Author's Note: RL is hectic these days, and I'm not posting as quickly as I'd like. My apologies for the delays, and many thanks for sticking with the story. The title is taken from the Garbage Song "Only Happy When it Rains."


Daybreak in Sunnydale marked dozens of things. Safety, of course. Virtually no one died in Sunnydale while the sun was up, unless they’d been abducted in the dark of night.

But it was also an invitation to lies and polite deceptions. Mostly practiced on each other, as they read the paper and noted that a colleague or a neighbor would have a memorial service the next day. And, of course, as they promised their spouse and children to have those errands finished and be home by four, at the very latest.

Sunnydalers watched more television than average. They ate more brunches. They owned fewer telescopes for evening stargazing. A demographer could find dozens of quirks in residents’ habits, all easily explained by the town’s hush-hush alternate identity as playground for the evil and the undead.

This morning, Jay was opening the door for tours and membership sales at the Fitness Factory. He’d had a full-page ad in the morning paper. A mere twenty minutes after he’d welcomed his first guest, he felt confident that he could add another unusual quality to the list.

Potential members mentioned lots of goals – dropping a dress size, losing the baby weight, adding some muscle, following the doctor’s orders – and one that was a little off for your usual gym.

So far, every single visitor had signed up for the self-defense class.

And his cover story for setting up shop on the Hellmouth was rapidly becoming a full-time job.

***

She’d gotten used to waking up in the too-small bed with him.

Not that it had been that often, but it had been surprisingly comfortable. Not like the handful of times she and Riley had curled up in her extra-long twin. Awake, Spike took up every inch of space he could claim. But when he was out? He was surprisingly still and compact. Her eyes ran over his form, just barely covered with a sheet to the hips. Short, for a man. And pretty. Without his trademark snarl and swagger, it was easy to see why his opponents underestimated him. Spike couldn’t rely on brawn. He’d become a cagey and resourceful fighter, and he knew how to throw himself into the fray, to hold nothing back. Instinctively, he knew that if you went after your enemy with killing grace, chances were that you’d walk away.

He was so much like her.

Buffy shivered with that thought.

No, not like me, she told herself, slipping quietly from the bed and heading for the shower. Nothing, nothing, nothing like me.

And still she smiled.

***

He’d walked these corridors countless times, but no visit had ever mattered more.

Council HQ was something of a labyrinth, necessitated by the gradual addition of new properties as their operations – and resources – expanded, and their natural reluctance to call in outsiders for a full-scale remodel.

Chance as much as intent put the archive at the heart of the office complex. It made Giles’ trip riskier, but once he’d made it this far, few Council members would imagine him out of place.

And then he’d made it. Pushed open the heavy fire-rated doors and the ornately carved interior set. The scent hit him immediately. Pages and pages, some ancient and fragile, many others recent and safely acid-free. Knowledge, in his experience, had a texture, a flavor and a scent.

Before his reminisces carried him away, one change hit him like a freight train. He’d been afraid of this.

Instead of the deep burnished wood of the card catalog drawers, a bank of computers had pride of place.

Giles debated. He could wander through the stacks and trust fate to guide him to the right volume. Or he could risk attracting the attention of a research librarian.

The glamour he’d used was elementary – it blanded out his identifying features, making him look like no one specific, but someone who generally belonged, someone clad in anonymous and universal tweed. Giles was banking on not just the spell, but also the Council’s extreme reluctance to teach their members even the barest outline of practical magick. But revealing that he didn’t have a Council log-in or possibly being pushed to produce an identification card? The computer terminals presented a troubling development, in more ways that one.

Of course, the glamour he’d used was also time-limited; he’d better act if he thought he’d have a shot at figuring out James’ riddle before being bounced out on his ear.

“Can I help you?”

She was pretty. And Giles was in luck. No more than 25, the young woman’s nametag clearly identified her as a junior member in training – probably on her first rotation at HQ, unless Giles missed his guess.

“I was hoping to find something on-” his brain seized on the least controversial topic he could imagine “-the training of Slayers in hand-to-hand combat. Through the ages. I’m thinking of compiling a historical piece.”

“Of course. That would be riveting.”

“Quite.”

“You seem a bit reluctant to log on.”

