All About Spike - Necessary Evils by Barb Cummings

Necessary Evils
By Barb Cummings

Sequel to A Raising in the Sun

Part 26

He wasn't going to fuck this up.

Spike slouched in the comfortable embrace of his beat-up armchair, turning his shot glass round and round in his fingers. Willow'd been gone for an hour, and the litany in his head hadn't let up for a second. The whiskey warming his belly was starting to get lonely and hint that it could use some company. He cast a longing glance at the bottle of JD on top of the refrigerator. His fingers clenched on the armrest, gripping the layer of ancient fabric and cotton batting so tightly that the wood frame beneath creaked under the pressure. He didn't want another drink; that would imply needing another drink which would imply nervousness which would imply he had something to be nervous about. Which he didn't.

He wasn't going to fuck this up.

He sank further into the chair and glowered into the depths of his empty glass. Not like it was the end of the world, or the beginning of it. Bit unexpected, was all. What the hell had Wills been thinking, yanking the chip out of his head without a by-your-leave? Bloke had to work up to something like that. Not that she hadn't done him a favor, not that he wasn't grateful--balls, he was bloody well overjoyed--but he'd have liked a little warning, and a chance to talk it over with Buffy first. He set the glass down on the crypt floor. What had Wiccagirl meant, telling him not to mention it? This was no time for modesty. No, he'd tell Buffy right off and they'd chat it out. Everything nice and civilized--they could do that, couldn't they? A snarl twisted his lips at the memory of their earlier argument. Self-righteous bitch'd probably decide he'd had it pulled on purpose and--

With a rumble of disgust Spike heaved himself to his feet and padded downstairs to change into jeans and...anything not a black T-shirt. But he'd been hitting his meager supply of non-funereal colors hard lately, and all he could find clean after ransacking both dresser and wardrobe (five black T-shirts, two plain black button-downs, three patterned black button-downs, one black turtleneck) was the godawful black-grey-white variegated knit pullover Dawn had given him just before her Dad had shown up to take custody. Probably nicked, which thought, no matter how dutifully he tried, still made him feel more pleased and proud of her than disapproving; would have been a crime to pay for a thing like that. Wasn't the reaction you wanted from an honorary white hat, was it? He'd have to do better than that. Make himself do better.

The pullover made him look like an undead zebra, but it would have to do. Spike yanked it on over his head, laced up his boots, and started for the tunnels. Two steps into the echoing passageway he pulled up short and turned back to his bedroom, and hauled from beneath the bed the army surplus duffle wherein was stuffed a haphazard selection of his dirty laundry. He'd been meaning to hit the Wash N' Go one of these nights, but Buffy had a washing machine, and it was easier to have an existential crisis with more variety in his wardrobe.

It should have happened at night, he thought as he made his way through the tunnels. He'd have known what to do at night. He'd have been one with the darkness, sure, strong, utterly confident in his decision to...what? Once upon a time, and not all that long ago either, he'd had it all planned out, what he'd do when the chip came out. Whole thing choreographed down to the last scream and witty remark: the stalk, the fight, the victory, the last shared look encompassing his triumph and the Slayer's utter defeat before his fangs tore the life from her throat. He'd put a lot of thought into the epigram he'd paint on the wall of the Magic Box with her blood once he'd drunk his fill--something from Donne, perhaps. Then he'd kill the whelp and the Watcher and turn the witch, who'd make a smashing vampire, and take her to Brazil, there to hunt up Drusilla and flaunt his new conquest in her face until she realized what a stupid cow she'd been to cut him off. His dark princess would beg him to take her back, and he'd punish her for a suitable length of time before doing so--Dru'd love that part--and then they'd be off, the three of them, traveling the world and leaving a three-deep trail of corpses behind them.

'Course after hanging about Sunnydale long enough, he'd had to change the plan around a few times. Shag Buffy within an inch of her life, so she'd realize what she'd been missing, and then kill her. Right. Much better that way. And maybe he wouldn't turn Red after all--she'd been right considerate, unlike the rest of the Scooby tossers. Maybe he'd leave her warm and breathing instead, get Dru to do that thrall thing. And Buffy--he'd leave her alive to appreciate just exactly how badly he'd beaten her. Besides, Joyce would get all teary-eyed if he killed her daughter, and he couldn't do that to the woman who made the best cocoa in Southern California. Though he'd definitely kill Harris. And then go on a spree the likes of which Sunnydale had never seen, flood the mortuary for a week. Yeah, that was the stuff. Or--yeah, this was it--he wouldn't do anything at all, just keep up the helpful act, and when the truth finally came out he'd turn to Buffy with a smug look: Yeh, love, it's been out for months. Told you I could be good and she'd fall into his arms and he'd give Harris the punch in the nose he so richly deserved...

...and now? The nose-punching still sounded good. Chip coming out didn't change a thing--just like he'd told Buffy, just like he'd told Angel, just like he'd told himself, he could do the right thing, chip or no chip. He could. Long as he could hold still long enough to suss out what the right thing was. What the hell was wrong with Willow? She'd been off, definitely off. Up to something. Something fucking brill for him, but something. Spike curled his fingers into a fist and watched the play of muscle and tendon under the pale skin as he strode down the long echoing tunnel, a feral grin spreading across his face.

No more backing down from the likes of Shaun and David if a bet went bad, no more skulking, no more hiding. No more veneer of bravado plastered over rage and terror when some redneck bastard decided the little English guy was easy pickings. Not that he'd pick fights. Absolutely not. No swaggering into the Fish Tank and pounding the biggest, most thick-headed lunk in the joint into hamburger just because he could because... because why? Oh, yeah, it was wrong. Or so he was told. Though it would be fun. 'Cept it wouldn't really be in the nature of a fight, would it? More of a test. See if Wills had really done what she'd said she had, because after all this might be some sort of Wiccan practical joke, mightn't it? And absolutely no luring said thick-headed lunk into the alley and...

