The whole apartment reeks of femininity.

            It's 6:30 on Friday and Buffy and Dawn have been behind closed doors preparing for her date for nearly an hour.  Spike has been excluded from this right of passage, gladly, alternately flipping through the channels and sipping at a warm mug of butcher's blood.  He hears the girls tittering in twin Geisha girl conspiracy as perfumes are sampled and dismissed, choice of wardrobe is discussed and criticized and shoes are tried on for comfort, style and clunkiness.  He still isn't too clear about what all the fuss is about.  All this for some young buck named Travis who momentarily will walk through the door and whisk Dawn off for her first non-chaperoned night with a member of the opposite sex.

            The doorbell rings.  He hears Dawn's squeal, "He's here!  Oh, God, he's here!  And I can't stop running my tights!"

            Buffy's head emerges from the bedroom door.  "Spike, could you stall him?  We're having tights issues in here."

            "Will do, love.  I was in the mood for an after dinner aperitif,"  he says lazily, gathering himself off the sofa.

            His remark is met with a warning glare.

            "Kidding!  Teenagers give me horrible indigestion.  It's all the sports drinks and garlicky pizza they eat.  And besides, his neck is for the Nibblet to nibble on, not the bloody chaperone."

            Buffy slams the door.  He hears Dawn query, "You don't think he'd really…?"

            "He's just messing with us like he always does, Dawnie.  Don't pay any attention to him.  It'll only encourage him."

            Spike smiles as he swaggers over to the door.  The doorbell rings once more before he can answer.  "Eager little bugger, idn't he?"  Spike mutters.

            And when he opens the door, suddenly he understands why this is a big deal.

            There he stands, a hair short of being six feet, embracing his budding masculinity with a splash of Polo and a rash of red bumps running down his long, thin neck, signaling that some kind of shaving had been attempted that evening.  His hair, just as Dawn said, tickles his incongruously long lashes.  His shirt fits across his chest very well and Spike can define his muscular, sporty build and envy gouges Spike's thoughts.  His belted khakis hang right at his waist and almost appear to have been tailored.  On his feet are a pair of sensible loafers that look new.  He stands quite still in his awkwardness and when he finally speaks, his voice is strongly, decidedly male with just a hint of a boyish squeak.

            "I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong apartment.  I'm looking for Dawn Summers."

            Spike continues to stare.  He has been staring for a while.  When he tries to speak, there is a boyish squeak in his voice.  "Yeah.  You've got the right place."

            "Good.  For a minute there I was worried."  He extends his hand.  "I'm Travis Singleton."

            Spike takes his hand and gives it one good pump before releasing it, continuing to stare.

            "And…you are?"  the boy asks.

            "Oh.  Sorry.  I'm Spike."

            "Oh, I've heard Dawn talk about you.  You're Buffy's boyfriend, right?"

            "Right,"  he says.

            Travis rocks on his heels.  "Can I come in?"

            "Oh, yeah.  Come in.  The girls are just finishing up their preening.  They'll be out in a bit."

            The young man enters the apartment, looking around shyly, secretly gathering opinions about the decorations.  His eyes scale the walls, momentarily snared by the Aztec sun that beams over the mantle.  He then looks at the arrangement of photographs on the in table by the sofa.  Buffy's mother smiles brightly over vacation snaps of her two daughters.  Buffy and Dawn at Fisherman's Warf, Buffy and Dawn in Death Valley, Buffy and Dawn at Sea World.  And then one not of the two girls, but of just the older one, being held close by the strangely silent, pale man in black who continues to bore holes into him as he walks about.

            "You, uh, you live here?"  Travis asks.

            "Yeah."

            "I've never been to these apartments before.  They're kind of…small,"  he says, bordering on being smug.

            "Room enough for the Little Bi—I mean, Dawn, Buffy and myself."

            Travis nods.  "My parents bought this huge house over on Summit.  It's a fixer upper and they've been tearing it up since we moved it.  I was still living out of boxes up until, like, two months ago."

            Spike has nothing to say to this.  He supposes he could say something like, "Well, two months ago I was living in a rather stylish crypt in the cemetery and I slept on a concrete slab.  But the Slayer took me away from all that."

            "It's really cool, though.  Really old.  Really…old and big,"  Travis continues.

