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Chapter 4
 
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After a good month of nothing but fledges, something interesting had finally turned up on patrol. Spike felt its claw go into his back, curving around and behind his shoulder blade, narrowly missing his heart.


He closed his eyes briefly in relief. Least ‘m not wearin’ the duster.


The arm attached to the claw started pulling back, but it was stuck, snagged on something inside him. Spike gave a violent lurch to one side, somehow managing to separate the claw from the arm, but leaving it stuck in his back.


He gagged on the stench of demon blood that was suddenly spurting out of the stump. He could feel his nose hairs disintegrating, even after he stopped breathing. His opponent started howling in pain.


“Don’ like losin’ bits, do ya, mate?”


Spike stopped the other, still-clawed, arm just before it reached his face, and wrenched that claw off. The blood burned as it covered him.


Gushing blood and in immense pain, the demon lost interest in fighting. Using the claw he’d just liberated, Spike sliced its neck halfway open, grabbed the vertebrae through the hole, and wrenched its head clean off. It didn’t dust. Spike studied it for a moment.


“That enough t’kill you? Or you gonna go all Black Knight on me?”


Lessee if you’re flammable. He got out a cigarette and his lighter, and sat back on a tombstone. He gagged when he tried to inhale.


Oh god the stench. He glared at the corpse. Tha’s it. Not breathin’ again ‘til you’re ashes, mate.


He tossed his lit cigarette into the pool of blood nearest the neck stump and grinned when it lit up like gasoline.


While he watched the demon burning, Spike reached around to try to pull the claw out of his back. Unfortunately, it really was stuck on something, and he couldn’t pull it out from any of the angles he could reach on his own. Bugger.


Once the corpse started looking fragile, he threw dirt on the flames to put them out and stomped on the demon until it was dust.


Bloody good fight, that was.


Vaguely remembering some wall hooks in the Magic Box training room that he thought might work, Spike started walking. Should pro’ly confirm what manner o’ beastie that was, while’m at it. Not often I see one I don’ recognise….


When Spike arrived at the Magic Box, his skin was still burning from the demon blood, so he had a quick shower. The water was agony on his back, but at least he could breathe again. He’d forgotten why he’d stopped breathing a couple of times on the way over, and he was convinced he’d lost cartilage the last time he inhaled.


The hooks were a bit lower than he’d remembered, so he was stuck doing the limbo trying to get one of them around the edge of the claw. Every time he missed, he caught skin at the edges of the wound. Fuckety fuck FUCK this hurts!


He was struck, suddenly, with the loss of the Slayer. He could imagine her helping him with this. Laughing with him about it. She fought weird demons every day; she’d understand.


He couldn’t imagine even asking the Slayerettes. For all that they’d decided to let him into Dawn’s life this summer, he knew it was pure selfishness on their parts. With him living at Revello Drive during the week and only going back to his crypt at weekends, the Scoobies could not only go on with their normal lives five days out of seven, but also ignore him completely and still feel smug for being with his Niblet on weekends. Although he couldn’t think why he’d ever want to spend time with them, the principle of the thing grated.


They had never asked about his patrols. Not once.


His back really hurt, and his attempts to snag a hook were getting clumsier. Everything was now slick with blood, which didn’t help. It was also almost full daylight and he was exhausted. Ashamed of quite how much he wished someone would come and help him, he slid down onto the floor. Jus’ rest for a minute. Got time. He curled into a ball, leaning his shoulder and knees against the wall so nothing was touching his back, and closed his eyes.


Anya found him there, asleep, when she arrived to open.


“Spike! What are you doing to my store?”


His raised his head sleepily. “Got a claw stuck in m’back. Can’t reach to pull it out.” He waved at the hooks over his head. “Thought I could hook it.”


Anya tried very hard not to laugh. “If you stand up, I’ll pull it out for you.”


Spike looked at her warily, but stood up.


“Brace yourself.” Anya smirked at him, and gestured for him to turn around.


