Spoilers: Season 5. This story takes place directly after "Crush"
Rating: PG
Content: Spike/Buffy
Dedication: This one goes out to Pandora for all the marvellous support and encouragement. Ooo. And the visual inducements. *PURR* You are AWESOME!
Disclaimer: They are Joss's! All Joss's! I'm just *cough* "borrowing" them for a bit.
Note: Please ignore grammar and spelling errors. I'm afraid I've been burning the midnight oil in order to get this one done, which definitely cuts down on my ability to construct a coherent sentence. :-)
Feedback: Your words are literally keeping me writing on this one. I need all the help I can get! Thanks! Special thanks to Ryan and the other kind souls who keep me buoyed with their wonderful words!



Chapter Nine

The tall Brit stood quietly by the monkeybars, only to frown as the alarm on his watch began to beep incessantly.

"They aren't coming. Let's just go home. It's too cold," the former demon complained as she snuggled into her heavy, woolen coat.

"They'll be here," Rupert Giles insisted as he shut off the alarm with the side of his finger. He raised his head as he glanced over the quiet playground. He nodded slightly as he watched the young women as they crossed the park.

"No sign yet?" the redhead called out, her face crestfallen.

The blonde woman smiled weakly as she wrapped a comforting arm around the witch's waist.

"Not yet," Giles frowned as he looked down at his watch.

"I think they are waiting for us in the nice, warm shop," Anya muttered, her teeth chattering. "We should go wait for them there."

Giles closed his eyes in frustration, his hand automatically finding its way to the pocket which held his handkerchief.

"Perhaps you should go wait there, Anya," the man bit out as he rubbed the cloth against the thick lenses of his glasses.

The demon nodded eagerly, her light curls bouncing, as she pulled at her boyfriend's arm.

"Anya. We wait here," Xander told the woman firmly, his eyes missing every trace of his normal humour.

The former demon cocked her head curiously at him, a slight frown creasing her forehead as she looked at him.

"But he said..."

"Anya."

The girl exhaled impatiently as she tugged at the hem of her coat, all the while mumbling under her breath.

Giles sighed as he considered the pair. She meant no harm, he thought as he noticed how uncomfortable the woman looked. It wasn't her fault she couldn't see past her own discomfort long enough to really understand the problem at hand.

The Key was missing.

"Xander," Giles began quietly, "they very well might be at the shop."

Anya beamed triumphantly as she poked Xander in the side.

"Where are they?" Xander turned away from the woman, his face tense with irritation.

"Probably coming here right this moment," Willow smiled as she caught Xander's eye. "Betcha they stopped off at Baskin Robbins or something. You know. Ice cream cones, cherries on top. The whole family bonding thing."

Xander quirked a slight smile as he regarded the redhead.

"Don't know why you are so worried anyway," Anya sighed as she drew the coat around her tightly. "It's not like Buffy will get hurt. And it's not like Dawn will, either. She'll find her in time. She always does."

The young man whirled around in a rage as he faced the woman.

Anya smiled at him, her chin lowering as she gestured towards her coat. "It's cold out here, Xander."

Something in his heart seemed to clench as her big, sweet eyes smiled at him lovingly.

Quietly, he brushed his fingers across Anya's jaw, his lips curving into a slight smile as he watched her practically purr with the touch. It wasn't as if she wasn't worried because she didn't care about Buffy and Dawn, Xander realised as he contemplated his girlfriend. No. She didn't worry because it never dawned on her that Buffy could ever be defeated.

What he would give to have such perfect faith right now.

"We'll wait at the shop," Xander said, his voice hardly carrying as he pulled his hand away from the former demon. "You're carrying your phone, right?"

Giles nodded slowly as he replaced his glasses back on his nose.

"Good. Second you see Buffy or Dawn, let us know. We'll be waiting."

The watcher smiled almost reluctantly as he looked down at the boy. "Someone really does need to check the shop, Xander."

"I know," Xander smiled weakly as he turned his gaze to Willow and Tara. "Guess it's up to you two to keep the old guy out of trouble."

"Trouble! Bah. Trouble sees us and runs!" Willow stated confidentally as she puffed out her chest.

"Yes. T-that's us. Trouble shooo-ters," Tara piped in as she looked around the group. The redhead giggled as she leaned her head on the blonde's shoulder.

"Trouble shooters. You know. Like "shooo" as in... well, it's a p-pun," the girl's face reddened with embarrassment as she looked around.

"Yes, we understood it. It just wasn't funny," Anya decided suddenly, her voice matter-of-fact. "It's cold out here."

"Oh, yes. A pun," Giles interrupted the former demon with a forbidding look and a small chuckle. "Ah, yes. I see. Quite amusing."

"Cold. Cold. Cold." Anya whispered anxiously into Xander's ear.

"Call us, Giles?" Xander asked a last time as he glanced over the playground. No sign.

"Of course."

With a small sigh, Xander turned and headed for the soft warmth of Sunnydale's only magic shop.





"...not gonna soddin' wait here while you two chitchat the night away. I mean, I hate to disturb you, but there's only a psychotic moron HUNTING us down," Spike snorted as he pushed himself to his feet. Angrily, he stalked around the office, his gait unsteady.

