Disclaimer: Clearly this is not mine, or I'd be laid on a beach some place tropical, drinking cocktails, rather than doing dental expenses in a stuffy office. Not that I'm bitter or anything.

Credits: Dialogue taken from "Blood Ties", "Restless," "Fool for Love," and "Bargaining".

BARGAINING REVISISTED

Part Two: Gift Horse

"Willow knew there was a chance that she'd come back wrong. So wrong that you'd have ... that she would have to get rid of what came back. And I wouldn't let her. If any part of that was Buffy, I wouldn't let her. And that's why she shut me out."

- Spike, "Afterlife."

The rain was different here. More like a mist, invisible and insidious. You couldn't see it but it soaked you to the bone. Dawn stared at the speckled residue it left on the windscreen and sighed, wondering if the weather in England was always this miserable.

She glanced across the parking lot in search of a distraction. Through the window of a brightly lit service station she could see that a vampire was standing in the queue, unnoticed by his fellow motorists, waiting to pay for gas and soda and other things that would rot his teenage charge's teeth.

"C'mon!" Dawn hissed impatiently, mostly to herself.

It had been a few hours since they docked at Liverpool, after an ocean voyage that had expanded her emotional range from zero to several varieties of sick and miserable. Her mouth still tasted of sour vomit, watering now as she stared at the colourful candy counters inside the service station, dreaming of milk duds and tootsie rolls – the artificial tastes of an artificial childhood.

She must have zoned out because a car revving across the lot made her jump. Glancing back through the window she saw Spike approaching, a thin plastic bag fluttering from one hand. He looked strange without his usual swagger. Kind of hollow.

He slid into the driver's seat and turned the ignition. When he didn't look at her Dawn reached forward and slid the journal that was open on her lap into the glove compartment that held all her worldly possessions. There hadn't been much time to pack the night they left Sunnydale. In the blur she remembered Spike shoving random things into her school satchel: hair bands, gel pens and a stuffed aardvark to name a few. It occurred to her afterwards that these were the kind of things Spike might think were importance to the wellbeing of a fourteen year old girl. The thought made her chest feel tight.

Other things had to be left behind, like laundry smells and her Mom's cooking. Chicken fingers and mustard when she was sick. Mr Gordo and an unfinished essay for her homeroom class. Her sister's clothes.

Spike reached into his back pocket, letting the engine run as he pulled out a zippo lighter and a strange yellow tube which he threw into Dawn's lap. She examined its contents dubiously. The wrapper peeled back to reveal what looked like a dead pepperoni stuck in talcum powder.

"They didn't have any milk duds?" she asked in a small, hopeful voice.

"Nope."

"Does anywhere sell milk duds?"

Spike lit a cigarette and pulled out onto the empty road. Dawn stared impassively at his hands, which were red and cracked, for a few moments before slumping back in the passenger seat, a mutinous expression on her face.

"England sucks," she told him.

Spike was unmoved. "Shut up and eat your Sherbet Fountain."

Dawn glanced down at the deceased Pepperoni, curled her lip in disgust, and promptly lost it down the back of the passenger seat.

They lapsed back into uncomfortable silence.

They had a Scoobie meeting on the night that Giles went back to England. Spike was on Dawn Patrol, which didn't seem to bother him: these days he was more interested in the Tuesday night Passions omnibus than saving the world.

"Been there, bought the t-shirt," he told her once. "Bad fit."

It was weird at first; the former Scourge of Europe offering his services as a babysitter, but as the summer wore on it became a strange kind of normal. Okay, so Spike was a little unorthodox – his idea of babysitting was sneaking into movie theatres to throw popcorn at couples making out on the back row, or breaking into the mall to steal school supplies – but somehow it worked. When term started, his crypt grew cluttered with alien objects such as textbooks and pencil sharpeners, and Dawn's grades in History and English Lit mysteriously improved, although Willow knew better than to ask Spike if he had anything to do with it.

