From the Journal of Dawn Summers

After we landed, a sleek, gray Limo carried us to the old hotel that Angel owns. *Sigh* Yes, that Angel. As in Buffy's ex, the guy with more (head) games than Hasbro…which worries me more than I can say. Being near Angel is not good for Buffy right now, she is just too raw, too vulnerable and, well, Angel is…not what she needs.

Apparently, the L.A. crew have gotten themselves their very own demon law office and Angel is the boss…even though he doesn't have a law degree. The LA crew all walk around in Armani now and to say it feels weird being here is an understatement.

Wesley helped me get our luggage to our room and, I have to admit, he sounded a little out of breath as we reached the door.

"How long," he began, with a slight wheeze, "are you and Buffy staying?"

"Oh," I felt a rush of heat on my cheeks and cringed guiltily as I unlocked the door "uh...I think Buffy plans for us to leave tomorrow night."

I (almost) felt a desire to defend my need for a varied wardrobe, but I quickly squelched it. Perhaps five pairs of shoes and six changes of clothes for an overnight stay was a little extreme…but they are new and after losing everything in good 'ole Sunny D, I found myself reluctant to leave everything behind.

I felt a little useless as I held the door open for Wesley as he carried our suitcases into the room and dropped them unceremoniously on one of the double beds.

I listened with half an ear as the former Watcher fussed around the room – opening drapes, showing me the bathroom and talking a little about the building's history which I would have found fascinating, had I not been so preoccupied with the panorama before me.

The sun was still up and the city smog light enough that I could see some of L.A.'s most famous landmarks from my hotel room window and memories came to the forefront of my mind, which of course, led the way to all things that are mom-shaped: shopping with mom for my first bra and after school visits Buffy and I made to the gallery where mom worked before The Big Split and those quick, spur-of-moment trips to the city to cheer one of us up after the subsequent move to SunnyD.

Being so close to Sunnydale-That-Was brought to mind the most painful reminder that no longer could I go visit mom's grave when I needed the comfort that only she could give, even if she was dead. Or even other, more routine urges - like how I used to try to convince Carlos and Kit to walk by "Bean There, Done That", the café where my latest crush Trevor, a SHS sophomore, worked as a Barista.

My mind conjured an image of Trevor's green eyes and crooked smile and I hoped he was lucky enough to escape the devastation caused by Sunnydale's demise.

Eventually, Wesley's small talk died an awkward death and he made a few noises about coming back later with some food. He has just left the room when my phone rang. It wasn't a surprise when I saw Carlos' name on the caller id and I felt a rush of giddiness.

"Hey Summers!" he cheerfully greeted.

"Hey yourself, Nevarro." I rejoined. I couldn't help the huge grin that split my face. Talking to Kit just a short while ago and now with Carlos, made me realize how much I had missed them. He had already spoken with Kit and both of my friends were on their way to come and see me and I could hardly wait. Our conversation was short, filled with interjections from Kit, who had no qualms about yanking the phone from Carlos' hand and hijacking the conversation.

Kit had said they would be here in just under an hour-

Dawn paused in her writing to check her watch for what seemed like the thousandth time in half an hour. Finally deciding she was too excited to stay focused, she bounced off the bed and closed her journal. She looked in the mirror, fussed with her hair for a moment then screwed up her face and, in a girlish impulse, stuck out her tongue at her image.

She tucked her room key into the front pocket of her cut-offs and left the room.

By her watch, she still had thirty minutes before the arrival of her friends, so she wandered aimlessly down the corridor. When she reached the elevator, she pressed a button on the old-fashioned panel and, while she waited for the elevator to arrive, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what the hotel had been like in its early years.

Wesley had mentioned that the hotel was built in the early twenties and rumored to have contained a speakeasy hidden somewhere on its premises. He'd confided that he and Lorne were in competition to find its hidden entrance.

The arrival of the elevator was announced with a soft ding and she stepped inside, so lost in her musings she was hardly aware of her surroundings.

Dreamily, she pressed a random floor button as she pictured the people who would have been drawn by the thought of visiting such a forbidden and scandalous place - men in their snappy suits and spit-shined spats, women wearing beaded, flapper style dresses and hats, chattering excitedly with each other as the elevator carried them to their secret destination.

After a brief trip, the gleaming brass elevator doors opened and she stepped out. Lightly, she dragged her finger along the wall as wandered down the dimly lit hall. When she came to a T-shaped intersection, she took a left. The lights flickered briefly and she paused when she realized she was about to walk into a door.

She reached out a hand then paused. What if the door was locked? (Although that never stopped her. In the past, Dawn had proved quite adept with a lock pick, opening doors with an ease that she suspected her sister was secretly envious.)

Unfortunately, she didn't have so much as a hairpin about her person and, if the door was locked, she was out of luck.

Her hand made contact with the doorknob and, to her surprise, it turned but before she could open the door, her phone rang. It was Carlos. Her friends had arrived.

With a squeal of joy, she pulled the door closed and ran back the way she had came. Within a few short minutes, she was enveloped in her friends' arms, laughter spilling from her mouth and tears spilling from her eyes.

