The Blood Is the Life
by Nan Dibble

Chapter 9: Patience


Spike looked balefully at the new cellphone Buffy set before him on the kitchen island. Willow, mashing cereal into milk, grinned knowingly. Turning from stuffing PopTarts into the toaster, Dawn looked on.

“Don’t lose this one,” Buffy told him firmly. “We’re talking major bucks here.”

“Yeah.” Spike gave the cellphone a dismissive, experimental tap with a forefinger. He hadn’t lost the last one: he’d merely released it to gravity. But it was on Buffy’s dime, so he wasn’t about to argue.

Dawn piped up, “I’ll enter the speed dials for you, if you want.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Bit. That would be good.” Spike nudged the cell in her direction.

Buffy looked skyward when the first number he specified was Willy’s. Didn’t know what her problem was: it was a number he used a lot and one that was on his mind now. The number of her cell was next, so he didn’t know what she was being so lofty about. Well, yes he did: severe shagging withdrawal. Didn’t do much for his disposition, either. Back just wasn’t up to acrobatics, gymnastics just yet, and it wasn’t much fun having to be so careful all the time. Really spoiled the mood. Since sitting and standing were about all that was currently on the menu, there was less aggro in doing without. Shouldn’t be too much longer until he was fit. Another couple days, maybe: by week’s end.

The caravan of SUV, van, and car had gotten in about two in the morning. Spike had slept through the entire return trip, except for the part where he had to cross the yard and climb the back stairs. The rest of the night, he’d spent on the front room couch rather than attempt the stairs to the upper story. There’d been no need for Willow to magic out the insultingly small bullet: it had gone cleanly through the upper part of his right arm, and the wound had sealed and healed within minutes. Just a brief annoyance: more the fact of it than any damage. Well rested and well fed, Spike thought Bit and the two women looked decidedly un-chirpy.

Finishing a politely covered yawn, Willow remarked, “You’re not a technological Neanderthal like Giles. I didn’t have to do the whole ‘this is a keyboard, and this is a mouse, and this is the monitor’ drill with you. So what do you have against cellphones?”

Spike thought about it a minute. “Too distant. Don’t much like talking to people I can’t see.”

“Right with you there,” Buffy put in fervently, pouring coffee.

Spike went on, “Admit it’s better than not being able to talk to them at all. Sometimes it’s convenient. Sometimes, it’s the only way. But it feels strange. Not real.” His thought took another turn. “Red, you said to remind you.”

For a second, she looked puzzled. Then she brightened and rose, collecting her bowl. “Give me a few. Then come on to the den.”

As Willow trotted out, Spike looked around. “Den?”

Still fiddling with the phone, Dawn informed him, “What used to be the dining room, opposite the living room that’s now the front room.”

“Oh.” He’d always thought of that room as the parlor, except houses didn’t have parlors anymore, and who the hell cared anyway.

As Buffy set a cup of coffee down in front of him and started to say something, there was a knock at the back door. When Buffy opened the door, it was Rona, with the morning delivery of bagged blood. Finding Spike sitting at the island, Rona checked and gave him a look--likely because it was the first time they’d seen each other since well before Kim’s death. Spike just picked up his cup without letting on he’d noticed.

“Hi, Spike. Where do you want this?” Rona held up the hospital transport cool box.

Spike tapped the top of the island. “This what you’re doing now?”

Unloading the cool box, Rona said, “Sort of. Got first shift at the DoubleMeat, too. Between that and being this fictitious Holden Webster creep, it should do for now.”

“You’re staying, then.”

Rona didn’t look up. “Yeah. I could patrol, when you’re ready. If you want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Spike, are you mad at me? On account of Kim?”

Drinking coffee, Spike consulted the soul, which proceeded to tell him what he ought to be feeling and how he ought to behave toward this hesitant and conscience-stricken teen-aged girl child. He told it to shut up. “Somewhat. Weren’t none of you thinking, that night. But you could have done worse. Didn’t actually go and try to get yourself turned, like they thought you might.”

“That was a dumb idea,” Rona admitted. “Extreme and dumb. I just wanted…. But what’s wrong with wanting to be a vamp anyway, Spike?”

“There’s a reason why it’s not generally something people volunteer for. But you should ask the expert.” He nodded in Buffy’s direction.

Buffy raised both hands. “So not gonna get into that! Got to get going or I’ll be late. You too, Dawnster.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hey, Spike, here’s your cell. And this is a list of the speed dial numbers I put in. If you want any more, tell me: there’s still two slots left. OK?”

Spike took the phone and glanced at the list she’d written on a paper napkin. “Yeah, all right. Thanks, Bit.”

Rona waited until Buffy and Dawn were gone, then faced Spike again. “You gonna let me patrol?”

“Patrol, that’s up to the Slayer.”

