The Blood Is the Life
by Nan Dibble

Chapter 4: Conversations

After supper, in the first twilight, Dawn went down the steps and out to the sidewalk, eyes front all the way. Spike and Buffy were in the front room pretending to watch the news but mainly snogging. Passing the arch, Dawn had caught his eye. So he knew, and he’d hear if she did one of the whole long list of things she’d almost rather die than do--like screech really really loud. She had her taser clenched tight in a pocket of her Hello, Kitty overalls. Nothing was gonna happen. Nothing bad, anyway. Michael wouldn’t do bad things to her unless he didn’t understand. That’s what she had to do: make him understand.

She paced nervously, one sneakered foot up on the curb and the other down in the street. Left as far as the street light, then back to the front walk of Casa Summers. She’d just come to the turning point at the light pole when Mike was beside her as suddenly as if he’d erupted out of the earth. She hadn’t seen him approach, hadn’t heard the motorcycle, hadn’t seen him coming at all. Standing maybe a foot away, big hands hanging, a wing of raggedly trimmed brown hair across his forehead, shadowed hazel eyes regarding her with vampire intensity, as though it was something she was doing, commanding every scrap of his attention.

A head taller and at least double her weight, Mike could produce a small inward eek from her anytime he did the sudden materialization thing. Not that she was in the least scared of him, of course. It was just the unexpectedness and his tendency to loom. That, combined with his fondness for wearing factory-seconds T-shirts displaying the Spice Girls, Yosemite Sam, or imprints like Yoder Cheese Puffs Corporate Games, 1993, Paducah, KY, would startle anybody.

“Hi, Dawn,” he said, whispery soft--a voice like a tentative pat. Careful; a little shy.

“Hi, Mike. Are you all settled now?”

Instead of answering, he bent his head toward her neck, touching nothing, and breathed her in. And it was as if she could feel him doing it--her own substance, essence, being drawn in and savored. Almost as strong as when he tasted her, on the mark. And nothing was taken she didn’t want to give because they were both so happy with it and how could you explain a thing like that? To anybody?

“Thought maybe he’d have made you chary of me.” The words were a quiet rumble just by her ear, and she could smell him too. She could only describe it, even to herself, as a clean vampire smell. None of the fluids other bodies exuded and none of the artificial scents people used to cover them up. His breath was sweet, untainted. To talk, he took the air in and gave it back unchanged. She thought, He smells like first snow. And like morning. Which was ridiculous because she’d never seen snow, much less smelled it, and he would never know morning. So she decided, He smells new.

Though the idea of him was dangerous, wild, alien, in his presence Dawn could feel none of that and dying seemed a distant thing of little consequence. Besides, it was difficult to get all spooked when tonight’s T-shirt proclaimed the virtues of breast-feeding with an appropriate logo.

“He’s worried that we haven’t put in the time to make sure we both know what the limits are,” she said dutifully, without much enthusiasm.

“Limits,” Mike echoed scornfully. “He’s let himself get all cautious, not straight ahead and flat-out. Too old for power games. Shouldn’t have started them, then. Thinks he can make a big noise and I’ll just back off, meek as can be. Might be I’ll tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘Hey, now.’ Surprise him a little. Make him reconsider.”

“We need limits, Mike. When a human and a vamp…hang around together much, one of them mostly ends up dead. He doesn’t want--”

“But we’re neither of us human,” Mike pointed out. He’d straightened to look her again in the eyes. Now he lightly took both her hands, his thumbs rubbing the backs. “Wouldn’t like you half so well if you were. Humans don’t smell like you do. I knew, first off. Any vamp would. Maybe not know what name to put to it, but they’d know. Couldn’t help it, any more than you could see a flower and not know how lovely it was, all straight and bowing to the breeze, even if it was a kind you never seen before and had no name to go with.” He lifted her right hand to his mouth. Partly a kiss but also a tongue touch: tasting her. It made her shiver and want to turn her head away, but then again not.

He said, “Takes a vamp to appreciate you right. A thousand flavors, Dawn. A thousand kinds of wonderful and all wasted, or nearly, on some human. And Spike all jealous, that you’d let anybody have what he don’t want.” Mike regarded her earnestly. “He’s the Slayer’s. Ain’t known him any time he didn’t have her smell on him and proud of it, too. That she’d let him. Claim and care for what he is, despite what she is. Bear and show his mark. Just like you bear mine, and no hurt from it. Nothing that’s anybody’s business but yours and mine. Nothing he has any right to forbid or put limits on but what we choose.”

“Then what are the limits?” Dawn asked, desperately keeping herself to the point. She pulled her right hand away and poked it in her pocket: onto the taser she’d momentarily forgotten. “What would keep you from feeding on me until there’s not enough left to keep me alive? When you really want to do that and all you care about is how hungry you are and how good it tastes and feels?”

“Now, I ain’t done that yet. Now have I. And I’ve tasted you more than once. And never didn’t stop, never didn’t let go and leave you with all you need to be you. Now ain’t that so.”