Clem had arrived in Sunnydale shortly after Spike and had been happy to hear that his friend was staying nearby. From the moment Clem had stepped into Willy's, their reunion had been monopolized by Spike's plans for the Slayer's downfall.

By Vampire standards, Spike had always seemed to have an abundance of passion – for Drusilla, for a lot of mayhem, but never had Clem seen his friend so preoccupied with a human. He was aware, as were most of Spike's acquaintances, of Spike's obsession with Slayer's in general, but, even in the beginning, Buffy seemed to preoccupy Spike's thoughts and dominate the conversation.

"Dru seems to be doing better. Somethin' about the Hellmouth, I imagine, that seems to put a spark in her eyes and a spring in her step. She is still rather…delicate… and I heard that the fine demons of SunnyHell have Slayer problem." His blue eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Do you mind keeping an eye on my lady while I go scope out the situation?"

Long before he had met Buffy, Clem had heard the stories about the young Slayer's attitude toward demons of all types and few walked away after they met her. However, in spite of her ruthlessly efficient patrols in which she culled the demon population as fast as it multiplied, the pull of the Hellmouth was irresistible to most demons.

Those new to Sunnydale were quick to underestimate the blonde Slayer, deceived by her self-proclaimed affordable, yet stylish wardrobe, vulnerable façade and flippant attitude. He had heard stories about the Slayer, whispers amongst the community were as abundant as the first-hand accounts Spike shared, but the first time Clem had actually met Buffy was when Spike had brought her to a poker game.

Tipsy, pouty and judgmental, she hadn't made the best impression and Clem had laughed along with the rest of the group once Buffy had left, unable to reconcile the Slayer he had met with the stories Spike had shared and the whispers he had heard.

It was Willy who set them straight.

"Yeah, she might look like a fragile little flower, easily picked and crushed in the hand" he warned them while changing out a keg, a blend of hops and Bolivian yak piss he brewed himself, "but you guys do not want to get in her way."

The motley crew of miscreants snickered, but Willy just shook his head at their reaction.

"Keep in mind fellas, this is the girl who stopped The Harvest, defeated the Master, halted an Ascension…" he continued further, ticking off each of the Slayer's victories on his slender, nail bitten fingers. With each tick, the sounds of amusement turned into under the breath grumbling.

"Never knew you were such a fan, Willy," drawled Rack, a warlock with special abilities who made his profit from those who delved too deep into the black arts and became addicted. "You are the first to complain about the Slayer not keeping her nose out of your business."

Unexpectedly, Willie grinned.

"I'm a glass half full kind of guy, Rack. The Slayer knows all about my place – where it is, who I serve and, for the most part, she leaves my place alone." Testing the hook up, he poured a glass of his finest and, with a practiced twist of his wrist, slid it down the battered bar top into Rack's waiting hand. "Bottom line - I'm still alive, boy's, and that leaves me a lot to be grateful for."

With a cocky tilt of his head, he winked then spun on his heel, cheerily whistling tunelessly as he walked toward his back storeroom.

With a shake of his head, Clem pulled his thoughts back toward the present. Though he had arranged for his mate and daughter to leave L.A., Clem knew his boss would not relax until the meeting with The Slayer had passed. If he were to be truthful, Clem did not feel as calm about Buffy's meeting with Marv as he appeared.

Most of his job was to pacify the clients, train employees on developing their interpersonal skills when dealing with their diverse clientele and working as an intermediary between some of their less civilized clients and his boss.

Formal introductions over, Clem focused on the body language, taking note of the slight tilt of Buffy's head as she glanced around the rooms and the stiffness of his boss' stout frame, which eased somewhat as he opened the top of the carton Buffy had handed him.

"Excellent choice, Slayer." He breathed and Buffy responded with an uneasy smile.

"I am glad you are pleased." she replied.

Marv's eyes gleamed, a subtle indication that The Slayer had just moved up a few notches in the stout Fhrewh'ard's esteem. They shared a look as he passed the carton to Clem.

Holding the carton, Clem led the way into down the marble steps toward the cabinets. As he carefully lifted the cover of the tarantula's temporary home, his friend and his employer engaged in small talk. Two spiders skittered about as he gently tipped the carton to add the newest addition. After replacing the cover, he moved to the cabinets and counter area that served as a beverage station.

Behind a counter was a small, hidden fridge. Clem pulled out two chilled bottles of water and poured the contents into two crystal goblets then served them as Buffy and Marv sat down.

The chilled water was refreshing and Buffy was pleased that she was offered a beverage that neither looked nor smelled funny. Though she knew she couldn't allow herself to completely relax, some of the tension drained away from her as she followed Marv to a seating area. Once again, the stout clan leader demonstrated his manners as he gestured for her to choose a seat.

Call her predicable, but she chose a wide, cushioned chair that allowed her to sit with her back to the wall while Marv selected an adjacent stone bench. Feeling a little bit antsy, she sipped at her water and tried to appear calm. A million questions were at the forefront of her mind and it took a tremendous amount of self control to keep herself from blurting them out. She searched for a neutral topic that (she hoped) wouldn't offend her host.

"Clem seems very happy with his job. It is obvious how much he admires and respects you."

The Fhrewh'ard grunted, the sound low and ominous, but his amber eyes warmed at the compliment.

