Buffy couldn’t sleep.

It was different than she didn’t need to sleep. Tonight she desperately wanted to sleep. But instead of heading off to cloud cuckooland, she was propped up in bed on pillows, flipping through the latest issue of Personal Trainer Today and wondering how she was going to pull off this new challenge.

Tonight felt like Christmas Eve. Teaching self defense had the potential to be a career, one for which she was highly qualified – so much better than that idiotic idea from back in high school that she’d go into law enforcement with the doughnuts and the polyester pants.

And so she’d been up since two and knew she’d probably be awake until her alarm went off at five.

A few more pages and she was out of bed, thinking over her first day outfit and putting her fight with Spike miles out of her mind.

***

Spike, on the other hand, had their fight top of mind. Well, that and the puking teenager kneeling in the shrubbery a mile or so from home.

He’d tossed the girls into the DeSoto and managed to get Janice’s address out of her before she half-passed out. For a minute, he freaked at the idea of having to deliver the girl to anxious parents, but Janice rallied enough to unlock the door and scurry upstairs unassisted.

Inches from Janice’s doorstep he faced fresh drama. Dawn was turning green, and mumbling “gonna boot … gonna boot” in a convincing fashion.

So now here he was, bad ass vampire holding back the tawny locks of a hopelessly drunk little girl.

“Think you got it all out, bit?”

Dawn nodded, slumping.

“Up with you, then.”

He half-carried her to the car, this time propping her against him.

His hard-won drunk was shattered, and thoughts of Buffy filled him. Buffy, and her attempts to live but not live and neglect anything that didn’t suit her perfectly. If that included him, so be it. He could take it. But Dawn?

Girl was falling to pieces.

He turned right towards Revello, anger growing by the second.

***

Spike had an impatient roar, reserved for those rare moments when he’d really had his fill.

“Buffy!”

This was one such moment.

Upstairs with her magazine, Buffy rolled her eyes. She’d been expecting a second confrontation, but hadn’t figured Spike for a Stella scene.

“Could you not bellow? You’ll wake the neighbors.” And then her eyes focused on the girl cradled in his arms. “What did you do to her?”

“What did I DO to her? Found her like this at the Bronze. Pissed. With a fake ID, that little friend of hers and two college guys with ill intent. Where did you think she was?”

Buffy deflated. “I figured … I figured she was sleeping over at Janice’s. She’s drunk?”

“And how.”

“Is she okay?”

“Probably humiliated for life, and in for a hell of a hangover, but I figure she ralphed all of the poison. Be okay come morning.”

Buffy fidgeted.

He mellowed for Dawn’s sake. “Let me get her upstairs, into bed, yeah? Nothin’ you can do for her now.”

She nodded and Spike brushed past her, heading up the stairs.

***

Buffy fluttered uselessly in the doorway. Spike got Dawn into bed, chucked her shoes and tucked a blanket over her. He moved her wastebasket to the bedside and filled up a water glass.

“She’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.” They moved into the hallway, Spike pulling the door not-quite-closed.

“At least she’ll get over the hangover quick enough. But the neglect? That’s gonna scar.”

“You sound like social services.”

“They’ve been here?”

Buffy shrugged. “Not yet. But the guidance counselor at school made noises.”

“Slayer, this isn’t a little thing. Not something you can fix with your fists, either.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“What’s going on here, Buffy? I thought we were …”

“What, Spike? You thought we were what?”

“Close.”

“That’s your misfortune.”

“Okay, tell yourself that.”

“Why don’t you go back to your warm television set and we’ll just forget about this, huh? Thanks for delivering Dawn but …”

“But what?”

“We don’t need you.”

“That right?”

“Yeah.”

Spike shook his head and turned to go. “If you say so, Slayer.”

He clomped out and slammed the door behind him.

Spike knew she was lying. To him, and to herself.

***

Buffy slept for a fitful two hours before she was up again, checking on Dawn, wondering what happened to Willow and re-thinking her first day outfit again.

Even with taking extra time on her make-up, she was at the Fitness Factory thirty minutes early.

“Hey.”

“You’re early.”

“Yeah, well … first day, right? Exciting. And the place is already jumpin’ … sort of.” There were a few Sunnydalers on the treadmills and ellipticals at front of house.

Jay nodded.

“So, um … what should I do first?”

“Paperwork.” He headed towards his office, past a front desk clerk he introduced as Sara and a spinning instructor called Carl.

Buffy filled out the forms he shoved towards her. “This one asks for job title. Is it instructor or just regular employee or Gal Friday or …”

She’d had the sense that he was staring that funny unblinking stare at her. When she looked up, he gaze was fixed on her right hand or possibly her elbow.

