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Chapter 37
 
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Tara was relieved to see a new front door at 1630 Revello Drive when she returned from classes. The house was dark and silent, but as long as her key still worked in the lock, she didn’t much care whether it was because the other occupants were out or asleep.
 
She dropped her bag in the hallway and went straight to the fridge, dragging her feet in anticipation of the exhausting prospect of cooking. Tara wasn’t feeling overly hopeful about leftovers – yesterday’s mole had never made it to the fridge.
 
To her immense relief, four tupperware boxes had appeared while she’d been out. Tupperware meant Dawn and Spike were home and – probably – a day lacking in drama.
 
The first container held a half-portion of salad.
 
Meh.
 
Tara grinned when she opened the second one. She knew this dish. It did have vegetables in it, but experience told her she wouldn’t taste anything but cream and bacon.
 
Mmmmm bacon.
 
She glowed when she opened container number four.
 
Definitely no crises, she thought. There’s crumble.
 
She decanted containers two and three (rice) into a bowl ready for the microwave.
 
Then she ate all of the crumble.
 
 
 
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Xander stood outside the door to his and Anya’s apartment for a long time before he went in.
 
Anya was sitting on the sofa in a pair of satiny lounging pyjamas he’d got her last Christmas, reading what he assumed was the financial section of the paper.
 
It was the only part she ever read.
 
“Hey,” he said softly.
 
“Hey, yourself,” she said.
 
“Can it be last week again?” Xander sighed.
 
Anya smiled. “You’re back late.”
 
Xander sighed. “Didn’t get as much done today as I’d hoped.”
 
“Have you eaten?”
 
“Not yet.”
 
“There’s half a quiche in the fridge.”
 
“What’s in it?”
 
“Spinach and cheese.”
 
Xander opened the fridge and immediately gagged at the vomit-inducing fumes emanating from the quiche. “No, thanks. Think I’ll pass.”
 
Anya rolled her eyes. “You have no appreciation for good food. How can anyone not like Roquefort?”
 
“How do you still have nose hairs?”
 
Anya watched Xander pull out the last of the ham and his package of horrendously bland American cheese.
 
She made a face at him. “That’s neither American nor cheese, you know,” she said petulantly.
 
It was an old, familiar, comforting argument.
 
As Xander was taking his first bite of sandwich, she blurted out, “I found a place.”
 
Xander crammed the rest of the sandwich into his mouth to stop himself from saying anything he might regret five seconds later.
 
All of his attention was immediately diverted to not choking on it.
 
Slightly winded, Xander slumped against the kitchen counter. “I thought you’d want to stay here,” he said quietly. “You love this place.”
 
Anya sighed. “I loved it for us.”
 
Xander rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Richard said he’d put me up ‘til I find something … he’s, uh, he’s still got that spare room.” Their eyes met while they remembered happier times in Richard’s spare room.
 
Xander broke away from their tentatively shared smile, dropping his plate and knife into the sink a little too loudly.
 
Anya stared down at her hands. They were smudged and inky from the newspaper. “Maybe we can find someone to sublet?” she suggested, gathering up the sections of the newspaper and folding them back together before putting it on the table. “We can’t break the lease until April.”
 
Xander couldn’t believe how practical she was being. As if he could even begin to care about breaking the lease! He couldn’t understand how she could be so calm about the idea of leaving this place – their place.
 
Despite himself, Xander found himself saying, “Giles might want it.” His voice sounded wrong, like someone else was talking through his mouth. He forced out a weak smile. “It’d get him off the couch.”
 
“He bought a new mattress for the basement this afternoon,” Anya said. “But that’s a good idea.”
 
Xander wanted to scream.
 
 
 
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Just as Tara was sitting down to eat the dinner part of her dinner, the basement door opened and Giles came through.
 
“Tara,” he said, smiling in greeting. “How are you?”
 
Tara shrugged and smiled back. “Tired, mostly. Thursdays are exhausting at the best of times.”
 
“I, er, I spoke to the Devon Coven,” he said quietly.
 
Suddenly the dish of bacon-y deliciousness lost its appeal.
 
“They don’t believe it’s possible to bind Willow’s powers reliably.” Giles continued, running one hand through his hair. “She’s just too strong.”
 
Tara didn’t quite know how to feel about that. Willow’s use of magic and her identity as a witch were so strongly connected to her sense of self, taking them away would be like turning her into a different person. But Tara was afraid of what Willow might do in a way she never had been before – and with her powers bound, she would at least be restricted to mundane things like phone calls.
 
