Spike wanted to smoke until he’d burned her scent out of his lungs. She’d painted his skin with her sweat and her juices until every pore was so full to bursting with her that he couldn’t even smell himself anymore. Why the bloody hell didn’t the bally aunt have a balcony? Who the fuck builds apartments without balconies?
 
He shrugged into yesterday’s t-shirt and thin grey jumper. At least they smelled like him. But the scratchy wool and over-washed cotton just rubbed and rasped over all the places she had bitten and scratched and carved herself into him and the resulting aftershocks were enough to bring him back to aching hardness.
 
He sighed, staring down at himself with a mixture of shame and disbelief. How could he still want that when her choked sobs were all he could hear? What the bleeding fuck is wrong with me?
 
Lolly’s alarm had gone off a while ago – matter of time before she was up and about. Spike ripped the still-crisp sheets off the sofa, leaving them on the floor in a messy pile. She could bloody well deal with it.
 
Spike wanted to drink himself into oblivion.
 
No.
 
He wanted to run back in there, grab onto Buffy with both hands, and tell her over and over that she was strong and capable and amazing and everything was going to be okay. But she’d never allow it – was probably his fault she was bawling her eyes out in the first place. Every time he tried to make things better, seemed he only hurt her more. Stupid. Useless. Fuck.
 
Spike went into the kitchen in search of coffee and something to take the edge off the gnawing ache of hunger. Today was going to be holy hell on no sleep and no blood.
 
He swallowed a growl when he saw Lolly’s space-ship-like coffee machine. It used pods for Chrissake. His fingers felt thick and uncoordinated, fumbling with the controls. He only just stopped himself from flinging the whole bloody thing across the kitchen.
 
Once it had started making noises he hoped would eventually result in coffee, he started idly wondering how long the misery-eater had been keeping Lolly’s grief fresh. If he knew his Slayer, she’d want to do something about it. Maybe Anya would know how to kill them – might even win him some points if he could arrange to be the one to tell Buffy….
 
The machine started hissing and smoking at him.
 
Then again, any fuckwit who uses soddin’ pods deserves everything she gets.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
The onslaught of Arlene’s family felt like a plague of locusts – whatever locusts were. There were so many children, all shrill and shrieking like knives piercing her skin. And her cousins were so disgustingly happy. To make it worse, with only one crutch Buffy was stuck on the sofa, unable to escape the never-ending stream of questions.
 
Back at school yet? Oh. Working, then? Oh. Well, guess Auntie Joyce left you pretty well off. Har-de-har-har.
 
Smile. Nod. Remember to breathe.
 
How is Uncle Hank, anyway? Missed him at the funeral. Really? How long’s it been? Gosh. Isn’t that just too bad. Tsk-tsk.
 
Buffy imagined punching them until they were bleeding and broken and blessedly silent. But instead she plastered on her brilliantly shining smile – the one she kept wishing someone other than Spike would see through – and she distracted them with pretty lies about the peachy keen summer she’d spent with Dawn.
 
The whole time she could feel his stupid anxious eyes watching her from the sidelines. And when she finally snuck a glance over at him, his stupid tattletale face was reflecting back all of the pain that it was taking everything she had to keep hidden. She hated him then. For seeing. For showing what she couldn’t.
 
By the time Buffy submitted to little Chris – or was it Joey? – clamouring over her on his way to Grandma, his parting kick to her bad ankle was a welcome distraction from the newest stream of questions.
 
C’mon, honey: tell us all about Bill!
 
Buffy’s grin grew a little wider and brighter. “We’re just good friends,” she found herself saying, certain that Spike was somewhere laughing his stupid ass off at her. As her cousins tittered and loudly proclaimed their disbelief that anyone could be ‘just friends’ with someone who looked like Bill, Buffy was desperately waiting for the web of lies she was weaving to constrict until they cut off her air supply.
 
Couldn’t the demon have come now instead of last night?
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Dawn was having a fabulous time. She was alternating between lording it over the little kids – who were all in awe of her as only small children can be – and glorying in finally being noticed by her much-older cousins. She’d been so sure this was going to be lame as – like the awful family Thanksgiving in Chicago two years ago.
 