She grasped the claw, jiggling it around to get it unstuck, before ripping it out with a wet sucking plop.


Spike sagged against the wall. Holding back the whimpers had been almost as painful as Anya’s ministrations.


“You’re welcome,” Anya said, moving to hand over the claw. Taking her first good look at it, she gasped. “Where did you find this?”


Spike gave her his best ‘how stupid are you?’ look. “Its former owner decided he di’n’ like me much.”


“This is from a Krolgarth demon,” she said hungrily. “I can sell it for thousandsWhere did you find it and can you bring me more?”


Spike sauntered over to where he’d left the other claw. “Like this one, y’mean?” Anya snatched at it. “Ah-ah-ah! Down, girl. Mine.”


Anya pouted. “Why won’t you give it to me? I can get so much money for it!”


“Think you mean we can get so much money for it. ‘M hardly gonna risk my life fightin’ somethin’ jus’ to give away the proceeds, am I?”


Anya glared at him. “I didn’t have to tell you it was valuable, you know. And how would you even find a buyer?”


“What say we agree to split the proceeds?”


“Split how?”


“Ten per cent finder’s fee?”


Anya’s eyes narrowed. “I want fifty.”


“You’re off your soddin’ rocker! I took all the risks!” Spike crossed his arms.


“Forty-five-fifty-five?”


“I might consider going as high as twelve.”


Anya gasped. “Never!”


“Wha’ do I get out of it tha’s worth more’n twelve?”


Anya looked thoughtful for a moment. “I have an idea.”


“’M listenin’.”


“From time to time, I get … speculative … orders. Requests. If you could fulfil some of those orders…. I think we could make serious money.”


“Twelve per cent’s a more’n fair commission for you as broker.”


Anya, scowling, clutched the still-bloody claw to her chest. “I will accept twenty. But I get to keep all the profit from this one. I pulled it out of you; that makes it mine.”


“How much work’re you gonna get me, Demon Girl?”


“We’re the biggest magic supplier on the West Coast and demons think the Hellmouth is catnip.” Anya shrugged. “How much work do you want?”


Spike nodded. “Long’s you keep that work comin’, you’ve got a deal. Twenty per cent commission, plus one claw.”


Anya glowed. “I’ll draw up a contract.” She reached for the second claw.


“Not ‘til we’ve signed.”


Anya pouted. “Don’t you trust me?”


Spike laughed. “Why should I? D’you trust me?”


“Well, no, but….”


“Jus’ draw up the contract,” Spike sighed.


“Well, you – you just clean up the mess you made.” Anya stalked back towards the front of the shop.


“Reckon you might wanna drop that bloody claw you’re clutchin’,” Spike called out after her. “‘Fore it scares off all the customers.”


Anya squawked, and ran for a mirror.


“This is silk!” She wailed.


Spike snickered. He felt much better.

 

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Dawn’s morning went less well. As soon as she woke up, she knew it was going to be one of the bad days. Bad days were … survivable … during the week, when she could go home and Spike was there. He always knew if she needed to talk, or be quiet, or cry, and he could make hot chocolate that tasted just like her mom’s.


Weekends were harder. There were expectations on weekends.


“Dawnie?” Willow called. “Xander’s here! And we made pancakes!”


Dawn groaned, and curled into her duvet. Don’t wanna get up yet.


“C’mon Dawn-monster!” Xander called. “It’s weekend fun-time!”


Dawn dragged herself out of bed. They can just deal with my pyjamas. Can’t face getting up properly yet. She stomped down the stairs. When she reached the kitchen, Tara was making pancakes and Willow was mock-slapping Xander as he tried to steal from the growing stack.


They all look so happy. How can they? Why can’t I? Dawn could feel tears coming and a lump forming at the back of her throat.


Willow saw her misery and, looking stricken, called out, “Oh Dawnie, don’t cry!”


Dawn’s self-pity flipped to rage. “Why shouldn’t I cry? Huh?” She built up to an ear-splitting shriek. “How dare you try to tell me what I should be feeling!” She turned around and ran back upstairs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.