Rona dismissed that comment with a grimace and a wave. “She’s gonna say yes, we both know that. What I’m asking is will you let me? ‘Cause I know if you don’t, it ain’t gonna happen, no matter what Buffy says. Don’t you dodge me, Spike. Let’s have the truth here between us.”

Spike considered her for a long minute. “Then, yeah: I’ll let you. Might be I’ll have other things of my own along the way. Think you might be up for that?”

“Depends on what kind of things, don’t it?” Rona retorted, hands on hips.

“Expect it would. Got a shooter out there someplace. Low caliber. Hasn’t targeted anybody I know of but me. Might be I’d like to set some watchers in place, see if I can make his acquaintance.”

“Yeah, Dawn told me about that…. Sure, I’d be good for that.” Rona pulled the napkin to her and wrote on it, then pushed it back. “That there, it’s the number where we’re staying. Bunking in with Kennedy just now, for the time. But I pay my own share, ain’t freeloading off nobody here. And Ken: she invited too?”

“She can come ask. Maybe. Depends on what she’d expect from it. And ‘Manda.”

“Don’t know about ‘Manda. I stayed with her a few days. Seemed like she’d dodge or change the subject when anything like patrolling came up. Seemed like she wants things to just be like when she didn’t know nothing about vamps or Slayers or what stance to use with an underhanded cut. But we’re still good, me and ‘Manda. I could feel her out. In a manner of speaking.”

Spike checked, and found Amanda’s number among those Dawn had listed. “No need. Ask her myself, whether she wants to remember or forget. Figure on weapons drill, Saturday at first light. Casa Spike. See who’s in then.”

“That’ll do.” Rona took a step toward the door, then turned back. “Meant to say, lucky it wasn’t worse, with that Tarkin beastie. Seen Sh’narth now: never want to see one of those. They sound real mean to go up against.”

Spike understood that Rona was expressing concern about his injuries in a roundabout way, which he supposed was nice of her. For himself, he wasn’t real interested in them, just wanted them to heal and quit annoying and limiting him. He said only, “Taskin, it’s just trying to get by, like everything and everybody. Just passing through. They leave us alone, we leave them alone.” He reached for the top blood bag. “Appreciate this. Since it’s you taken this on, I know it will be done proper.”

Rona gave him a big pleased grin, then turned on her heel and left, jauntily swinging the cool box and even remembering to shut the door tight behind her.

Before opening the bag, Spike remembered Willow had something to show him in the den, and carefully slid off the chair and ambled down the hall.

Empty cereal bowl set aside, Willow was working intently on a computer Spike had never seen before. Looking up, she immediately rose, explaining, “Giles got a req OK’d for this on the grounds that before you can translate, you gotta be able to read. Nice monitor, hey?”

She patted the screen: about the size of a Life magazine, open upright, and nearly as flat. Though Spike hadn’t had much contact with computers, he certainly could see that the screen was many times the size of the one on Willow’s laptop. He leaned over the keyboard with arms braced on the table, ignoring the chair for the moment. Didn’t want to be sitting that low, just yet. He tapped the screen, then drew his hand quickly back, checking Willow’s face to see if touching was allowed. Likely not.

Willow said, “I got a list from Giles of about ten manuscripts, scrolls, or whatever, that they want help with, and downloaded them. Now you said you’d do it, they’ll hurry up and start scanning in the ones that can’t travel. Anyway, this is what I wanted to show you. Take a good look.”

Frowning unconsciously, Spike studied the manuscript page on the screen. “Transcribed Hu-tesh. Demon language, mostly using Arabic alphabet, but the vocabulary is closer to Jinn. Going on about…” He followed a few lines with his finger, carefully not touching. “…a Black Mage named Ashteroth’s Servant, roughly, which would put it no later than 4^th century B.C.E. Burned up, I think, and took most of a town with him. He--”

“OK, now look,” Willow said, reaching past him, and struck two keys together. The manuscript jumped. Three lines completely filled the screen. All the characters were clear and sharp and about ten times the size they’d been before. Willow beamed, proud of her trick. “You can blow it up or take it down as much as you please. I’ve built some nested macros for you for different resolutions. Don’t worry about the geek-speak, I’ll print off instructions for what keys to hit for each one.”

She hit another key and the manuscript page vanished. A quick sweep and click of the mouse and an empty white screen appeared. “Best thing for you is to play around a little with the word processor, get used to the keyboard and saving your stuff, that sort of thing. I’ve built you a directory where all your stuff will save to, that’s the default, until you need more directories to keep track of things. Major hand-holding here, for which I expect to be duly paid, thank you. Oh: not by you! I’ll submit invoices. I’m your technical support. Sort of like a combination mechanic and engineer. You name the problems, I’ll find a way to fix ‘em. For instance, you’re gonna need an embedded program to reproduce the character sets of some of those non-human languages. Don’t have to worry about a printer, but a lot of that’s not gonna display wizziwig without….” She saw his face and stopped, smiling sympathetically. “Don’t worry about it. You don’t have to understand what I say--just the manuscripts. I’ll show you how to annotate. Not a problem, really. I’ve been playing around with their database and their dedicated software for almost a year now, and I’ll do the navigating until you’re up to speed.”