“I’ve been in the field for years … we’ve little use for these machines there, I’m afraid.”

“If you like, I can log you in on my account, for the time. Of course, I have limited access to records …” she glanced meaningfully at her nametag.

“Yes, that would be appreciated.”

A few minutes later, Giles’ eager helper had been called away to re-shelve and he was racing through the most current edition of the Watcher’s Handbook. Then the earlier editions. And finally, he gave up and searched on Proserpexa.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

On a hunch, he typed in “Slayer Origin Myths.”

Access Denied, the screen flashed back at him.

Could it be?

There was something here, but it was no use spending his time trying to break in. For this kind of work, he needed an expert, even if he had to head back to California to get her help.

***

She danced through her last four hours.

There was the last-ever clock-in shimmy, the final fryer two-step and the cash-me-out samba.

“This much joy should be illegal!” she crowed to no one in particular as she doffed her muppet cap for the last time and pushed through the doors to the grease-free world outside.

“Thought you might be celebrating.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Happened to be in the area.”

“What? You needed something from the Auto Barn next door?”

“Matter of fact, yeah.”

“So you came all the way out here just after dusk to get a doohicky?”

“It’s not a doohicky. It’s a whatsit that lets me tune the radio.”

“Isn’t it about time you went digital?”

“What can I say? I’m old school.”

Buffy nodded, unsure of what to do next. She’d spent her banter and was stuck, firmly on the other side of the DMP door, but unable to brush past him and stride towards home, either.

“Want to drive away from this place in style?”

The mental list of reasons to refuse unfurled, hit the ground and kept rolling. But to her surprise, she nodded and fell into step behind him.

***

“Here, try this one …”

“Yeah, that’ll work.” Dawn squinted at the picture.

“Now, memorize the address, backwards and forwards. And your date of birth. But not your driver’s license number – no one knows their number, and if you spit it out when they ask, it’ll be a give away.”

“Okay, Janice. I’ve got it.”

“Then quiz me.”

When the girls were satisfied that they knew how to masquerade as seniors from UC Sunnydale with out-of-state licenses that made them much older - and had applied enough make-up to sell the illusion - they headed out towards the Bronze.

“This is gonna be soooo cool!” Janice whispered confidently as they neared the queue. “Now just act, y’know, like we do this every night.”

***

“What is this place?” Buffy asked.

“Dunno, exactly. Was here once before … maybe there’s an outcropping of the Hellmouth?”

She frowned. They’d driven out towards the coast when she’d felt a tug and ordered him to pull over. Spike had protested, telling her that she could be heroic in a few hours, but right now she was overdue for a few hours’ R&R. But she’d given him a look, and now the DeSoto was stashed by the roadside, and they’d hiked up the hill to a clearing.

“There’s been digging. Look.”

“Yeah, okay, Daphne. But so what?”

“I don’t know … I just feel a … a pull.”

Spike watched her as she traced circles around the upturned earth.

“No, there’s something … Spike, how come this vamp chick is here? Why now? She doesn’t want to kill me. Or if she does, let’s just say she’s not super-motivated.”

“Yeah…”

“So she must want something else. Something that’s here, that I could keep her from.”

“Maybe. But then why’d she attract your attention?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I came here to get the du Lac cross? You were the last person I wanted to see.”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean, Slayer,” he emphasized her title. “Can we return to the romantic portion of our evening yet?”

“Give me a minute,” she replied, and Buffy plunged into the forest surrounding the clearing.

***

The teleconference was transmitted over a phone line more secure than most military installations, but they spoke in cloaked references out of long habit.

“And she’s not rejected her work?”

“To the contrary. She’s extraordinarily dedicated, to responsibilities both sacred and mundane.”

“No sign that she has any affiliations or loyalties that might conflict with our needs?”

“Short of searching her kitchen for Earl Grey, I can’t confirm that. But it appears that she has no active Watcher and is not in regular contact with anyone outside of Sunnydale.”

“And it is your opinion that she should be approached?”

“If not Buffy Summers, then who?”

“That’s a nice point, Jay.”

“Let’s review,” another voice interrupted. “This woman has an extraordinary service record and ample evidence suggests that she’s at odds with the authorities. We know that she’s survived her Cruciamentum and defeated Glorificus. She’s been back from the grave twice. The opportunity this young woman represents is singular. She would well honor Isabeau’s legacy.”