A noise down the tunnel caught his ear. A splash, a chittering--Spike set the duffle gently down on the damp concrete of the walkway which ran above the sluggish stream of effluvium in the channel below. His nostrils twitched, his keen sense of smell sifting out the strong rank scent of Rattus Norvegicus from beneath the even less savory odors of the sewer. He let his breath out in a long hiss and slipped into game face, dropping into a crouch. He ghosted down the tunnel, boots feather-light on the pavement--how many times had Angelus thumped him for making noise, those first few years? If he had a quid for each beating he'd own Microsoft by now. But it had paid off--he might be a bit rusty after buying his dinner at the butcher's for the last two years, but a century and more of hard-won stalking expertise wasn't forgotten that easily.

Ah, there it was. Spike's whole world narrowed to the sleek brown shape nosing along the base of the wall. The rat hadn't heard him yet; it bumbled along, sniffing for tidbits, licking the condensation which trickled down the tiles and provided a slightly less tainted source of drinking water for the creatures of Sunnydale Underground. He could hear its heartbeat over the low gurgle of the sewer if he concentrated, a swift fierce patter of life. It sat up on its hindquarters and bared strong yellow teeth in defiance at the world, and Spike grinned right back at it--You and me, mate, survivors. I just plan on surviving a little longer than you will . Spike swerved to avoid the pencil-thin shafts of sunlight filtering down through the holes in a manhole cover overhead, running the tip of his tongue over his fangs and reining in the hysterical giggle that threatened to burst from him at any moment. Christ, if anyone saw him now! William the Bloody, Scourge of Europe, giddy with joy at the prospect of killing a rat!

He pounced with infernal speed, skidding across the concrete with arms outstretched and fangs bared. The rat had time to react, just barely, before his fingers closed on it. It squealed and twisted in his grip, incisors sinking into the flesh of his hand, and Spike struck back just as swiftly and viciously, fangs piercing thin, foul-tasting hide and penetrating deep into the warm flesh beneath--

No pain. Oh merciful heavens, no pain, no blue-white forked-lightning shocks shattering his skull, no nothing but sweet hot living blood on his tongue. Not the teasing, chip-aborted taste he'd gotten at Halloween, not the reheated, days-stale leavings of someone else's slaughter--this was life itself coursing down his throat for the first time since Dru'd killed that college boy for him, and a million times better because he'd made this kill himself. Even if it was just a sodding rat, and objectively speaking tasted like shit. Spike snarled as the creature twitched and stilled in his grasp and the flow of liquid bliss slowed to a trickle and ceased; there wasn't much more than a swallow or two in a rat. Licking every trace of crimson from his lips, he tossed the cooling corpse into the sewer and looked hungrily around for more. Stand very still, and listen... yeah. There.

Fifteen rats and one stray Pomeranian (well, stray in the sense that he'd reached out of a sewer grate and snatched it) later, Spike ambled up to the bottom of the ladder leading to the manhole on Revello Drive, painfully full and blissfully happy. With any luck, in about ten minutes Buffy would be rubbing his tummy while he drowsed off his over-indulgence with his head in her lap--surely she was ready to make up by now. He patted the slight bulge in his normally board-flat stomach with a satisfied belch. Considering he was going to have to make a dash for Buffy's front door to achieve this nirvana, perhaps he'd gone a bit overboard, but killing the things was such a damned kick it was difficult to stop. Spike hitched his laundry over one shoulder and set out up the ladder.

He was absolutely, positively not going to fuck this up.

Buffy and Dawn might regard Doris Kroger as a bureaucratic fiend in human form, dispatched to torment them with forms in triplicate, but Willow had never minded Dawn's social worker. They'd met several times over the summer, while Dawn had been staying with Willow's parents and Giles had been trying to track down Hank Summers in Milan or Zambezi or wherever he'd been. Mrs. Kroger was a plump fortyish woman with a pouf of henna'd hair and a fondness for polyester pantsuits, whose perpetual air of vague apology masked a pair of very sharp eyes. She reminded Willow a little of her own mother, except less strident and actually interested in what you were saying. Of course, Willow had always gotten along better with adults than with people her own age, and now at last her own age was getting to the point where getting along with adults was reason to rejoice rather than an occasion for another visit to the guidance counselor.

But most of all Willow liked--nay, worshiped with an abiding passion--Doris Kroger because she was arriving in something less than forty minutes, and all attention would focus on her.

There was a burning spot right between her shoulderblades, just in that spot where you couldn't reach to scratch. It was the accumulated weight of who-knew-how-many accusing searchlight stares following her, all of which knew exactly what she'd done--never mind that there was no one else in the living room. Her insides were a yarn-ball tangle of guilt and worry which would have done Miss Kitty proud.

Where was that annoying dark voice when she wanted it to soothe her conscience and dismiss her fears? She hadn't done anything wrong, she reassured herself. Spike had wanted the chip out for ages. And he was all domesticated these days, just a big ol’ bleached-blond teddy bear with fangs. Wasn't he? Willow took a firmer grip on the handle of the teacup she was setting out. The gilt on the rim was slightly worn, revealing the austere white purity of the china beneath. "Aurum in integrum restituere," she whispered. Power flowed and curled within her, smooth as film noir smoke, banishing doubt and fear. As her thumb traced the curvature of the rim, a slim perfect line of gold followed behind it. It glinted in the afternoon sun and for a second Willow felt happiness of the sort she would never, ever wish on Angel.

Is it not worth a few small errands, this power? the ebony voice inquired, faintly amused.

It was almost a relief, not to be alone in her own head. I'm not doing this for the power , she protested. I'm doing it to help restore the Balance.

Laughter, deep and dark and bitter as Aztec chocolate, flavored with blood and cayenne. Yes, but the power is no less sweet for that, is it? her invisible companion said. You need not lie to me. Or to yourself. Only to them, as is necessary for their comfort. You deserve power, Willow Danielle Rosenberg. You were born for it. Do not shy from your birthright out of fear or false modesty.

The images burned in her mind: what she could do, who she could become. Vampires exploding into incandescent clouds of dust at a wave of her hand, demons abasing themselves at her feet. She strode fearless through the streets of Sunnydale... or why not L.A.? Paris, London, Alexandria, Harvard, M.I.T., Cambridge, the Bodelian, Stonehenge--ancient repositories of mystic knowledge thrown open to her eager eyes by obsequious men and women in tweed and sensible shoes-- It's Willow Rosenberg! It's such an honor, Miss Rosenberg... A web of spells traversed the globe through glittering fiber-optic cable, slender silver threads converging wherever she was, carrying her will across oceans, magic and microchips fusing into a ecstatic new whole. Mom and Dad, finally impressed, finally noticing. Tara, proud and loving at her side-- I taught her everything I know, but of course she's taken it far beyond... The Hellmouth not only sealed but destroyed forever. Buffy wouldn't need to patrol; she could have the normal life she craved, and Willow, she could have...