“They had an alternative suggestion,” Giles continued. “A spell to create a link, between practitioners. Any time one uses magic, the other will know.”
 
Tara’s eyes met Giles’. “And you want me to d-d-do it?”
 
Giles nodded slowly. “Ordinarily, I would be the first to say that you are too close to the situation, and that you should not be involved in anything that Willow might interpret as, er, punishment.”
 
Tara’s stomach gave a little lurch. “B-but she’s so much stronger than me. I don’t understand how knowing when she’s using magic can help.”
 
“Asking you to be Willow’s … partner … in this will mean that any time she attempts to use magic on you, it will have no effect.” He sighed. “Ordinarily, the spell is used as a safety measure for some of the more ungovernable earth magicks – to ensure at least one person remains unaffected if something goes wrong.”
 
Tara sighed. “I can’t deny I’d feel safer,” she said slowly. “But I still don’t understand how it helps.”
 
“It is infinitely better than doing nothing.” Giles smiled weakly.
 
Tara dipped her head to acknowledge the point.
 
“My hope is that if Willow cannot hide her magical activities, it will inspire her to exercise some self-control.”
 
 
 
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“But it’s idiotic for you to sleep on the sofa!” Anya huffed. “It’s uncomfortable, and will likely result in you injuring your back.” More quietly, she said, “There’s no reason we can’t share a bed for a night or two.”
 
Xander’s head flooded with images from last night: Anya laughing, daring him to hit her, to show her he was a real man. “There’s every reason!” he snapped. “How can you be so … so normal about all this?”
 
“Would you rather I was hysterical? I understand subletting! I understand sleeping arrangements! I don’t understand what’s happening between us! It hurts, Xander! It hurts and don’t understand why I don’t want you to die a slow and painful death!”
 
“You should want that!” Xander shouted. “Why don’t you hate me?” His voice broke. “You should hate me.”
 
 
 
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Spike shifted to grind out the embers of his cigarette with the toe of his boot. His knee glanced against Buffy’s.
 
“You better not be marking up my steps,” she said.
 
It was the first time she’d spoken since they’d gone outside.
 
Spike lifted his boot and nudged the butt off the step and onto the path. “Tiny smudge,” he said.
 
She knocked her knee against his. “Says you.”
 
She leaned back to look up at the sky.
 
There was a thunk as a shuriken embedded itself in the post centimetres from Spike’s left shoulder.
 
“What the fu— Ow!” A second star went into his shoulder.
 
Tara and Giles looked up in shock at the shouts from outside.
 
Then the back door burst open and Spike and Buffy tumbled through it.
 
Spike hissed in pain as he pulled the shuriken out of his shoulder.
 
“Wimp,” Buffy said.
 
He glared at her, and threw the star – almost as big as his palm – into the sink. “Nicked bone, that did. Bloody hurts!” Spike cocked his head to one side, frowning. He could feel his knees going weak. “Bugger,” he said, slapping his hands on the counter in an attempt to remain upright. He blinked once. Twice. Then he slid to the floor, unconscious.
 
Giles and Tara stared down at Spike’s very still body sprawled out on the floor.
 
“Er, what’s happening?” Giles asked weakly, turning to Buffy with a bewildered expression.
 
“We have ninjas,” Buffy said brightly. “Or maybe ninja? Only saw the shiny pointy things.”
 
Tara gently prodded Spike with one foot. When he failed to react at all, she asked, “Should we be worried?”
 
“Not dusty, not a problem,” Buffy said wryly. She still hadn’t looked at him since he fell.
 
“A-and the ninjas…?” Tara asked, half-turning towards the back door.
 
Buffy shrugged. “You guys re-did the protection spell this morning, right?”
 
Giles and Tara nodded.
 
“Then Sleeping Ugly here oughtta be safe enough. I’m guessing ‘ninja’ means they’re making with the stealthy.”
 
Buffy stepped over Spike to take a glass from the cupboard. She turned on the tap and let it run cold before filling it with water.
 
Giles and Tara watched her in silence
 
Finally, Giles asked, “Shouldn’t you be, er, going after the ninjas?”
 
Buffy took a small sip of water. She stared down at Spike, the merest ghost of a smile hovering over her lips.
 
“I kinda promised I’d take tonight off.”
 
 
 
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Giles claimed exhaustion and went back downstairs to bed not long after Spike had been manhandled onto the sofa.
 
The girls returned to the kitchen. “So, I uh … I kinda kicked Willow out again,” Buffy said.
 