“Yes, but--”

“Second you started being afraid, I’d know. Taste it. Smell it. Know it. Would taste different if you started being afraid, Dawn. And I understand that now, what it would mean: no Dawn, never no more. I can imagine how that would be, to have you gone. I understand never and forever. I remind myself how much I don’t want that when your blood is singing to me so sweet, like it does. I don’t forget.”

“But we got to get real about this, Mike! I don’t know how to be afraid of you. I forget. I don’t know forever, I only know now. I don’t know how to be apart from how it feels when you touch the mark and open it, and we’re connected that way, to stand off inside my head and be scared, or say that’s enough or too much. If you’re depending on me to keep myself alive, I can’t do that, Mike. It’s so intense. And when it starts, I don’t think anymore of how it could end.”

Mike put his arms around her and tucked her close. She was just the right size for that. They fit together just exactly right: each of his arms clasped all the way around to her opposite shoulder, a full embrace. “Hush, now. If you’re tryin’ to scare me, you done a fine job of it, sweetheart. If we’re both waiting for you to warn me off, that’s no good. And so sweet I almost don’t care. Truly don’t ever want to have you be afraid of me. Sometimes, that’s good…in a human. But don’t need that from you. It’s beyond fine, just as it is. Don’t need nothing else. And I know what to do about that.”

“What?”

“Won’t never come to you except when I’ve fed. Won’t need you for that. Only want you. So don’t look for me no more at the last of the light. Might be, I’ll come and wait for you awhile after that from now on.”

A part of Dawn rejoiced at the solution. And a part of her sagged, heavy with guilt. “I’d feel awful, knowing somebody else had died to keep me safe. So you’d have to promise to stop for them too. Leave them enough to stay alive, after. Like Spike does now.”

A long silence. Then Mike kissed her forehead and was silent some more. Finally he said, “Don’t know if I can promise that, Dawn. Master vamp can do a lot of things a fledge can’t. Got his beast under good control. Or demon, like he says. I’m not a fledge no more, but my demon’s still strong and doesn’t always listen…and lots of times, whatever it wants is what I want. I’m not apart from it. Over time, a vamp gets more…economical, seems like: doesn’t need as much, doesn’t get as much from the kill. Kind of…detached. Can take it or leave it. Choose. I expect that’s a good way to be, but I ain’t but six. I don’t feel that. It’s different, the last of it…. When the body knows it’s the last and gets stronger for a second or two and then accepts and goes all quiet…. Submitting. Demon, it wants that. Won’t quit until it’s had that. When I’d have to stop if I meant to turn the food. Never done that. Would feel…incomplete. Not old enough for that yet…. But maybe it’s time I learned. It’ll be sometime, so maybe I could make it be now. Learn to want that and be content no matter what the demon wants. Dawn, I’ll try. If that’s what you need from me, I promise to try. Do my best to get older on purpose, not just with time. Right at the first, won’t always be able to do it like that. On account of it’s hard, right then, to want anything different from the demon.”

“Then you’ll know,” Dawn said. “And not touch the mark except when you’ve stopped and left the food alive.”

“That’s fair. I can promise that. And I do. Not mad at you, setting conditions and limits. Spike, he says I don’t know what’s safe for you, and I expect he’s right. Trouble is, you don’t know that any better than I do, seems like. Bein’ safe is not the whole thing, here. You ain’t scared enough, and I can’t really be scared for you. That’s not what I’m feeling when we’re together…. Spike, he has the soul to get after him, warn him off. And the Slayer to flatten him if it doesn’t. I ain’t got that and sure don’t want it, as much nuisance as it seems to be for him. And you’re not the Slayer. If you were, you wouldn’t be you, and we’d have to be fighting all the time to settle the dominance and that’s not something I want. Not always looking out to fight or, or anything--”

His abrupt verbal stumble gave her the word he’d tripped over: fuck.

“You can say it,” Dawn told him with a small grin. “It’s Spike’s favorite word.”

“Yeah, then, take it as read. Spike has a foul mouth on him. I don’t talk like that in front of a lady. Anyway, I’m not looking to do that with everybody that chances to cross my path. I’d say I’m pretty easy-going, compared to most of the vamps I’ve met. So what he does, they do--him and the Slayer--to get along is not gonna work for us. Have to find out some different way….”

Dawn told him proudly, “You’re of the blood and the Order of Aurelius. They control their demons.”

“They do? Spike never taught me that. Whole lot there hasn’t been time yet for him to teach me. Seen a lot of fledges couldn’t shed game face. Nothing there but the demon, and it dumb as a box of rocks…. Wasn’t like that for me. Not ever, not even at the first, when I came to myself, all confused, not knowing nothing of what I was or why everything was different, all so different…. I expect it’s true, if he says so. Because he’s of that blood himself, so he’d know. Sorry to be on the outs with him. Wish I could learn more. But not for awhile--not until I’ve made him back off and let us alone.”

