Buffy felt hollowed out inside. She knew there were tears running down her face, that her shoulders were shaking with each shuddering breath, but it didn’t touch her. It was just her body ringing out the changes. She was lost.
 
Dawn stomped upstairs, slamming her door and then the bar. Willow and Tara crept out from the kitchen and stared at the broken girl huddled at the door.
 
Willow felt awful. She’d imagined that Angel coming now would be like it had been after Joyce’s funeral. He and Buffy would stay together for a few hours, maybe a day, and sure, she’d be sad afterwards, but she’d be better. Willow had never even imagined this.
 
Willow approached her tentatively. “C’mon, Buffy,” she said gently, crouching down beside her and taking one hand in hers. “There’s ice cream.”
 
Tara stopped in the hallway, confused. We were out of ice cream this morning. I put it on the list....
 
Willow tried to pull Buffy to her feet. But the tug on her dislocated shoulder forced a near-scream of pain out of her, and Willow dropped her hand.
 
“Oh, Buffy! Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”
 
“I think … dislocated shoulder,” Buffy gasped through her tears. The pain forced her to acknowledge her surroundings.
 
Willow was now near tears herself. I made this happen. I was only trying to help and now she … she’s broken, and … and he hurt her! Willow had a sudden, horrible thought. “Buffy! Angel isn’t … he hasn’t lost his soul again, has he?”
 
Buffy shook her head.
 
Willow relaxed slightly, but kept hovering, afraid to hurt Buffy again, but desperately wanting to help.
 
Buffy forced her breath into something less gasping, strong instead of weak. She awkwardly pushed herself upright against the door, and took a few steps towards the doorway into the living room. She gritted her teeth and rammed her shoulder against the frame, popping it back into place.
 
Tara and Willow flinched.
 
“C-can I get you an ice pack? For your shoulder?” Tara asked tentatively.
 
Buffy nodded, turned towards Tara and gave her a small half-smile, then stumbled to the sofa and curled herself into a tight ball, her head resting on the arm.
 
“I’ll get it,” Willow said. Turning to Tara, “Baby? Can you leave us alone for some best-friend-time?”
 
Tara nodded. “Of course.” As she started up the stairs, she heard Willow muttering something on her way into the kitchen.
 
A pint of ice cream materialised on the kitchen counter. Willow took it, two spoons and an ice pack from the freezer and went back to Buffy in the living room.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
He knew he’d missed something important when he saw Spike striding through Restfield, vamped out, drinking whiskey straight from the bottle.
 
He knew it was bad when he watched him pick a fight with a six hundred pound Chirago demon and win in minutes, without weapons.
 
When he overheard Spike on the phone talking about a job, he left to find the DeSoto. He slipped a tracer onto its undercarriage, then went back to the motel to get his car. And weapons. He had a feeling he would need them tonight.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Giles felt the dread mounting higher the more he read – or, more accurately, the more he didn’t read. After talking him through the ritual and its aftermath, Anya had brought him every book they’d used. There were five. Five! For something of this magnitude, with the possible risks…. They hadn’t looked any further than the books already in the Magic Box. They had chosen the urn of Osiris because of a footnote in a book about demon mating rituals.
 
Giles shuddered. Mustn’t think about why any of them were looking at a book like that.
 
Also disturbing was Anya’s insistence that there had never been any effort to find out exactly where Buffy had been after she died. The others had just accepted Willow’s certainty that she was trapped in a hell dimension. But as far as he knew, no one had ever checked.
 
It had never occurred to Giles that Buffy might have gone somewhere hellish after her death. The cause of death had been the fall – natural causes, surely? He wasn’t sure which prospect frightened him more: that Willow had been right, or that she’d been wrong.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Part of him knew he was being suicidally stupid. This sort of job needed weeks of planning. Well, days…. At least hours! All Spike had was the casino’s address and the name on the contract.
 
Should plan somethin’ before rushing in.
 
Never been any good at waitin’.
 
Fuck it.
 
He’d been so sure that it would be alright. Wary acceptance from the Watcher. Anya nagging at him to pay rent was just another way of saying he was a permanent fixture – that he mattered. Just this afternoon, being told he’d no longer be kicked to the curb every Friday because he wasn’t so … convenient … on weekends.
 