Mostly they just watched TV and ate junk food. Beyond O-neg and Wheatabix, Spike's idea of a nutritious meal was a plate of spicy buffalo wings. That night Dawn had fallen asleep on the sofa after a half-hearted argument with Spike, who had tried to convince her they contained actual buffalo meat. She woke up a couple of hours later to the sound of screeching tyres.

It sounded like a motor rally. She sat up and peered blearily at the TV; a Western was playing on mute, and looking around she saw that Spike was standing by the window, staring intently through a gap in the curtains. The screeching sound came again, accompanied by raucous cheers.

"What's going on?" she asked, padding up behind hi

"Stay away from the window," he said, pushing her back into the room and then striding into the foyer. Dawn followed like a sleepwalker. Spike was checking the front door, turning the handle and dropping the latch, his movements urgent. Fear invaded her confusion.

"What is it – what's happening?"

"Just do as I say."

Satisfied that the door was locked, he steered Dawn back into the lounge. "I'm gonna check the rest of the house," he said, heading for the kitchen. "Don't move!"

She did as she was told. A few seconds later he was running upstairs, and she stood nervously into the middle of the lounge, eyes fixed on the ceiling as Spike's footsteps pounded from room to room. The noises outside were getting louder and she was glad when he came back downstairs. Dragging the weapons chest inventory. She stepped uncertainly towards him.

"Spike?"

"Hang tight, Nibblet," he said without looking up. "Stakes, cross bow…"

Orange light flared behind the curtains. Despite his warning, she crept over to the window and peered outside. Motor rally was one way of putting it: another was that Revello Drive had been invaded by a gang of demon bikers. One of them smashed the Summers letterbox as he rode past, while across the street, a group of them were throwing Molotov cocktails through people's windows.

Dawn wondered if she was still dreaming.

"Here!" yelled Spike, making her jump back guiltily. "You want me to bloody thump you? I told you to stay away from the window!"

"Who are they?"

He pulled her roughly away and peered out across the as-yet-uninvaded lawn. "Hellions. They raid towns, use 'em up, burn 'em down. It's usually backwaters. Any place…" he trailed off. "Any place they think is vulnerable."

Dawn's eyes widened in realisation. "They know," she said. "The Slayer's gone."

Spike looked back out of the window, frowning. "We can't stay here," he said decisively, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the door.

"Well I'm not going out there!"

"Got no choice, Bit – I can't protect you here."

She dug desperate heels into the carpet, trying unsuccessfully to twist out of his grasp. "We can lock the doors, turn out the lights…"

"And what, hide under the bed linen?" Spike scoffed. "Not really my style."

"But we need to wait for the others, and Buffy."

Spike gave her a strange look. Realising what she had just said, Dawn corrected herself. "You know, the Buffybot." Her heart was hammering now. She knew nothing she could say would change Spike's mind, but leaving the safety of the darkened house seemed like suicide. "W-we have to wait for the others—"

"Look!" Spike grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, and Dawn nearly squeaked in fright. Seeing this, he let out a frustrated breath, and forced himself to take a gentler tone. "Dawn … I get that you're scared, but I'm your sitter, so mind me: I'm not gonna let any of those buggers lay so much as a warty digit on you. Right?"

Dawn gave a tiny nod, her wide eyes fixed on the carpet.

"Right," she whispered.

"Right then," Spike said. "We can't wait around to see if the others will pop in. We're on our own. No-one's coming to our rescue…"

It took them four hours to reach London, where they peeled off the highway – or motorway, as Spike had irritably explained – into a mess of inner city junctions. Neon shop signs and traffic lights cast kaleidoscope patterns on the dashboard. She watched them with unseeing eyes, willing him to break the silence. Not that she was holding her breath. He'd barely strung two sentences together since they arrived in Liverpool, making their puke flavoured days at sea seem almost talkative, conversations on deck that had consisted of Spike's grunted replies as he chain-smoked his way through endless packets of cigarettes, pacing beneath a million sharp, glittering stars.