            Spike nods.  "You may as well have a seat.  The girls may be a while."

            Travis sits on the sofa, exhaling a frustrated breath and picking off lint from his pressed chinos.  Spike sits opposite him, slinging his leg over his knee, fixing the young suitor with a probing gaze.  Travis smiles nervously, averting his eyes, sweeping the hair out of his face, only to have it fall back to where it was before.

            "That's a nice rug,"  Travis says.

            Spike thinks at first the young man is making a crack about his hair, but then he sees that he's pointing at the floor.  "Used to be at Buffy's old house."

            "Dawn told me she used to live on Revello Drive.  My parents almost bought a house there.  We could have been neighbors."

            "How sweet,"  Spike demurs. 

            "My parents say the Real Estate values in this town are off the hook.  They couldn't believe they were able to close on a house that big for less than 1 mil."

            "I'm sure I wouldn't know."  The rent at the crypt was free.  You live cheap when your roommate is a decomposed corpse.

            Finally the door at the end of the hall opens.  Buffy struts out first, almost tiptoeing, popping her curiosity-laden face into the room.

            Travis raises himself quickly, looking relieved that someone else has joined the room.

            "Hi.  Travis?  I'm Buffy,"  she says with a smile lighting her face as she takes his hand.

            "Nice to meet you.  Dawn's told me a lot about you."

            "Oh, so you already know I'm a controlling wench who can't cook and hates housekeeping."

            "Nah.  Nothing like that."

            "Ah.  I see Dawn's hair isn't the only brown thing about her,"  Buffy says gleefully as she plops herself on the arm of Spike's chair.  "So, have you guys been getting to know each other?"  she says, wrapping her arms around Spike and pulling him close, noting that he seems unusually stiff.

            "Yeah,"  Travis says, swallowing hard.

            He's an all right kid, Buffy.  Did you know he lives in a really big house?  Spike wants to say.

            The door at the end of the hall opens again.  All eyes turn as Dawn makes her way slowly into the room, wearing a pair of dark denim hipsters, a pink, navel-baring tee-shirt with rhinestone studs spelling out "Cutie."  Her glossy hair shines in the light.  Her face is aglow as well, sparkling with a dash of glittery make-up.  Her lips are painted pink.  It's the first time Spike has seen her wear lip-gloss.

            The reviews are in.  Dawn's suitor is pleased.  His face breaks out into an idiotic smile.  "Wow.  You look great."

            "Thanks,"  she says, in a voice that sounds different from her usual girlish gab.

            She takes her place on the love seat and Travis sits down beside her as well, still staring her up and down with that awe-struck look on his partially fringe-hidden face.

            "So, Travis.  Dawn's been kind of sketchy about you.  She told me you just moved her a little while ago."

            "Yeah, my Dad got transferred.  He's a chemist for Roache Industries."

            "Cool!"  Buffy enthuses.

            "Right now he's working on a new drug that's supposed to combat white blood cell destruction in cancer patients.  If the FDA approves it, it could save a lot of lives."

            "That is so neat!  Wow, to be in on something like that.  That is really amazing."

            Spike has completely withdrawn from the conversation.  He sits, still staring ahead, his jaw set, his hand perched on his knee.  Buffy is sitting upright now on the arm of the chair, bubbling over with enthusiasm for new cancer drugs, new Sunnydalites, new presence of manhood in the apartment.  Spike can't take his eyes off the pair on the sofa. 

            Tonight this young man is going to whisk Dawn off into the night and take her to a darkened cinema.  Well, he really won't be whisking her off.  I'll be their chauffeur.  But when I drop them off, they'll go, hand-in-sweaty-palmed-hand, off into the night.  They'll wait for their tickets, go inside, walk through the maze of different screening rooms until they find the one showing the latest teen hormone fest.  They'll sit down, maybe have a bucket of popcorn between them that they'll nibble at while shyly passing glances at each other in the dark.  The conversation will be light, giggly…all about school and Friends and…bleedin' Carson Daly.  The house lights will go down.  The screen will brighten with the light of the rear projector.  The opening credits will roll.  "Freddie Prinze, Jr. and Jennifer Love Hewitt in… Hooter Summer.   They'll laugh together at the insipid breast jokes.  The Nibblet will swoon every time Freddie tells Jennifer that she has beautiful eyes.  Things will get a tad awkward when Freddie goes to second base with Jennifer in the front seat of his Daddy's Buick Century.  The Nibblet will find her gentleman caller's arm wrapped tight round her shoulder.  She'll act as though she doesn't notice, but before long she can't help but notice because he'll be groping her with that eager, adolescent hand that acts on hormone responses only.  He'll have his hand on that tight, pink tee shirt, fingering the rhinestones, tracing the line of her bra, trying to find her precious pink little nipple…

Spike hears an unmistakable growl.  It's coming from…him!