Spike straightened up with care. “Couldn’t I just read it off, have somebody else take it down?”

Willow was shaking her head. “If it was straight English, sure. But who’s gonna be able to transcribe those demon languages by ear? Think of it this way: if it was easy, Spike, they wouldn’t need you. Sorry, but that’s a non-starter. Sure, there’s a learning curve, and just at the first it can seem pretty overwhelming. But--”

Willow stopped abruptly. Bending her head, she fitted two fingers on either side of her nose where glasses would have rested. Spike found the change in her manner--from effervescent confidence to apparent pain--striking and troubling. After a long minute and without changing her fingers’ position, Willow laughed nervously. “Guess I’ve been logging too much screen time, playing with those macros. Or maybe it was the drive. I haven’t driven that kind of distance for…well, I don’t remember. So a long time.”

“Maybe…you should get somebody to look at that. Doctor, maybe,” suggested Spike. He kept to himself the conviction that one of his fragile human “towers” was under serious attack--something he’d been expecting.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Eyestrain. Nerd occupational hazard. It’ll be fine. Really!”

But Willow’s forehead was still creased and pained while she vigorously waved off his concern. Spike noticed that she’d also gone several shades paler.

“How long is it, that your eyes have been bothering you?”

“About a week. Something like that. I don’t remember noticing it before that drive north. To bring the blood and everything. I think I’ll just lie down for awhile. I should remember to take breaks, I should…” Willow’s voice trailed away as she ascended the stairs.

Spike gave the computer screen--monitor--a hard look, then went back to the kitchen and finished the blood quickly because the sun had started to shine in. It was still much too early to have any chance of reaching Willy, but he might as well follow up on the next item on his private agenda. He took the cellphone to the front room and relocated one of the wooden straight-backed chairs against the far wall and settled there. Consulting the folded paper from his pocket, he dialed the number. After two rings, a woman’s pleasant voice responded, “Sunshine Mystical Services, how can we help you?”

Spike had thought it all out, what to say. Holding the phone tight to his ear, he said, “Got this number from Oz.”

“Yes?”

“Figure maybe you can tell me how you can help. If you can’t, I need to look elsewhere.”

“Ah. That will be a moment. Phone consultations are particularly difficult, I’m sure you don’t realize….” Then the voice called him by the name of his birth: that he had never divulged to anyone since his turning. They were all long gone now and past being hurt, but his surname was one he’d endured torture to keep secret: Angelus had been a firm believer in the very thorough and violent dissolution of all human ties. Hearing it spoken casually, without hesitation, was a shock.

A chill ran down Spike’s back, and his free hand went to the new locket Willow had made for him. “Don’t you say that again. Ever.”

“What would you prefer to be called, sir?” responded the voice calmly.

“No need of that. If you know that, you know what I want. Where can I find it?”

“A moment please….” After a silence, the voice said, “There are several potential sources. One is at your present location, sir.”

“Besides that.”

“The nearest would be…I’m terrible with maps. Would Murfeesboro be acceptable?”

“That would do.”

“Then the name--”

“Don’t need the name. I can take it from there. What do I owe you?”

“No charge. Professional courtesy. Is there any possibility you might be visiting Anaheim in the near future? I’m always glad of a chance to meet Mr. Osborne’s friends and associates.”

Spike contained and stopped the impulse to cut the connection. “None I see coming. Do you think it’s likely?”

“No…. It seems not. Ah, well. Let me just say that it’s so pleasant to speak with someone who has confidence in our services. Too often, I find myself confronted with suspicion and incredulity.”

“Have that problem myself, love.”

“Yes, I see that you do. Well, we’re glad you’ve reposed such confidence in us. Be assured we will keep yours. If we were to receive any…sensitive communications for you, where might we direct them?”

Spike thought a moment. “Could tell Oz.”

“My impression is that our patrons would much prefer something more direct.”

Then Spike did allow himself to punch the button and end the call, muttering, “I just bet they would. Fucking bastards.”

Still not time to call Willy. Some way, he was gonna have to learn patience.

**********


That evening, sitting on the front porch steps Spike had coerced her promise not to leave, Dawn looked around at him. “You’re really rotten, you know that?”

“To the core, kitten.”

“I feel like bait,” Dawn complained, yanking fretfully at her hair.

A smirk was answer enough, since she was bait.

Wasn’t too long before he heard the bike and stood: not graceful, likely, but good enough. He leveled a finger and Dawn stuck out her tongue. Their agreement thus confirmed, Spike descended the steps and walked out to where Mike was settling the bike on its kickstand in a dark stretch on the opposite side of the street.

Stepping off the bike, Mike looked him up and down. “Thought you’d be worse.”