The streets were getting quieter now. Darker. It was kind of surreal to think that their journey was coming to an end. They'd driven half-way across the planet and the road had seemed endless until now, white stripes dissolving into one long luminous tongue.

Spike pulled onto the kerb and killed the engine.

Say something…

Say what?

Two months ago she could have told Spike anything. Not now. Too many things had gone unspoken since the night they left Sunnydale, and the words she wanted to say felt fossilized in her throat, a lump that was constantly threatening to rehydrate and spill tears, if only Spike would look at her.

"Get your stuff together," he said.

His voice was so quiet that Dawn thought she might have imagined it, until he opened the car door and got out. She followed a few paces behind, footsteps echoing down the unnaturally quiet street and through the gate of an overgrown back yard. Glancing up at the dark windows of the house it belonged to, Dawn thought that the house looked abandoned. "Looks like no-one's home," she said hopefully, but Spike ignored her. He was already picking the lock with a piece of wire he had produced from the folds of his duster.

"Can you do that or not?" she asked petulantly, leaning against a wall outside the Magic Box, hugging a box of chocolates to her chest.

Spike shot her a dangerous glare. "Give me a minute, okay? I usually just – break down doors…" As he spoke the lock clicked, and his lips curled into a triumphant smirk.

"There," he said, opening the door with a theatrical flourish. "Who's bad now?"

"Dawn!"

Dawn blinked and found herself staring at the pale hand holding the wire. She didn't like him using her real name; it gave her a weird sensation at the nape of her neck, like a cat whose fur was being stroked in the wrong direction. Spike had already unlocked the door and stolen quickly into the darkness beyond. She had little choice but to follow him into the small kitchen. It stank of alcohol, and she could see bottles glinting in the moonlight above a sink full of stagnant-smelling water.

"I don't think this is the right place," she whispered, her stomach knotted with equal parts uncertainty and relief.

But Spike was already gone. She followed him through the pitch dark hallway into a large room that reminded her of the Magic Box: the same polished wooden floors and raised mezzanine, a large counter with an old-fashioned cash register. It must have been built as a shop, she thought absently, otherwise Spike wouldn't have able to get in without an invitation. But the shop was clearly not in use now. It was full of taped up boxes and sheets covered the rest of the furniture. Moonlight gave the white-washed windows a weird glow, like phosphorence.

Several newspapers were scattered across the counter, and Dawn moved towards them, taking advantage of the fact that Spike's back was turned to leaf through the headlines. They were mostly American nationals.

MANY CASUALITUES IN CALIFORNIAN MASSACRE.

DRUG GANG KILLS 58 IN SUNNYDALE.

RIOTS DESTROY TOWN.

Dawn felt like throwing up. She had guessed the extent of the destruction, had even drive through some of it, but Spike had been careful to keep her away from the news reports. She pushed the papers to one side and tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress her memories of that night.

A beam of light cut through the darkness. "Stay where you are," said a familiar voice. "One more inch and you're dust."

Giles was standing in the doorway with a crossbow trained between Spike's shoulder blades. The vampire ignored his warning and turned around, a smirk tightening his already drawn features.

With a start of recognition, Giles lowered the crossbow slightly.

"Spike?"

"Trick or treat, Watcher?"

Giles flicked the light on and stared at Spike in utter confusion for a moment before his expression hardened to contempt. He seemed about the raise the weapon a second time when a creak by the counter alerted him to Dawn's presence.

It took him several seconds to recognise her. Sunk into dark sockets her eyes looked parasitic, draining the life from her other features. An ugly bruise yellowed her jaw, and her once silky hair hung in straggled clumps. She was wearing the same clothes she'd worn to see him off at the airport two weeks ago. From the pungent smell wafting in his direction, he guessed they had not been changed since.

"Dear God … Dawn?"

Her gaze flicked uncertainly to Spike, as though searching for a signal, but he wasn't even looking at her. Giles frowned. For a creature who, in the past, had always seemed to feel things a little too keenly, Spike was now strangely devoid of emotion. He looked back at Dawn. After a few moments her lips set into a thin line, and she moved forwards, somewhat mechanically, into Giles's arms. He gathered her awkwardly against him, his gaze never leaving Spike.