The kitchen went silent. Willow’s face crumpled. “I wasn’t trying to tell her what to feel! I just wanted to help.”


“We know, Will. She’s … some days are worse than others.” As Dawn’s frequent chauffeur, Xander was familiar with the days when she really couldn’t cope. “It’s best to just let her be when she’s like this.”


“She hates me.”


“Oh, Sweetie, it’s not you,” Tara said gently. “She’s fourteen and grieving. She hates everybody.”


Xander swallowed a laugh.


She doesn’t seem to hate you two, Willow thought resentfully. Or Spike. “Maybe we could start inviting Janice to weekend brunches? Dawn might be happier if she had someone her age around.”


“Bad idea,” Xander said. “Janice,” he held his fingers in air-quotes, “thinks dead mothers are catching.” He let his arms drop. “They haven’t really spoken since Joyce died.”


Why didn’t I know that? Willow wondered, hurt.


“Plus we’d all have to pretend Buffy’s just out somewhere if Janice were here – or anyone else from school. I don’t think Dawn wants to spend time with people who don’t know right now,” Tara added.


“Poor Dawnie.” Willow tried, again, to bury the hurt. I can be all sympathy-girl. I can.


“I’m gonna go grocery shopping after we’re done breakfast,” Tara said. “Did Spike add anything to the list before he left last night?”


Willow grabbed a pad from the fridge. “Yup. I’ll read it out to you. First is pickles.” She made a face. “Ewww. Does anyone but Spike eat those?”


“Dawn does, sometimes.”


“The Xan-man has also been known to indulge in a bit of gherkin-y goodness.” Xander paused. “That sounded so much less gay in my head.”


Willow slapped him, giggling. “Hey!”


Pickles, Tara added to her own list. “What else?”


“Cocoa powder, mini marshmallows, Dawn’s ice cream –”


“Pecan maple, right Sweetie?”


“Ya-huh.”


Xander wondered if he should go check on Dawn. Out of ice cream and hot chocolate? In no way is that of the good.


“Bacon.” Willow paused. “Mmmmm bacon.”


When Xander looked confused, Tara said solemnly “Spike can do things with bacon that shouldn’t be allowed.”


“Oh, and that sauce he makes? With the cream?” They groaned.


“He cooks?” Xander squawked.


“I hate to admit it, but the first thing we do when we get home now is check the fridge for leftovers.” Willow sighed, rubbing her belly.


“I don’t even know how to begin to respond to that.”


“Is there more after bacon?” Tara asked.


“Yup.”


“Spike, soulless vampire, cooks for you.”


“Oh, he doesn’t cook for us,” Tara said. “He cooks for Dawn. But sometimes, if we’re lucky, he makes too much and there are leftovers.”


“And they’re ... tasty?”


“You have no idea how tasty.” Tara motioned to Willow to continue with the list.


“Next is – and I quote  – ‘that sugary shite Dawn insists is food’. I think he means Froot Loops Marshmallow.” She paused. “More Weetabix? Jeesh! And that’s it.”


“You know he puts it in his blood,” Xander said.


“Froot Loops?” Willow asked.


“No, doofus, Weetabix. Giles told me.”


Willow and Tara made ‘ewww’ faces at each other.


“That explains why he gets through so much of it. We figured eating a healthy, rich-in-fibre breakfast cereal was just one of the many ways in which Spike is way up there on the weirdness scale.”


“I guess it still is. I mean… Weetabix in blood can’t be standard practice, what with it not being generally found in veins and all.”


“Can you imagine Angel putting cereal in his blood?” The girls giggled.


“Or chewing?” More giggles.


“So it’s really working? Spike living here?” Xander asked.


Willow made an embarrassed grimace. “Yeah. It really is.”

 

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He was sorry the Slayer had not survived the Beast.


He’d been watching the Key and the people who surrounded it since just after her sacrifice, trying to assess its safety in her absence.