Spike shrugged, lighting a cigarette. “I set up that challenge fight for Saturday week. Just as soon get it over. Got other things to see to. Does that suit?” He already knew, having talked to Willy twice today. But it was also important to talk to Mike direct, because other matters hung by it.

Mike shrugged in response. “Well enough.” He started past, heading for the porch and Dawn, but Spike caught his arm, meanwhile looking the bike over.

Spike remarked, “Running all right for you, is she?”

“Decent little bike. Needed some work on the suspension: you beat hell out of it.” Mike was wary, waiting.

“Like to borrow it back. Just a day, is all. I’ll cover the gas and some over. Would twenty do it?”

Mike frowned, considering the bike too. “When?”

“Leave it tonight. I’ll have it back before sunrise, Thursday morning.”

“That’s two days.”

Spike just looked at him disgustedly, since they both knew perfectly well he wasn’t about to hop on the bike and take off in broad daylight.

“Make it thirty,” Mike said.

“It’s twenty, and you’re glad of it, because then you get to come up on the porch and visit. Otherwise, you push off.”

Mike lifted his chin, then shook off Spike’s hand and crossed the street to stand in the light of the streetlight there, plainly expecting Dawn to come running. But she’d promised, and didn’t. Spike smiled. Dawn’s loyalties might be divided, but he always could depend on her.

“Yeah, all right,” Mike said absently. He reached in his pocket for the ignition key and tossed it, high, to Spike, who put it away as he followed unhurriedly. Mike was already parked next to Dawn on the steps, and they were talking, by the time Spike came up the walk. Spike tapped the other vampire on the shoulder and, when he looked up, presented the $ 20 bill he’d begged from Willow, not having anything by the way of cash himself. Mike took it, frowning, and afterward kept looking around at Spike, who’d settled on the glider at the far edge of the porch, peaceably swinging just enough to make the suspending chains creak.

After about an hour, Mike went off down the street. Dawn came and flounced down next to Spike on the glider, demanding, “Is this the new regime, Mr. Obnoxious?”

“Nobody hurt. Nobody dead. You object to that, Bit?”

“I don’t know why I even listen to you!”

“Yes you do. Because in this, I put you first. An’ I look out for you. Even when you don’t entirely want me to. Long as I’m here, there’s certain choices you don’t have to make. And it’s better that way. Isn’t it.”

Dawn swung her feet. “Mike’s real peeved. Hadn’t fed in two whole days, so he could come to me clean.”

Spike thought it had been longer than that, but he didn’t say so. “And you,” he asked Dawn gently. “Are you peeved?”

“You don’t really expect an answer to that, do you?”

“Not really. You kept your promise. Don’t have to like it, so long as you do it. Now tomorrow night, I won’t be here. Gonna ask Buffy to keep an eye on things.”

Dawn looked at him alertly. “Where are you going?”

“Got an errand to run. If it all works out, I’ll tell you about it afterward.”

“Spike, why are you doing this? Why, all of a sudden, all this gratuitous chaperonage? Don’t you trust me?”

Spike gave her a quick hug, then held out his left arm and tapped the back of the hand. “What does that say, there?”

It was dark on the porch, but she didn’t have to see the tattoo to know. Mollified, she admitted softly, “It says ‘Dawn.’”

“Yes, it does. An’ it always will. That’s why it’s there. To remind me. And maybe sometimes to remind you.”

“You have something going: I can tell. What are you up to?”

“What I’d like you to do,” Spike said, “is hunt up maybe a dozen maps of Sunnydale. Photocopies, whatever, doesn’t matter. Big enough to see the street names. Single page size. And one of those big markers. Red would be good. And some tape. Any kind. Think you could come up with all that by Sunday, say?”

“Tell me why. Tell me what you’re doing.”

“You know planning’s never been my strong suit, Bit. Don’t want to embarrass myself too bad in advance. Just pushing at the pieces, trying to make a fit. Now I know where Buffy’s going, I can figure where I ought to be…. Seems like a good thing I gave Michael that bike. He’s had a lot of use out of it, seems like, by the mileage he’s put onto it in just a short while.”

Dawn just looked at him, not knowing what to make of that remark. Spike smiled at her and planted a quick kiss on her head. “You’re a great help to me, Bit,” he said, rising.

“And you just went completely off the weird scale,” Dawn retorted as he went into the house.

He found Willow in the den, squinting at the screen of the new computer. Noticing him, Willow said, “What you actually need is a touchpad: something you can write on. That would take care of the demon iconography. I’ll shop for one tomorrow after class. I see you have some notes on that first document, the one in Hu-Tesh. I’ve saved ‘em for you. Here, let me show you how to do that, or you’ll lose something.”

Obediently going to stand behind her, Spike watched her demonstration of how to save notes and even understood most of it. He’d figured out how to make the computer show the Hu-Tesh scroll, and how to switch back and forth between it and the screen that let him write notes. Not bad progress, he thought, for one day.