Anything she wanted. Everything she'd denied herself by remaining in Sunnydale.

Willow squeezed her eyes closed and shuttered her mind and heart. It was only a partnership of convenience. Tonight she'd perform the last of her agreed-upon services and be free. Or mostly free. There was still the minor problem of her own magics being unreliable, and she wasn't so naive as to think that the force she was dealing with would allow her to tap infinite power for the rest of her life without demanding further little agreements. But with the power she had at her disposal, surely she could find or create a spell to fully heal her own abilities. She'd keep her bargain until then, and no longer. It wouldn't take long. She was sure of it.

The front door blew open and Buffy came sweeping in, flinging her purse at the couch and her jacket at the coat rack. Willow, setting the platter of cookies on the coffee table (chocolate macadamia nut, extra forgive-y) was momentarily transformed into a single over-stressed nerve fiber, heartily twanged by the slamming of the door. Her fingers spasmed and the platter slipped from her hands and clattered to the surface of the table. A handful of cookies slid off the edges. "Buffy!"

"At last report." Buffy strode into the living room and planted both fists on her hips, surveying the condition of the battlefield: carpet vacuumed, sofa cushions denuded of cat fur and Miss Kitty banished to the basement, from whence occasional plaintive yowls could be heard. Photos and knickknacks had been dusted and arranged for maximum wholesomeness, Joyce's good tea set arrayed upon the newly-polished surface of the coffee table. Buffy's pearly teeth fastened on her glossy lower lip; there was a tension in her that hadn't been present when Willow left for school that morning. Had the interview gone badly? "I guess it'll have to do," Buffy muttered.

Like you were such a big help cleaning, Willow thought a trifle resentfully. "If you're really worried, Buff, we can do a teensy glamor--"

The look that flashed through Buffy's sea-colored eyes was mildly appalled. "Thanks, but--" Her eyes went flinty grey as they zeroed in on Dawn, galloping downstairs in yet another change of outfit. "Dawn, it's barely three-thirty--why are you home already?" Her face went pinched and shrewish in Unpleasant Buffy Expression #36, and her voice could have cut glass. "This interview’s eighty percent of the final as far as The Kroger’s recommendation to the judge goes, and you're cutting classes on the very day--"

Dawn did a freeze-frame halfway down the stairs with one foot in mid-air, gearing up for a full-on ear-grating whine. "I am NO--" She cut herself off, dropped her foot to the stair-step and took a deep breath. "No, I'm not," she said in carefully reasonable tones. "They let us out early because there was a demon in the cafeteria. Some kind of snakey thing. It swallowed one of the lunch ladies and went to sleep all over the jocks' table. The janitors were poking it with brooms to see if they could get it to hack her up." She teetered back and forth on the stair-tread, staring at the toes of her sneakers and playing with a lock of her hair. "I know today is important, Buffy."

"Oh." Buffy ran a hand over her forehead and down over her eyes, as if she could wipe the stress-lines off her face. "I mean... I know you know. Sorry. I'm overly caffeinated."

"'sall right," Dawn muttered. She clumped down the remaining stairs, eyes downcast save for one shrewd look at her sister. "He asked you, didn't he?" she said. "And you got into a fight about it, didn't you?" Buffy blinked. For a second there was naked pleading in Dawn's eyes. "I can do it! I'll practice every day--I've been watching both of you, I know some stuff already, sort of--please, let me help!"

"Spike told you about--oh. You mean the fighty stuff." Buffy pressed her fingers to the sides of her nose for a second and turned away. "We'll talk about it later. I'm going to go upstairs and clean up. I'll be back down in a minute."

There was a ground-in weariness of a sort Willow hadn't seen for some time in the drooping lines of Buffy's shoulders as she went up the stairs. Dawn might be off on the details, but Spike had said, back at the crypt, that they'd had a disagreement... come to think of it, she hadn't heard that particular tone of defiant bluster from Spike in quite awhile, either. The voice slipped back into her head, oozing between the cracks in her thoughts like that black oil on the X-Files. This had better end soon; she was running out of creepy similes fast. They feed off one another. For good or for ill .

The vampire thing considered, Willow hoped that wasn't meant in an ickily literal manner, but she could see the sense of it. There was a connection there, always had been--maybe a Slayer/vampire thing, maybe just a Buffy/Spike thing, more likely a little of both--and while the connection itself couldn't be easily broken, their mutual trust in it, and in each other, was a new and fragile thing. The two of them could tear one another down with the same ease that they'd built one another up, these last few weeks.

Just so. A weapon, at need .

Willow sat down on the nearest arm of the couch, crossing her arms over her chest and huddling in on herself. She wasn't cut out for this sneaky stuff; she had a horrible urge to race upstairs and spill everything to Buffy, or dash into the kitchen and beg Tara to forgive her for whatever she hadn't done yet. Buffy's psyche was a mass of half-healed wounds that ached at every change of the emotional weather, and the largest and achiest had 'ANGELUS' tattooed on its butt. If she and Spike were already on the outs about something, discovering that the chip was gone might lead Buffy to panic and create a net increase in the quantity of vampire dust in the immediate vicinity before Spike could try to explain.

Assuming Spike even wanted to explain. Oh, God, what if he went right out and killed someone? Her heart started to hammer in her chest and the air in the room grew progressively shorter on oxygen. What if he grabbed some innocent six-year-old and sucked them dry and--it would be all my fault--it--

How so? the ebony voice asked with crisp disdain. You gave him a gift. If he abuses it, that is his folly, not yours.

Yeah, but... It was past time she got more information out of Mister Mystery. how is what I'm doing for you going to fix the Balance?

You are an exceptionally intelligent woman. All acts have consequences. Surely you've divined that for yourself by now?