The red-haired witch was immensely powerful, but he didn’t think the Key was in any danger from her or the blonde witch. He believed they might even protect it to an extent, but only if they thought they could afford the cost. They were not family.


He didn’t think the vampire would count costs, even now, without full knowledge of their relationship. That, in itself, fascinated him. He had initially assumed he’d have to tell them what he knew in order to gain the vampire’s support. But when he heard them making their “custody arrangement”, he decided to wait.


He dismissed the two humans – they were not warriors and had no magic. The Watcher’s knowledge and resources might have been helpful, but he seemed to have abandoned the Key completely. Pity.


He still wasn’t sure what he would tell them when he made first contact. All he knew so far was that Brother Radan hadn’t had all the facts, and that the Key might not be as human or as helpless as they had assumed. But he needed to know more before he approached them. For now, he would watch, and wait until he discovered what it was Radan hadn’t told the Slayer – or hadn’t known to tell the Slayer – and why he had dragged him into this mess.


I once swore to destroy the Key. Why would the Order of Dagon choose me to protect it?

 

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The first delivery of October to the Magic Box was a personal one for Anya: the urn of Osiris, the last ingredient missing for the resurrection spell.


Anya had agreed to the plan. She’d helped at every research party, and – when they finally found a spell Willow thought she could make work – it had been Anya sourcing most of the ingredients.


But it had taken so long. It wasn’t summer anymore, and their lives had all been on hold for months now, and everyone had built up all sorts of expectations about how things would be once Buffy was back.


Anya was getting increasingly nervous about the consequences of performing such a dark spell. She also suspected Willow lacked the power – and experience – to do it correctly. What if Buffy came back ... wrong?


As soon as she’d bought the urn, Anya found herself hoping it wouldn’t arrive, or that it would be broken in transit, or turn out to be fake. But as soon as she opened the package, she knew. Reluctantly, she started making calls.

 

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Every night, before Willow went to sleep, she went through a catechism of what would happen once Buffy was back. It was pure fantasy – Willow knew that – but she controlled every part of the fantasy, and it was happy, and it made real life a bit easier to bear.


First, Buffy would be overjoyed to be back, and so grateful to Willow for rescuing her. She’d be cured of her death wish, and confident that she could take on anything after defeating Glory. She’d be impressed by Willow’s powers and they’d be more like equals now, so no more ‘Willow the sidekick’. Their friendship would be even stronger than before. Like sisters.


Dawn would be happy again, so there would be no more outbursts, or crying, or shrieking. And because it was Willow who had made her happy again, Dawn would finally recognise that she really needed and wanted her in her life. Dawn and Buffy and Willow would be like sisters all together, and although of course Dawn would still really like Tara and Xander, she wouldn’t be quite as close to them as she was to Willow and Buffy.


When Buffy was back, there would be no need for Spike. He’d move out of the house, for sure. And Dawnie wouldn’t miss him, not with Buffy back.


Even in her fantasy, Willow didn’t really want him staked – he still had the chip so staking would be Wrong – but she imagined him leaving Sunnydale. He made things uncertain and messy. He thought he was in love with Buffy. It would be better if he weren’t around anymore.


And finally, Tara: ever since Glory, she’d been all avoido-girl with anything magical. But doing the resurrection spell would restore all her lost confidence in witchcraft, and they could go back to the way they were before, when they’d made magic together almost every day. Willow would be able to stop hiding her magical explorations and share everything with Tara again.


Willow knew that not all of these things were going to happen. A very, very small part of her knew that probably none of them would. But she hoped. And the hope helped her sleep.

 

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When the Scooby gang met to examine the urn, Anya tentatively suggested to Xander and Tara that maybe they shouldn’t go through with the resurrection spell after all. They didn't immediately nix the idea, so she started talking through some of her fears. But just when she thought she might be getting somewhere, Willow arrived.


“It’s time to stop talking. Tomorrow night, we’re bringing Buffy back.”

 
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