His eyes had shaded toward amber, that always made Dawn think of a lion’s eyes. His game face was like that too: not deformed or ugly but fierce, severe, intense. Like the final form of everything he was made manifest. Trueface, some vamps called it, whereas humans preferred to see only the human aspect and regard that as normal.

Dawn knew Mike was both. Had both within him and showed whichever circumstances and his own impulses called forth. Not an either/or but a continuum. A matter of degree. Aurelian vamps were like that--not easily divisible into human and demon except by an unrelenting effort of will, as Angel had done. Not Spike, though. He integrated his monster and refused either to be defined by it or deny it. Over time, Michael would too. Dawn believed that.

“Could go to Angel, maybe,” Mike remarked, the yellow fading in his eyes as his mouth pulled into a wry smile. “My sire. To learn more, not just keep blundering ahead any old how…. But I expect I’d have to get all submitted again before he’d take me on, and once is enough for that. Sort of like curing a headache by getting a lobotomy, taking a Mixmaster to your brain. Price is a bit steep.”

“Mixmaster?”

Mike smiled broadly, happily. “Say now: I’m old enough, some of the things I know, you don’t. That tickles me. Imagine, after a hundred years.”

“Mixmaster?”

“Oh, a kind of a blender. Eggbeater, as near as makes no never mind. So for awhile, I’ll get by on what you can teach me,” Mike proposed. “You game for that?”

“Can I assign homework and stuff?”

“Depends on the homework. But yeah, sure. Try it, anyways. Sometime. But not now. Left the bike down the way. Come on: want to show you something.”

Doing the little accustomed dance step whereby she took the inside and Mike the road side of the pavement, likely so she wouldn’t get splashed by buggies, Dawn warned, “Have to be home by ten or I’ll get grounded. It’s a school night.”

“Well, I dunno if I can judge time quite that precise--”

“I thought of that,” Dawn blurted, “and I got something for you.” They stopped while she dug it out of her other pocket and presented it: a gold-cased stem-winder pocket watch. While Mike turned and admired it in his hand, then held it to his ear, Dawn warned, “Three things. You have to remember to wind it every night, last thing before you go to sleep. And Willow put a spell on it so that as long as it’s running, it will keep good time. But for the spell to work, you have to keep it on you 24/7--even while you’re sleeping. And the third thing is, you can’t get dust into the works. So don’t open the back.”

“Now, that’s real fine. Can’t remember when anybody gave me a present as fine as that. Did you listen to it? Got a real nice sound, working away in there, marking out the time.” Mike cupped it to her ear to let her hear the tiny plinks as the delicate wheels turned at their different speeds in perfect balance and precision.

Dawn knew what it looked like inside: she’d watched while Willow worked on it, preparing and then inserting the shaped, be-spelled wafer into the back of the case. Which Mike wasn’t to be allowed to open. Or to read the words there, engraved in three concentric arcs of curly letters: To William, upon his 12^th birthday. Be industrious in righteousness. From Papa.

Spike had donated it without comment. And neither Dawn nor Willow had asked about it, although Willow had given him a look.

It would have been hard to get a guy to wear a dinky little locket. A watch was much better, as long as there was room to insert the charm. And it wasn’t entirely lies, what she’d told Mike: you did have to remember to wind it.

“Plenty of time,” Mike decided, sliding the watch away in a front jeans pocket, then catching up her hand again and drawing her along toward where he’d left the motorbike. “There’s been gryphons passing through. Guess that’s not what they’re called, but that’s what they look like, pictures I saw one time in Iran, carved into walls there. Real old, I was told. Gryphons. All goldy, and banners, like, down the back, around the head, red as fire on the ends--splendid, they are. Going down to the sea, to be together there, male and female. You never seen such a thing.”

Trotting to keep pace, Dawn asked, “Like dragons?”

“Very like. Pretty much. Seen one the patrol killed, Spike mostly, before…. Well, before. So I went and scouted around, found this little cove where a pair of ‘em are laired up, and I knew right then I had to show you.”

That last, he said over his shoulder as he mounted the bike. Dawn settled behind and held on tight, trying to imagine the wondrous creatures he described. She had no trouble believing that some monsters were beautiful.

**********

Friday morning, Spike reluctantly sought out Willow after Buffy had left for work and Dawn for school. He found her in the kitchen, dawdling over the last of her breakfast. Waking up, for Willow, was an unpleasant chore that generally took a couple of hours. Night owl, by inclination.

He didn’t have fixing a cup of blood to putter around with anymore so he stole one of her slices of marmalade-slathered toast and bit off the corner. She wasn’t awake enough to do more than glare briefly and pull a face that yielded to a yawn.

“There’s something,” Spike began, “has to be decided. Dawn, she thinks I should tell you about it, ask what you think. Before that meeting, tonight. Even though what you decide may well depend on what goes on there. Give you time to mull it over, like.”

Willow stood up from her chair to drop more bread in the toaster. Depressing the lever, she prompted, “Noun, Spike.”

“Getting to that. It’s about Kennedy, mostly. Seems like you been expecting her to go on home. Same as the rest of the Potentials. Is that because you figure she wants to go, or ought to go, or because you want her to?”

