see something? Oh no, oh no, oh no. Not that. Please, not that. Buffy rubberbanded a fat stack of twenties and filled out her tally sheet. By the time she slid into a booth across from Tara, her heart was racing like she’d just leapt into the Hellmouth after a stray Vahrall demon.

“I … I don’t want to bother you with this, except I’m not sh-sh”

Buffy flinched. “Tara, just say it. I can take it.”

“Well, it probably isn’t anything … but it must be something.”

“Is this … not about … um, me?”

“What?”

“Sorry, nothing. Just … what was it you were saying?”

“I’m worried that something is going wrong. The last time, anything like this happened … the rose thingie, I don’t know if Willow told you …”

“Rose? Tara, take a deep breath. What’s wrong with the roses?”

“Sorry,” she paused, “Simple spells have been going wrong lately.”

“Ohhkay.”

“Sometimes it means that something is … well, wrong. The first time it happened, to me and Willow, was when Mr. Giles was turned into a Fyarl demon.”

“So …”

“But Willow didn’t think it was about that. Other things … other spells went wrong when Glory was here. It seems like if there’s a dark force, not to sound all Star Wars or anything, but the energies get blurred. I can feel it when I’m meditating. I don’t know what it is, but I’m worried. For you.”

“And for Willow?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you trying to tell me Willow could have something to do with this?”

“No!” Tara blushed and ducked her head. “Or, at least, I don’t think she could. But, Buffy, she’s really powerful.”

“Yeah. Seems to me I’ve heard that a lot lately.”

“And maybe, without even knowing it, some of the things she’s been trying … well, the Hellmouth hasn’t been a big deal, really, not for a while, but it’s like a volcano, right? Dormant, not extinct?”

“I’m not much for geology, but yeah, I think so.”

“Maybe something – or someone – has triggered it? I don’t know. I feel stupid even talking to you about this. I just …”

“There was a horde of vampires at the Bronze last night. A dozen, maybe more.”

“Oh.”

“And one got away.”

“A powerful one?”

Buffy shrugged.

“Do you need me to do some research? I mean … I could help. If it is something, what I felt, it feels like … something.”

“Nah. I figure I’ll just patrol ‘til she shows her wrinklies.”

“And then?”

“I kill her. Simple.”

“Buffy …”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“Sometimes.”

***

Juggling the latest issue of Brides and another half gallon of Horizon skim, Anya fished for the apartment keys. She could hear the theme song to Dexter’s Lab blaring from the hallway. Please let it be just Xander on the couch when she shoved the door open with her hip, please let it be just Xander …

“Hey, Ahn.”

“Hi, Anya.”

“Want some pizza?”

“Yeah, we got green pepper and black olive. Your favorite.”

“No, that’s your favorite, Willow. Xander, can I see you in the bedroom?”

“Sure, just a sec, Wil. Oh, is this the one with the Mandark? I love that guy.” Behind the bedroom door, he grinned, “What’s up, sweetie?”

“She’s still here, Xander.”

“Yeah.”

“Crashing for one night turns into two nights and turns into what … she takes the spare bedroom like this is some wacky 1970s sitcom?”

“She’s having a hard time.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. She and Buffy had a falling out.”

“She and Buffy have faced down demons and – and vampires and trolls and snake beasts and hell gods together. What could be so bad that Willow comes fleeing here to our couch, which we’re still paying off, to scarf down pizza and watch brainless cartoons with you all night? Huh?”

“She doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“And you don’t think that’s a little strange?”

“You do kind of have a point there.”

Willow pushed the door open. “Listen, guys, I didn’t mean to be a pain. I’ll take off, okay?”

“Where are you gonna go, Wil?”

“Willow, what’s so bad that you can’t talk about it?” Anya asked, frustrated.

“It isn’t … it just isn’t mine to talk about. You want to know what crazy shenanigans she’s up to, you have to ask her yourself.”

With that, she grabbed her duffle and took off.

“Willow!”

***

Dawn’s phone call lasted the whole ride home, and rather than follow her inside – and overhear the play-by-play of Janice’s big date with a boy of the non-fanged variety – she’d sacked out on the wicker, stinky uniform and all.

“You marinating in that, pet?”

Buffy groaned. “I don’t need this right now, Spike.”

“What you need is a shower and about a gallon of that honey soymilk bath crap you use.”

“Thank you.”

“What? You want a line? About you being glorious despite the filth and the grease?”

“No, Spike. I don’t want a line.”

“Then let’s get you in and scrubbed up.”

Buffy glowered. But, hey, he wasn’t wrong. “I think Dawn’s having a girl talk marathon.”

“You sure about that?”

“What?”

He nodded towards the windows.

“What time is it?”

“Little past one.”

“Oh.”

“You looked pretty well knackered. Probably dozed off for longer …”

“Yeah. Okay, yeah. I do need to not have this smell anymore. Just keep quiet, okay?”

Spike mimed zipping his mouth shut and throwing away the key.

“I wish.”

She tiptoed upstairs and confirmed that Dawn was out. Or had been out until Buffy poked her nose in and unnecessarily shushed her companion. It took her a few seconds to grasp that Spike was in their house, upstairs in their house, and, unless she missed her guess, in the bathroom with her sister.

“So, what did Red say?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Nothing about …” she gestured between the two of them. The taps filled the tub, creating a carpet of bubbles.

In the hallway, Dawn strained to hear.

“And now she’s gone?”

“She’ll come back. I mean – her stuff’s here.”