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
 
He took another pull at the whiskey.
 
I really will die if I do this wankered.
 
Fuck it.
 
He downed the rest of the bottle.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
The man pulled his car into the lot a few minutes after the DeSoto, and parked as far away as he could.
 
Jenoff’s Casino? This must be the job. What can he possibly hope to accomplish here?
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Spike slammed the trunk shut, sword now strapped to his back and a double-headed axe in his hand. His idea was to march straight into the casino and demand the contract. Damn the consequences. He had to concentrate to walk in a straight line, but he was just about managing. He could take whoever was in there. Probably. Maybe. He hoped.
 
A few feet from the front door, he felt his phone going off.
 
“Fuck!” he yelled. He pulled it out, intending to throw it at something. But it was Dawn. “Fuck,” he repeated more softly.
 
“’Lo, Bit,” he said into the phone.
 
“Ohmigod! Spike!” she screeched. Spike held the phone a bit farther away from his ear. “I’ve been trying to call you forever!”
 
“Sorry,” he said. “Phone was in the boot.”
 
“You were driving?” Dawn’s voice was panicky. “Are you leaving? Where are you?”
 
He sighed. “Not leavin’. Promised, never gonna leave you.” But you were, weren’t you? Useless wanker that you are. “Jus’ doing a job. Home after.”
 
There was a long silence as they took in that ‘home’ now meant the crypt.
 
“I hate her.”
 
“No, you don’t.” Spike sighed again. “How much did you hear?” He started walking back to his car.
 
Dawn made a scornful noise. “Everything, duh! It was the middle of the lawn.” Her voice went quieter, more subdued. “So … are you and Buffy-?”
 
“No,” Spike said, more harshly than he’d intended, dropping the axe into the back seat.
 
“But—” Dawn started hopefully.
 
“Dawn,” he growled.
 
“I know you love her.”
 
Spike laughed mirthlessly. “Needs to be mutual, pet.” He lit a cigarette.
 
There was another silence.
 
“I heard what she said to you.”
 
“Really wish you hadn’.”
 
“Have I mentioned that I hate her?”
 
“Dawn….”
 
“You’re everything to me.” Dawn said, voice wavering with the beginning of tears.
 
“My Sweet Bit,” he said softly.
 
“Come home, Spike. Please? You said you’d be back before I went to sleep tonight.”
 
“I know, pet. ‘M sorry.”
 
“But you will come home eventually, won’t you? Real home? With me?” Dawn asked, voice small and fearful.
 
Spike stubbed out his cigarette and rubbed his hand over his face. “If she wants me gone….”
 
“I-is something wrong with her? Is she … forgetting again?” Dawn wished Spike was there, with her, and not on the other end of the phone.
 
“Bit—”
 
“It was scary, watching them fight. It wasn’t sparring. I’ve seen them spar. She was acting like … you know … when he was Angelus. But he’s not, is he?” Dawn was starting to work herself up.
 
“No. ‘M sure of that much,” Spike said firmly.
 
“It was like … it wasn’t even Buffy anymore.”
 
“You bring her back, Dawn. Whatever happens, you’ll always be able to bring her back. She loves you. So much. She’ll never hurt you.” That soddin’ wanker sent her into a bloody fugue state. Bet His Broodiness never noticed, either. No wonder she was actin’ like she was….
 
Dawn sniffled a bit, but didn’t argue.
 
“Could you hear what they were sayin’? Before the fightin’?”
 
“They were under the porch roof, so not much, unless they were yelling. I think I heard Buffy say something about cookies? And then he fell down the stairs ass-backwards. I’m pretty sure she broke his nose.”
 
Spike smiled.
 
“You’re totally grinning right now because she broke his nose, aren’t you?” Dawn said suspiciously.
 
“Am not!” Smilin’s not the same as grinnin’. Not lyin’.
 
“You are such a child.”
 
Spike growled and Dawn let out a half-hearted giggle.
 
“You gonna be alrigh’ tonight, Pigeon?”
 
“Can I come hang out with you tomorrow?”
 
“Not sure what shape I’ll be in….”
 