Willow dropped back into her chair, both eyebrows high and surprised and her eyes more alert and not altogether friendly. “How is this your business?”

“I’ll explain, if there’s need. First, though, I need to know what your take really is about her leaving.”

Willow put off saying anything more until the toast had popped and she’d applied marmalade with precise strokes of the knife. Slicing the piece diagonally, she gave the plate a little push toward him. He took half with a nod of thanks.

“The Potentials,” Willow said, “didn’t come for our benefit. To be fighters, although that’s how it ended up. Mostly because of you. They came so we could do our best to protect them. Because Bringers were methodically slaughtering them and their Watchers. It was for their benefit, not ours. Now that the First has been forced away, there are no more Bringers. No more threat to the Potentials. The reason for their being here is gone. They don’t need our protection anymore. They can go back to their own lives, just as if none of this had happened.”

“Can. But what if they don’t want to?”

Willow twitched a little grin at him. “Ken’s been whining to you too, huh?”

“Something like. But I figure it’s your call. Don’t much care, myself, if she likes it or not. She’s used to getting her own way. She’s a brat, and proud of it. And except that sometimes it annoys the hell out of me, I don’t really fault her for that. What she wants, she goes after, makes no apologies to anybody for it. In her place, I’d do the same. An’ have done.”

“Brat,” Willow accused, still smiling.

“I expect. Not the worst I been called by a long chalk. Like they say, ‘Takes one to know one.’”

Willow left the high chair to lean out the doorway--checking the hall and the stairs. Then she came back and resumed her seat, poking at her tea with a spoon. Spike, who’d been leaning on the kitchen island, took a seat opposite. Willow said quietly, “When I needed somebody, when I was scared or depressed, she was there. All chirpy and confident. Cheering me up. Encouraging me. Courting me. Makes you feel kind of special, you know?”

Spike wet a finger to dab up toast crumbs. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Yeah,” Willow said gently. “But the thing is…. The thing is, she’s not Tara. She’s nothing at all like Tara. Ken’s like this puppy, all bouncing around, wanting to go for walkies every ten minutes. Tara, she was quiet. Peaceful. You know.”

“Fine lady, Tara. I’d never say different.”

“And you had your eye on her too, and you better not claim otherwise!”

“Don’t twinkle at me, Red. Makes me nervous. Whatever gave you that idea--because one time I punched her in the nose, gave myself a fucking headache?”

“You were kind to her. Nobody could help wanting to be kind to her. I messed it up--” (Willow shrugged.) “--but that’s me, you know? Can’t resist messing up any good thing, to prove to myself it’s still me, Willow Rosenberg, the gigantic insensitive klutz.”

“Anytime you want me to punch you in the nose, set you straight, you just ask and I’ll oblige. Save you the trouble of beating up on yourself. No charge.”

Willow looked up, and Spike found they were easy with one another in a way they hadn’t been before. Bit was right, he thought. It was right to come to Willow direct about this, not try to go around her.

“You’re what,” Willow reflected, “about a gazillion years older than Buffy?”

Spike hitched a shoulder. “Something short of that. Half a gazillion, maybe.”

“But you think about the same. React pretty much the same. It shows. There’s a…harmony in the two of you, together. Even when you’re bickering. Even outright fighting, and I know you still do that.”

“Have to keep the girl in her place,” Spike explained, as if he meant it.

“And what’s her place?” Willow challenged skeptically.

“Generally on top. Though that varies.”

He got a blush out of the witch with that one.

“Not gonna touch that on a dare,” she declared primly, and Spike chuckled. “Me,” said Willow, “I’m not kind. Kinda ruthless, actually. Goes with being a control freak, which I am…. And Ken, she wants to control me. Like she’s always controlled everything else in her life. On strange ground, under threat, she needed more than ever to feel in control. So she picked me. And maybe that was what I needed then. Somebody to boss me around, take the responsibility for what we did. Take the initiative, pardon the word. Maybe in time she’ll have bounced around, been bounced around, enough to temper her arrogance a little. Like mine has been. Absolutely chock full of humility here. Something I’m really proud of.”

They traded a grin at her arrogant humility. She poked at her tea some more.

“Lost the noun here myself,” she commented. “I’m only a couple of years older than Ken. But it feels like a gazillion. She makes me feel old, Spike, and worn out, and tired. I give in because so many things don’t feel worth expending all that energy to argue about. She can nag, and push, and encourage. But she can’t slap me down when I need to be set back on my heels, stopped before I go completely overboard with something. Which has been known to happen. And…there’s no magic,” Willow added, very softly and sadly.

“Guess that would be important. To a witch,” Spike allowed, bidding goodbye in his mind to the imagined Harley. “All right, I think I got enough of an idea to know how to play this now.”

“Play what?”

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause it’s not gonna happen. Some details to be worked out, but that’s nothing to do with you and none of your concern. And the next time you think up something pushy and private you want to know about from me, don’t bother because I still won’t tell you.”