"Young Clement is loyal, honorable and discreet, I am most pleased. I have the Va-Spike- to thank for the recommendation."

There was a pause in their stilted conversation, each lost in their own thoughts about the dead vampire.

"How did you meet him?" her quiet question broke the temporary silence.

"At a poker game in New York, some time ago." he answered.

The Slayer looked at the Fhrewh'ard and bit her lip hesitantly. She looked young and vulnerable and he could easily understand why there had been so many who underestimated her.

"What - what was he like, back then?"

He looked down at his goblet, tilted it slightly and peered at the clear liquid.

"Cocky. Brash. Belligerent." she gave a startled burst of laughter and their eyes met again. She nodded.

"Arrogant." she added, thinking of that first year she had known the bleach-blonde vampire. "Unpredictable. Impulsive."

The Clan Leader took another sip of water and then continued.

"Fearless."

She nodded, a soft-smile on her face. She thought about Drusilla, her mom, Dawn. "Protective."

"He was at that." there was another small pause, then the creature continued. "I enjoyed his visits immensely."

"I am glad, that he had...friends like you. And Clem."

"I have never met another like him," Marv admitted. "As a vampire, he was...unique and I valued his friendship."

He heard the Slayer's breath hitch, like she was about to ask a question. Her eyes sparkled with moisture, but then she pressed her lips firmly together and looked down at her glass. Marv grunted and stood, taking her glass in hand and turned to walk to the low counter nearby.

While his back was turned he heard her voice, low and pained.

"If you had such high regard for him, then wh-why didn't you stop him? He told you he was going to his death and you...just let him go."

He paused and took his time with the answer, sensing the underlying grief and anger in her question.

"It was at his request. I owed him a debt. He asked that I handle his estate and-"

"And that is how you repay him? You just let him go-"

"Careful, Slayer." he warned. His power flared within and it took a great deal of control to keep it from bursting outward.

"I-just don't understand. You could have sto-"

"I could do nothing." His power flared once more and a wave of heat burst forth. Frustrated, he placed the glasses on the granite counter and turned to face the Slayer.

"A long time ago, Spike saved my life and, in doing so, saved the life of my entire species. In gratitude, I promised him Rey Drathor. It is debt that, if unclaimed, can be passed down from parent to child for untold generations. Anything you can imagine, Slayer, he could have asked for and I would have given it to him. Yet, all he asked was for my promise, that I would carry out his wishes and not intervene. I know you cannot comprehend why such a vow could not be broken, but, trust me when I tell you that Spike knew that I would not break my word."

He did not tell her how bitterly he had chastised the blonde vampire after completing the sacred rite that bound him to his vow and how he had taken himself to another realm where he could allow his anger to be expressed without fear of bringing harm to his staff or kim-ri. These details were personal and served no purpose.

Clem was just about to seat himself when he heard the chime of the elevator. Knowing his boss would not want to be interrupted while Buffy was on the premises, he discreetly made his way to meet the new arrival. He was certain Marv would have strongly encouraged (frightened) his employees into making themselves scarce. Who would dare to interrupt?

The doors silently slid open to reveal the kitsune from reception. Her normally cold composure was absent though; instead she looked pale and shaken.

"What's-" Clem was interrupted before he could finish his question.

"They are on their way back!"

"Who?"

"Who? Who? Who do you think? Shaylindrea and the little one."

"Why? The boss arranged for-"

"She doesn't care. She left. Apparently, she overheard two of the clan elders discussing little Shri'taria. Their words….were highly offensive. You know how she is. She is the most mild-mannered of creatures and is able to ignore almost any criticism directed toward her. But, Shri'taria?" The kitsune shrugged. "Shaylindrea thought it was best to leave before she caused a war with the clans."

Clem looked at his watch. "It's about a four hour drive-" he stopped when she shook her head. "How much time do we have?" he asked faintly.

"With the way traffic is at this time of day? Half an hour would be a generous guess. You know why the boss worked so hard to make sure his family were as far from The Slayer as possible. If she- "

Clem nodded and quickly interjected. "I'll take care of it."

Agitated, the kitsune chewed her lip and glanced toward the Slayer and her boss.

"I hope so. For all of our sakes. If they return and the Slayer is still on the premises…" her fox-shaped eyes shifted to their boss.

Clem nodded and took a deep breath.

"It won't come to that." He pressed the button to open the elevator doors. "Go back upstairs, have the car waiting and act as if nothing has happened."

The kitsune looked doubtful as stepped back into lift, but before the doors slid closed, she gave him a hesitant nod. As he walked back toward Buffy and Marv, Clem tried to organize his thoughts.

Buffy tried but she couldn't understand how someone who counted Spike as a friend could just sit idly by and let him walk away to his death and do nothing.

Couldn't? Or Wouldn't, Pet? His turf, his rules, remember that? Take a breath and just think it through, for a moment, won't you Luv?

Clem walked up to them and they both turned. Her friend looked worried and she gave them a half-hearted smile as she pushed back her anger. Clem apologized for the interruption and requested to speak with her boss. Marv grunted and Clem said something in a foreign language.

The Fhreywh'ard blinked and responded with a sound similar to a growl then spoke to Buffy.