Willow fiddled with the teacup. Pink roses in old-fashioned garlands bedecked the sides, below the rim of gold. Curing the crazies was obviously a gold star on the good side of the ledger, and removing their threat to the rest of the population of Sunnydale was even better. Using Dawn to power the spell... well, that was a little iffy. But Dawn wouldn't be hurt by it. That wasn't good or bad, not really, just... pragmatic. Removing Spike's chip...on the surface of it, enabling a vampire to prey upon humanity again was a bad thing. Except, she told herself firmly, Spike wasn’t exactly Joe Average Vampire these days. She was just giving him a chance to prove what he’d been saying for months--that he’d changed.

You're growing warm , the voice replied, amused.

She didn't feel warm. Willow shivered, and went out to the kitchen to help Tara.

Dawn had never quite figured it out. Vampires, no problem. Hellbeasts, nothing to it. Ancient mystic orders bent on world domination, piece of cake. But put Buffy, who could charm and bully equally effortlessly when she was in Slayer mode, in the presence of some mundane authority whom she had to impress, and her sister fell apart like an overcooked macaroni casserole. Of course, that had been before the whole dying-and-coming-back-to-life thing. Post-resurrection Buffy had plodded through the first stage of the guardianship paperwork with grim, listless efficiency. Buffy was neither grim nor listless today--June Cleaver on crack, more like. Dawn wasn't sure which was worse.

Dawn could only guess that the fight with Spike was throwing Buffy off her game. Like, into the next ballpark. She'd been jittery all through the tour around the house, answering questions with flood of too-cheerful babble which would have done Willow proud. Now she perched with ramrod-correct posture on the opposite end of the almost unrecognizably spruce couch--exactly far enough from Dawn and from the arms of the couch to discourage anyone else sitting on it. Despite cosmetic repairs (shoving Volumes 8, 15 and 22 of the 1979 edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica underneath the saggiest spot) it had yet to recover from its stint as Vampire Nookie Central, and made frightening sproingy noises if you shifted the wrong way.

The Kroger was seated across the room in the overstuffed armchair, leafing through the pile of paperwork on her lap. She examined each document with excruciating care, as if she hadn't read them all six times before. Dawn was inured to the process by now, but Buffy had yet to build up an immunity. Mrs. Kroger looked up and inquired, "So, Ms. Summers--there are two other adults in the house besides yourself?"

Buffy had changed back into her interview clothes--sensible skirt and blouse and pumps, very respectable, very adult, very, very not-Buffy--and the wide, gleaming smile plastered over her face was scarily reminiscent of Spike's long-disassembled robot version of herself. "Yes. Willow and Tara." One hand escaped from its primly folded station on her lap to flutter in the direction of the kitchen, where Willow and Tara hovered in the doorway, ready to airlift in supplies or fresh troops if necessary, Tara serene in the face of bureaucracy and Willow sporting a pair of small worried lines between her brows. "Because we're the village."

Mrs. Kroger blinked.

The Stepford Slayer smile winked out. "You know, because it takes a village to raise a...uh... cookie?" She thrust the heaping plate of chocolate macadamia-nut at the social worker. "They're homemade." It apparently struck her that this was not necessarily an endorsement of quality, and she amended hastily, "But not by me. Willow made them, totally by herself. Though I'm not saying I can't cook, I can. People just keep asking me not to."

Dawn suppressed a groan and hastened to pour Mrs. Kroger tea from the rose-garlanded teapot. What had happened to the All-Business Buffy who'd railroaded Dad into signing over custody? The argument with Spike must have been a doozy. There had to be something she could say that would come off as well-adjusted and healthy-family-like rather than like a total brown-nosed suck-up. This teapot. Mom got this teapot from Grandma. And you see that little chip on the foot? I did that when I was eight and pouring tea for Mr. Gordo and Brown Bunny. I'm connected to this teapot. OK, technically as of a year and a half ago I was a blob of green energy with no teapot connections at all, but now I am. Connected. And you can't just--

"No thank you, dear, I'm trying to cut down." Mrs. Kroger declined the cookies with her usual vague smile and sipped her tea as if to reassure them that she didn't mean anything personal by the refusal. She set the teacup down and pulled a pen from behind one ear. "Let's see... you originally filed your application for guardianship last spring after your mother's death, is that right?" Buffy nodded, a nervous head-bob that made her resemble a dashboard ornament. "Your father was out of the country and unreachable at the time..." She glanced at Buffy with the look of mild inquiry Dawn had grown to dread over the summer. "But the first application was cancelled due to your death?"

"Er." Buffy attempted a light, carefree laugh. "The rumors of my... uh. Yes. But obviously, not dead, so here we go again." Mrs. Kroger pursed her lips at the police reports (touched up after the fact by Willow Rosenberg, hacker extraordinare) and the doctor's affidavit (supplied by a physician with untraceable but persuasive connections with the Council of Watchers, one thing the Council had cooperated on). It all affirmed that Ms. Summers had suffered a head injury in a fall at an abandoned construction site. Ms. Summers had survived the fall and wandered away in a daze before her friends arrived on the scene and summoned the police, all of whom assumed that the small, slight, blonde corpse mangled beyond recognition by the fall was Buffy Summers, until she miraculously appeared on Halloween, having finally recovered her senses.

Dawn watched Mrs. Kroger's eyes flicking back and forth across the close-typed pages. She'd practically memorized the thing; heck, she'd supplied some of the juiciest details of the cover story, and it was all she could do to keep from reciting it under her breath as Mrs. Kroger read through their literary effort. The doctor’s report was full of catchy jargon like 'post-traumatic amnesia' and 'flattened affect' and ended with a comforting assurance that Ms. Summers was currently healthy and in full possession of her faculties. So far the Sunnydale tendency not to inquire too deeply into anything that whiffed of weirdness was working for them. "And you don't remember anything about where you were over the summer?"

"No." This was more or less true. Buffy wove the fingers of both hands tightly together once more. "The doctor said it was a post-traumatic... shock... thingy. Is there anything else the judge is going to need to see to transfer my sister's custody back to me? Dad's not contesting--"

"Mmm, yes, I see that. Our main concern is that you don't have a job at present." Mrs. Kroger peered at Buffy over the tops of her glasses. "So--"

"But I'm looking!" Buffy protested, a note of panic peering over the concrete embankments of her good cheer. "I had an interview this morning, and I have two more later this week. I just haven't--"

"I was just going to say," Mrs. Kroger leaned back, her smile growing somewhat fixed, "that your household qualifies for several varieties of government aid."