“It’s a fight-y sorta job, huh?”
 
“Yeah.” Dust-y sorta job, more like.
 
“I’ll bring blood and bandages. We’ll watch awful TV and laugh at it while you recover – or, you know, just smile, if you’ve got broken ribs again.”
 
Spike sighed. “Only if big sis says it’s alrigh’. No runnin’ off without telling anyone where you’ve gone.”
 
“Fine.” Dawn pouted, then realised he couldn’t see it and stopped. “I’ll come over when I get up.”
 
“See you tomorrow, Bit.”
 
“See you tomorrow, Spike.”
 
He heard her breath catch.
 
“Don’t die on me, okay?”
 
“Do m’best,” he mumbled.
 
“Promise me!”
 
Spike shut his eyes. “Promise.” Stupid git. Better not bloody break that promise.
 
“’Kay,” Dawn said, satisfied. “Bye then.”
 
“Bye.”
 
Spike put the phone back in his pocket and looked up at the windowless concrete monstrosity of a casino.
 
“I am so buggered,” he whispered.
 
Spike got back in his car and lit another cigarette while he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to carry this off.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Spike put his duster back on over the sword sheath. It meant he couldn’t reach the sword without taking off the coat first, but he figured he’d be less likely to need it if it wasn’t obvious he was carrying it. He’d had to give up on the axe – it just wasn’t possible to carry it hidden. He had four knives – one at each ankle and wrist – and a stake tucked into the small of his back beneath the sword. Looking down at the line of his coat, he figured that was as much as he could carry without it being obvious he had weapons on him.
 
As he stalked towards the door of the casino, he never noticed the man who’d been following him for months getting out of his car and following him inside.
 
The inside of the casino was a remarkable mix of human and demon. Guess illegal gambling joints’re equal opportunity enterprises.
 
Spike looked around for doors marked private, or anything that looked like it was for staff instead of customers. But it was one big cavern – same dimensions as the building outside. The only door was for a lift, presumably leading to a basement level.
 
He sauntered over, and pressed the call button. Just as the doors were closing behind him, a man with very short hair who moved like a soldier pushed inside the car. He gave Spike the awkward half-smile of lift-sharers, then turned away.
 
Spike passed the time as they went down by memorising the man’s scent. Trace of gun oil, unscented soap … oh yes, definitely a soldier.
 
When the lift doors finally opened, they looked out into a restaurant straight out of 1950s Vegas, complete with booths.
 
Smaller than the casino floor upstairs. Gotta be a soddin’ office somewhere down here.
 
A short, ugly demon with exceptionally small sunglasses jerked his head up and watched them as they walked in. Spike ignored him, sauntering over to a booth near the kitchen and sitting down.
 
The soldier sat down in the far corner of the other side of the room, and Spike stopped paying attention to him.
 
A blue-skinned waitress was at Spike’s side almost immediately, simpering slightly in the hope of tips. He twitched his lips into a polite smile, ordered coffee, and asked her to keep them coming. She flounced off, disappointed by his order. He sat back and waited for someone to show him where the office was by going in, hoping he'd have sobered up a bit by the time he actually had to do something.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
When Giles arrived back at Revello Drive, it was nearly midnight and all the upstairs lights were off. Anya had gone home hours ago, but he’d stayed, reading, trying desperately to find something that would make what they’d done seem less dangerous.
 
He hadn't found anything.
 
He couldn't get his own head around all the possible ramifications, given the interruption of the spell, the breaking of the circle, and the complexity of the magic. He was also concerned about how the presence of an interdimensional key might have affected the proceedings.
 
Anya had explained most of the substitutions they’d made for ingredients that were unavailable or that they didn’t recognise, and she knew all the changes in wording they’d made. But he had nothing on the urn of Osiris beyond the footnote about the demon who’d successfully resurrected his lover using one. There were also a few ingredients that Willow had taken care of by herself, without involving Anya or her Magic Box contacts. “Vino de Madre” worried him the most, because the only time he’d seen it in a spell, it had involved the sacrifice of virgins for their blood. He wouldn’t allow himself to even suspect that Willow could have gone that far, but whatever she had used as a substitute, it wouldn’t be something to be proud of.
 