Willow’s gamine face lifted, watching him slide off the high chair to standing. “Oh, I don’t know about that. We wiccas have our ways.”

“An’ so do vamps, so you watch out.”

“Michael,” she said, still watching him. “What’s going on there?”

Spike put both hands flat on the island’s countertop, leaning straight-armed, head bent. “Hell if I know. Bit’s promised to talk to Buffy about it. Maybe Buffy will know how to sort it. All I know is judiciously applied force, and half the time, that’s the wrong thing…. Gonna have a try at making him back off some, ease the pressure off Bit. Who’s mostly levelheaded, but she’s wafting out this ‘come hither,’ and Michael, he’s…. Well, it’s hard to say what they’re doing. Tisn’t sex, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Sex, that’s easier to understand,” Willow agreed. “The grown-ups have all the appropriate ‘Eeks’ and ‘Quit that’s’ pre-loaded and ready. But somehow I didn’t think our little Ms. underage OOOh, My Eyes! would be one to rush into that sort of thing…. I don’t imagine puberty hits quite the same way for vamps or for dimensional keys…. That’s still part of her, isn’t it.”

“Yeah. After a fashion.”

“And the watch, and the lockets. What are you trying to keep out, Spike?”

“Whatever wants to come in,” Spike responded grimly. “A precaution. Don’t like having my head messed with. Believe I’ve told you that, a time or two.”

“And Dawn? And Michael?”

“A precaution.”

Willow took up her cup, remarking, “If I had better information, maybe I could be better help.”

“If this don’t work, trust me: you’ll hear about it. A whole lot more than you’ll want. But let it be, for now. See if this is enough.”

“Just one thing. It’s not still the First, singing you little interdimensional ditties?”

“Hell, no. That’s done. Bit’s blood spell put paid to that.”

“But something,” Willow persisted.

“What d’you mean? I like lockets,” Spike responded, patting his chest. “Always wanted to have a locket. Dote on the fucking things. Thinking of accessorizing with safety pins. You got a problem with that, Red?”

“Go to hell,” said Willow amiably.

“Many thanks, I’m on my way.”

**********

Buffy greeted Giles with a long hug and a longer smile-and-stare, then took his hand and led him through to the kitchen and set about fixing him some tea. In a ceramic teapot. No teabags, even. With a tea infuser shaped like a fat acorn that dangled into the pot. She pointed each of these appurtenances out to him proudly.

Giles assured her he was suitably impressed. “I wasn’t aware it was possible to buy a tea infuser in Sunnydale,” he remarked, settling a hip on one of the high chairs by the island.

“It isn’t. We’ve discovered the glories of buying stuff on the internet. Spike knew what it was called and what it should look like, and Willow located it. Three days later, it was in the mailbox. All for you!”

“Well, I hope it wasn’t too much trouble. I won’t be staying long this time, Buffy.”

“Oh, I figured,” Buffy said much more lightly than she felt. The water in the saucepan was bubbling, so she carefully poured it into the teapot. Trying to remember all the parts of the ritual, she popped on the lid and then finished with the little jacket, or whatever it was called: yellow, with small white daisies. “You’ll have all Watchery things to do now. Have you gotten yourself reinstated yet?”

Giles fiddled with his tie. “Well, no need to go into all of that in any detail now. Until the others arrive. But in point of fact, that’s in progress. The census of surviving watchers is nearly complete. Enough so for some pro tem appointments to be made. I’ve been offered the position of Chief of the Research Division, inasmuch as I’ve logged more field duty than anyone else in at least a century. My Slayer has survived.” He beamed, and Buffy resisted the impulse to say something aw-shucks-ish. It hadn’t been easy, and they both knew it. “Strictly on a temporary basis,” Giles went on, “until the new council can be elected. Then they will, of course, make their own appointments. But at that point, I may have some small say in the matter. With proper preparation.”

“Twisting a few arms, hinting at a few closeted skeletons,” Buffy elaborated, waggling a hand, eyes lifted to the ceiling.

“A bit of that, yes. Which has to be done on site and in person. So after matters here have been all sorted satisfactorily--”

“Hullo, Rupert,” Spike interjected, passing through from the back porch to the hallway. “Like the cozy? Tried to find one that said ‘Mum’ on it for you, but the place was all out of ‘em.”

“Yes, very nice….” said Giles faintly to Spike’s departing back. Then he gazed at the teapot as though it’d startled him with an off-color remark. “Well, Spike seems…frighteningly normal, under the circumstances. For someone who by rights should have been burnt to a crisp. How have things been going?”

“How long does it have to sit in there?” Buffy poked the jacket-thing, the cozy.

“A bit longer. Don’t be so American.”

Buffy eloquently stuck out her tongue, then responded to Giles’ question, frowning slightly. “Holding pattern, mostly, I guess. Picking up pieces here and there. Going with the habit, habits are our friends. Spike’s bored silly, of course, and blew up at his pal Mike a couple days back, got drunk, killed a dragon--”

“A dragon?”