“Or, possibly, she’d tell us that she’s not interested in any of this.”

“Well, then Jay, you’ll need to be at your most persuasive.”

***

He was lurking in the shadows, trying to figure out how to get in.

Feeling it out hadn’t been a problem, but he wasn’t sure if blustering his way past the cloak would be brilliant. Should’ve brought Andrew or Jonathan, he thought. Someone he could push in to see if it stung.

When Warren thought about magick and power, words that were all but interchangeable these days, he never forgot he was at a major disadvantage. Spells didn’t work for him. And he might be genius with a gadget, but he came up against lots of things that could smash a gadget with their fist, easy as pie.

Like, oh say, the Slayer.

To work what Britta demanded – and to forge an alliance that meant he could stop thinking about power, ‘cause he’d be the prince, the mack, the man once he had Little Miss Brute Force wrapped around his finger – he’d need a short-term loan of magick that didn’t flow through his bloodstream. He’d found the source, but tapping it had him frustrated.

Just when he was thinking of getting home in time for Deep Space Nine, his answers stumbled down the alley, arm-in-arm and giggling.

“Willow, hey, Willow … come on, girl, this is like, our second time tonight. I was so fried this morning …”

“Whatever. No one’s making you.”

The brown-haired girl hesitated and the redhead went for the full-court press. “Come on, this is soooo much better when it’s both of us.”

“You don’t need me.”

“Do so! I need that legendary Madison bad-ass witch mojo, Ame.”

Warren bit back a whistle. He knew that flirtatious bully routine, but hadn’t expected to see it from one of the Slayer’s might-doesn’t-make-right posse.

“Alright, but not for long.”

The girls slipped past the cloak, into the chamber without hesitation. Warren watched from the outside, turning over his plan.

***

The storm came out of nowhere, leaving Spike a few steps behind Buffy and soaked through. He finally reached her in a clearing.

“Come on, Buffy, we can do this some other time.”

“Does this mean anything to you?” She gestured at the rocks arranged in a semi-circle.

“Ampitheater for squirrels?”

“This is a ritual thing.”

“Buffy, this is Sunnydale. Got a clue how many residents fancy themselves in league with the dark arts? Or latter day Druids?”

“No.”

“Seriously?”

Through the drenching rains, she shrugged.

“Enough to keep Anya’s soddin’ Magic Box in business. Name me another Main Street, USA where skink root and petrified hamsters are in heavy demand.”

“Whatever. This isn’t just some poseur set-up. I feel something.”

Spike snorted. “Yeah, rain! We’re wet through to the bone. Could we just get in the car, head back to town and maybe round up your mates for an all-night study session? Or don’t you lot do that anymore?”

Her eyes narrowed and she turned on her heel and headed back the way they’d come, pushing back her wet hair.

“Buffy, wait, I didn’t … oh sod it, I did mean it. I hate to see you Nancy Drewin’ it up without Bess and George. Are you listening?”

She wasn’t. He gave up, and gave chase until he found her, standing by the locked passenger door of the DeSoto.

“What that abso-bloody-fucking-lutely necessary?”

“Is that a question – wait, is that a word?”

“Yeah, goddamn right, it’s a question.”

“Fine, then yeah, it was abso-what-you-said.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Y’know, I think havin’ Vamp Buffy hauntin’ Sunnydale has you a little more spooked than you’re ownin’ up to.”

“Can we just get in the car?”

“No! No, we can’t just get in my car. We’re gonna chat this out.”

“In the rain?”

“In the rain, yeah.”

She turned and started walking for the main road.

“I am not chasing you again, you infuriating bint!”

“Actually, you are chasing me again. Not exactly a shocker, Spike. ‘Course, screaming in the rain? Over the top, even for you.”

“Y’know what I want to know, Slayer? I want to know why you’re NOT screaming in the rain! You kill things other people pretend don’t exist. You can do things most people can’t imagine. But you play like it’s some kind of forgettable hobby. Like you’re good at canasta. It’s a fucking calling, Buffy. And you’ve followed it, waaaay down the yellow brick road. You’re not some ordinary girl and this isn’t some regular old jones you got to scarper through the woodlands at midnight with the likes of me. See it or not, as you like, but you’re off your game with this.”