At least, she remembered it being awful. Dawn tried not to think too much about where reality and her memories parted ways.
 
Aunt Arlene and Uncle Charlie had been in the middle of divorcing – the reason she and Mom had gone up there in the first place – so everyone had been stressed out and upset and Dawn had spent the whole trip feeling excluded and unwanted. Everyone – even Mom – kept having all these whispered conversations punctuated by sudden silences whenever Dawn entered the room.
 
But now? It was like a whole different group of people. They were all smiling and happy – no whispers and no secrets except for hers and Buffy’s – and they all seemed genuinely interested in Dawn. It was such an amazing feeling to have her opinions not just respected but actually sought out for once.
 
But best of all, Dawn was no longer being diligently kept away from “adult talk”. By sitting quietly and listening to her aunts, she was finally able to hear the kind of family gossip she’d spent most of her life begging oblivious-girl-Buffy to listen out for. First, Dawn heard how Brenda’d had horrendous post-natal depression for years, but had recently found the right drug cocktail to be mostly normal again. That explained soooo much. To Dawn’s chagrin, they didn’t say a word about Derek’s mysterious year out from college – she’d always suspected some kind of steroid problem; even Riley hadn’t been that ripped. But all was forgiven when they began talking about Sarah’s “inappropriate” boyfriend. He’d been sent to prison! Dawn was impressed. Even Buffy’d never had a boyfriend in prison. Although if Angel had been human, he probably would’ve been.
 
But listening suddenly became scary instead of interesting when Arlene and Lolly started talking about how they thought Buffy really ought to sell the house – maybe move back to LA where Lolly could be on-hand. Are they gonna pressure Buffy to move? They don’t even know about the basement. Or the roof.
 
Dawn started wishing they were still trying to protect her. She didn’t want to hear this.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Arlene started tapping on her glass with her fork. The murmurs of conversation slowly died down, until all eyes were on her. She smiled. “Lolly and I thought it would be nice to take some time this holiday to remember and celebrate our little sister Joyce. To give thanks that we had her in our lives, even though it was for far too short a time. We’d like for everyone to share a story about her with Dawn and Buffy today. They may have known her best, but I’ll bet there are things about her they didn’t know at all.”
 
Arlene’s daughter Jackie grinned. “Like that time she ran off to Santa Monica to see David Bowie.”
 
“Go, Mom!” Dawn said, grinning.
 
Arlene laughed. “I’d like to tell a more recent story. Two years ago, when Charlie and I were splitting up, we … money was tight. I just didn’t know what I was going to do. Poor Derek even had to take a break from college. But then Joycie stepped in.” Arlene’s voice faltered. “She made Thanksgiving and Christmas possible that year.”
 
Dawn felt suddenly sick. Poor un-steroid-y Derek. She’d been so bratty to everyone on that trip. Even though anything she’d done back then was really down to a bunch of crazy monks, it still stung. And she’d totally blamed Buffy’s expensive dorm life for the non-appearance of the much-coveted atomic purple Game Boy Color that Christmas – she’d even “accidentally” shrunk a brand new cashmere sweater in retaliation.
 
“Before Joyce and Dawnie left,” Arlene continued, “Joyce wrote me a cheque for enough money to tide us all over until we could sell the house and I could get a job. She said it was her great privilege to take care of her big sister for once.” Arlene’s eyes were tearing up. “I honestly don’t know what we would’ve done without her.”
 
Derek put an arm around his mother.
 
Spike had a sinking feeling that all his and Dawn’s attempts last night to keep the family from finding out about Buffy’s more mundane problems had quite possibly been the worst thing they could’ve done. Aunt number two probably would’ve happily helped Buffy out money-wise if she’d known she needed it. Fuck.
 
“I’d like to remember Joyce’s strength,” Lolly said. “She could do anything she put her mind to. Anything. And when I see her beautiful daughters, here with us today, I see so much of Joyce in them. Just like her mother, Buffy is rising to the occasion: running a household, raising her sister. I’m so proud.”
 