"If you will excuse me for a moment, Miss Summers, it seems there is a …situation that requires my attention."

Buffy inclined her head and, without further ado, the creature rose and walked toward the wall. He muttered a few indecipherable words and a panel slid to the side. Marv walked through the opening and the panel closed.

She looked toward Clem and raised an eyebrow. The Luu'Sken leaned down, his expression earnest.

"Buffy, do you trust me?"

"Of course, Clem."

He reached forward and clasped one of her hands between his own. His voice lowered to almost a whisper.

"I beg you, Buffy. When Marv comes out, do not make a scene. Your meeting is going to be cut short. If you can, refrain from asking questions. I'll still escort you back to New York."

"Clem –"

"Buffy, please," the pitch of his voice changed and he sounded almost…desperate. "No questions. When Marv comes out, just allow him to cut the visit short. I know this is asking a lot, but please take no offense."

She has a million snappy retorts on the tip of her tongue, but she held them back. Instead she gave a slight nod. Clem gently squeezed her hand and whispered, "Thank you."

The panel in the wall slid open once more and Marv appeared, a large white box between his hands.

"Miss Summers, unfortunately, I need to end our meeting this afternoon and will not be able to meet with your young sister tomorrow. I regret this very much." To her surprise, she sensed that he was speaking the truth.

The Fhreywh'ard continued.

"Shortly after we made our acquaintance, Spike approached me and asked if I would help him sort out his…assets. For many years, he trusted me to handle those assets. He did not consider himself a wealthy man," Marv paused, a chuckle shaking his burly frame, "but that is because I could never get him to sit still long enough during our yearly meetings."

"I had hoped…well, that is neither here nor there. Before we discuss his estate in detail, I would like you to look over the items in this box. I will be in touch."

He extended his arms and presented the box to her.

She carried the box in her hands and the trio walked toward the elevators. Clem pressed the button to call the lift.

She stepped into the elevator, the soft muzak playing a familiar tune and evoked such a strong memory that she forgot about the box in her hands.

"Fancy a turn around the dance floor, Luv?"

She didn't jump or give any outward expression that he startled her, but goose bumps appeared up and down her arms. She glanced sideways and in a single heartbeat, she took in his appearance. Typical Spike outfit with snug, black jeans and a tight black t-shirt but missing his long leather jacket; the bruises on his face, courtesy of Glory when she had captured him just the night before, had already changed to a swirling mess of purple-yellow and he leaned sideways against a wall.

She glowered, annoyed with him already and ignored the clench in her gut; he smirked, seemingly pleased by her expression.

"Since when do we dance, Spike?" she asked and looked away.

The bronze was crowded tonight, despite the late hour. Dawn was spending the night at Janice's, Willow and Tara had already left, Xander and Anya had not shown. She had debated leaving herself, but was reluctant to give up this small moment; research on Glory, the Hell-Bitch, was as tedious and as frustrating as ever and she needed this break.

No matter how small, no matter how brief.

Scanning the crowd, she was irked to see more than one patron glance coyly in their direction – well, in Spike's direction – and she glared. It was because she was annoyed with Spike…it had nothing to do with the attention (female and male) that he got just by standing still.

Stupid sexy vampire.

A small sound of movement and his mouth once again near her ear.

"It's all we ever do, Pet. But if the idea of dancing with me is too intimidating…"

He let the thought dangle in the air between them and she huffed in annoyance. When she stepped away, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her toward the dance floor.

She narrowed his eyes at his impudence, but didn't offer any resistance.

The music changed to an erotic mix of Gregorian chanting and techno dance music that had been popular a few years before and the sudden influx of couples on the dance floor soon had them pressed up to each other.

"One dance."

His hand against the small of her back and the other curled around her hip and her posture stiff with arms over his shoulders with her fingers barely grazing the back of his neck, she was disconcerted at how easily they fit together. And why, oh why, did the reality of her body pressed against him feel so…good?

She did not look in his eyes, but instead inspected the fading bruises on his face, the wounds a testament to his steadfast protection of Dawn against the fury of Glory and slowly, degree by degree, she let herself (thaw) relax. He had protected Dawn, after all, she thought grudgingly.

The one dance turned into one drink and six (or was it seven?) drinks later she was loose limbed, relaxed and actually having a good time.

Then, she sloppily placed her drink on the bar and, for the first time, grabbed his wrist as a familiar tune sounded.

"Here she comes now singing Mony, Mony."

"I LOVE this song!" She exclaimed then began to sing, aware that her voice was lost in the bass of the beat as she shouted the lyrics with the rest of the crowd and pulled him along toward the dance floor.

As she jumped to the beat, one hand clasped loosely in his and the other raised toward the ceiling, it was easy to forget that she was with Spike, her natural enemy and, no matter how much he helped her out, the only reason she wanted him close so she could use his strength to fight Glory and to keep her sister safe.

In the past few years, each time she hear the familiar Billy Idol song, she remembered that night at the Bronze and, now more than ever, wished she could go back. Instead, she closed her eyes and resurrected the image of him that night, eyes glittering as the strobe lights flickered around the dance floor and watching her as she shouted out the lyrics.