Tara nodded uncertainly. She looked at her now-cold dinner. Bacon will still taste good cold, right?
 
“Just so you don’t, you know, freak out when you go upstairs,” Buffy continued. “She packed up a bunch of stuff and took it with her this afternoon.”
 
Tara forced herself to take a bite of dinner.
 
It tasted like sawdust. Tara forced herself to swallow.
 
“Where is she now?” Tara asked, amazed at how normal she sounded.
 
Buffy shrugged helplessly. “Her parents’, I guess?”
 
Tara nodded again.
 
“So … you gonna go after her?” Buffy asked, clearly expecting the answer to be some form of when, rather than if.
 
“No,” Tara said quickly in a low, firm voice.
 
Buffy’s eyes widened. “Really? I thought—”
 
“Willow … messed with my memory. Before.”
 
“Oh,” Buffy said, surprised.
 
Tara’s heart sank. Buffy would be just like Xander – unwilling to believe Willow would hurt her.
 
“Well, you’re not included in the kicking-out-age,” Buffy faltered. “So….”
 
Tara smiled weakly. “Thanks. But I think it’s probably better if I leave.” She took a deep breath. “I mean, you’re Willow’s friend.”
 
“Yours too,” Buffy said quickly.
 
“I think I might need some time on my own,” Tara said. She wasn’t sure if it was true, but time alone seemed like something she should need.
 
“Oh,” Buffy said, forcing a smile.
 
They sat in slightly strained silence while Tara ate more of her dinner in tiny bites.
 
“I never thanked you,” Tara said suddenly.
 
Buffy looked puzzled.
 
“I thought I was going to die last night, and you saved me. So … thank you.”
 
“Um, you’re welcome, I guess. It’s … it’s just my thing.”
 
“Maybe, but … it’s always nice to be thanked, right?”
 
“Right,” Buffy said awkwardly. “Guess you probably wouldn’t want to stay here anyway. I mean, you know, there’s all that pesky life-threatening danger … ninjas … demons….”
 
“D-do you want me to stay?” Tara asked, genuinely curious.
 
The words ‘Of course I do,’ rose up in Buffy’s throat but never quite made it out of her mouth. “I don’t know,” she said finally. The honesty felt weird and uncomfortable. But … also a relief?
 
“I don’t really know, either,” Tara said encouragingly. “M-maybe neither of us need to make a decision right now?”
 
Buffy nodded, grateful.
 
Their shared silence was more comfortable after that.
 
When she went up to bed not long after, Buffy was armed with a giant mug of sleepy tea from Tara.
 
She was quietly hopeful it would work better than the makeshift gag she’d constructed the previous night.
 
 
 
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Late the next morning, Spike burst through the door to the Magic Box, sizzling slightly. “Anya, luv!” he said, throwing off his blanket with a flourish. “You’re looking exceptionally lovely today!”
 
Anya looked at him suspiciously. “I’m not lending you money.”
 
Giles opened his mouth to speak, a perplexed look on his face; a swift and vicious elbow to his ribs made it snap shut again.
 
Spike was too busy trying to look winsome to notice. “What makes you think I want money?”
 
“You never compliment me unless you want something.”
 
Spike scowled, his lower lip threatening to curl into a pout. “Do so!”
 
“Shouldn’t you be in hiding?” she asked.
 
Spike shrugged. “Got the same protection spell here as at the Slayer’s, right? ‘M safe enough.”
 
Giles rolled his eyes. “Coming here was a stupid risk to take after last night.”
 
“Everyone’s out or sleepin’,” Spike said, unrepentant and whiny. “‘M bored.”
 
“I have some translation work for you,” Anya said brightly. “That would keep the boredom away and solve your money problems.”
 
Spike groaned.
 
“Translation work?” Giles asked weakly.
 
Anya nodded.
 
“You’ve got him translating magical texts?”
 
Anya burst out laughing.
 
Spike glared at her. It only made her laugh harder.
 
“You have got to be kidding!” Anya wheezed. “Spike only understands Latin when it’s basically French; his Sumerian and Aramaic are non-existent; and he wouldn’t know a dead demon language if it bit his leg off!”
 
Spike’s expression got steadily darker.
 
Giles looked puzzled. “What’s he translating, then?”
 
“He talks to suppliers!” Anya looked accusingly at Giles. “After you left, I found out Professor Svec doesn’t speak any English. And she wasn’t the only one.”
 
Giles shrunk into his shoulders a little. Svec was important. “Sorry?”
 