Buffy, thoroughly derailed for a second, just gaped at her. "You mean... what do you mean?"

"Job counseling services, certainly. Also financial aid services, food stamps--"

"Food stamps? You mean--Welfare? " Buffy got out in a mortified squeak. "Oh. No. I couldn't--I mean, I'm sure we can get by without--I mean--"

"Of course if you find a job in the next few weeks it won't be necessary, but I'm going to leave you the forms just in case." Mrs. Kroger handed Buffy a sheaf of papers, and Buffy took them in a shell-shocked daze, obviously still stunned by the dreaded vision of Buffy Summers, Welfare Mother.

Mrs. Kroger folded up her reading glasses and replaced them in her purse. "You seem to have all your paperwork in order--your hearing is set for the twenty-first. Your father's nominated you as your sister's guardian and waived requirement of service, so--"

The front door shook under a thundering volley of pounding, and the distinctive odor of singed vampire filled the air, temporarily drowning out the cookies. Dawn jumped to her feet, but Willow was ahead of her, sprinting for the door and flinging herself spreadeagled against it, more as if she wanted to hold it shut than in preparation for letting someone in. She opened the door the tiniest of cracks and peered out. "Spike!" she yipped, as if this were the last person she'd expected to see. Well, in the middle of the day, maybe... nah, this was Spike. "We're busy!"

"Ducky. I'm smoldering." Spike applied his superior strength to the door and Willow was scooted backwards across the carpet. Spike elbowed his way through the door and toppled over the threshold, duster pulled over his head, trailing smoke and dirty socks behind him. He dropped his laundry in the foyer with a thump and shrugged his coat back into place with a catlike air of 'I meant to do that.' He was looking particularly disheveled and human despite the wisps of smoke, and the faint flush in his cheeks meant he'd been feeding very recently. Willow clung to the door, staring at him in round-eyed apprehension, like he had spinach in his teeth or something. Doris Kroger (and everyone else, for that matter) was staring too--though, due to the combination of the duster, the striped pullover, and Spike's usual collection of jewelry no straight man alive or dead ought to be allowed to wear, more in an "Oh my God, look at the fashion victim!" way than in an "Excuse me, why is that man on fire?" way.

Spike had obviously forgotten all about the meeting with Mrs. Kroger. Confronted with the assembly in the living room, he squared his shoulders, flashed his on-the-pull smile at the social worker and rose above his sartorial handicaps by sheer force of charisma. "Hullo, all. Didn't mean to interrupt. Came over to use the washer, and--" His eyes locked onto Buffy's in one of those gazes that excluded the entire rest of the universe. "Something's come up."

Buffy gave the vampire a narrow-eyed once-over to ascertain that, for once, he wasn't engaging in double-entendre, and whipped out the blinding smile again. "Mrs. Kroger, this is Spike." Dawn winced at Mrs. Kroger's sedate blink; undoubtedly 'Spike' ranked number three on the Top Ten List of Bad Boyfriend Names, right below 'Killer' and 'Fang,' though well above 'Ripper' and 'The Butcher.' "Spike...er...Williams. He's...uh..." Buffy's eyes glazed over in critical terminology meltdown; you could see the read/write errors piling up. "We're seeing each other. He was a big help with Dawn over the summer."

"Right," Dawn agreed. "He's always very responsible and law-abiding and--" Buffy elbowed her in the ribs, and Dawn shot a glare at her--What?.

Spike warmed up the smile and caught Mrs. Kroger's eyes in the we-are-the-world look for a second--which, if Dawn was any judge, thawed The Kroger more thoroughly than a ream of signed testimonials. "Pleased ever so." He bent over and murmured urgently into Buffy's ear, "We really need to talk private-like, pet. Can we--?” He gestured towards the kitchen.

Willow went into a coughing fit which prompted Tara to come over and thump her on the back in concern. Buffy rose briskly to her feet, irritation with Spike setting flight to her earlier nerves. "Spike, in case it’s escaped your notice, I'm in the middle of something important." She latched onto his collar and headed for the front door, tugging him after her. "So if you'll just marshal all your lame arguments about the job for later, I'll--"

Dawn frowned. Job? There was way more going on here than some argument over whether or not she could patrol. Buffy was freaking, Willow was freaking, Spike was failing to freak only because outsiders were present and he was hoarding cool points. The vampire dug his heels in and resisted tuggage. "Not about that , love. It's important. Very, very important." He was talking to Buffy, but looking at Willow, eyes brimming over with question marks. For a moment Willow's eyes were riveted to the toes of her sandals, but then her head came up defiantly and she smiled, a tight hard smile stuck somewhere between anger and determination. Whatever Spike was asking, she wasn't going to answer.

Buffy, her attention still on Mrs. Kroger's reactions, hadn't noticed the exchange. She nibbled an impeccably manicured thumbnail, obviously coming to the conclusion that there was a slayage emergency--why else would Spike be interrupting now?--which would require her to dash off to the rescue, and simultaneously dash their hopes of Mrs. Kroger making a favorable report to the judge at the custody hearing. Annoyance, resentment and resignation warred in her eyes for a second before resignation won out. "OK," she said at last. "But make it fast." She turned back to Mrs. Kroger. "Would you excuse us for just a moment?"

Another vague blink, in the space of which, Dawn was sure, Spike's height, weight, shoe size, and the exact shade of Clairol Ultra-Light Blond he favored were cataloged and submitted to the Social Services Dubious Associates Database via telepathy. "Certainly. Take your time, Ms. Summers."

"Come on, then, Spike, and let me know what can't wait another hour." Buffy stalked off towards the kitchen, and without looking back waved at the duffle and added, "And bring that with you. The world can live without exposure to your Tigger jammies."

"Oi, now, I don't--" Recalling the presence of The Kroger, Spike clenched his jaw on his intended rejoinder, snatched up his duffle and trotted after her sister. There was an uneasy silence punctuated by the sound of two pairs of feet descending the stairs to the basement, and two voices muffled to inaudibility by intervening layers of drywall and cinder block. Mrs. Kroger sat with plump implacable majesty, her bright starling eyes darting insatiably around the room. Dawn leaned unwarily forward to snag a cookie and the couch SPROINGed at her; guilt froze her in place with one hand outstretched.