“Instructor is fine.”

Buffy tried to move on to the next form, but her new boss’ eyes were fixed on her a little too intently.

“Do I … erm … do I have something on me?”

“In a matter of speaking, I suppose you do.”

“Where? Sorry – I just had kind of a long night last night.”

Jay glanced back on the gym before closing the door. “Does the name Isabeau du Shaunde mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“Buffy, I know what you are. I know why you can flip me over your back. And I know that you were holding back when you came to apply for the job.”

“Ohhhkay.”

“And I know why so many Sunnydalers want self-defense classes.”

“Does this mean I don’t have the job?”

“You have the job.”

“Schwoo. Cause I already quit the other one and, y’know, mortgage.” She looked at his placid face. “Are you from the Council?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know about … me?”

“My grandmother was a Watcher.”

“Oh.”

“In Helsinki, years ago.”

“But you’re not. Not a Watcher.”

“No. My grandmother left the Council.”

“But she told you all the trade secrets anyhow?”

“Something like that.”

“Okay. So you know who I am, and I know who you are. Why are you telling me this?”

Jay hesitated. “It isn’t important. At least, not right now. Let’s just say that there have always been those who have known, but have chosen not to ally themselves with the Council.”

“I didn’t think anyone except the Council knew about me.”

Jay’s brow furrowed. “That’s impossible, isn’t it?”

“They always act like … well, like Slayers are a secret.”

“And they are. But any knowledge shared by so many isn’t much of a secret.”

“Apparently.”

“So we understand each other, then. You have two more forms to fill out.”

***

Willow made it back to Revello after nine, on purpose. She and Amy had been out late, too late. And things had gone a little weird, even by Sunnydale standards.

She’d stumbled across Rack – felt him pulling her, really – over the summer while Buffy was dead and she’d been so many late nights at the Magic Box. The jury was out on his actual status – Willow argued human, just with bad skin and greasy hair. Amy would raise an eyebrow and disagree. But he had to be human. Human and really powerful. ‘Cause if he wasn’t, and after last night, it meant that … well, she wasn’t gonna think about it.

After last night’s spellfest, Amy’s eyes had gone all black. And her hair had gone all black, and her face had gone chalk-white and veiny. She’d been freaked for her friend, and then she’d stumbled into the Corner Mart on her way home and caught her reflection in the convex mirror.

Hopefully black and veiny was big for fall.

By morning, she and Amy both looked like their old selves again. Just way tired and worn out. Willow waited ‘til she hoped the house would be empty, then headed back to collapse for a few more hours in her familiar bed.

Or that was the plan.

Based on the familiar form hefting a suitcase from the back of the airport shuttle right now, that plan was shot to bits.

“Hey, Giles. Whatcha doin’ here?”

***

Council HQ was, by necessity, a 24/7 operation. Still, Quentin Travers was usually tucked in his favorite chair at White’s by this time on a Sunday and he wasn’t pleased that his operative’s report was late.

“I have Miss Chalmers on the line now, sir.”

“Put her through.”

“Please pardon my delay, sir.”

Quentin was silent.

With a nervous cough, Lydia launched into her report. “The situation is complicated, sir. At present, the Slayer continues her duties with all efficiency and skill. She is a credit to the title.”

He made the smallest of noises in response, enough to make Lydia nervous.

“Of course, she acts without organization or plan, and her choice of allies remains unsavory.”

“Has she found the site?”

“Yes, though I don’t believe she is aware of its import.”

“Do any of her meddlesome friends appear to be researching the history?”

Lydia paused. “No. In fact, the witches … it isn’t clear, but she’s rarely seen with either. It is the vampire, Spike, most often in her company.”

“I see.” Quentin made a note. “Is it another situation?”

“Perhaps.”

“It shouldn’t be allowed.”

Lydia was silent.

“Any further contact?”

“No. Not since the evening confrontation last week.”

“This isn’t like Miss Summers.”

“No. In fact, it appears that Miss Summers may be avoiding a direct confrontation with the vampire. In any event, she isn’t mounting a campaign against her.”

“Anything else to report?”

She hesitated. “I believe there may be a member of the Faction in Sunnydale.”

Quentin snorted. “With Summers’ reputation, I’m amazed they weren’t on hand years earlier.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there contact between them?”

“I’ve no evidence thus far.”

“Very well,” he sighed. “I’ll wait for your Tuesday report. We’ll make a decision about our course of action on Wednesday.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Quentin leaned back in his chair. It appeared that Buffy Summers’ tenure as the Slayer would have to come to a close.

***

“Oi!” Spike woke with a start, roused from a pelting with his rolled up socks.