Willow said, “When you get that done, we’ll invoice the Council for your time. So keep track of it, OK? How many hours, how many minutes, on what days. I’ll make you a log you can fill in on each session. Suppose you spend, say, 80 hours total on it--that’s $ 8,000. Nice little sum, right?”

Willow grinned up at him. Spike stared. “Say that again.”

“Eight thousand dollars. As an expert consultant with absolutely unique knowledge they can’t get anyplace else, your time’s worth $ 100 an hour. That’s what Giles set up for you. Better than bartending, isn’t it?”

Spike leaned back against the wall.

Willow went on, “You’re gonna need a bank account. So you can-- Giles will take care of it, Spike. Before he goes. He’s still getting your papers together, to make you legal. You won’t have to--”

Spike said suddenly, “Make it so it’s Buffy’s. So she can have whatever she wants of it.” That was the only way it made sense: if he thought of it as the Council paying its Slayer like it should. Didn’t get them off the hook of actually paying her, but it would serve in the meantime.

That was the mortgage. That was repayment for all the food the SITs had eaten. That was repair of all the windows that’d been broken and the other damage to the house over the course of the battle with the First. It was what Buffy would need to do what she’d decided on: be Sunnydale’s Slayer and bring it out of the chaotic aftermath of closing the Hellmouth.

And of course Dawn would want to go to the mall.

Belatedly realizing that Willow had said something, Spike shook himself out of the daze of possibilities. “What?”

“I said, then you can pay me back the twenty you owe me,” Willow said, still regarding him kindly.

“Yeah. I guess….”

Willow laughed. “Now I know what dumbfounded looks like. You need to talk to Giles, Spike, about what arrangements you want made.”

“Yeah…. Tomorrow. Any chance you could front me another twenty?”

He had the bike, and it was only a short way to Willy’s bar. He thought his back would stand it if he was careful. But he was still enough on the outs with Willy that he could no longer run up a tab.

Nothing better to steady you down than getting outside as much liquor as you possibly could.

**********


When Spike rolled in about 5 in the morning, muttering to himself and bumping into things, Buffy knew he was very drunk. She supposed that was a good thing: it meant he’d built up enough energy to need to discharge it more or less harmlessly. But it also meant she’d slept alone, which she wasn’t all that pleased about.

Having pulled off his shirts (and almost certainly dumped them on the floor), he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots.

Rolling onto her side, Buffy ran fingers down his spine and felt him stiffen, then relax at the contact. Continuing to pet him in long, lazy strokes, she said, “Missed you. Did you have a good time?”

“H’lo, love. Didn’t mean to wake you.” One boot thumped on the floor. He changed position to work on the other. “In case. ‘F Bit goes outside tonight, could you keep a bit of an eye on things? Michael-wise, and all.”

“Yeah, all right. You gonna hunt the sniper?”

Laughing, he flopped back onto her legs, an arm bent across his eyes. So he wouldn’t simply fall asleep like that, Buffy hitched higher, to sitting, so she could fold herself over him and kiss him, petting his front instead. That was generally a good way to get, and keep, his attention. Besides, she liked the planes of his chest and abdomen and the reactions she could spark.

“What’s funny about that?” she asked.

“Mmm? Oh. Sniper. No, that will take care of itself. What was it? Oh. Got an errand to do tonight. Back by sunup. Being good: won’t forget the cell.”

She meant to ask what the errand was but he’d started kissing her back and that distracted her. Even drunk and running on automatic, he was an excellent kisser. After awhile, getting the rest of his clothes off seemed indicated and it got a little silly because one boot was still on and the pants wouldn’t come off over it. They rolled around on the bed, Buffy trying to work the boot off, Spike not interested in this preliminary and intent on getting her to hold still. That escalated into actual wrestling, strength against strength. Buffy’s bed didn’t have enough room for that: they tumbled onto the floor. Somehow getting the boot off didn’t seem so important after that.

Buffy wanted the initiative and kept it. Applying her mouth to his erection as though it were covered with chocolate only very serious attention would remove nearly always was enough to tame his aggression and make him lie back, babbling incoherent, mostly obscene endearments. Only after forcing him eventually to explosion did she remember that his back was still hurting and then was all contrition and concern, holding his face and demanding if he was all right, if she’d hurt him, in between hot open-mouthed kisses until he shut her up with a demonstration of his superior kissing expertise that impressed her forcefully with how all right he was. She could make amends, he said, with one of those nice, digging-in sort of back massages and promised not to fall asleep while she did it. Which still left the initiative with her, which she liked: he was often but not always thoughtful about things like that. Just enough exceptions to keep things interesting.