A chime sounded, signaling the elevator's ascent toward the surface and she blocked it out, focused on the tinny music coming from the speakers above.

"Here she comes now singing Mony, Mony." She sang.

"C'mon Spike, don't tell me you don't know the lyrics, because I won't believe you."

"I don't know the lyrics."

"I don't beee-lieeeve you." She announced in a sing-song and giggled when his lips twitched. She lifted his hand and then twirled around under his arm.

"Shoot 'em down, turn around, come on Mony." Even in the elevator, she remembered the heat of the club and the smell the sweat of the other bodies all bouncing along to the song.

"Hey! She gave me love and I feel all right now." She got into the song just a little more only vaguely aware of another ping! From the elevator. She smiled, bit the edge of her lip and nodded her head.

She continued to sing, moving her shoulders and remembered how it felt in the club with him pressed against her back.

"I think you should sing this song." She shouted during the bridge. The instruments were loud, but she knew he had no trouble hearing her words.

"Oh you do, do you?"

"Yup." Another tipsy giggle. God, when had she ever felt so…free? Like she could do anything. She knew it was just a small interlude in her life, but for one second, it felt good to pretend that she was just a girl flirting with a guy. Tomorrow, she would worry about Dawn, about Glory and feel that weight pressing down on her shoulders until it stole her breath.

But tonight…tonight, she was just a girl, dancing with a guy.

She spun around and tugged him against her back, until it felt as if he was hugging her. She turned her head and looked at him with a smile.

"You should do one of those talent shows and sing it; I bet your impersonation would be as good as the real deal."

He tipped his head down.

"I'll tell you a secret, Pet. I'm better than the real deal." She tipped her head back and laughed. His hands tightened around her wrists and then she was spun again, laughter trailing behind her and mixing with his.

This time, she caught the movement of his lips and she grinned with delight.

"I said Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" with each repetition, they pointed toward each other.

"Cause you make me…feel…so…good."

That...was not her voice and her heart skipped a beat.

"Spike?" It had seemed so clear, like his voice was in her ear, singing along. Eyes open, she looked in the mirrored door of the elevator, heart thumping like she had run a marathon.

"Please." She begged and watched the girl in the mirror tighten her grip around the stone box, like she was staring at a stranger and not a reflection of herself. "Please…don't take this from me. I just want…"

Ping!

The elevator paused and her breathing seemed ear-shatteringly loud in the small space. She wanted to crumple to the floor, curl up into a little ball and just fade away.

Something between them had changed that night and the memory of that night was bittersweet. For the first time, she let herself wonder how her life would have been different had she not died just a few scant days after the interlude at the club. The way she treated Spike when she was brought back from the dead…if she had lived, would she have…would they have…

The space between the doors widened and she tipped her head backwards, like a prayer to the heavens. Then she straightened and walked out, nodded coolly at the receptionist and toward the waiting car, the very picture of strength but inside, she had never felt so breakable, weak, like the slightest breeze would scoop her up and carry her away.

It was late when Dawn parted ways with Kit and Carlos. Long, tight hugs were exchanged with both of her friends and she wondered if she imagined that Carlos held her just a little bit longer. Her eyes were a little bright with unshed tears and she thought she would be able to keep them at bay until she saw Kit brush away a few tears of her own. Her face crumpled and with a sob, Kit pulled them all into a group hug.

"God, we missed you, Dawnie!"

"I missed you guys too."

A few fat tears rolled down her cheeks and Dawn nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

With arms around each other's shoulders and heads bent toward the middle with foreheads touching, the trio stood under the awning of the hotel for countless heartbeats. Finally, with one final squeeze, they parted ways, Wesley's offer of a ride home had been accepted by both her friends.

She was about to turn to go inside, when she saw a familiar figure approaching the hotel. Dawn paused and as she walked closer she could see how tired her sister appeared.

"Buffy, you're back." she wrapped her arms around her sister and smiled when she felt Buffy return the hug.

"I got back a few hours ago, but I didn't want to interrupt your time with your friends. I decided to go for a walk."

"How did your meeting with Clem's boss go?"

"It- umm...good, I guess?" the older Summers sibling sighed. "It was uncomfortable and weird, but it's over now."

"What time..?" Dawn let the question hang in the air. She wasn't sure how she felt about going to meet the mysterious Marv but Buffy's answer had her exhale in relief.

"We won't. Something came up, so our meeting was cut short. Clem will escort us back to New York in the morning."

Dawn nodded.

Arms linked, the sisters walked into the hotel just as Angel was walking down the staircase. He still wore the same expensive suit she had seen on him earlier that day and Dawn wrinkled her nose. Pretentious, much?

"Buffy!" he greeted with a smile. As an afterthought, he nodded at Dawn.

"Angel. How was your day?" Buffy asked.

"Not very productive." The souled vampire gave the blonde Slayer a meaningful look. "I was distracted. I was worried about you."

"You were?" Buffy wrinkled her brow in confusion. "There was no need, I was-"

"I wish you would have let me go with you, Buffy. I did not feel comfortable with you there on your own."

Arms still linked, Dawn felt her sister flex her arm, pining her arm against her sister's side.

"I wasn't alone," she said evenly. Dawn raised an eyebrow when Angel interrupted before she could finish.