Panic ensues when he realizes his tongue is presently being impaled by a rapidly growing incisor.

Oh, God…I'm vamping out!  Quick!  Gotta stop it…somehow…think!  Think of…Buffy.  Buffy's arm, Buffy's hair, Buffy's sweet smile, Buffy's nose, Buffy's ears, Buffy's mouth, Buffy's tongue, Buffy's tongue as it dives into my mouth one more time.  Buffy's legs…Buffy's legs as the drape over my shoulders while I'm poundin' into her on the kitchen table.  Buffy's hot, wet, center that burns around me as I continue to thrust.  Buffy's breasts bouncing up and down in front of me…Oh, God.  Now I'm not only vamping out, I'm horny as hell.

Buffy is laughing at something as she lightly touches Spike on the shoulder.  All at once, at the feel of her hand, the incisor turns blunt and the emergency is over.

"The same thing happened to us not too long ago.  Remember, Spike?"  Buffy asks a clueless Spike.

"What, now?"  he asks.

"At the Bronze, remember?  That thing with the thing?  And the girl?"

"Come again?"

Buffy eyes him curiously and leans into him.  In a whisper she says, "Are you OK?"

"No.  Just keep touching me and I'll be all right, I think."

Buffy draws her head back as though trying to observe him from a distance to see what is really going on.

"Keep touching me!  Keep touching me!"  he urges through gritted teeth.

Buffy obliges, alternately stroking his shoulder and patting his back.

            Travis looks at his watch.  "We'd better get going if we're going to catch the movie."

            "Yeah, we should,"  Dawn concurs. 

            "All right, well I think Spike's car is just out front,"  Buffy says.  "Spike will drop you off—

            "You're coming too, aren't you?"  Spike says, grabbing her hand.

            The desperation in Spike's grasp takes Buffy completely off guard.  "Yeah.  If you want."

            "I want.  Believe me.  And so do you."

Buffy raises an eyebrow, now truly perplexed at her boyfriend's skittish behavior.  But she says nothing.

"You're going to love the DeSoto.  It's way old and so cool,"  Dawn enthuses to her date.

            "You drive a DeSoto?"  Travis asks Spike.

            Spike, afraid to open his mouth in fear that another growl will escape, nods his head rapidly.

            "Cool!  Do you collect old cars or something?"

            Spike shakes his head and holds up his index finger to indicate "one."

            "Ooookay,"  Travis says warily.

             After the young couple leaves the apartment, Buffy draws Spike aside.

            "What's going on?"

            "I'll tell you later,"  she says, making sure that his hand is secure in hers.

The rumbling DeSoto pulls up to the curb of the cinema just as a rather serpentine line is forming outside the box office.

            "Looks like we got here just in time,"  Dawn says.

            "Yeah, you guys better claim your place in line,"  Buffy says.

            "Bye, Buffy,"  Dawn says, leaning over the front seat to whisper in her sister's ear, "Don't worry about me.  I'll be fine."

            "I know,"  Buffy says.  "What time should we be back?  About ten-ish?"

            Dawn and Travis mentally quiz each other before both agreeing on 10:15.

As soon as the eager pair leaves the car, Buffy turns to Spike. "Now would you mind telling me what's going on?"

            He exhales a long-held burst of unneeded breath.  "I wish I knew.  I was sitting there in our apartment and all the sudden I thought I was going to show everyone what makes Spike just a tad different from all the other blokes about town."

            "You were going to vamp?"

            "I thought I was.  I don't know why.  I just started thinking of Dawn being alone with this…living statue to maturing male sexuality and I…I don't know…"

            "Aw, honey.   It's that protective instinct of yours.  You can turn it off tonight.  Travis is a gentleman.  I can tell."