“And you two will chat it out?”

“Nothing to talk about, not really.”

“Yeah. Y’know the line about rivers in Egypt, Slayer.”

“What? The Ganges?”

“That’s India. Anyway, you’re going to have to talk about it. Can’t expect her to just pretend she didn’t get an eyeful.”

Their conversation was muffled, and the few phrases Dawn caught didn’t mean anything. But holy cow! Buffy had obviously just slipped into the tub – that telltale sigh of relief carried through the door – and Spike was in the room.

When she heard a second splash and realized that Spike had joined her sister, Dawn hurried to bed and tucked a pillow over her head.

This was too weird.

***

Willow ended up in the Espresso Pump, staring at her mochachino and delaying the inevitable walk back to Revello. She had to get her head around this before she faced her best friend.

Was it because of it being Spike?

No.

Sure, totally inappropriate choice, but when a girl’s been dead and back twice, chipped vampire doesn’t sound so unreasonable anymore. If Spike could be gleefully homicidal, he was also reasonably consistent. If Buffy broke up with him, he could go maudlin drunk or furious with a bad plan, but it didn’t seem quite as scary as the whole Angel/Angelus soul with an on/off switch. Spike was … Spike. Immature and volatile, but not really unpredictable.

And, hey, Oz. Werewolf.

Anya. Demon, once.

Even she wasn’t so sure about her own abilities. Sure, the encyclopedic knowledge of herbs and quick mastery of the obscure languages was courtesy of the Rosenberg grey matter, but some of the things she could do … they scared her. She never doubted her own goodness, no … she was firmly on the side of right. But she knew it was more than Legos and Lincoln Logs she manipulated.

She wanted to object to Spike because of the fangs and the soul deficiency and the legendary bad judgment.

But it wasn’t that. How could it ever, really, be that, in Sunnydale, on a Hellmouth, with a secret government installation only recently shuttered a few blocks away and a tower still teetering on the edge of town after a god’s failed ascendancy? And, of course, the high school …

Nope. If she was honest with herself, and while it wasn’t her favorite pastime, she was here to be big think girl … if she was honest with herself, it was about Buffy keeping her lip buttoned about the boy of the moment. And about heaven, and about feeling overwhelmed and about all the kinds of things that they used to talk about. But mostly for not ‘fessing up that her love life was heating up. Maybe Willow wasn’t entitled to all the juicy details, but hey … could you really start sleeping with someone and not tell your best friend? And lie to your best friend about there even being a guy?

Either Buffy had been really wrecked by her re-entry, in which case Willow was to blame, or they’d drifted so far apart over the months that Willow wasn’t her go-to confidant anymore. Like when they’d scaled that wall, back at the Initiative, and promised to stick together, like she’d just forgotten about that or something.

‘Cause what Buffy was doing with Spike might be a major level of squick and not worth thinking about. But even if Willow had really, really not wanted to know, why didn’t she tell her?

***

“Buffy …” he moaned, and she shushed him with her lips, rocking on his hips.

“Shhh … Spike …”

“Now who’s talking, kitten? Umm … right like that, baby. Faster!” He dribbled bath oil on his fingers, massaging her clit and helping her to slip against his wet skin.

She gyrated, water splashing over the sides of the tub and puddling on the bath mats. No sooner had she reached a ferocious climax, than he flipped her into the sudsy water and thrust violently. A tidal wave crashed over the edge, soaking everything.

“Oh god, oh god …” she pushed him off as he finished and grabbed for towels.

“Ouch! Pet, you just do not get this afterglow concept, do you?” She’d knocked his head into the soap dish. “I’m seeing little birds and stars ‘round my head.”

“It’s going to ruin the ceiling, Spike. And after all those copper pipes, I so cannot take anymore home repair.”

“Alright, then,” he stepped from the tub and grabbed a hand towel, joining her on hands and knees to mop up the mess.

Their foreheads collided again, and Buffy collapsed into giggles.

“Now that’s a sound rarely heard.”

“What? Laughter?”

“Well, yeah.” He tossed one soaked towel in the hamper and reached for another. “At least, laughter of the non-caustic and biting variety. You lot have gotten way too serious.”

At that, she lost it, leaning back against the tub and guffawing.

“What?”

“Just kind of … what’s that Brit comedy Xander’s so into, with all the weird situations? Monkey Peyton?”

“Monty Python?”

“Yeah. This is just kind of like that, only funny.”

“Right. If you say so … come ‘ere.” With the floor mostly dry, he’d reached for the last dry towel and wrapped her in it, pulling her back between his legs. He grabbed for a hairbrush, carefully pulling through her tangles. “Monty Python is bloody brilliant, Little Miss Comedy-Begins-with-Reese-Witherspoon.”

“Legally Blonde. Now that’s a funny movie. What? Americans can’t be funny? We’ve got … Steve Martin.”

“Yeah. ‘Cept that he’s Canadian.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh.”

“Now, Eddie Murphy I’ll give you. Trading Places? That was genius.”

“Never saw it.”

“Never saw it? Next night you’re not working the fryer, we’ve got a video to rent.”

“Um, presumptuous much? I might have plans.”

He grinned at her, moon-eyed.

Buffy knew this was a bad idea, knew it with every fiber of her being. But she stood and led him into her room anyhow, slipping naked beneath the sheets with him, letting him slip between her slim thighs again, pressing into her swollen flesh, letting him swallow her groans into his mouth, biting into his palm when she came.