At the time he'd given in to Dawnie's demands, Spike was still smarting from when Joyce had asked him with about six Girl Scouts, or whatever the Hell they were, giggling and blushing at him in her kitchen, to go buy a dozen eggs down the street from the 7-11.

Seems she'd forgotten to buy them earlier and tonight Dawnie's troop was baking cookies… would he please?

He'd pocketed the money, (Hello, EVIL!) and with carton in hand swaggered out of the manky little shop with its six different flavors of beef jerky and three different flavors of chewing tobacco as run by a morbidly obese pimply clerk of indeterminate gender with a pierced nose, a unicorn (It might have been a pterodactyl.) neck tattoo, and a greasy blue mullet. Halfway down the block, blue meanie cottoned to the fact that he/she/it'd been robbed of a dozen cojones and came jiggling after Spike, brandishing a Texas Tire Thumper.

A man is known by his enemies; this enemy, large wooden club or no, was embarrassing.

Spike continued sauntering with the clerk wheezing and cursing about fifteen feet behind him, scrump carefully tucked in one pocket of his duster.

It went from embarrassing to alarming when a cop slowed down his cruiser to ask the clerk what was the matter. Lights flashed, the siren blared— not in the mood for either a tasering or a thumping, Spike did a jackrabbit across somebody's front yard, vaulted two fences, kicked a pit bull that was laying in wait for somebody, anybody, to trespass, punted a toy poodle who had the same mindset in the next yard, dodged a wiener dog, balanced along a picket fence, startled a Wicca blessing her compost heap, and shot past Clem carrying a case of Bugles before he finally came out near the alley behind Joyce's house, cops and clerk shed and eggs unbroken.

Only to go up the back steps, through the back door, not a hair out of place, eggs ready to deliver, and slip on one of Dawnie's drawing pencils in front of everybody.

The eggs had not fared well.

The girls, the bon-bons he dared not touch, had giggled nonstop.

Dawnie shut herself in her room, hair dripping with egg, something she didn't let him forget for quite a while.

Joyce merely sighed and gone and got the eggs herself.

Leaving him alone with a pack of 12-14 year old girls.

It had not been pretty.

And now, this:

He'd come into the house after a long stroll through the nearby sewer in the hopes of snagging enough loose change to buy a drink or six at the Bronze only to find the Niblet crying on the couch, amidst a pile of sleeping bags, tin dishes, and bug spray.

Spike and his blanket should have done an about face right there and then, but noooooooo, he'd asked her what was wrong and where'd everybody go?

Seems her old man had promised to take her camping this weekend at the local Girl Scout reservation about ten miles out of town in the back arse end of nowhere.

And the bastard had backed out not less then ten minutes ago.

Would Spike take her? It was a Father/Daughter thing; everybody'd be there.

No, Spike was NOT going to take Dawnie's deadbeat dad's place in the "Me and My Guy Camping Retreat" as her big brother because the arsehole what spawned her couldn't be bothered to show even if he'd promised he would. "No. No. No. No! Not at all, I'm busy until 2022 washing my hair or whatever. No. N.O. And N.O. means NO!"

Dawnie'd looked up at him, eyes swollen and red.

Spike shifted in his Doc Martins, exasperated, "So, why me? And anyway, why can't soddin' Giles do it? Or Xander, for that matter? How 'bout Captain Cardboard? This is his bag, all goin' out in the bushes gettin' et by wolves, not mine!" (Dawnie'd giggled at that one.)

"Giles is busy, Xander has to work and mom already paid for it and we don't have that much money. Riley's got army stuff, and, and, dad just called and said he couldn't make it because his new wife wants to sail to Catalina this weekend!" Dawn ended with a howl.

Spike sat down across from her on the coffee table, bouncing one foot nervously; no, no, a thousand times no… and oh bloody Hell, what is it about the female species and tears on command?

Knowing he'd regret it, Spike handed Dawnie a box of tissues saying, "All right, I'll do it. I'll be your whatever it is I'm supposed to be. Just stop with the bloody waterworks and let me get my car and we'll soddin' go and set fire to things, put wild boar's heads on poles and dance 'round 'em naked, or whatever the Hell it is you tots do at these events. What's the worse thing that could happen?"