"The Luu'sken?" his snide tone had young teen bristling with indignation. "Given his choice of-"

Dawn huffed and gave him an unimpressed look.

"Buffy, I'm tired." she announced.

"Okay, Dawnie. I'll walk you up."

Angel frowned at Dawn. "Buffy, I think we should-"

"I'm tired too. " Buffy interjected quickly, "I 'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight Angel."

"Goodnight, Buffy."

The sister's walked up the stairs and Dawn felt the disapproving stare on her back from the vampire. She resisted the childish impulse to turn around and stick out her tongue.

Poofter.

Buffy walked her sister to the door of her hotel room. When Dawn unlocked the door to her room, Buffy placed her hand on her arm.

"I have something for you, Dawnie."

She reached into the inner pocket of her jacket and withdrew two long, slim envelopes. She held them in one hand and used the forefinger of her other hand to lightly skim across the edge. After a moment, she held them out, toward Dawn. However, when Dawn reached out to take them, her sister pulled them back.

"They're- they are from Spike. Before you take them, you need to promise me that you won't throw them away. It's okay if you don't want them, I'll keep them. Just - don't throw them away, okay?"

Dawn was silent. She looked at the two envelopes and ...then gave a jerky nod.

"I won't throw them away, Buffy. I promise."

Her sister released a shaky breath, then passed the envelopes to Dawn.

"Goodnight, Dawnie."

"Goodnight, Buffy."

Once inside her room and the door closed behind her, Dawn looked down at the two slim envelopes in her hands and the elegant scrawl that was her name.

So many feelings swirled within.

Loyalty to her sister and that tiny voice in her head that worried she was being disloyal to Buffy by wanting to read the letters and the desire to break her promise by tearing them up. No matter how much Buffy seemed to forgive Spike's actions, she felt as if there was some unwritten code that told her that as the sister to the victim she could hold those grudges.

Curiosity, because, she was dying to read them, even if she refused to let anything he wrote absolve him.

Sadness, because the moment she split the seal, it would be as real to her as it was to Buffy, that meant Spike was gone.

Guilt, ever present, reminded her that she should harbor anger toward him for all eternity.

Nausea…because she was pretty sure that fish she'd eaten at lunch had a funky taste.

Once she was in her room, she flipped the switch to turn on the lights and walked over to a large chair near the window that enveloped her like a hug when she sat down as she ran the edge of her thumbnail to open the seal on the first envelope.

The paper she pulled was wrinkled and torn in a few places as if it had been scrunched up more than one, then painstakingly smoothed out.

It was…surprisingly short.

Dawn-

If you are reading this, then I am gone.

And so is she.

I might not have lived a fancy life in Sunnydale, but I am a man of means. All that I possess now belongs to you, to do with what you will. There are a few homes scattered around the world, nothing too fancy but they are not crypts either, in fact, you might be surprised.

I know I am no longer at the top of your "Favorite People in the World" list anymore and I don't expect you to forgive me.

That is not what this letter is about.

This is about you.

After your sister, you are at the top of my "Favorite People in the World" list.

Don't isolate yourself, Dawn. You have friends who care about you and I am not talking about those traitors in Sunnydale, either. I mean your mates from school, Kit and that Carlos bloke.

They are good people, Dawn. I know this because I checked them out – you might have forsaken me, but, as long as I am around, I will keep you safe even if that means running the equivalent of a demon background check.

Being evil and with no conscience when it comes to your safety, I even had a few of my contacts offer them incentive to give them information on the Slayer and her sister. We are talking a substantial amount of dosh…and they didn't even blink before telling them where to stick it.

Put away that scowl, Bit. I would do it again and you know it.

They're good people Dawn.

So is Andrew. Take care of him, Dawn. He…needs people who believe in him.

Yours,

Spike

Tears gathered in her eyes and she brushed them aside then opened the second letter.

Dawn-

I won't ask for your forgiveness, I don't expect it and I don't deserve it.

But, I hope, one day, that you might be able to remember me and, maybe one day, with a smile. Remember that I would do anything to keep your sister safe and, if I could, I would give her the world. She deserves happiness; it does not matter if I have no part in that.

Your sister deserves loyalty, and although she gives her loyalty whole-heartedly, she does not demand it back, no matter how much she should. I am counting on you to be the one to give it to her, even if it means standing against them.

I saw how their betrayal (and yours-I hate to say it Bit, but it was badly done of you. Badly done.) almost broke her last night. If something had happened to her I would have torn each one of you asunder and not even a bevy of wanna-be Slayers could have stopped me.

Not even Faith.

She's good, but she isn't Buffy, even Faith knows that.

So, I am leaving you with a bit of advice.

Grow up, Lil Bit and leave girlhood behind you.

Become the amazing person I know you will be; let go of the bitterness of the past, the mistakes of your youth and the missteps of your sister's inexperience. When this fight is over, help to surround your sister with people who will stand beside her and not against her.

I have one request, which might involve some manipulation on your part.

Lower your eyebrow, it isn't anything bad. You act like I'm evil or something.

Over the course of my undead lifetime, I have acquired a few places – one in England, another in Rome and a few others. All homes and assets belong to myself and are not entitled to any descendants. This means, I can do with them what I will and bequeath them to any person I choose.