"Bloody bints! 'Oooo. It's not up to you to make that decision, is it?'" Spike mocked in a nasally falsetto. "Go on. Go be some bloody fiend's midnight snack. See if I care."

He slammed his damaged fist into the wall, smiling oddly as the pain coursed through his body. Sighing, he leaned against the papered wood as he surveyed the small room, his energy nearly completely spent.

"They are just as bad as you, Summers," Spike glared at the picture of the beautiful blonde girl on the desk. Didn't do her justice, he thought idly as his eyes roamed over the photograph.

Instinctively, he reached for the interior pocket of his duster only to curse at length as he realised he left his precious coat back at the crypt.

"Bloody soddin' freakin' hell!" Spike growled as he grabbed the picture of Buffy off her mother's desk. "It's all your fault, you know."

With a long groan, he leaned his head against the wall.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Slayer? I just wanted you to see me. But you never will, will you? And as a nice little bonus, you have to make your mum and kid sister hate me, too. Joyce has *never* talked to me like that. Never. And it's all your bloody fault."

Quietly, he lifted the framed picture before his eyes, his lips tugging into a fierce frown as he considered it. In a sudden fit of fury, he threw the picture across the room, only to smile in callous pleasure as he heard the glass frame shatter.

But the relief only lasted a moment. Spike's eyes found their way to the large, golden mirror hanging on the wall. Silently, he walked up to it. Gently, he pressed a finger against the cool silver, frowning, as he saw nothing reflected back at him, not even a smudge from body oils. It was almost as if he didn't even exist.

"She's not the only one, is she?" he spoke softly, his baritone tight and intense. His slender fingers stroked the smooth surface almost tenderly, as his eyes seemed to burn the image of empty air into memory.

Mirrors don't lie, he thought as he turned his eyes away from the piece. And this one said he was nothing.

Nothing.

That's all the Scoobies would ever see. No matter what he did, no matter whom he saved, no matter what he sacrificed, he'd always be nothing to them. That would never change. It was just stupid to dream otherwise.

He wasn't a Scooby. He wasn't a friend. He wasn't even their enemy. He was beneath their notice. Nothing.

Spike would always just be someone looking on: an eavesdropper on an intimate scene. Even here he'd never fit in. It's been a hundred and twenty years and William the Bloody Awful Poet still amused the masses by being the butt of the jokes.

But he could bloody well fix that now, couldn't he? Spike cracked a grin as he imagined the looks of terror on their insipid little faces as he stole the life from their frail bodies. Best of all, he could take his time. Enjoy a spot of fun as he slowly drained them. Neutered. Ha. He'd be the last they'd ever suspect, which would give him the opportunity to take them down one by one. No one knew the chip was dead.

Except the Nibblet.

Spike's nose wrinkled as he leaned against the wall, his eyes trained warily on the door. He'd have to kill the Nibblet before she told anyone. Which meant the moment she came back with Joyce, the girl would have to go down.

The second she returned.

He watched the door uncertainly, a strange look passing over his angular features.

He could always turn her.

It might be fun having the Nibblet around. She's a smart, funny little thing. And then, she'd be around forever. Dawn would never leave him, never betray him, hell! since she'd be evil, she'd probably never argue with him either.

The thought left a strange taste in his mouth.

"May as well admit it, mate," he grumbled in derision. "You like the Sprout the way she is."

The idea of having her to hang around with forever was beyond tempting. But the problem was he had seen enough turnings to know that it really wouldn't be the same. He'd have to kill someone he kinda liked (a little) only to replace her with just another demon, albeit one wearing the same shell.

It was amusing in its own way. She wasn't just the Slayer's little brat sis, she was his Bitty Bad. Soul and all.

He suddenly felt like the biggest nancy to ever exist as he realised that he'd do anything, even get dusted, to keep it that way.

"Great. Just bloody brilliant. I'll be brooding next," Spike mumbled in disgust as his eyes wandered back to the mirror. Broody, bumpy, and biteless.

At least the Slayer seemed to like her toys that way.

The Slayer.

Why did it always come back to her?

Spike frowned as he looked at his torn hands, the blood clotted into little black lumps around the edges of skin. He could kill her now. Really kill her.

No more dreams. No more nightmares.

The girl would finally be beneath *him*. Forever.

He was silent as he wondered if Joyce and Dawn would invite him to live in their house after Buf...the Slayer died. He could protect them just as well as any. Better, really.

After all, it wasn't the Scoobies *she* turned to that one time. It was him.

He could do it. It might even be fun. Telly with Joyce. Maybe a spot of homework with the Nibblet. He was tired of hiding out in the crypts and sewers of the world, anyway. Maybe he actually found a place where he belonged.

That's it, Spike decided as he thrust his hands into his jean pockets. He'd kill her. The next time he saw the Slayer, she would die.

"Spike?" an incredulous voice echoed through the room, the tone soft and almost childlike in its shock.

He lifted his eyes to the threshold, only to cringe as his eyes grazed over the petite form of the woman who haunted both his dreams and his nightmares for the last few years.

"Slayer."