There was a chorus of awwww-ing, while various cousins murmured their agreement and raised glasses.
 
Dawn glowed, hearing all the praise. They’d staved off the spectre of family disapproval – it had to be okay, now. The aunts wouldn’t pressure them to sell the house. They wouldn’t worry anymore about Buffy being her guardian. She and Spike had managed it. They were safe.
 
Spike watched Buffy’s brittle smile grow so wide and so bright her face seemed about to crack. He couldn’t understand how no one else noticed – she wasn’t that good an actress.
 
“Thanks,” Buffy said awkwardly. Her eyes were screaming so loudly Spike thought his ears would bleed.
 
Lolly reached over to squeeze Buffy’s arm. So humble, so sweet. Buffy always did get uncomfortable with compliments.
 
Spike stood up. He said something – he never did remember what it was exactly. He just knew he had to get her out of there.
 
 
 
------------------------------------------
 
 
 
Her fist smashed into his kidneys before he’d finished closing the bedroom door behind them.
 
“Fuck!” he hissed, spinning around.
 
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she growled.
 
“Rescuin’ you from your soddin’ family!”
 
“I was fine.”
 
“Why’d you let me, then?”
 
She punched him in the face, speechless with frustrated rage.
 
He knocked her crutch away, grabbing her shoulders and sweeping her good foot out from under her so she was forced to hold onto him or fall. Her body slammed into his. “Buffy, you are not fine. You’re—”
 
She realised with horror what it was she could feel poking into her. “You’re getting off on this aren’t you?” She laughed in disbelief. “My god, you’re sick!”
 
He took an ostentatious sniff. “You were drippin’ wet the second I touched you, you hypocritical bitch!”
 
“I hate you!”
 
“Doesn’ stop you throwin’ yourself at me every chance you get,” he sneered.
 
“Shut up!”
 
“You want me to shut up? You know what works, get on your fuckin’ knees.”
 
There was a knock at the door. They both froze.
 
“Bill? Buffy?” It was Sarah. “We’re about to start on pie. You, uh, you might wanna come back to the table soon if you don’t want everyone to assume you’re having, um, naughty times in there.”
 
Buffy started laughing. But she was on the edge of hysteria and within seconds it had turned to crying.
 
“Buffy?” Sarah called, less certainly.
 
“Be right out,” Spike snapped.
 
For a few brief, blessed minutes, she let him in. And even though her own arms stayed locked stiffly at her sides, she didn’t fight it when his hands slipped away from her shoulders and he cradled her against his chest. She even submitted to his lips brushing so softly against her hair and then against her skin. It was the first gentleness she’d ever allowed from him and he was terrified to speak – certain whatever he said would come out angry and wrong.
 
Gradually, Buffy regained control of herself. Almost as soon as her breathing had returned to normal, she was struggling to escape. He let her.
 
She stumbled backwards until she was sitting on the edge of the bed.
 
They stayed there for long seconds, like boxers retreating to their corners.
 
“Buffy….”
 
She held up a hand. “Don’t.”
 
“You want me to leave?”
 
Slowly she nodded. “I can’t.…” Her voice dropped to a whisper he was sure he wasn’t meant to hear. “You make everything harder.”
 
“Right,” Spike said stiffly. Jerkily, he went to pick up her crutch and bring it to her. “Guessin’ you don’t want any more of my help.”
 
Something biting and awful was on the tip of her tongue, begging to be let free. Instead, she just said, “You gonna come pick us up Sunday?”
 
He stiffened, shocked. “You want me to?” He stretched out one hand towards her tentatively, hopefully. But she wouldn’t even look at him, so he let his arm fall back.
 
Buffy shrugged. “My ankle’s not gonna miraculously heal in three days. What choice do I have?”
 
He laughed, low and mirthless. “Whatever you want, Love.”
 
She graciously allowed him to help her back to the dining table. As she’d said, what choice did she have?

He made his apologies and he left.