I choose Buffy.

I am sure, at this very moment, the Watcher is plotting and planning on how to get his little council up and running (with himself at the head, I've no doubt), he might be considered a maverick among his own kind, but he is nothing if not predictable. I am certain his plans all hinge on a certain Slayer being the one to shoulder the burden of the world once again. I know the Watcher cares for her, but he is also the product of generations of misguided dogma and indoctrination, where the Slayer would be nothing, if not a tool.

Do not let him use her, Dawn.

She is near her breaking point and she needs to get away, let Faith shoulder the burden, even if it only for a little while.

Use every weapon in your arsenal, 'Lil Bit – the pout, the stare, the eyes and throw a tantrum if you have to (I know you can do it), but find a reason (any reason!) and get her away. It won't be permanent, I know Buffy wouldn't allow that, but if anyone deserves a break, it is your sister.

Don't do it for me, Lil Bit.

Do it for her.

Yours,

Spike

For the next few hours, she looked out the window, curled up on the window seat and pondered the words. She remembered the vampire she admired, the man she looked up to and the person she had decided to hate. A few times, she forgot herself and smiled.

When sleep claimed her, she dreamed of Anya, who sipped cappuccino with her in an outdoor café on the cobbled streets of Rome, chattered merrily in Italian and leered at the handsome Italian men that passed by them; of her mother, who took her on a tour of a museum; and of Tara, who took her to a school.

When Dawn woke, she had a plan.

And it was a good one.

The air was chilled and Buffy pulled her cardigan tighter against her body, trying to hold back a shiver. Grimacing, she rubbed her arms.

"This is ridiculous. I am the Slayer. I shouldn't let a thing like chilly temperatures bother me." She mumbled the words and glared at the headstone of one Martha Robertson, the seventy-something retired librarian who died due to the ever-common "Bar-B-Q fork in the neck" phenomenon.

Buffy hoped she would make her appearance soon.

"I just need a little action and I will warm right up." She said aloud.

"Ah, Slayer, you sure know how to make a fellow tingly in all the right places."

She did not turn around, merely turned her head to look over her shoulder at the lithe form leaning nonchalantly against the wall of the Alpert crypt.

She scowled.

"What are you doing here?" It was difficult, but she did not make eye contact, her gaze focused on the scar over his left eyebrow instead. If she was mean enough, maybe he would leave. If he stayed, he would bring up the one thing that she did not want to discuss.

"Can't a bloke go for an evening stroll without the third degree?"

From the pocket of his leather jacket, he pulled a pack of cigarettes; the action drew her attention to his fingers. The memory of those fingers sliding across her back and in her hair the evening before came to mind and she shivered as she recalled the feeling.

Recalled the kiss – that heart-melting, foot-popping, curtain-dropping kiss.

Maybe, she decided, it wasn't the act of the kiss itself. They were still under Sweet's spell for a few minutes after the dancing demon had vanished and the kiss had been accompanied by the swell of a full orchestra. Take away the seventy-odd violins, cellos, flutes, drums and all you were left with were just a boy and a girl locking lips.

Still the memory of it caused her heart to beat just a little faster.

It had been one thing to wonder, under the cover of darkness, alone and safe in her room, what it would be like to kiss him, though she would never admit to anyone that she indulged in such thoughts.

However, the reality of kissing Spike was beyond anything she had ever imagined. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her. She had never experienced anything like it, had never felt that level of need, of want. Not even with Ang-

The sound of his lighter sparking brought her thoughts back to the present.

"Well, you can go stroll that way," she pointed north, toward the wooded area that led, well nowhere, "and I will stroll that way." She circled her finger in mid-air, which implied she would go anywhere else.

If she hoped to piss him off, it did not succeed.

"Oh I see." His lips curved into a smirk and her fingers itched to smack it off. She should just go away and ignore him. In fact, that is what she was going to do. Ignore him.

She gritted her teeth and he grinned.

"See what? What do you "see"?" She winced at her sharp tone. Why could she never just walk away? And…dear God, WHY is he so attractive?

"Slayer is afraid to be alone with the Big Bad." He raised an eyebrow and grinned. "She's had herself a taste and…"

"…and nothing. Go away Spike." She turned her back, made to move forward, but his voice stopped her.

"It happened, you can't deny it happened."

Her breath hitched and she bit her lip.

"Yeah, it happened." She admitted quietly. "But never again."

She expected a shout of denial or a burst of petty words, she never expected small, confident smile.

"You've said that before, Pet. 'I'm never going to work with you again, Spike.' 'Next time I see you, I am going to stake you Spike.' 'I'm never let you in my house again, Spike.'" With each sentence he took a small step toward her until their bodies were a scant inch apart, yet still not touching. He tilted his head slightly and continued in a quiet voice. "'I'll never going to protect you again, Spike.' 'I'll never going to buy you blood again, Spike.'"

He moved his head until his lips hovered above hers, yet still they weren't touching. Every nerve in her body tingled, as if an electric current raced within her, searching for a way out.

"Damn you." She whispered and arched upwards to meet his lips.