"I thought you were dead…"

The motorcycle roared down Main Street, which was deserted but littered with Hellion debris: burning cars and trash cans, a glittering layer of broken glass.

Dawn peered over Spike's shoulder, struggling to see through the visor of the baseball helmet he'd given her to wear. She spotted something strange in a parking lot a little way ahead.

"There," she said, nudging his shoulder with her chin. "What's that?"

He followed her gaze and spotted it almost immediately: something soft and pale snagged on the ground near a pile of burning rubble. He steered towards it, and brought the bike to a halt, his stomach turning in revulsion as he realised what he was seeing.

Dawn threw down her helmet and ran towards the Buffybot – or what was left of it. Her arms and legs were missing, wires leaking from the sockets along with an acrid grey smoke. Her eyes were open, unblinking.

"It's just a machine, Dawn," Spike said as he reached her side. He wasn't sure which of them he was trying to reassure.

"I know," she said.

Unsure of what to say next, Spike stepped back to give Dawn some space. He did a sweep of area to get a picture of what had happened to the bot, although he already had a pretty good idea – it wasn't the first time he'd crashed a Hellion party. Sure enough, he found one of the bot's legs twisted amongst the nearby rubble, a couple of chain links still hanging from its ankle.

"Look what those filthy buggers have done to you," he muttered, throwing the leg back into the flames. "Willow's slap-and-paste job's not gonna do the trick this time," he called to Dawn. "Robot's done."

There was no answer, so he glanced towards the bot's torso. She wasn't there.

"Hey… Little Bit?" he looked around, confusion melting into alarm. "Dawn!"

But Dawn was nowhere to be seen.

Giles didn't know where to start. After a few minutes he decided to deal with the most obvious physical problem that Dawn presented and run her a hot bath, following the advice, vaguely remembered, of some elderly female relative when he had been a boy. She followed silently at his heels, accepting the clean towel and t-shirt that he offered her in lieu of night clothes.

As soon as the bathroom door had clicked shut, Dawn locked it and turned off the cold tap. Her head and chest were pounding. She tried not to think about the reality of her situation, forcing herself to concentrate instead on unfastening her clothes, leaving them in a twisted pile by the toilet when she was done. She waited until the heat was more dizzying than the feeling in her chest before she got in. The hot steam caught the back of her throat, making it difficult to breath. Then, when the spongy feeling of panic in her lungs had subsided, she reached for the soap and flannel and began to scrub away the accumulated sweat and dirt of life on the road without a pit-stop, driving like the Hellmouth itself was snapping its teeth at their feels.

Which it was, she guessed.

Afterwards she patted herself dry. The towel was rough against her skin. She didn't change into the oversized t-shirt immediately but dropped the towel around her ankles and stared at her thin body in the bathroom mirror, observing the bruises like yellow tea stains on her arms and legs, and beneath them the snail-silver slits where Doc had sliced her during the ritual on the tower. Stains that wouldn't come out in the wash.

It didn't seem real, somehow. She tilted her head to one side and considered the pale face looking back at her.

Its eyes were green in certain lights.

He found Willow's body first. Bent over the mezzanine rail, she resembled a life-sized rag doll, her face obscured by a tangle of red hair that moved slightly in the breeze. Someone's arm protruded from the rubble where the counter had been, but from this angle he couldn't tell whether or not it had been severed.

He knew one thing, though. Hellions hadn't done this.

Spike stood in the doorway of the Magic Shop and surveyed the destruction. He knew the Scoobies by scent; his sharp nose identified Anya's perfume and the industrial tang of Xander's sweat beneath the general blood and viscera. His ears strained for a pulse, even the faintest murmur, but it was no use.

There was nothing left alive here.

But there was something else. Not quite a scent, but a sixth sense, like the texture of his brain was changing. Spike closed his eyes and clenched the muscles in his jaw, trying to stem a sudden urge to claw out the back of his skull.