He nearly kept his promise--she thought he drifted off for a few minutes but it was hard to be certain, he was so bonelessly inert under her hands--but suddenly roused and pitched her onto the bed, announcing that it was her turn, which of course really meant that it was his. She was subjected to licking, nuzzling, and nipping until she was frantic to have him solidly inside her, but he wasn’t satisfied with frantic, he wanted desperate before he’d consent to go for completion, and she punished him with a bout of merciless tickling. He retaliated in kind, and they ended up on the floor again. He knelt to grab a pillow to slide under her hips. Then it became serious and slow, gazing into each other’s eyes, flexing and arching in tidal rhythms. His inhuman control brought her to climax twice. Before she’d settled from the second, she saw his eyes flash amber, his whole body more fierce, possessive, and demanding. As he bent to the mark, her third orgasm had already begun. She clutched him to her and within her, a completed arc of ecstatic claiming and possession, both of them fully lost in it, shuddering and convulsing, falling finally, after an unknown forever time, into sated collapse. As he released the mark and bent his smoothed forehead against her neck, she clasped and rocked him, unaware that she was weeping until he stirred and began kissing her eyes, gentling her with his hands, murmuring, “Hush, love. Hush now.”

She shook her head. “Can’t. Love you so much. So much. Love you forever.”

“Do anything for you. Give you everything, anything. My shining, beautiful Slayer. My joy. My peace. So warm and strong for me. Hush now, love. Hush and rest.”

What seemed like the next instant, her alarm sounded. Finding herself in bed, the comforter tucked up around her, and Spike cuddled against her back with one arm over her, spread hand on her stomach, she awoke happy and wondering how she’d done without him ever. He was the dearest man, alive or not, she could possibly imagine.

**********


When Buffy returned home after work and grocery shopping, she found Spike already gone though it wasn’t yet dark. Mildly disappointed not to be able to do the groceries-unloading dance with him, she pressed Dawn into service. Dawn pestered her with questions: where had Spike gone and what was he up to and was Buffy really gonna make her stay on the porch and then spy on her like she was twelve years old, which she never had been actually, and it was so not fair! The answers were (a) Buffy didn’t know (b) probably nothing (c) yes (d) then she should stop behaving as though she were and (e) so what? Dawn then demanded how it was possible Buffy hadn’t asked where Spike was going, considering it was gonna take all night on Mike’s motorcycle, and didn’t she care, considering he’d already been shot twice?

Buffy’s lightning retort was, “Go do your homework.”

“Fine!” said Dawn, flapping her hands, and left the frozen food in a pile on the island.

Putting the pile away herself, trying for the record in least-open-freezer time, Buffy was vaguely troubled: she hadn’t realized the bike was involved.

Maybe Willow knew.

Finding the normal late afternoon haunts empty, Buffy concluded that probably Willow had gone someplace, like to the library, or was visiting college friends at one of the dorms. Out with Oz, even. No reason Willow shouldn’t be anyplace. Buffy checked the answering machine attached to the tethered phone in the front room and found only the dueling recordings of aborted sales calls. Willow was such a methodical soul, it was unusual for her to miss supper and not have called or left word of her intended absence. Checking the least likely place, she found Willow laying on her bed with a microwave hot pack across her eyes and all the curtains drawn.

“Will, are you OK?”

Willow limply explained that she was on the point of death from mortification: Kennedy had registered to audit Willow’s Intermediate German class and moved twice to sit next to her. Tried to pass her notes. Nearly provoked a scene. Willow had been so upset that she’d barfed on the Founder’s bust. It had been awful, and she’d had to call maintenance, and looking at it had made her even sicker, and could she die now please because better that than explaining to Professor Grossmeyer precisely what the problem with the new auditor was.

“I’d rather clean an oven that’s cooked lasagna,” Willow wailed. “I’d rather have a big old hangnail that gets infected and swells all up. I’d rather listen to chalkboard squeaks for a month. I’d rather--”

“Why don’t you e-mail him/her/it? You’d still have to explain, but you wouldn’t have to watch his/her/its face while you’re doing it.”

“Oh, that is such a good idea! You’ve saved my life, Buffy!”

“Harassment is harassment, even when both of you play for the same team, gender-wise. Remember Cordelia!”

“Oh please, do I have to? I’m afraid I might barf again, and that makes my head hurt so bad--!”

“Yeah, I was wondering what was with the hot pack. Headache?”

Willow lifted the edge of the pack and opened an eye for a second, then pressed the pack back into place as though even that momentary glimpse had hurt. “I’d ask you not to tell anyone, except there’s nobody left not to tell. Don’t tell Dawn. That would be good. And certainly don’t tell Oz. There: that does make me feel better.”

“What am I not telling them?” Buffy asked.

“Killer eyestrain. I’m getting these headaches and everything goes all dark and soupy. Like New England clam chowder, only dark. Lumps and stuff swimming in it. I’ve never had geek disease! I’d do a divination, find out if somebody, Amy maybe, has put some kind of hex on me, but that involves yucky stuff and I just know I’d barf….”

“Maybe when you feel better,” Buffy suggested soothingly. “Just one thing, then I’ll let you go back to dying. Did Spike happen to mention where he was going?”