Dawn stood at the foot of his bed, arms folded across her chest. “Wake up.”

“Is the world ending? Big sis in some sort of trouble?”

“No.”

“Then, no. Not waking up. Sleeping, thank you very kindly. Be off with you.”

“Spike - ” she started.

“You’re welcome for last night’s hero routine, bit. But it’s been a beastly few days. Man needs his rest, yeah?”

“Welcome? You think I’m here to thank you?”

Spike rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head. Dawn wasted no time removing it.

“I’m here to yell at your dumb ass for screwing things up with Buffy.”

“Me? Me!”

“Yeah, you. She was almost starting to be not the most annoying person on earth and now? Just add milk and she’s all snap, crackle and pop. Total wreck.”

“She is?”

“Um, yeah.” Dawn chomped on her bubble gum. “And I think it is big time freaky that you’re all excited to hear that.”

“Sorry, bit, I just … me and your sis, we’ve got some history.”

“Whatever. She was a total freak this morning. Didn’t say a word about last night.”

“She didn’t?”

“Yeah. See what I mean? If I can lie about where I’m going, sneak into a bar on a fake id and get dragged home drunk waaaay after midnight … come on, if I can get away with the whole Drew Barrymore routine and she barely notices, then something is so very wrong.” Dawn sat down on the foot of his bed, deflating. “And I don’t want it to be like those first few weeks, Spike. I mean, she was back and that was great, but she wasn’t really back and that was … hard.”

“Yeah, I get that, bit.” He wrapped the sheet around his waist carefully, aware that he was buck naked with a vulnerable little girl perched a few feet away.

“So whatever happened between the two of you, can’t you just make it up?”

“You know your sis, platelet. Easier said than done.”

Dawn perked up a bit at that, bouncing a little as she turned to face him. Spike clutched at the sheet.

“But it would be perfect.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Y’know … you and Buffy and …”

“Oh. No.”

“No?”

“This isn’t that, bit. There’s no happily ever after in this fairytale.”

“Why not?”

“There just isn’t. Beauty can kiss me ‘til she turns blue and I’m still what I am.”

Dawn made a brave harrumphing noise, but Spike could see tears welling in her eyes.

“It’ll get better.”

“How? When? When does anything in Sunnyhell ever get better?”

Spike kept talking, finding the truth in his words as he spoke. “It gets easier, every day. We get just a little bit older, little bit wiser. You included, Little Miss Furious. Don’t figure we ever get much in the way of a hand up from anyone ‘cept ourselves. Me and your sis and the rest of the superfriends can bail you out of a jam with a frat boy or a three-headed beastie here and again, but the real saving? You’re gonna have to do that for yourself.”

“Didn’t you read the script, Spike? I’m the one who gets rescued.”

“Not for always, niblet. You’ll live through this and it’ll all seem … well, not silly. But like something that you had to live through. Me movin’ in and playin’ Ward Cleaver? Won’t fix nearly as much as you think. You’re still a kid, and there’s no cure for that save getting older.”

“Easier said than done.”

***

Lydia reviewed her draft report yet again.

While the situation as regards the vampire Britta remains unchanged, I have confirmed that a member of the Faction is present in Sunnydale. This is a concern for the overall integrity of Council operations, and as it raises the possibility that Proserpexa’s import is understood by those outside of our trusted few.

To the best of our knowledge, the Faction has not previously attempted to contact Miss Summers and has not approached a current Slayer in more than five decades.

However, the timing of the Faction’s appearance in Sunnydale is not likely to be coincidence. The Helfta writings are quite clear that a number of players are required to upset the balance.

As of this writing, events appear to be reaching a crisis point. It was hoped that the vampire Britta would confront, challenge and kill the present and uncooperative Slayer, thereby sidestepping the possibility that eliminating her through our own devices would trigger the very upset we seek to avoid. All indicators suggest that no confrontation beyond a minor verbal spar has taken place, and that the vampire is herself focused on breaching Proserpexa’s temple, a previously unanticipated possibility.

The emergence of powerful practitioners of the craft continues to present a potentially disruptive element.

Most recently, word has reached me that Rupert Giles has left Heathrow on a ticket for Los Angeles. He may have already arrived in Sunnydale. His talents at research and intuitive grasp of Slayer lore may prove to be particularly meddlesome. It may also prove increasingly difficult to operate, and Mr. Giles and I are old colleagues and have met as recently as last year.

Council translators continue to work through the original Helfta texts. Unless they discover fresh material or an alternate reading, I continue to assume that Proserpexa’s secrets will be revealed through accident or deliberate act.

If events are allowed to continue unchecked, it could spell the very end of the Council.