“Sh’narth Wyrm,” Buffy admitted, shrugging, “it said in the book, so that’s what I wrote in the patrol log. But where’s the drama in killing a worm? Now, if you say dragon, it’s like you said shark, you know?”

“Buffy, there have been no authenticated dragon sightings since the thirteenth century. Your records will be far less useful if you knowingly fabricate.”

“I said I wrote in the log what Spike said it was. And what was in the book,” Buffy added quickly.

“Ah. So Spike is consenting to contribute. Admit his experience extends beyond footie on the telly. Perhaps, with due persuasion, he’ll admit to his education, as well.”

“His…education?”

“Buffy, the man reads Attic Greek and is fluent in a number of demon languages we lack adequate dictionaries-- What?”

Buffy beamed. “You said man.”

“Well, I probably did, but vampire does not slide easily into a conversation. Keeping to the point.”

Buffy set her elbows on the island and set her chin on the lifted prop of her folded hands. “And just what is the point, Giles? Let me tell you: you’re gonna try to recruit Spike. As a Watcher.”

“Not exactly recruit, as such, no. But I haven’t forgotten your Boogey Man Credo. All the ridiculous, inaccurate, preposterous so-called information that’s accumulated concerning vampires. For centuries. There’s a rare opportunity, this once in many lifetimes, to go through that rubbish and fix it! And a certain William London--he’s never divulged his original surname, but he certainly has resided in London, and it will do--would be a splendid resource. As a consultant. Papers, a passport, could all be arranged.”

“You’re not gonna get him, Giles. Not if it means taking him away.”

“Most of it could be done remotely. By e-mail. Willow has already become involved in the archiving effort, to a degree. Some of the rarer volumes, however, haven’t yet been--what’s the word?--input? scanned? Processed, in any case. They’re too fragile to entrust to transport. There would occasionally be times--”

“Not gonna happen. Unless you get them teleported--”

“Unthinkable. Some of these volumes are magical in their own right, and subjecting them to--”

Passing through in the other direction, an unlit cigarette already in hand, Spike admonished, “Now, now, children, play nice,” and was gone again onto the porch.

Buffy and Giles blinked at each other for a moment. Then Buffy poked at the daisy-spotted cozy, asking, “D’you think it’s ready yet?”

“Oh, I suppose.” Removing the cozy, Giles poured out a cup and managed to erase his vexed frown. “Might there be sugar? Milk?”

Buffy provided the sugar bowl and yanked the milk jug out of the refrigerator, setting both within easy reach. Giles fussed with his tea.

Buffy said, “And that’s not gonna work unless you can talk him into glasses. Or contacts.” At Giles’ inquiring glance, Buffy explained, “Farsighted. According to Dawn. Lots of teeny print is apt to be a whole lot less than appealing. Maybe once he could have been all super student, for all I know. Now, he really likes to kill things. It’s gonna be a hard sell, Giles.”

“I am not deterred. Certain…inducements will be presented…. Is that Anya?”

“’Fraid so,” Buffy admitted, having identified the same rapid-fire, irritating voice from the front hallway that had caught Giles’ attention. “Be prepared for rough water: Xander has a new girlfriend.”

Giles sipped tea. “Oh really? Has Spike passed on her?”

“Not yet. And I don’t think Anya knows. So we’ll see if we can get through the meeting without dropping that bomb. I’m all in favor of mayhem, but keep it outdoors, that’s what I always say.”

As Giles picked up his teacup and saucer, and Buffy finished pouring milk into a small pitcher, Spike leaned in at the back door, asking, “That Anya? An’ she doesn’t know? That’ll be interesting, if any of us survive. And forget about it, Watcher: not gonna read your bleeding books for you. Got better things to do with my unlife. And no fucking glasses, neither.”

“We shall see,” Giles responded with ominous composure, carrying his balanced saucer, following Buffy into the hall.

Willow was setting up a tray-table for Giles to put his teacup on. When the legs were locked, Buffy set the sugar and small milk pitcher there. Spike deposited the teapot, cozy again in place.

He’d done that all by himself, without being told or asked. Just saw it needed doing and did it. No fuss, no bother: like putting away groceries. Buffy was really pleased with him.

She backed up against the door arch, and Spike joined her there, sliding his arm around behind her, hand on her hip. She threaded her fingers through his, to make a fist together. His hand didn’t open easily until he noticed what she was doing and let her: more wound up and intent than he looked.

Before she could say anything, he asked, “Nervous, pet?”

“Well, Xander. And Anya.”

“Yeah, could be bloody,” he responded appreciatively.

“It isn’t funny,” she scolded.

“As you say.”

Buffy whispered, “Spike, what’s Attic Greek?”

“Opposite of basement Greek, pet,” Spike responded absently. “Of no use or interest to anybody.” His head snapped around. “And on that cue of no interest, here’s Floppy Boy himself.”

Elbowing open the front door, clutching snacks, Xander waved fingers. “Hi, everybody.”