“No, he was too flabbergasted about the money.”

“What money?”

“You mean he didn’t tell you? Oh, maybe he meant it to be a surprise, and I’ve ruined it, and now he’ll hate me--!”

“Willow, Spike is not gonna murder you. However, I may, thereby solving all your Kennedy problems. What money?”

Willow chanced another peek. “When I told him Giles had wangled him an hourly rate of $ 100 per, for consulting, I thought he was gonna faint right there in front of me. Then you could practically see the wheels turning, all the stuff he’d like to do with it. He was gonna talk to Giles about it today, setting up a joint account and everything. Giles would know. I think I could keep tea down. Would you make me some sassafras tea? And dry toast.”

“Sure, Will,” Buffy agreed, and wandered back downstairs in a daze. A surprise? Not likely: Spike was Mr. Instant Gratification. Not that he didn’t have any self-control but he saw no need for it. The first time they’d met, he’d made this big threat to kill her on Saturday. Then he simply couldn’t wait and showed up in the middle of parent-teacher night and raised hell until Joyce battered him about the head with a fire axe. To think, or to feel, was pretty much to act, with Spike. When he couldn’t, he got all wound up and was apt to explode sideways and take out the equivalent of a city block, complete with shrubbery and small animals. No, she didn’t buy the surprise theory.

True, neither of them had been much inclined to talk, this morning. As drunk as he’d been, at least to begin with, it was possible he’d simply put the matter out of his mind and forgotten. He did that sometimes, even with urgent stuff. But if he’d reacted as Willow had described, why hadn’t he told her right then? Why had his (obviously) first impulse been to go to Willy’s and get himself bombed?

Was there something about the prospect of the money, or the work itself, that bothered him the way the blood deliveries had initially bothered him? And he wasn’t gonna say anything until he’d sorted it out and decided? Sitting at a desk and working for hours, for days, certainly wasn’t part of her image of Spike…or maybe his, of himself. Although he’d agreed, might actually doing it strike him as…too William?

Realizing she was just spinning her wheels and making herself crazy to no purpose, she located a packet of Willow’s nauseatingly healthy tea and set water to heating. A fresh occasion to use the tea infuser. Waiting for the water to boil, she collected her cell from its stand on the hall table and punched in Giles’ current number. But the conversation didn’t really clarify anything, only confirmed Willow’s account. Yes, Spike had called today to make arrangements for a joint checking account, with credit cards appertaining thereto. It was to be a business rather than a personal account--better for tax purposes. And if Spike applied himself diligently, the average monthly income could reasonably be estimated at between eighty and one hundred thousand dollars, at least in the short term, dealing with a backlog that had been centuries in accumulating. Giles expressed himself as surprised by Buffy’s surprise: many lawyers, doctors, and the like charged comparable or even higher rates for their services.

“I don’t know, Giles,” Buffy responded, tucking the cell into her shoulder to continue talking while pouring the boiling water into the teapot. “To little miss $ 12.50 an hour, here, it’s fairly mind-boggling. And Spike ‘applying himself diligently’ just does not compute, somehow. Tell me honestly: do you expect this to blow up in all our faces?”

“I see no reason why it should. If his academic background conforms at all closely to what I’ve come to suspect by little things he’s let drop over the years, frankly, he should regard it as a piece of cake. Complete with frosting. Very little actual research involved--drawing almost completely on what he already knows. If mere research were all that was required, these works would have been deciphered and annotated long ago. Buffy, has this somehow become a source of tension, even disagreement, between you?”

“No,” Buffy said, scissoring the envelope and coaxing the tea into the infuser. “The opposite. He hasn’t said word one about it. Or the money. And it’s probably nothing, but that’s started to worry me.”

“Then simply ask him, for heaven’s sake!”

“I will. Just as soon as I see him. Thanks, Giles.” Buffy closed the connection and set the cell down. She thought of calling Spike’s new number, but it was nearly dark now: she visualized him on a motorcycle doing something like eighty when his cell beeped or buzzed and decided against it. Anyway, she wanted to see his face when she brought this up. See all the eloquent body language she’d learned pretty well how to read. This wasn’t something for a phone anyway. One of the face-to-face things of life.

She popped the infuser into the pot and added the lid, checking her watch to estimate brewing time. Nearly twelve hours before Spike was apt to get home.

And where the hell had he gone?

**********


By the time Spike reached Sunnydale on the return leg, he well and truly had the road in his bones and was too tired to slow down. He took corners at eighty, straight-aways at ninety, and noticed the traffic signals not at all. Fortunately there was barely any other traffic moving and what there was saw him coming soon enough to get out of his way. He didn’t spare a glance or a thought on them. Sometimes near the end of a long trip, it was that way: a clear, effortless focus that saw everything in distinct contrasts of light and dark.

