Willy's night had started out poorly, what with having to mop a Garowlf demon off the floor, but apparently it was about to get a lot worse. It wasn't fair. He was just a dishonest guy trying to make a little honest money here. Hurrying down to the other end of the bar, he put on a placating smile.

"Miss Summers! So good to see you," he said in a falsely cheerful voice, speaking loudly so that his patrons would take heed of his words. "What can I get you tonight? You know I'm always happy to serve The Slayer."

Several customers took the hint and climbed slowly from their seats, sidling casually towards the door while giving the small blonde girl at the bar a wide berth. She watched them go, throwing them a cheerful smile and waggling her fingers in a wave to help speed them on their way, before turning stony eyes on the greasy bartender.

"Well, if you insist," she smiled sweetly, "You can serve me a nice glass of information. I'm looking for a certain bloodsucker. Leather jacket, bottle blonde. You know him?"

"You uh, you mean Spike?" Willy laughed nervously. "Hasn't come in tonight. Sorry."

"I hardly need you to tell me that Willy," the girl said, cracking her knuckles. "What I need you to tell me is where I can find him."

"Yeah, um, about that," Willy hem hawed, backing slowly away from the bar, "See if I tell you that… well um, he's gonna kill me. Yeah, he'd uh, he'd snap me like a twig so…"

Suddenly, Buffy's hands flashed out, grabbing the sides of his shirt and hauling him over the bar towards her. Willy squeezed his eyes shut, flinching in anticipation of the blow to come. It never did, but his muscles didn't relax when her words reached his ears in a low, hissing whisper.

"And what do you think I'll do to you Willy?"

The images that his mind supplied were enough to make him crack. "Ok, ok!" he cried holding his hands up in surrender. "He's staying over in Restview! There's a crypt there, heard he cleared a nest out of it a few weeks ago!"

"There now," the Slayer smiled, letting him go and patting down his collar. "That wasn't so bad was it?"

"Glad it was good for you," Willy sulked. "Don't know why you're looking for him Slayer, but I hope you stake the guy." At Buffy's frown, he hurried to explain. "I mean, I like Spike and all, don't get me wrong. Great guy! But you know… better him than me."

"You don't have any friends, do you?" the girl stated suddenly, deadly serious.

Willy just stared at her blankly, unsure if he was meant to answer. The Slayer sighed, then pulled out a twenty dollar bill and smacked it down on the bar.

"Well hey Slayer, if you were gonna pay me for the info, I would've given it up sooner," Willy smiled, reaching out for the bill.

Her hand slapped down on it before he could pick it up. "Not so fast," she said. "Give me a bottle."

"A bottle of what?" Willy asked, surprised. He didn't think that the Slayer drank.

"Whatever Spike usually drinks."

Willy eyebrows drew down in confusion. The Vampire Slayer was buying alcohol for a vamp? Taking down an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels he handed it over, relieved when she snatched it away from him and abruptly left. He didn't know what she was up to, but it couldn't be good, and he'd be better off just staying out of it.


'Oh Lord, what am I doing?' Buffy thought as she wound her way between the headstones of the Restview Cemetery.

It had been three days since Buffy had taken the Gem of Amara away from Spike, and she had finally worked up the courage to go beat his location out of Willy. She wasn't scared of him of course, he was just a lowlife, a weasel, but she was scared of what her next step was to be. Knowing where he was meant that it was time to act.

Buffy tightened her hands around the bottle of Jack she had purchased. She wasn't sure why she'd bought it. Maybe she was trying to apologize. Maybe she was just trying to butter him up. Hmm. That could be fun… Focus! A large crypt loomed up in front of her, and she approached cautiously, widening her senses, searching for that little prickle on the back of her neck that said 'Vampire.'

He wasn't there.

Buffy sighed in relief. She had hoped for this. It would be easier this way. Tentatively pushing the door to the crypt open, she slipped through. It was dank and dusty and almost completely black inside, the stones carved into generic figures of dead guys, sarcophagi lined neatly against the walls. She strained her eyes against the darkness, looking for some sign that Spike really was staying there. There was a blanket draped over one of the coffins in the style of a makeshift bed, and the dust was scuffed away on the floor where boots had tread, but none of it assured her that it was Spike staying there, or even a vampire. It could've been a human for all she knew. Eww - hopefully not. Thoroughly squicked, Buffy rounded the side of the sarcopha-bed.

Jackpot.

A gray duffel bag lay on its side, spilling its treasures over the floor. Three records; two by the Ramones and one by the Sex Pistols. Two black t-shirts and a pair of socks. A bottle of black nail polish. Four small, leather-bound books. Six packs of cigarettes.

Satisfied that Spike was indeed the occupant of the crypt, Buffy left the vampire's stash alone, placing the bottle of Jack prominently in the center of the stone coffin. Then, taking Spike's notebook out of the pocket of her coat, she smoothed a hand over the cover. She hadn't read any more than that last poem, though she very much wanted to. Instead, she had slipped a letter of her own inside; an explanation, an apology, a proposal. Propping the book against the bottle of booze, Buffy turned away from the poems and left the crypt. She hoped that it wasn't the last she ever saw of them.


"Soddin' Ssssslayer," Spike slurred, stumbling across the Restview Cemetery.

Who did she think she was, playing God like that? Bitch. Taking his ring away just because her Watcher said so, bouncing his skull off a bleeding steel railing. It wasn't fair. All he wanted to do was go to the beach, maybe take in a football game, but noooo…

Suddenly the wind shifted, blowing towards him from deep inside the cemetery, carrying the scent of the girl in question to his eager nose. Inhaling long and slow, he tasted her essence on the breeze, his mouth curling into a sneering grin. Looking for a fight was she? Well, the bint was in luck, so was he.

Breaking into a sloppy jog, Spike followed the breeze, narrowing in on the source of the scent. To his surprise, the trail ran directly to the door of his crypt. Though the door was closed tight, the smell of her disappeared under the door, and he opened it with trepidation. It was silent on the other side of the door, but it didn't mean she wasn't on the other side with a crossbow, waiting.

Smashing the door open, Spike whipped around and pressed himself flat against the wall, vampire eyes searching her out in the dark. The crypt was empty. Muscles relaxing, he fumbled with matches, lighting a few candles and taking a look around, making sure the Slayer hadn't messed with his stuff. His eyes lit on the top of his sleeping sarcophagus, narrowing in on the bottle of whiskey there that caught the light and cast an amber shadow. She'd left him booze? And was that his…?

Spike paled. Oh God. She'd gotten hold of his poetry.

He had gone back to the bluff last night to look for the book, distressed when he couldn't find it. He had hoped, prayed, that it had just been kicked over the side, or that perhaps some tourist had picked it up. He knew how bad his poetry was. It had never stopped him from writing it, but he didn't let anyone see it, not anymore. The idea that the Slayer had seen it turned his stomach.

There was something sticking out of the top of the pages; without touching the notebook, Spike slipped the envelope out. He could smell her on the paper, knew her tongue had touched the seal, and the knowledge gave him a strange feeling on the back of his neck. What the hell was her game, leaving him his favorite alcohol, writing him a letter? Sitting down on the edge of the stone coffin, he slit the envelope open and pulled out the paper inside.