“Which this, Spike?”

“The other-”

“Yeah, I’m off my game. I’ve spent hours in bed with you. That’s a sign that something’s wrong. Cry for help. But you know what? Doesn’t matter. No one’s listening, but poor pathetic Spike. Always there, hoping for a crumb.”

“Well, that’s just perfect then. You’ve pushed away the witch and the whelp, and lord knows you’re not all sisterly with bite-size. Gonna shove me into the abyss, too? Cause it wouldn’t take much. Not from you, Buffy.” He slid into the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door. If she’d taken even one more second to join him, he swore he was going to drive off alone.

Yeah. He would’ve.

***

“He’s cuuuuute, Dawnie,” Janice slurred as they huddled together in front of the mirror. “Gimme your lipstick, mine’s not as good.”

Dawn clumsily handed over her sister’s Stila Pixie lipstick and watched Janice imperfectly apply it to her mouth. “But they’re in college. Older.”

“So are we, sweetie. ‘Member?”

“Oh, yeah.” Janice had lied like a champ, inventing UC Sunnydale classes and asking about friends of hers a year or two ahead at Cresswell. “I don’t know about frat guys, Jannie.”

“But frat guys are the best! The parties! The booze! Did I mention parties?” Janice dragged her back out into the Bronze, the space seeming dimmer and more crowded than she’d ever seen on all ages nights. Or maybe that was just the alcohol talking.

“Ladies! We got you another round.” The taller boy handed Dawnie another fruity concoction. And not knowing what else to do, she went ahead and sipped. And smiled.

“So what do the letters on your jacket mean?”

“These?”

“Yeah.”

He looked at her like she was a little slow. “Delta Zeta Kappa?”

“Yeah.”

“They mean I’m a Delta Zeta Kappa.”

Dawn giggled, and let him lead her to the dance floor.

***

He’d all but pitched her out at Revello, intent on a good drunk at his crypt. He was minus a few supplies, though, and found himself back in the throngs out after the rain for a Saturday night. His feet took him to the Bronze, past a friendly bouncer who knew better than to card him and right to the bartender with the bouncy dark curls and accommodating way with a pour of bourbon.

Four glasses in, he finally looked up long enough to think through their fight. Hadn’t been clear what sparked it – he’d been carrying around some rage, yeah, and Buffy was carrying around more than that. But get to the heart of it, and they were fighting about her fucked up lifestyle choices. Had to be a good girl, regardless of how the odds were stacked against her. He’d never met Faith, but he’d heard tales from both sides. Figured seeing a Slayer go bad would make his girl even more skittish about giving in to her power.

Spike wasn’t big theory guy, but he’d been puppy dogging Slayers for more than a century, and he had some ideas about them. Best he could figure, these warriors of light had to get their moves from somewhere. And the chances that they were channeling unsullied celestial good? Not likely. He’d believe it of the weaker ones, maybe. But girls like Buffy? She could throw down.

And now that he’d seen more of her? It was idiotic to paint her as a saint. She could roll in the grey. Could choose to kill some demons, leave others alone. Could draw her hard and bright lines, then relax them. Could hide her identity until one of her friends fell in love and she needed to trust some newcomer.

He didn’t much care what Slayers were made of, but over the years, he’d ken that their powers weren’t likely accidental or pure.

Buffy had lived longer than all but a handful of the Chosen. And now he could hurt her, the best of the good, without setting off his alarm clock.

He couldn’t decide if he was scared for his girl, or just ever more furious that she was perpetually in Queen of Denial mode.

The bartender pour him another drink.

***

No Willow. No Dawn.

There was a message on the machine from Giles, with a cursory hello to the Summers girls, and an urgent request that Willow call him about a computer problem. If she wanted to play transatlantic tech support, it wasn’t really any of her business, but it still bugged her.

Worse still, there was a call from the electric company about how her payment was now two months late.

Buffy sighed. Edit out the save-the-world angle, and she and Spike just had the kind of fight that two people only have when they’re romantically entangled. “Tangled, twisted and … tormented,” she mumbled as she reached for her top secret, emergency pack of Oreos stashed on the very top shelf behind the extra coffee mugs.

