A/N: I skipped over the next two scenes: "Paramedic Boyfriend", and "Patrolling... Sort of". I felt like both were a distraction from the main Spike/ Buffy storyline, even though Buffy is in the first of them, and they were mainly there to remind us that Riley is the Good and Useful Guy, since Into the Woods is right around the corner. It also seemed like the Scoobies had been handed an Idiot Ball apiece to make Riley look extra good; Xander and Willow had been working with Buffy for over four years, and had helped take out the Mayor and Adam, so acting like that while out on patrol was OOC. Plus, wasn't Xander supposed to have his Useful Military Memories? You'd think he'd still remember tactical hand signals... OK, sorry, off that soap box, now. ;) I might come back to the patrol scene at some point in a different fic for the humor value, though. Enjoy!

Giles sat in The Magic Box, the table in front of him heaped with books. He took a sip of tea and stood, reading as he rose, "Here's another one. Early 18th Century Slayer."

At the counter, Buffy sat behind similar stacks. As Giles spoke, she closed the book she'd been looking through. "Good. Let's hope she'll be more helpful than this last one."

Glancing over, Giles asked, "Why? What does it say?"

Buffy summarized for him, her exasperation with the lack of information showing through, "Same as all the others. Slayer called... blah, blah... great protector... blah, blah... scary battles... blah, blah... oops! She's dead. Where are the details?"

"Details?" Giles walked to Buffy, handing her his open volume. "Well, it says this Slayer forged her own weapons."

"Gotta love a gal with an anvil," Buffy acknowledged. "But where are the details of the Slayer's last battle? You know, what made that fight special? Why did she lose?"

Giles turned his attention to adjusting the heart shaped suncatcher over the counter, uncomfortable with the thought of Buffy's recent injury, and how very close he'd come to losing his Slayer. "You didn't lose last night, Buffy. You just-"

Buffy interrupted, "Got really close. I slipped up, Giles. I've been training harder than ever and still I... And there's nothing in any of these books to help me understand why. I mean... look, I realize that every Slayer comes with an expiration mark on the package. But I want mine to be a long time from now." She looked down, pursing her lips as she sought the perfect simile, "Like a Cheeto. If there were just a few good descriptions of what took out the other Slayers, maybe it would help me to understand my mistake, to keep it from happening again."

Giles shrugged out of his jacket and sat down opposite from Buffy. "Yes, well, the problem is after a final battle, it's difficult to get any... well, the Slayer's not... she's rather...," he stammered, uncomfortably avoiding Buffy's gaze.

"It's okay to use the D-word, Giles," Buffy assured him.

Giles glanced over, briefly. "Dead. And hence not very forthcoming."

Buffy riffled through the pages on one of the open volumes. "Why didn't the Watchers keep fuller accounts of it? The journals just stop."

"Well, I suppose if they're anything like me, they just find the whole subject too…," Giles trailed off.

Buffy finished for him, "Unseemly?" Giles glanced over at Buffy, pained. "Damn. Love ya but you Watchers are such prigs sometimes."

"Painful... I was going to say," Giles corrected, looking at Buffy as he spoke, his love and concern for her showing. Their eyes met for a moment, and they paused in silent acknowledgement. Giles rose and continued, "But you're right. Accounts of the final battles would be very helpful. But there's no one left to tell the tales."

Giles looked back over at Buffy, seeing a realization beginning to take hold of her. "What?"

Spike slammed into the wall of his crypt, grimacing as his sharply chiseled cheekbone made contact with the hard stone. "Ow!" he exclaimed, then paused a moment, furrowing his brow in thought. "Wait. Not ow. You feeling all right, Slayer? This stuff usually hurts." Buffy spun him around to face her, this time slamming his back into the wall. Spike bit his lip in anticipation, some inkling of the truth beginning to dawn on him. His tongue curled over his human teeth, before his face broke into a broad smirk.

"Don't even start, Spike."

Spike looked down at her. "What do you want?"

Buffy looked up at him, her eyes large, but not giving away the new fear that had kindled in her since the attack. "Slayers. You killed two of them."

Whatever Spike had expected her to say, it wasn't that. Confused and somewhat wary, he stood up taller, losing his teasing air as the grin left his face. "I did."

Buffy stared at him, resolved. "You're gonna show me how."

Music played in the background as Buffy and Spike sat at a small table next to the staircase in the Bronze. Buffy's long, blonde hair tumbled down over her shoulders. The ruched, beige tank she wore accented the warmth of her sun-kissed skin tone. Spike's usual uniform of black tee and black duster faded into the dim background of the club, his pale skin and hair standing out in contrast. He drained his beer, looking down into the empty glass mug bitterly. "You know, there quite a few American beers that are highly underrated. This unfortunately is not one of them."

Buffy, all business, tried to take control of the conversation. "Update, Spike. We're not here to discuss the fine choice of hops. It's about two Slayers: one in China during the Boxer Rebellion, one in New York. Both got killed by you." She flashed a folded wad of cash at him. Spike reached out for it, but she smacked his fingers with it and jerked it back before he could take it. Spike rubbed his fingertips and made a wry face as she continued talking. "Tell the tale, you get the cash." She gestured with the money for emphasis as she spoke, before putting it back into her purse.

"Right. You want to learn all about how I bested the Slayers and you want to learn fast. Right, then. We fought. I won. The end. Pay up," Spike snarked at her, hurt that she'd rebuffed his earlier attempt at small talk.

"That's not what I-"

"What did you want, eh? A quick demo? A blow-for-blow description you can map out and memorize?" Spike glanced away and scoffed. "It's not about the moves, love. And since I agreed to your little proposition, we can do this my way. Wings." He settled back smugly, waiting for his demand to be met.

Buffy paused, confused. "What?"

"Spicy buffalo wings," he enunciated. "Order me up a plate. I'm feelin' peckish."

Buffy sighed exasperatedly, rolling her eyes, but turned to get their server's attention. "Excuse me," she started to say, but the motion of her turn and reach pulled at the injury the vamp had inflicted earlier. Her voice broke off as her breath hitched, and she pressed her hand to her stomach, wincing.

Spike watched, smirking, pleased that his predator's instinctive eye for weakness had been right earlier. "As I thought. Some nasty thing got a taste of you."

"I'm fine."

"Oh, right. Stuck in a dark corner with a creature you loathe, diggin' up past uglies 'cause you're 'fine'."

"Just tell me what I want to know."

"I told you." He leaned in toward Buffy. "No one's narrating on an empty stomach here."

Buffy shook her head, "Were you born this big a pain in the ass?"

"What can I tell you baby? I've always been bad." Spike cocked his head to the side and growled out the last word, putting a heavy dose of innuendo into it.

To be continued...