“Lucky for the Magic Box,” Anya said huffily, “Spike speaks Czech. Mostly. But even better,” Anya’s eyes glittered, “he’s hooked me up with demon suppliers. Do you have any idea how ignorant most of them are of the value of the American dollar?” Anya looked gleeful. “I’ve nearly halved our stock costs.”
 
“Who do you want me to call?” Spike asked sulkily.
 
Anya was suddenly all business. “Betinho Souza. His shipment arrived today and half the ‘chrysalises’ were dead moths. I want a full refund, plus new chrysalises by the end of the week.”
 
Spike pursed his lips. “Fifty.”
 
“Ten.”
 
“Fifty!”
 
“You’re desperate. And I have Giles, who will do it for free.”
 
“Twenty?”
 
“Ten.”
 
“Bitch!”
 
Anya smiled serenely.
 
Spike stomped off to the office in the back.
 
“Don’t you have twenty-something thousand for him from last weekend?” Giles whispered.
 
Anya grinned. “Yes, but Spike won’t call Souza unless he’s desperate.” She waved a hand airily. “I’ll tell him about his money when he gets off the phone.” She sighed. “Poor money. It’ll probably get squandered on kittens.”
 
Giles repeated Not interfering to himself several times before saying, “I could have called Souza.”
 
“Are you back for good?” Anya asked.
 
Giles sighed. “I haven’t decided yet.”
 
“Then it’s better if Spike deals with it.”
 
An enraged roar of a not-terribly-Portuguese-sounding “Porra boiola!” erupted from the back room.
 
Giles winced. “Are you certain of that?”
 
 
 
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Duster pockets bulging with cash and in an infinitely better mood, Spike vaulted himself up to sit on the counter and started tapping out a rhythm with his heels.
 
“You break that glass, you’re paying for it,” Anya growled.
 
Spike rolled his eyes. But he stopped swinging his legs.
 
She looked at him, appraising, lips pursed. “You’re a man.”
 
“Uh, got the bits for it, yeah….” He shifted around uncomfortably.
 
“And we’re friends, aren’t we?” Anya asked.
 
“You tryin’ to borrow money from me now?”
 
Anya scowled. “Stop posturing. It’s infantile.” Allowing just the slightest hint of vulnerability to show in her voice, she asked, “So are we?”
 
Spike stared at her for a few seconds. “S’pose so,” he said finally, warily.
 
“Can you tell me why the sex didn’t make things better?”
 
Spike shook his head in confusion. “Come again?”
 
“Sex always used to make things better.”
 
“Ha! Knew Harris was droopy.”
 
Anya smacked his chest backhanded. “Not like that.”
 
Spike smirked. “Alright. I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.”
 
“The sex was wonderful…. But it hurt.”
 
“More’n that love-tap to your eye and that fetchin’ new necklace?” Spike asked.
 
Metaphorical hurt. Well … mostly, anyway. But I don’t understand.”
 
“Don’t understand what, luv?”
 
“I love make-up sex. It makes me feel….”
 
“Alive?”
 
“Yes! Exactly. But last night was … it made me feel like I was dying. And not in a metaphorical way!”
 
“What the bloody hell did you expect, taking up with that git of a man-child?”
 
Anya sighed. “You’re better at being human than I am,” she whined.
 
“Are you off your nut?” Spike was scandalised. “You’re the one with the great and glorious soul.”
 
“You understand love, don’t you?”
 
Spike laughed. “No one understands love. ‘S one of life’s unfathomable mysteries.”
 
“I don’t want to hurt this much anymore! And I don’t understand why I’m absolutely certain that Xander loves me and I love him but that it’s still over. How can two people love each other and it’s over? How does that even work?”
 
“Always reckoned love conquered all,” Spike said darkly. “Experience keeps teachin’ me otherwise.” He sighed. “You ever figure it out, pet, you be sure an’ let me know, yeah?”
 
Anya let out a grunt of frustration. “Well you’re no use as a friend, are you?”
 
“Oi! Soddin’ listened, didn’ I?”
 
“What point is there in talking to you about my problems if you’re not going to help me fix them?”
 
“Christ, woman! You can’t fix heartbreak!”
 
“Why not?” Anya wailed.
 
“It’s supposed to hurt! Would you rather feel nothing?”
 
Yes!” she said emphatically. “What kind of idiot would choose to feel this awful?”
 
After a few seconds, Spike started laughing.
 
Eventually, Anya joined in.
 
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