            "Begging your pardon, Slayer, but  historically, you haven't had the keenest sense when it comes to sorting out the gits from the gents."

            "OK, what is it about him that you don't like?"

            "He's arrogant, for one.  Materialistic.  A bit too muscular.  And you can tell he spends far too much time on his hair."

            Buffy breaks into a raucous laugh.  "You could be describing yourself there, bleach boy,"  she says,  driving her finger into his rock-hard stomach.  "Maybe that's why she likes him.  Could be he reminds her a little of you."

            "Gaaaaa!  Buffy!  Had I still a gag reflex, I'd be steam cleanin' blood out of the upholstery in here for weeks."

            Spike shifts gears and pulls the car away from the curb.  As the car merges into traffic, he turns his head to peer out Buffy's open window to see Dawn and Travis standing in line, chatting it up, laughing excitedly.  Once he can't see them anymore, he stares straight ahead, pensively.  He reaches into his pockets, fumbling for his cigarettes.  They are not in the front pockets, or in the interior ones either.

            "You left them at the apartment,"  Buffy says.

            "Oh, bugger all!"  he mutters.

            He begins rubbing the nail of his thumb with the tip of his index finger.  He clears his throat a few times and runs his hands through his hair, fidgeting like a two year old in a stroller.  As he continues to drive, barely a word is said between them until they are just about to begin their approach to Sunnydale Heights.

"I'm more OK with this than I thought I would be,"  Buffy says finally.

            "I'm not,"  Spike says darkly.

            That's all too obvious.  

            "If anything, I'm a little jealous."

            "Hmmph!  "So jailbait-in-loafers lights your fire as well, eh?"

            "No!  What I meant was, Dawn's doing something I rarely do these days.  We've been together now for almost three months and you've never taken me out on an anything that even resembles a date."

            "I tried to take you out on a date once, but you didn't like the little Vamp and Jiffy-pop show goin' on at the warehouses."

            "That wasn't a date!  That was you being desperate.  I'm talking about a real date where the two of us actually pick an evening, go have a nice dinner, maybe do a little dancing, go see a movie or something.  Something romantic that doesn't have Jackie Chan or Jim Carrey in it."  She moves a little closer to him.  "And then, on the way home, you could take a different route.  Maybe to the outskirts of town.  You can stop the car someplace secluded, maybe a cliff overlooking the city or something."  She traces the outside of his ear with her finger, initiating a little chill down his spine which she can see.  "And then, you'll turn to me and slyly say, 'We're out of petrol.'  And I'll know you're lying the Big Bad dog you are, but I'll take it all in stride."  She latches onto his earlobe briefly with just the slightest touch of her lips.  "And then we'll find ourselves alone in the backseat, covered in the moonlight from the open windows.  But that'll be the only thing covering us."

            Spike pulls the car over to the side of the road, easing into a parking space between a large pickup truck and a Volkswagen Beetle.  He lets the engine idle for a few minutes before shutting it off.  In the quiet of the night, a dog barks somewhere, a clutch of throaty crickets sing a chorus of mordant tunes, and a police car sounds its high, piercing wail off in the distance.  Spike continues to stare ahead, drumming his hands on the steering wheel as though waiting for an imaginary green light to come on overhead.

            "What are you thinking?"  she asks, huskily. 

            He twitches his mouth to one side.  "I'm thinking that we've got about an hour and a half, maybe two hours until the picture lets out.  So the dinner and dancing bit is probably out of the question tonight.  We could turn 'round and go see a picture ourselves, but that would make us late meeting the Nibblet and the Travesty.  So, it looks like that last bit you talked about is the only thing that fits in our schedule."  He turns to her and smiles.

            "So what are you saying?"

            "I'm saying we're out of petrol, pet.  Better make the best of it."

            The Desoto is once again tearing down Sunnydale's main drag, heading for the cinema.  Buffy is breathlessly rearranging her clothes and checking her face in the rearview mirror, hoping the darkness will obscure the flush on her cheeks.

            "Oh, God, my hair's a mess and my panties are soaking wet,"  she says disdainfully. 

            "Uh huh,"  Spike says, his hand creeping over to her thighs.