Footsteps, ascending. "...don't have time to play around now, Spike!" Heavier footsteps, booted, following. "Buffy, love, you've got to listen to me! I--"

Lighter feet, halfway up, pausing, turning. Dawn imagined arms folding to the accompaniment of tight-lipped Buffy-disapproval. "What? You what?"

"I--"

Silence. Buffy's voice, sheathed in ice. "Hello, you have reached the end of Buffy Summers's patience. When you actually have anything worthwhile to say, please leave a message at the sound of the beep."

Footsteps, heavier, booted, descending, with something of defeat in their cadence. And lighter feet ascending once more. A second later Buffy emerged from the kitchen, huge fake smile an insufficient mask over too-bright eyes and the angry tremor in her shoulders. Dawn blanched. There was a difference between normal Spike-and-Buffy sniping and a real fight, and this was it--hurt lurking within those eyes instead of irritation. Buffy seated herself upon the couch once more, re-folded her hands, and smiled warmly at Mrs. Kroger, all unease burnt away in the wake of her anger. "I'm so sorry for the interruption. I'm afraid Spike doesn't always take things as seriously as I'd like him to. Now--you said something about job counseling?"

"We need more tea," Dawn whispered, seizing the teapot and heading for the kitchen, heedless of the sofa's agonized complaint. Halfway there she realized she was still carrying her filched cookie, but there wasn't any graceful way to turn around and put it back.

"Dawnie!" Willow grabbed for her wrist as she whooshed past, heading for the basement stairs. "I don't think that's a good idea right now. He sounded pretty cranky, and--"

Well, duh. Dawn rolled her eyes. Anyone who went tippy-toes around Spike when he was in a bad mood might as well give up talking to him at all. Willow should know the drill by now. "It's OK. I have a Ph.D. in dealing with cranky vampires." She left the teapot on the kitchen island and racketed down the stairs without slowing; the tawny forty-watt glow of the basement light was brighter than the candlelight in Spike's crypt, and she could take those stairs blindfolded. She made plenty of noise. Spike would hear and smell her coming regardless, but it was only polite to give fair warning when intruding on a sulk.

The muted whoosh of the washing machine filling up drifted up to her ears. Spike was slouched in a sunshine-yellow vinyl beanbag chair, remnant of Joyce Summers's swinging 70's days. He leaned back against a pile of flood-damaged boxes, and a handful of styrofoam pellets trickled out through several small tears in the beanbag's sides, reminding Dawn why it had been banished to the basement to begin with.

Three weeks after they'd first moved to Sunnydale, Mom opening the front door to find Buffy swinging it at a shrieking Dawn's head, and the living room carpet spangled with tiny white pearls... Another non-existent memory of her non-existent life. Everything I remember doing with Spike is real. She could hold on to that.

Spike left off flinging his remaining clothes into haphazard piles (darks and darkers) as Dawn hopped off the last step of the stairs, and looked up at her with a frustrated snarl. Dawn ignored it. Spike's rages came and went with the force and speed of summer monsoons--by the time you got properly scared, he'd be flipping channels and demanding to know why the bloody hell you were cowering in the corner with a cross clutched over your head. Or you'd be dead. Either way, you might as well skip the cowering. She pulled up a box of her own and sat down. The mildew-stained cardboard sagged beneath her weight. "So. What's the panic? You all right? You look kinda green."

"Your sis does that to me." Spike shot a venomous glance up the stairs, tossed the last pair of monster-goo-encrusted jeans into their proper pile and oozed further down into the beanbag. He let his belt buckle out a notch and closed his eyes. "Nah, I'm fine. Overdid a bit at lunch."

Dawn snickered. "I didn't think that was possible." She extended a magnanimous hand and offered him the cookie. "Want dessert?" There were rules to everything: if you wanted information, ply Buffy with shoes, ply Spike with grease and sugar. At least until you were old enough to ply him with alcohol.

Spike opened one eye, surveyed the cookie with disfavor, and closed it again. "Ha bloody ha. In the future, remind me that ten's my limit." Something about that statement made him snap out of his incipient torpor. Both eyes shot open, blue and cold, and dark brows dipped together over his nose. "Didn't stop me saying that," he muttered. "I had five too many rats for lunch."

"Rats? Yeurch." Dawn curled her tongue in distaste. "I thought rats were, like, too gross even for trailer-park vampire cuisine. Mr. Kohlermann having a pig's blood shortage?"

"Not exactly. Normally I wouldn't touch rat if you paid me, but this was a bit of a special occasion." Spike took a deep breath. "I k--" The word choked off as if someone'd cut off his air; Spike's face contorted and cords of muscle stood out on his neck with the effort, but nothing came out. He slammed a fist into the stack of boxes, panting. "There's got to be a way--" He leaped to his feet and began prowling the basement with frenetic energy.

Pieces clicked into place. "You're under a spell."

Abject gratitude lit Spike's eyes. "Got it in one!"

"A rat-eating spell? Is that why Buffy's all ticked off? Lips that touch rat will never touch mine?"

"Gah. No!" He stopped and smacked his fist into his palm. "Pen and paper!"

Dawn cast about for a second. "Oh! Wait!" She dove into one of the boxes and emerged with a tattered cigar box full of broken crayons and desiccated Magic Markers. She shoved it at Spike. "Here."

Spike grabbed a red crayon and dropped to his knees, scribbling out on the flap of one of the cardboard boxes 'I CAN KX##~~...' "Fuck!" he snarled and began again. 'W!77oooH TOK Th~^v^v...' "ARRRGGGHH!!!" Spike smashed the box to flinders, scattering mis-matched Legos and a selection of headless, chewed-on Barbie dolls across the floor, and knelt in the wreckage, chest heaving.

"Okay, you can't talk about it or write about it," Dawn said, trying to project calm. "Can you nod yes or no? It's something you need to tell Buffy, right?"

The vampire tensed and nodded. Lightning failed to strike. "Now we're getting somewhere," Dawn said, rubbing her hands. "Is it dangerous?" Spike hesitated, brows twisting, and raked both hands through his already-unruly hair. At last he nodded. "Is it happening soon?" Headshake. "A long time from now?" Another headshake, accompanied by rising frustration in his eyes. "It's already happened?" Vigorous nod. "Is it something Buffy needs to do something about?"