Really, the rhythms of their fight were so easy ‘cause they were oh-so familiar. From her first real boyfriend – Tyler, who was probably off on a college campus somewhere, having a simple, Buffy-free existence – right through Riley there were just certain things that set her off. And being reined in or ignored? That was top of the list, always had been.

Of course, it had been a long time since anyone tried to tell her what to do. Now that mom was gone …

She looked down and realized that she’d made a healthy dent into her emergency cookie ration. Had Dawn said anything about staying with Janice? Should she call Janice’s house to double check? Or maybe Dawn had cleared it with Willow and then Willow took off for the night … yeah, that was probably it. Cookies in hand, she headed for the living room. It looked like she was going to have to cancel cable, so she might as well watch Road Rules while she could.

***

Spike couldn’t explain what made him look up.

He’d come to the Bronze intent on looking down into the bottom of a glass a dozen or so times, maybe nicking a bottle of the golden and heading back to the crypt to sleep it off.

But he glanced up to the balcony reserved for snogging and getting yourself killed and noticed a woman so totally out of place that he startled. Why would she be in Sunnydale? And why didn’t they put out a memorandum explaining that tweed was not the thing to wear in California?

He signaled to the bartender that he’d be back, tossed a few bills down for good measure, and moved towards the catwalk as quickly as he could.

Unfortunately, the catwalk had two ways up and down, and she must’ve been headed down as he was headed up.

“Right. A regular comedic moment,” he murmured under his breath, surveying the crowded floor of the club. He caught a flash of swiftly moving suit, a chance light bouncing off her glasses. His first thought was to chase, but then something else caught his eye.

***

“Having a good time, then?”

“Big Dick!”

Spike had one hand clamped on Dawn’s shoulder. “You must be Janice. Heard a lot about you.”

“Listen, guy, you need to go ahead and unhand the lady …”

“That right?”

Frat Guy pulled himself up to his full six feet plus and puffed out his chest. It should’ve been intimidating, but Spike wasn’t about to flinch.

“She’s 15.”

“No way!” Friend of Frat Guy insisted. “Baby, why’d you bring your little sister along?”

“Unless I miss my guess, she’s also 15, mate.”

“Oh.”

“So let’s go ahead and unhand the girls and I won’t need to explain to the bouncer how you’ve been plying these sweet young things with drink for hours.”

“Yeah … okay.” The guys exchanged looks and inched away.

“Call me,” Janice mouthed over her shoulder. Spike saw her and rolled his eyes.

“Right, then. Both of you, home now. The DeSoto’s in the alley.”

Janice snorted. “That’s a really stoopid place to park. Don’t you know how many people get mugged there by baddies that go thunk in the night?”

Dawn had sobered up quickly with Spike’s appearance. “Janice, he is the baddie that goes thunk in the night. Anyway, my sister’s gonna kill me.”

“Too right, bit. If I don’t decide to do the job myself.”

***

The boys had been lounging in their hangout when Britta came barging downstairs.

“Tell me you have something useful,” she demanded, pinning Warren with her gaze.

“What do you want first, the good news? Or the bad news?”

“I don’t want there to be any bad news.”

“Yeah, okay, but see … this is Sunnydale, and bad news is kind of our specialty.” Warren smiled nervously.

“Fine. Then tell me the bad first.”

“The Slayer was there, at the temple site. She saw the digging, but I don’t think she knew what it meant.”

“How could you tell?”

“She was hopping around like a confused bunny rabbit. Anyway, I - ”

“Um, all three of us, actually, Miss Kessler,” Andrew interrupted.

“Right. We did a storm spell and that got her out of there.”

“And there’s something else?”

Warren nodded. “I think we have a way to get the magickal muscle we need to raise the Titanic. Only trouble is that it involves, well … kidnapping.”

Britta rolled her eyes. “I’m a cold-blooded killer, boy. I’ve been tearing people limb from limb since before your grandmother was born. What would make you imagine that kidnapping is bad news?”

“Well, we would have to get our hands on a really powerful witch, and she can be …”

“No, Warren. Not we. You. You have to get your hands on a really powerful witch. We’ll talk when you’ve done so.”