Approaching Revello, he thought vaguely of people sleeping. Then he thought fuck it and jammed the bike into a skidding turn only the absence of parked cars let him complete. Finally braking, stopping, felt so strange that he stood awhile, astride the inert bike, before he could trust his balance enough to dismount and set it on its kickstand. Pocketing the key, he unstrapped his carryall from pillion and crossed the street with the sense of vibration, ghostly engine noise, and wind still pushing at him.

He’d done something like 500 miles in less than eight hours on the road. And even that had been cutting it fine: it had taken longer than he’d expected to ask around and identify, then locate, the witch he was looking for. But it had all worked out. He had what he’d set out for and brought it back safe. That was all that mattered.

As he started up the stairs, Buffy stood from the glider where she’d been waiting, wrapped in a comforter she still held around her. “Heard you coming,” she said dryly. “From quite a distance.”

He turned aside to kiss her, very glad to have beaten the sunrise and be home. Some of the vibration bled away at the contact. Holding her in a one-armed hug, he steered them inside, then shut and bolted the door.

“Shouldn’t have waited up,” he told her, all easy gentleness, concern freed of confusion. “Almost time for you to start getting ready.”

“Where did you go?” she asked, going into the front room and dropping onto the couch, so he trailed along and sat beside her.

“Town called Murfeesboro. To pick up something I wanted--piece of equipment. Borrowed Michael’s bike. Long haul for a little bike like that. Ran fine. He’s worked on the suspension.” He settled and leaned back, still trying get accustomed to the loss of hurtling motion. “You have any trouble with him?”

She shook her head. “Everybody on their best behavior. The occasional Stare of Vicious Death, but I’m used to that.”

“Good.” He got up stiffly. “While I think of it, I’d best give the bike key to Dawn. Michael won’t come for it before sundown now, and that way, he’ll be sure to get it.”

Her voice caught him in the doorway: “Willow told me about the money. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He wheeled around, a little surprised at the question but not at all put out. A bit more distance, calm and objective, was the first difference he’d been able to notice. “Because there isn’t any yet, and Rupert hasn’t yet set up an account to hold it. Can’t very well cut the cake till there’s a cake to be cut.”

“Are you OK with it?”

Seemed to be something she’d worried about. Spike wondered why. “Take money from the Watchers’ Council? Won’t trouble me for a second. Ninety percent of what they want looked over is metaphysical claptrap and some git’s puffery about how he had these grandiose plans to raise himself up a demon, an’ then something went wrong and nothing happened whatever, told in detail and at exhaustive length. That and the alchemical equivalent of grocery lists. A whole lot of magic in the world and not much of it in words. If they’re fools enough not to know that, it's no concern of mine.”

That felt right, and odd, in about equal measure. So it was gonna take some getting used to, after all. He’d expected that, though there was no way to know exactly what or how in advance. Strange that it should be strange, when it should be so familiar. But so much had changed….

On impulse, he went back and held out his free hand. Lifting Buffy out of her nest of comforter, he bent to kiss her searchingly and her arms came up around his neck. When they separated, she seemed to have put aside whatever had been troubling her. He said, “Come on upstairs. Time for Bit to wake up anyway. By the time you have your day things set out, I’ll be back for the show.”

Going with him up the stairs, Buffy remarked, “Willow had a run-in with Kennedy yesterday at college. Lost her lunch over the Founder’s bust in the rotunda, and then a bad sick headache afterward. All weepy and morose.”

“Her eyes,” Spike agreed. “That will be better soon.”

“You say that like you know it.”

“It’s pressure, is all. I think there’s a way to get some of that pressure off her and keep it off. Then it’ll all sort itself out.”

At the head of the stairs, they separated. Buffy went on into her own room. Spike tapped at Dawn’s door. “Bit, it’s me. You awake?”

“Am now,” came Dawn’s sour reply.

“Can I come in a minute?”

Instead of answering, she came and opened the door, leaning so only her head and shoulders showed. “What?”

“Want you to keep track of something for me. OK if I come in?”

She moved aside to make room. She wore a long animal-print T-shirt, mostly yellow on white, that made her look as though her legs ended about at her breastbone. But his sense of her was completely unchanged. The distance was right. The warmth was right, and the cool fondness. Wouldn’t have to worry about that, then.

Setting the carryall on a chair, he unzipped it. A faint, pale silver light showed through the opening. Cradling it carefully because it weighed hardly more than a soap bubble, he drew it out with both hands and placed it on the floor: a clear orb, about melon-sized, set on a wooden base, shining with a cloudy glow. “Not as fragile as it looks,” he remarked, as Dawn went down on one knee to touch it with a tentative finger. “Take a hammer or a big rock, something like that, to break it. So you won’t need to be careful of it that way. But you need to keep it safe for me. Hidden.”

She looked up suddenly, then back at the globe, her fingers stroking the curve. “I know this. How do I know this, Spike?”

He hadn’t wondered about that, but it made sense that she'd feel the connection. “Likely because you have a little piece of it. It’s my soul.”