Again a hesitation, but before Spike could determine which answer he wanted to give, the door at the top of the stairs opened and Willow stood backlit in the opening. "Do you two have something to share with the class?"

Dumb, Willow. She should have known trying to scare Dawn off talking to Spike wouldn't work; Dawn had never been properly afraid of the vampire even when he'd been dangerous. And she couldn't exactly hint that he wasn't un-dangerous any longer. She stared at the uninformative surface of the basement door with one hand on the cool worn brass of the doorknob and twisted another knot in the flowered gauze of her skirt. Her fingers tightened, and the knob turned.

"Do you two have something to share with the class?"

Two pairs of blue eyes, one large and warm, one narrow and chill, gazed up at her. Haloed in the light of the bare bulb, Dawn sat enthroned in cardboard, arms folded across her bony knees and her face rapt with the bizarre game of Twenty Questions she was conducting. Spike was pacing like Rilke's panther, caught mid-turn as Willow opened the door. Dawn scrambled to her feet, her upturned face blossoming with a smile of relief at sight of Willow. Spike looked up as well, but there was no smile in his eyes, only wariness. "Willow!" Dawn cried. "Just who we need to see. Spike's under some kind of spell and he can't talk about it but there's something important he needs to tell Buffy, and--"

A rivulet of perspiration trickled down her temple, stinging in the corner of her eye. She couldn't do this. Willow Rosenberg had never told a successful lie in her life, she was worse at it than Spike was, she wasn't cut out for sneaky--

Willow raised a hand, feeling the rush as her eyes went onyx. "Dawn," she said softly, "Be still."

She couldn't handle sneaky. But as she'd slowly come to recognize over the last few years, she could handle power. The girl froze in place, her lanky adolescent form half-way to standing, her eager mouth open. Dawn, interrupted.

Spike took one look and all the muscles in his shoulders bunched; he whipped round to face up the stairs, both hands clenched on the bannisters, seeming all of a sudden a great deal larger than he really was. The ice-chips of his eyes bored into Willow's, full of fury--but more puzzlement. "Will," he growled, sandpaper-rough, "what the fuck are you doing? Why won't you let me tell Buffy about--" He gestured at his head. "What've you done to Dawn?"

"Nothing," she said, harder and faster than she wanted to. "Nothing. She's fine. Just... stopped for a minute. Do you really think I'd hurt her?"

Spike's cheeks hollowed. He hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and rocked heel to toe, saying nothing for rather longer than was comfortable. "I'd've said no, yesterday."

Willow felt heat rise in her own face. "Well, I wouldn't!" she snapped. "I just don’t want anyone to know I took your chip out. I've got my reasons, all right?"

"Feel a bit less dodgy if I knew what they were. Now Buffy thinks I’ve wandered over to cock up her tea party on a lark, and I can’t tell her different.” The anger in his eyes was layered over an inner bruising. “If you've messed me up for good with her, Red, I swear I'll--"

Cue scary background music--Spike’s Theme, menace in a minor key. "What, kill me?" Her voice was too shrill, and Willow forced it to a lower register. "Come after me with a broken bottle? Doesn't take you long to fall off the wagon, does it, Spike?" She felt a twinge of anger not her own in the back of her skull: her silent partner hadn't liked her saying that--why? The power surged up within her, wordless reminder that she no longer needed to fear Spike in any sense.

He flinched and dropped his eyes--was the surfeit of blood in his system at the moment enough to justify the shamed tinge of red at his eartips? "Wouldn't do that," he muttered. “Not to you. Not nowadays." He met her eyes once more. "You understand that, don't you, Will? It's not...I just wouldn't." There was a subtle note of pleading in his voice.

You have no need to play on this creature's shame or his sympathy for your own safety. Neither of which qualities he has any real claim on.

"I know." Willow kept her own voice level in the face of another flare of anger from her invisible companion. It could just suffer; it needed her, or it wouldn't have gone to all this trouble to get her. She could afford to test her bounds a little. She and Spike had always gotten along, give or take an assault or two; there'd been a time when his assurance that she was bite-worthy had delivered a real ego-boost right alongside the abject terror. "Mrs. Kroger's leaving at five-thirty and we're going to go over to the Magic Box and meet the others at six to go over the crazy-catching plan. Go on up and I'll unfreeze Dawn."

The planes of his face shifted as he gazed up at her, demon-ridges coming to prominence. A thought-swift blur of motion and Spike was beside her on the stair. Willow had time to draw half a startled gasp before the cool weight of his hand fell on her shoulder. She jerked her head up to meet the lambent golden eyes only inches away from her own, the pupils flashing red in the dim light. His voice rasped against her ear like a cat's tongue. "Anyone else pulled this with me," he murmured, "Or with her," he jerked his head down the stairs towards Dawn, "and they'd be picking my teeth out of their jugular by now. You might want to think about that."

It wasn't even a threat. Just a statement of fact, one of Spike's not-so-subtle reminders: Hello, vampire . God, those fangs were terrifying up close, inch-long upper canines, half-inch lower canines, rip-saw rows of incisors in between...she'd seen what teeth like that, powered by inhuman muscle, could do to human flesh, seen mangled bodies and bloodless faces in the corridors of Sunnydale High. They had fun. What did it say about the infinite capacity of the human mind to trivialize that her primary reaction these days was Wonder how long Spike had to practice talking through those things to get rid of the game-face lisp?

"You can't kill me, Spike," she said, a little breathless with the enormity of the realization. Hello, incredibly powerful witch. "You couldn't even if you wanted to." Spike's eyes reflected the truth of her words, made her reckless. "But I could kill you. And I haven't. Instead I gave you a nice early Christmas present. You might want to think about that."

For once, Spike's face was unreadable. "I will, Red. I will." He turned, his features sliding back towards humanity again, and walked up the stairs. The open door framed him in light for a moment and he looked down at her. “You really would have made a smashing vampire.” Then he was gone. Willow sagged against the railing with a little whoop of hysterical laughter . She couldn't afford to give in to it for long. She straightened and trotted downstairs.