Dawn. He had to find Dawn.

Made a promise to a lady.

Made a promise…

Half-stumbling, he left the Magic Box and returned to the motorcycle in a daze. His panic over Dawn's disappearance, which had roared louder than any engine as he tore through the streets just minutes earlier, had subsided into a strange, high-pitched white that filled his ears and scrambled his thoughts. Shaking his head violently, he tried to summon a list of all the places he had tried so far. Xander's apartment, the tower .. what did that leave him with?

"I'm not going out there!"

Dawn's face, pale with fright, flashed before his eyes. "We have to wait for the others, and Buffy," she garbled. "You know, the Buffybot. W-we have to wait for the others…"

He had to get back to Revello Drive.

There was an old sofa bed in the spare room, which Giles managed to unfold after a few minutes wrestling with the rusting metal. He plugged in a desk lamp that stood on a filing cabinet next to the bed and changed the duvet cover into something more cheerful than its usual threadbare grey marl, then headed down to the kitchen with a feeling of dread gnawing the pit of his stomach. After two weeks of trying to piece things together from telephone calls and doctored newspaper reports, now that he was so close to finding out what really happened in Sunnydale, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Spike was standing in the dark kitchen, watching the street through the slats in the Venetian blinds. A slight tightening between his shoulder blades was the only sign that he had registered the Watcher's presence.

Giles hesitated a moment then flicked on the light. "Do you want anything?" he asked, glancing at the empty whisky bottles ranged above the sink in embarrassment. "I'm afraid I haven't anything stronger, but I could put the kettle on. I … I still have your mug, somewhere in these boxes…"ff

He crossed over the counter, giving the oddly silent vampire a wide berth, and shakily filled the kettle with cold water. While it boiled he rooted out the 'Kiss the Librarian' mug that Spike had used during his brief period of imprisonment at Giles's house in L.A. The faintly metallic smell of pig's blood still clung to it, and Giles wasn't sure why he had even packed it.

"Please … um … take a seat."

He placed the mug on the table. Spike didn't look at him, but took a seat as Giles finished making his own tea. When he turned back, he noticed the vampire's hands as they curled around the hot ceramic. They were sore and red, as though they'd been scrubbed raw with bleach.

"How did you get here?" asked Giles.

"Drove as far as New York," Spike explained. "Pulled in a favour from an Empath I knew back in the 'seventies. He made sure we got clear passage on a storage freighter; no paperwork, no questions."

His explanation was so final that Giles didn't know what to say next. Glancing at Spike's hands again he said, "You should put something on those. Iodine, or—"

"They're fine."

"Did you … did that happen in Sunnydale?"

Spike pulled his hands out of sight beneath the table. Giles had never seen the cocky vampire look so nervous and unsure of himself. He cleared his throat, speaking into his mug. "Willow and Xander are dead, I know that much. They are still trying to identify Anya. Tara … I don't know what happened to her." He glanced up at Spike, but received no explanation. "I was arrested by security at Heathrow," he continued. "The Council were behind it, of course. After what happened last time they were in Sunnydale they wanted to teach me a lesson. I have no passport, and even if I did, the Council have leaked enough information to the American government for me to be denied entry should I ever try to return. Angel has been trying to find out what happened in Sunnydale, but the whole are has been quarantined by Wolfram and Hart. If we knew what kind of demon was responsible—"

"It wasn't a demon," Spike interrupted.

"What do you mean?"

There was silence for a long moment. Then Spike drew a thin, unneeded breath. "A demon didn't kill the Scoobies," he said. "Buffy did."

Spike pulled up outside the house and killed the engine. Revello Drive had fallen silent in the Hellion's wake, but something about the silence set his fangs on edge. His gaze swept the neighbouring houses. Most of them were in darkness, jagged glass transforming their broken windows into gaping, razor-sharp mouths.

All of them, in fact, except one.

