Chapter Six: Coats

Buffy took a deep breath. This was the third cop she had spoken to and she was getting conflicting answers. How hard was it to check if a frigging coat was in evidence? How many shootings could have possibly occurred in the last three days to make this so difficult. This was way more trouble than it was worth. Did Spike even really need that coat? It was a serial killer's trophy, a prize for killing a Slayer. It was sick. Why did she care if he ever got it back? Good riddance to it!

Buffy sat back down in the waiting room. Maybe the next officer would be more help.

Eventually she had gotten her hands on the plastic bag filled with Dawn's clothes. She had had to threaten some poor constable that if he didn't hand it over to her she was going to break every bone in his arm, but she had it. She walked out of the police station with a sense of pride and a bag full of bloodied rags.

When she got home, she opened the bag on the kitchen island and rifled through it. Her eyes welled up as she lifted up the remains of Dawn's shirt. It was cut straight down the middle and blood coated it completely. She stuffed the bloodied clothes in the kitchen bin and shoved them down as far as she could. She pulled Spike's duster out and shook it out. She looked at it critically. She could see the dried blood and briefly wondered if she could just put it in the washing machine. She thought about her own leather jackets and sighed. Hand wash it was. She bundled up the coat and trudged down to the basement.

40-minutes later she pulled the plug from the laundry tub and watched the red swirl disappear down the drain. She pushed her hair back from her face and her hand came away with a thin sheen of sweat. She flicked out the duster and smiled. Good as new.

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As dusk fell, Buffy made her way through the cemetery to Spike's crypt. She had his duster folded under her arm. She paused outside his crypt. Usually she just burst in, kicked in the door and announced what she wanted, but now she wasn't sure. Would he even let her do that? Probably wasn't as charming when there was no expectation of sex.

She knocked lightly and pushed the heavy door open slowly. Plenty of time for him to stop her. She called out his name as she let herself in, shutting the crypt door behind her. She looked around the upstairs of his crypt and saw him sprawled in his comfy chair, feet bare, a glass in his hand. The TV was on but she didn't think he was watching it.

"Spike?" She clutched the duster tightly. His head whipped around and he stood up quickly, knocking over his bottle of whisky in the process. He didn't take any notice as the amber liquid spilled out across the stone and mixed with dust and charcoal.

"Is Dawn ok?" he asked, his voice slightly frantic.

"Dawn is fine," she assured him quickly. She saw his shoulders relax at her words, some of the stress leaving them. He just stared at her. Not speaking.

"The doctors say she should be able to come home next week."

"Good," Spike said flatly.

"She, um," Buffy fumbled for words. "She keeps asking why you haven't come by. She doesn't buy that you can't get past the hospital security."

"Well she was always the smart one."

Buffy rocked back on her heels, not wanting to make eye contact with him. It was so awkward. Why did she have to make it so awkward? He wasn't meeting her eyes either but she doubted it was for the same reason. She took the opportunity to assess the state of him. Most of the smaller wounds had healed already. He still had a black eye but the cut was no more than a pale pink line. She couldn't tell if his arms were healed, his red shirt covered him completely. He still seemed to be favouring one side though. There were no rips in his jeans. Ribs, she decided.

"I um, brought your coat back," Buffy said suddenly, thrusting it out in front of her like a pathetic peace offering. "Cops weren't really willing to let it out of evidence but I can be persuasive when I want to be."

He glanced at it warily. "I don't want it."

"What?" Buffy asked dumbly. She looked at her extended arms and proffered black material like an offering. "But it's your coat."

"I don't…" He trailed of, his jaw was tight and he pursed his lips as if trying to keep the words in. "It smells like her blood. I don't want it."

"Oh 'spose it makes you hungry, huh?" Buffy joked, attempting a smile.

"Get out," he hissed. His eyes flashed at her, still blue, but filled with the same hurt and fury that he had sent her way when she was last in his crypt.

"I'm sorry," Buffy floundered. "That was a bad joke. Bad, bad joke. I don't even know why-"

"Now."

His tone brokered no argument and he turned his back on her. She didn't think he had ever spoken to her like that before and he had definitely never just flat out ignored her like that. She nodded at his back and shook her head.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. She knew he heard her. She curled her fingers into the leather and made her way out the crypt. She could feel the sleeves of the duster skirting along the floor. She scooped it up again as she pulled the door open and walked back out into the cemetery.

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