She halted among the remnants of the Summers girls’ childhood, gazing at the motionless figure of Dawn and nudging red and yellow plastic bricks aside with the toe of the Birkenstocks. What now? Things were moving too fast, events banging into each other, bumper cars out of control. Dawn had figured out too much for comfort; should she erase the memory of her conversation with Spike? There was Lethe's bramble in her room upstairs, and the spell was a simple one. She could run up and get it now, and hope no one came down here while she was gone. Or she could let Dawn tell her everything, and pretend to investigate... Willow groaned; she could see this devolving into a farce all too quickly. Why is it so important no one know I took Spike’s chip out?

The dark voice within was silent. It had said all it really needed to say; do these things, and power is yours; refuse and I take it away. Except she wasn’t doing it for the power, and why did that sound as lost and uncertain in her own ears as Spike’s I wouldn’t do that, not nowadays? Willow ground the heels of her hands into her eyes. She couldn’t think about that now. There were too many ways Spike could get around the spell she'd laid on him. Unless... she laughed, relief washing over her. She could erase his memory! She should have thought of that before. He couldn't tell anyone how the chip came out if he didn't know.

Buffy was still grilling Mrs. Kroger about job prospects in the living room when Willow slipped past and ran upstairs and into her and Tara's room. She grabbed the bouquet of herbs in the jar on the dresser--tansy and heal-all, fennel and columbine; there's rosemary, that's for remembrance; we need the opposite of that--and extracted the sprig of bramble. Purple bristles on a faded green stem, prickly to the touch. Clutching it in on damp palm she stole downstairs once more.

No one looked at her. Spike was in the living room now, exerting his charm, such as it was, on Mrs. Kroger, while Buffy looked on with the air of the Russian judge about to award his performance a 6.5. Willow slipped past, back to the wall. Tara gave her a worried look as she raced through the kitchen, but Willow smiled and waved and mouthed 'Getting Dawn!' and was down the basement stairs before she could be questioned.

The sweet musty odor of the herb filled the basement as she crumbled it beneath Dawn's nose and whispered, "Obliviscere." The broken fragments caught fire in her palm, consumed by cold blue witchlight. Power tingled and sparked in the air around them, rising like embers on the smoke of the burning. Dawn’s nose twitched. Willow lifted her hand again. "Dawn, ferre!"

Dawn sneezed and lurched into motion, immediately lost her balance, and staggered into the beanbag chair, cracking both kneecaps on the floor. "Ow!" she yelled, rolling over and clutching her knees. She looked up from her hedgehog-ball of pain to see Willow staring down at her and her cheeks went red. "I tripped on something," she said with a defensive hair-toss. "Not normally Superklutz." She sat up and rubbed the worst-bruised knee. "Ow... why am I in the basement?" One hand went to the back of her head in a tentative search for painful lumps, always the first possibility in Sunnydale when one found oneself in a strange place with memory loss. When her fingers found nothing, she grabbed the nearest box and levered herself to her feet. "Omigod, Mrs. Kroger! How long have I been down here? Buffy’ll slay me!"

"Not long," Willow reassured her, extending a helping hand. "You came down to check on Spike’s washing.” She walked over to the machine and held up a small plastic scoop half-full of blue liquid. “See? Forgot the fabric softener, and you know how hard he takes laundry mishaps.” She opened the lid and poured the Downy into the reservoir. “You didn’t come back up right away, so Willow to the rescue. Mrs. Kroger's still upstairs."

Dawn stood rubbing her head for a moment. “I should get back.”

She leaped deerlike for the stairs, and Willow shouted after her, "Dawnie! Wait! How would you like to go along with us tonight? Just to make with observiness? "

"Really?" Dawn paused on the stairs, looking stunned, for real this time. "You've got to be kidding. Didn't Buffy totally freak out when Spike asked her--" She frowned, confusion welling up in her eyes as her thoughts ran into the blurry, ragged edges of missing places in her mind. Willow watched closely; it was the nature of the human mind to fill in gaps--she'd learned that in the part of the psych class before the professor had gone insane. It was so easy to coax a mind into filling in the blanks... "Spike and Buffy had a fight," Dawn said with more confidence. "About me learning to patrol. I came down here to talk to him about it." She frowned. "And the laundry, I guess."

"That was a good excuse," Willow said. "Look, I'm completely with Spike on this. Sunnydale's a dangerous place full of dangerous beasties, so Dawn with the kung-fu grip? Great idea. Hence the invite."

Dawn bit her lip, tempted. "Won't Buffy have a spaz fit?"

Willow grinned. At least something was going to be easy. "What Buffy doesn't know won't hurt us. I can disguise you so you won't be in any danger. Sort of a variation on the glamor spells Buffy's using to patrol incognito, except it'll just make you..."

"Invisible?"

"No, too many side effects. Just unnoticeable. You know, like Hitchhiker's Guide? A Someone Else's Problem field. Villainous types can see you, they just won't think you're important. Heroic types likewise."

Dawn considered this, her eyes lighting up and an answering grin spreading across her face. "Sounds cool. When do we do it?"

Willow pretended to think about it. "Meet me down here after Mrs. Kroger leaves. I'll cast the spell, and make sure you get into the car when we drive over, and don't get any doors slammed on you. Once we're at the Magic Box, if you just hover and don't say anything, no one will realize you're there. You can watch the whole thing, get a good first-hand look at the crack world-saving team in action. Sound good?"

"Sounds fantastic," Dawn crowed, whatever minor worries she'd had about her lapse lost in the excitement of the new plan. "I'd better get up there, before Buffy implodes. See you later!"

As the younger girl dashed off up the stairs, Willow's sight doubled for an instant and instead of Dawn's familiar coltish grace she saw an intricate mandala of green, shimmering and pulsing in the darkness. Power. As much power as she herself was now tapped into, but fallow, useless--the engines of Creation, harnessed to a go-cart.

Tonight she’d change that.

She walked over to the washing machine and leaned into it, folding her arms and pillowing her head on its vibrating surface. Another mission accomplished. It was all coming together. Whatever was to occur tonight would steady the teetering Balance, and save Buffy from whatever obscure but doubtless unpleasant fate awaited the person who'd upset it... Willow Rosenberg, Big Gun, would have saved the day once again.

Maybe, for once, she'd get a thank you.

Continued in Part 27