The Summers residence looked eerily out of place amidst the carnage. All the lights were on, and the television still flickered behind the lounge curtains. Its windows were perfectly intact, and the front door was open wide, as if someone had stepped out, just for a moment.

Frowning, Spike climbed off the stolen bike and moved towards the house. The crawling sensation at the back of his skull intensified as he reached the porch step. He saw that the door wasn't merely open – it had been ripped clean off its hinges and flung sod knows where. The frame itself was barely splintered. Whatever had done this, it was very strong.

"Dawn?" he called, stepping into the foyer. "Dawn!"

No answer. He glanced upstairs and then into the lounge. There was something strange about it. He stared dumbly for a few seconds before he realised what it was.

The television wasn't on.

Moving into the room, he discovered that the flickering light was actually coming from the kitchen. Someone must have knocked the bulb. It kept surging and crackling like the machines used to electrocute flies in drive-through restaurants.

He took a few steps towards the kitchen.

"Little Bit? Are you—"

Buffybot appeared in the doorway, a weird little smile on her face. She was wearing a freshly laundered white shirt and her hair seemed longer somehow, matted with dirt. She put a finger to her lips.

"Shh," she whispered. "Dawnie's sleeping."

For one surreal moment, he thought the Buffybot had somehow managed to drag itself home, reattach its arms and legs, change into a clean shirt, and put Dawn to bed.

Then he saw them.

"You hands…"

Buffy looked down at her bleeding knuckles. "From the coffin," she said. "I had to claw my way out."

Spike felt the ground lurch beneath his feet. "How…?"

"How long was I gone?"

That wasn't his question, but he found himself not caring how or why. It was enough that she was standing in front of him now. Alive, beautiful, impossible, her presense scorching through everything that had come before it.

He moved forwards in a daze, giddy and light-headed. Took her small hands in his own.

"Um … Hundred and forty-seven days yesterday. Hundred and forty-eight days today," he murmured, reverentially, and then looked up with a smile. "But I guess today doesn't count."

There was an odd glint in her eyes. Hungry and intense. Unable to meet it, Spike looked down at her hands. Fingernails ingrained with dirt … and something else.

"Whose blood is this?" he asked quietly.

There was a silence for a moment. Buffy looked down at their entwined fingers and smiled. "Death is my art," she said, in a curious, sing-song voice. "I make it with my hands. Don't you remember, William?"

Déjà vu struck him then, like someone had tipped the room sideways.

Something was very, very wrong.

He glanced over her shoulder. "Where's Dawn?"

Buffy's smile widened, letting in the night. Images slammed into him like juggernauts. Willow's body hanging from the mezzanine. A severed arm. Memories held together by the stench of death.

"Dawn…"

A strange whining sound filled his ears as he shouldered past her, into the kitchen. He couldn't tell whether it was coming from the broken light or from inside his own head.

There was a body by the door.

No.

Nonononono…

He rushed to her side. Shook her. Checked her pulse. Movements stop-motioned by the flickering light.

He stared at the well of her throat. There was a tiny patter, like raindrops.

Footsteps approached. "They did this," said Buffy, her voice like cold steel. "They brought me back so that I could protect them."

Spike straightened up slowly. Turning, he saw that Buffy was holding a knife. He placed himself in front of Dawn.

"Buffy … pet, you need stop there," he said, hands raised in supplication. "I don't know what the hell is going on here, but you're … you're obviously in shock. You're not thinking straight…."

"Aren't I?" she glanced sideways. On the fridge door were photographs, mementos of holidays and weekends at the beach, smiling Scoobies held up by colourful magnets. "They ripped me out of paradise because of their own weakness. I see that now. Too many ties to the world. Too many denials. Family, friends." She looked at him, her gaze keen and piercing. "You're the only one who saw me for what I really am."

"And what's that?" asked Spike.

She looked over his shoulder. Dawn was starting to come around. She flexed her fingers, tightening them around the handle of the knife.

"I am destruction," she answered. "Absolute. Alone."