            She slaps his hand away.  "Keep your hands on the wheel, Spike."

            "Sorry.  Can't get enough of that Niagara Falls that is you in full arousal, Slayer." 

            "Uh, Spike?"

            "Yes, love?"

            "Was I wearing a bra?"

            "Yeah.  Maddeningly so."

            "Well, I'm not now."  She looks around in the front seat, feeling around on the floor.  Finally, she flips down the sun visor.  "What did you do with it?"

            "I can't remember.  It took me so long to unsnap it.  I don't like those Angel bras from Victoria's secret.  And not for reasons obvious to both of us."

            She turns and flings her body over the back of the seat, peering around in the darkness for any evidence of white lace.  Finding her rump so close to his head, Spike can't resist giving it a little pat.

            "Spike, this is serious!  What did you do with it?"

            "I told you I can't remember!  Maybe I threw it out the bloody window."

            Buffy settles back into her seat, trying to calm down.  "OK.  It's all right.  It's probably on Elm Street, lying in a puddle of water or something."

            "Mmm…puddle,"  he says, reaching between her thighs again.

            "You're hopeless,"  she says with a smile, taking his hand in hers.

            "Always."

            She leans close to him, snagging him between her arms, drawing him to her as he continues to drive.  "And amazing."  She kisses the side of his face so that he can keep his eyes on the road.  "Promise me something?"

            "Anything."

"Promise me that it'll always be this good.  Even when I'm eighty-five and you're pushing 250."

"Ooh, what a sexy granny you'll be, pet.  You'll be my little gray panther,"  he says, putting his arm around her as she snuggles against him.

            The cinema is now in sight.  As the Desoto pulls up to the curb, Dawn and Travis are waiting.  Dawn points to her wrist with a peeved look on her face.

            "God, Buffy.  We've been waiting here for, like, ten hours."

            "Sorry, Dawnie.  Spike and I were, um, were um…" 

            "Watching a documentary about unique American attractions in the West.  Giant balls of string, the world's oldest general store, those big replicas of Pecos Bill and his blue ball—er, bull."  Buffy pinches the underside of his arm.  "Bull.  I said bull, dammit!"

            "Uh huh,"  Dawn says knowingly, crossing her arms.  She whispers something inaudible to the passengers in the front seat and she giggles with Travis in short tweets. 

            They know, Buffy thinks wearily.

            She decides to change the subject.  "So, em, how was the movie?  Two thumbs up?"

            "Sucked,"  Dawn says.  "So we just kept a count of the number of times Keanu Reeves said, 'whoa' and that made it kinda bearable."

            "The soundtrack was good, though.  Lots of Tool and Limp Bizkit,"  Travis says.

            He even listens to wanker music,  Spike glowers as he stares ahead.

            The DeSoto makes its way to the west side of town where the houses suddenly become large, lurching and gated.   Travis indicates that his house is the third one on the left.  He was not lying.  His house is huge.  Lights beam from every window.  In the front room a halogen lamp glows against a stark white wall and a woman in a kerchief studies a wallpaper sample.

            "Well, here it is,"  Travis says.  "Home sweet home."

            "Beautiful place, Travis,"  Buffy says admiringly.

            "It will be.  Needs a coat of paint and some furniture, but it's nice."

            "And big,"  Spike says softly, smiling in self-satisfaction.

            "Well, good night, Dawn,"  he says, touching her hand.  "I had a nice time."

            "I did too, Travis.  See you at the library on Sunday night?"

            "Yeah.  Mid-terms are coming."

"Whether we're ready or not,"  Dawn says, beaming.

            "Nice meeting you.  Buffy.  Spike,"  he nods to the pair in the front seat.

            "Oh, nice meeting you too, Travis.  You take care."

            Dawn watches her date amble up the sidewalk to his house.  All of a sudden she squeals, "Oh, my God!  Travis must have stepped on a piece of toilet paper or something.  He's dragging something white on his foot!"

            A sudden fear grips Buffy.  And she knows instantly what it is.  She slowly turns to see Travis making his way to his house with one of her unmentionables attached to the cuff of his chinos.  Right as she's about to say something, the bra disentangles itself and is left on the sidewalk to be found by the sanitation department in the morning.