"Too late, pet. Already damned." He said then their lips crashed together.

She woke, the memory fresh in her thoughts and she turned her body. The pale stone box rested on the nightstand and she stared at it. Other than a quick look when she had returned from her meeting and extracted the two notes for Dawn, she hadn't looked at its contents. Slowly, she sat up and with unsteady hands, she picked up the box and placed it on her lap.

Rome

When news of the assassinations first spread, Lydia Chalmers, like the others, had spared little thought to the valuable resources that were lost in the bombings carried out by the First's minions. Concern was directed to the deaths of friends and family.

The loss had been devastating, both professionally and personally as Lydia had considered many of her colleagues as family.

An only child, she had been close to her parents, Jane and Peter Chalmers. Her parents enjoyed a modest income; Peter, a mid-level accountant for a large barrister firm and Jane, a secretary to the Dean of Chatham College, one of Oxford University's many academic institutions.

In the blink of an eye, Lydia lost her parents in a traffic accident while they were commuting from work to her school to pick her up. Shattered by the loss, she was placed in the home of a distant relative, a great aunt named Mybritt, who reluctantly took custody of Lydia and brought Lydia east to live at Chalmers Hall, a moldering old estate near Norwich.

Prior to the death of her parents, Lydia had been an out-going child, with an imaginative and mischievous nature that was wholeheartedly supported by her parents. Together, they had created a fantastic world, were girls could grow up to become warriors with superpowers and fight the darkest of foes.

Life with Aunt Mybritt was decidedly less adventurous.

Though one would hesitate to label her aunt as beautiful, she did possess something of a commanding presence and did not care for activities that she considered frivolous. In her opinion, which was given whether wanted or not, Lydia had the potential to become one of the brightest minds of her generation and Aunt Mybritt took it upon herself to stamp out fanciful notions encouraged by her parents. Under the stern, watchful presence of her Aunt, Lydia excelled academically, which left little time to pursue friendships and romantic relationships.

Her dedication was rewarded a full scholarship to Oxford and Lydia experienced the terror and exhilaration from being truly on her own for the first time in her life.

Though there was more than enough family money, her Aunt remained frugal at the best of times. Lydia vowed to become as independent as possible. Her inheritance would remain in trust until she reached the age of twenty-five. Her part time job at the prestigious university's Bodleian Library had been a dream come true, where she could study during quiet times and have access to its restricted collection of rare books.

She had only been at the university for a few, short months when she gained the attention of the Watcher's council and discovered that the stories her parents used to tell her were not stories after all, but actual events. Through her work as an novice Watcher, she had access to materials that would have astounded her Aunt – Watcher diaries that were so old, their fragile pages were practically transparent and yellowed with age; sketches of creatures that the rest of the world thought were myth; volumes of tombs that traced the Slayer lineage back to pre-biblical times. There were accountings of events so terrible and tragic they brought tears to her eyes. Detailed descriptions of creatures so diabolical she shivered with revulsion when she read them (and other descriptions of creatures so fascinating she spent her spare time searching for more.).

Now, the years as a novice behind her and in the wake of the tragic loss of most of her brethren, Lydia had a new obsession. It began with the discovery of a journal.

A journal written by her great, great grandfather, Walter Chalmers, who had met and fallen in love with a feisty Italian milliner some hundred odd years ago. Though they had settled and lived in England, for some reason unbeknownst to Lydia, the journal ended up in the Council's Rome archives. She had been surprised, and not a little curious, when she had found the battered leather journal with her family name embossed in faded, flaking gold on the front.

The entries were short, boring anecdotes that chronicled some research around a scroll that her ancestor had found. His excitement was due, in part, to his belief that it was not an ordinary scroll. Walter believed it was a prophecy…a Slayer prophecy.

The difficulty lay in the language. The scroll seemed to be written in Summarian however, once translated (to Greek then to English), the words made no sense. Undaunted, Walter tried a variety of other languages, all to no avail.

The first few entries had been filled with promise, but the long deceased Watcher Chalmer's excitement fizzled quickly into something which Lydia could only describe as impotent frustration. Certainly, if not for the familial connection, Lydia would not have given the journal more than a cursory glance before moving on.

Of all the languages she had come into contact with over the course of her years spent working with the Watcher's Council, it was Summerian she hated the most. It was a tricky language, full of guess work, uncertainty and, when working on translations, relied solely upon syntax. Misinterpretation of one word often spelled disaster.

Among her peers, she was commended as a talented researcher. Though Traver's took the credit, it was due to Lydia's diligent hard work that the Council even had information on the Hell-God that called itself Glory. However, loyal Watcher she was, Lydia did not begrudge Traver's the credit. It was the way the Council worked, the way it had always worked. After all, they all shared the same goal, did they not?

Or so she thought.

It took some time, after the havoc wreaked by the First, for the Watcher's to seek each other out. She had thought to go to California, to join the battle with Giles and his Slayer, and entertained herself with the idea of finally getting her Watcher's feet wet, so to speak.

Thoughtfully, she tapped the scroll against her chin. She could think of two individuals that had the knowledge to help her translate the scroll. One recently died saving the world, but the other was alive and well. And in Rome.

It was time to seek out a legend.

TBC (I promise...)