**********

It was plain to Spike: the Watcher had been gotten to. And Buffy not as offish about the initial hints as Spike thought she should have been. Willow…he didn’t think so. She protected herself from influences pretty well as a routine thing. Maybe she’d taken a clue and manufactured one of those charms for herself when he’d come asking for one each for himself and Bit. Canny bird, Willow.

Anya…he’d have to watch and see. She’d dealt with the Powers enough to be highly uneasy at the prospect of doing so ever again, he knew that. Vengeance demon, after all, even if not at the moment. And past a thousand years old. Knew a lot, played the angles, always sharp-eyed after her own interest. Was his friend, and all, but he didn’t know how she’d jump.

And Harris he considered a pure utter fool. Couldn’t imagine the Powers bothering about such a brainless yob one way or the other.

Wouldn’t have imagined them taking any notice of a vamp, neither, except for Angel. Set himself up for that, Angel had: put on the collar and leash as meek as you please, seemed like. Champion, and all. Fucking spineless git.

And then there’d been the dreams. Clearer, more specific as they went on. Visions, almost. Mostly, it seemed, Angel had somebody else for that. He just took care of the wetwork, like Michael would have said. Strong-arm bashing about. Somebody else took care of the brain stuff. Not that Angel wasn’t a planner. But a bit of casual asking around had gathered Spike the information that it basically took a demon to stand up to the visions. Filthy incapacitating headaches, otherwise. Had come close to killing that Cordielia, whom Spike vaguely remembered as a high-nosed bitch and a Scooby, sort of, upon a time. With Angel now. Got herself made part demon, the tale went, to endure the brain burn. Idly, Spike wondered what part.

Not going about it that way with him, it seemed. He’d lived years with the chip, knew all about brain-blasting headaches that could put you down for days at a time. Guessed Lady Gates figured he could manage it all right, all on his own, if the pressure was cast as dreams. Sort of a compliment, he supposed, but one he’d sooner do without, thanks. Didn’t like waking up, all of a sudden, with a compulsive image in his head, one sort or another. Couldn’t think straight until he’d puzzled it out, made some kind of sense of it.

Like the amulet.

Like the Hellmouth.

All well and good--once. But that was done now. And it wasn’t something he figured to put up with as a regular thing. Buffy, she could point him at something and he’d take it down. That was part of their arrangement. Whatever he took out, she didn’t have to. Besides, he mostly liked doing it.

Buffy. Nobody or nothing else entitled to use him like a weapon to their hand.

Let Buffy be a Champion. Or maybe she already was. Slayer, and all. And it was more the circumstances, these days, that presented as a Mission to her, rather than anything the fucking Council of Watchers pointed her at. CoW didn’t count for much, before, with her and counted for nothing now. It was hers to choose. She’d damn well earned that right, all she’d been through, died twice even. And whatever she chose, Spike would second her. No matter what it was. Assuming she had a use for him. Assuming she wouldn’t be talked or pressured into giving him away.

Wouldn’t put up with that. Not for a second.

Watcher had been nattering on about all the plans for putting the council back together, in which Spike had no least interest whatever. So when Rupert paused to pour himself some more tea, Spike figured it was a good time to put in, “So when are they gonna start paying the Slayer?”

Dead and utter silence, everybody staring at him, sitting off in the big corner chair that let him watch everybody at once.

“Well,” said Rupert uncomfortably, “right now, there’s considerable damage to be made good. Infrastructure to be--”

“Hell with your infrastructure, Rupert. Lady there is no child. Her mum is dead and her dad’s a rotter who’s seven years behind on the child support an’ didn’t even show up for Joyce’s funeral. Or Buffy’s, come to that. She works all day and then fixes dinner for her sis and after that goes on patrol, and then the next day the same. She needs dosh, money, to live. Have you never noticed? So when’s that gonna become somebody’s priority, besides all the neat new computer setups, the new council building with its same old rotten paneled walls all eaten up with woodworm?”

Rupert took off his glasses. “Spike, when were you ever in council headquarters?”

“Been to a lot of places you lot don’t know nothing about. I hear you blathering on about furniture, and I want to know when do you get to the real stuff? The things that keep a Slayer alive, give her choices, not just burdens and duties?”

“Spike--” Buffy said, lifting a hand, like she wanted him to shut up.

Too bad what she wanted. He was talking about what she needed.

Rupert put his glasses back on and met Spike’s eyes directly. “I first requested a stipend for Buffy on her eighteenth birthday. I have applied each year since, and sometimes more than once. Since Buffy rejected the council’s stipulations--their control, not to put too fine a point on it--the matter has become even more problematical and difficult. And since I was dismissed, I’ve had to rely on intermediaries. And I believe you know at least something of what this last year has been. The council, such as it is, has had to absorb the cost of a great…many funerals.” The Watcher stopped and took a breath. “I believe it’s the matter of precedent that’s the chief sticking point. Not the money itself. The council has traditionally viewed the Slayer as a volunteer with a holy--”

Spike shot back, “The council has viewed the Slayer as a child, and a tool, and their chattel. And if you’re gonna try to remake the council, that’s the first thing that has to change.”