He was dreading talking to Willow about what she’d done. He knew it would be painful for both of them, and he also knew that if he lost his temper again, she would never tell him everything. And he had to know. He had to know if Buffy’s problems were magical or psychological.
 
To his surprise, he found Buffy in the basement, pounding on the punching bag. She was drenched in sweat, and her un-taped hands and feet were bruised and bloody.
 
“Buffy,” Giles called out gently from the stairs.
 
She turned and looked up at him. She looked haunted – agonised – before she shook herself and forced her lips into a smile that never reached her eyes.
 
Giles’ heart broke a little bit more. “I think it’s time for bed, my dear,” he said quietly.
 
Buffy nodded, then winced as she started walking on her damaged feet.
 
“Can I do anything to help?” he asked, looking at her hands and feet.
 
Buffy shook her head. “I’ll be fine.” She examined her injuries. “It looks worse than it feels.”
 
Giles nodded, watching her walk gingerly up the stairs and shut the door behind her. He fell back onto the bed, suddenly exhausted.
 
As Buffy sat at the breakfast bar with the first aid kit and cleaned herself up, she hoped desperately that her body was exhausted enough to keep the nightmares away.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Spike and the soldier sipped their coffees on opposite sides of the room and watched the people and demons coming and going between the restaurant and the main floor upstairs. There was a steady trickle in and out of two doors they each (correctly) identified as private gaming rooms – the high roller tables, going by the punters’ clothes.
 
The ugly demon with sunglasses hovered around a section of wall that Spike suspected was a third, magically camouflaged, door.
 
His suspicions were confirmed when another demon – better dressed but just as ugly – appeared beside the first one seemingly out of thin air. The two got into the lift, so Spike waited for the next crowd of gamblers to come down and occupy the attention of the waitress and patrons, before sauntering over to the wall and feeling for the handle. It wasn’t locked. Spike just slipped in.
 
The soldier in the far corner watched in shock as Spike disappeared.
 
It was an office, as Spike had hoped, but there was nothing to suggest there were any valuables stored there – no pictures on the walls to conceal a safe, not even a filing cabinet. The desk didn’t even have drawers.
 
Although … door in was hidden magically. Reckon anythin’ valuable’d be hidden too….
 
Spike closed his eyes and started using his nose. Only one scent in the room. Must’ve been Jenoff just now, then. But there was definitely a reek of magic hanging about the place. He started running his hands over the walls, eyes still closed, feeling for another hidden door or a safe, trying to sniff out where the magic was coming from.
 
After almost half an hour of searching, he found it. There was a box he could feel, but couldn’t see, underneath the desk. It felt like old, well-weathered wood, but it was heavy, like it was filled with lead or gold or something. He could feel a keyhole at its front, so he pulled out one of his knives and started trying to jimmy the lock. The knife blade snapped off – too quickly.
 
Bloody hate magic.
 
Spike shrugged off his coat and pulled out his sword. But striking at the box was like hammering at concrete. His bones rattled with the impact, and he reckoned he was lucky the damn thing hadn’t broken his sword as well. Shaking off the pain, he put the sword back in its sheath and the coat back on.
 
He sat down on the floor in front of the box.
 
Blood?
 
He pulled out another knife, nicked the little finger of his right hand, and pressed it up against the lock. It burned up the blood, scorching his finger and making the room stink of burned flesh.
 
Not blood, then … least, not mine.
 
The magic smell started getting stronger, and Spike could almost see the box’s outline shimmering in the air. He thought it looked suspiciously like he’d set off some kind of alarm.
 
He sprang to his feet, and went to open the door, but it was locked.
 
Not good.
 
He looked at the gap between the door and its frame – there was no physical lock. Plus, it opened inwards. No way to break out.
 
There were no other exits. The only furniture was the desk and chair, neither of which offered any places for concealment.
 
Bugger.
 
Spike lugged the box up and onto the desk, and sat down in the chair. Even with his strength, it was hard work lifting it that far.
 
Definitely can’t carry the bloody thing out, then.
 
He shrugged out of his coat and got out the sword. He placed it across his knees, where it was at least partially hidden by the desk.
 
Then he sat back and waited for Jenoff to respond to the alarm.