It took Giles a few minutes to realise that Spike had stopped talking. The only sound was the drip of the kitchen tap and a barely perceptible flicker in the bulb overhead which gave both man and vampire a slightly unreal quality, like waxworks in a forgotten museum. Giles watched the steam rising from his teacup and wished it contained something stronger.

"There was a spell," he said eventually. "Last year … a sort of dream-time. We were stalked by a demon. Well, not really a demon. Something primeval. Something—"

"The First Slayer," said Spike.

Giles looked at him in surprise. "Yes. How—"

"No need to look so shocked, Watcher," said Spike, his eyes glittering with cold amusement. "Broke into the Council vaults back in … oh, 1896? Trying to find out more about your not-so-secret weapon. Your lot worked some mojo back in Africa six thousand years ago. Fused the soul of some unsuspecting village girl with a demon to create the first Slayer. Bet she was a real live wire, eh? Deranged, no conscience to speak of, just the relentless instinct to hunt down my kind. Reckon Willow botched the spell, resurrected 2% cheerleader, 98& psychotic demon instead of the other way around."

"I should have I should have realised what they were trying to do," said Giles. "The ingredients were all there. The fawn's heart ... Anya bought an Orb of Thessaly from eBay of all places ... but for some reason I never…"

He stopped, looking at Spike as though seeing him for the first time.

"You killed her," he said.

Spike didn't answer. He stared down at his hands. The fingernails were bare and clean and smelled of disinfectant. Around her throat, thumbs pushed against her jugular…

He stood up. "Must press on. Nearly dawn."

"Why?"

"Floor's dusty enough."

"No, I mean why did you kill her?"

Silence again. Spike stared at the patterns on the linoleum. "Promised Buffy nothing bad would happen to Dawn," he said, mechanically. "Kept my word, is all."

"And yet a Slayer without a conscience…" Giles observed, watching the vampire closely. "The Spike I met four years ago would have wasted no time in playing that situation to his own advantage."

Spike continued to stare at the floor, his absolute stillness being the only sign that he was listening. Despite the dangerous shift in atmosphere, Giles pressed on. "Do you remember when Angel tried – succeeded, in fact – to raise Alcaltha? He kidnapped me and Dawn, and subjected me to the most appalling tortures that I don't doubt he would have inflicted on us both ... that is, if you hadn't smuggled her to safety."

"So? I needed a bargaining tool," Spike snapped back. "And we both know that never happened."

"She would have been a more valuable bargaining tool if you hadn't delivered her to Buffy so quickly. Much more valuable than myself," Giles continued, undeterred. "Curious that the monks saw fit to provide you with that memory, don't you—"

His words were cut off by Spike, who moved forward with terrifying speed to slam Giles against the kitchen wall, catching his throat in a vice-like grip. Giles choked for breath. Spike was nearly white with pain, muscles trembling as the chip fired bolt after bolt of electricity into his skull – but, to Giles' horror, his fingers never loosened.

"Listen to me very carefully," Spike said with more menace than Giles had ever thought possible, "Just because I kept my promise, it doesn't change what I am. I'm evil, alright? I do not have a soul. I do not feel anything for you or for your pathetic fight, and as soon as I get this chip out of my fucking skull you'll be first on the menu – understand?"

Giles let out a strangled sound and tried to nod. It must have got the point across because Spike suddenly released him and stepped back, unconcerned, as the Watcher crumpled to the floor.

"What ... what about Dawn?" Giles gasped, when he had caught his breath.

But Spike had already gone.

A/N: Um. So. Yeah… I feel pretty terrible now, what with The Great Scoobie Massacre and all … I don't tend to do this kind of thing very often! I really do love them all very much! But for some reason Spike's line in Afterlife sparked something in my head that demanded to be written. The next part is coming along nicely but it will probably be a little while before I post, since I'm anxious to avoid a repeat of Justice (my poor, neglected Robin Hood fic, which by the way if anyone wants to adopt – feel free! Gisbourne has been tied to that tree for an awfully long time…)