“Well. I didn’t mean to bring this up until later, but the council has at least noticed you, Spike. At my urging, I may add. Beginning tomorrow, or the first day I can get the papers filed, Sunnydale has a new institution. A very modest one. It’s a two-room research facility at the corner of Wilkins and Main. Second floor. Webster Hematological Research, Inc. Its mandate is to investigate some aspects of the transmission of blood-borne pathogens. It has two employees: one Holden Webster, whose death has never been reported or recorded, and yourself. To this facility, each morning and evening, will be delivered by arrangement units of freshly-drawn whole human blood, unrefrigerated and without additives. These units will then be conveyed, by whoever is currently impersonating our Mr. Webster, to whatever place you designate. At council expense. A small stipend goes with it. Xander, I thought perhaps you might be Mr. Webster until more something more formal can be arranged.”

An even more rousing silence greeted that announcement. Hand at mouth, Xander just gaped.

Narrow-eyed and thoroughly surprised, Spike leaned back in the chair. “And in return for this, I do what?”

“Nothing, Spike. Nothing at all. You’ve already done it. You are a remarkable creature: the only vampire known in council records to have voluntarily acquired a soul. The only vampire known to have closed a Hellmouth--an undertaking almost certainly suicidal. And one which you nevertheless miraculously survived. You are owed a considerable debt, of which this is only the least token. To honorably free you from…the shackles of predation. A payment in kind, even: life for life. Blood for blood.”

Spike was up out of the chair and shouting. “Are you insane? Have you gone totally around the fucking bend? Pay me off for the soul? Not hardly! Didn’t do it for the fucking watchers! Pay me off for closing the Hellmouth? I opened the damn seal, that’s all. And so I saw it got shut. That was mine to see to, an’ I did it. And not for the Watchers! Not for anybody here save one. Two. My own fucking choice. Mine! And somebody--”

First carefully setting the table aside, Rupert rose too. “Spike, you are a bloody bastard first, last, and always. Now shut the hell up and say ‘Thank you,’ you incredible lout!”

“--figures if you do this, pay off a damn vampire in blood, your council has these few old books they can’t make out, this date they can’t confirm, this spell they want checked out against five accounts that all disagree with each other, no problem because you got this obliging tame vamp on retainer or some such, they can have trot off and fix it for them?”

“Well, it was expected that certain courtesies--”

“The hell with courtesies, Watcher. Scrap the fucking clinic, the meager stipend, the little delivery van or ambulance sneaking out of some hospital at dawn. Give her the dosh.” Spike’s arm stabbed out at Buffy. “Don’t want it, never asked for it, and won’t take it. You are out of your bleeding librarian Watcher skull even to imagine such a thing! Much less imagine I’d sign on for it, when you won’t pay your Slayer a single sodding quid. She’s died for you. Twice! Keep your goddam collar and leash because I won’t have ‘em! Never!”

Without noticing, Spike had gone to game face and advanced enough to make the Watcher retreat as far as he could without falling back onto the couch. Then Buffy was between, her hands on Spike’s shoulders, her frowning face an obstruction he leaned aside to see past, leveling a pointing finger at the Watcher, declaring, “And another thing: nobody but a fatuous git would believe the council to be benevolent toward yours truly, much less--”

“You should take it,” Anya put in, pert and brisk. “So far, it commits you to nothing and makes it much less likely Buffy will have to stake you. In the event you inadvertently kill your dinner.”

Swinging around, Spike snapped at her, “Oh, now you’re in it too, are you? What’s in it for you, then?”

Shedding potato chip crumbs, Harris was up, objecting, “You don’t talk to her like that, Deadboy.”

“I talk however I bloody well please! Or is that up for auction now? ‘F you think so much of the bint, what are you stepping out on her for?”

Anya grabbed Xander’s arm. “What does he mean, Xander? He said ‘stepping out.’ Does that mean you’re getting orgasms from somebody else? The fact that we’re currently unengaged doesn’t mean--”

Buffy said, “Oh, boy. That’s done it. Thanks a lot, Spike.” She gave him a shove.

Pivoting, Spike saw not a single friendly or sympathetic face. Everybody was shouting at everybody else except Giles, who was protecting the teapot. Anya had used her leverage to drag Xander down crookedly, on one knee and leaning on her lap, an arm upraised to fend off her attempts to smack him about the head. Buffy was trying to drag them apart, ignoring Spike completely.

And Spike was still in a towering fury with no acceptable target anywhere within reach. “All right, then!” he declared to nobody in particular. “You lot sort it out amongst you, then, and let me know what keeper I’ve been assigned to.”

Barging into the hall, he snatched open the front door, intending to fling a final line over his shoulder, barely noticing the small redheaded man standing outside with a hand raised to knock.

“Hi,” said the man, carefully lowering the fist as Spike swung and glared at him. “If it’s a bad time--”

Spike slammed past, giving the guy a shoulder in the process. No satisfying impact: the guy had faded back and avoided most of it.

“--I could come back….”

From inside, Willow’s voice exclaimed, “Oz!”