Spike looked at his cards, anted up and glanced to his left.  Clem was staring intently at his cards, notoriously slow to decide whether to hold or fold. Spike's mind wandered back…

Back to when that Witch had slammed open his crypt door and pinned him to the wall with her stare. It didn't matter that Willow wasn't actually using magic, for which he was eternally thankful. He stood there, nearly hypnotized, filled with a mixture of excitement and anxiety at the thought that Buffy had finally owned up to their relationship. Quite quickly he concluded that wasn't it. Willow might be a soft touch most of the time, but fiery fierce at the core all of the time. And unlike a tootsie roll pop, he hadn't wanted to know how many licks it took to get to the center.  He pulled at his ear unconsciously, her words of reproach still ringing. God, he hadn't been dressed down like that since Darla. But he'd take Darla's cruel tongue or Xander's boorish digs over her disappointment. One simple task: Make sure Buffy drank the cure. And he'd screwed it up. He shook his head recalling that Willow wasn't nearly as upset about her own brush with death as she was about imagining what a trainwreck Buffy would have been if she had believed the delusions. At that moment Spike realized the guys were staring at him. Play'd gone around and it was back to him. When poker's your livelihood, best not to play when your mind is elsewhere.

So he folded, cleared out and found himself inside the Doublemeat Palace. While he couldn't see her, he heard her voice clearly through the din.

Inside the manager's office Buffy sat on the edge of the chair, hat in her hands, which suddenly had a desperate feeling, so she set it on the chair next to her. Only to realize her hands were shaking, so she clasped them between her knees.

"I know this is short notice, but I've got a - a family emergency and I need some time off." She bit her tongue to keep from sliding in a reference to the big Doublemeat secret.

"Actually, it's spring break this week. Peter, Tony and Kristin have been begging me to double up their doublemeat hours. Will a week be enough?"

"I think so. By then we'll either have answers or we never will. Thank you." She looked toward the door, willing the shake out of her voice and asking herself if she wanted fries with that.  Finally she stood. "Well I better finish out my shift."

Spike nearly flew to the house. If anything's hurt her, he thought, he'd... and there was Dawn, just packing a bag but otherwise looking healthy and whole. Thinking better of it, he returned to the alley behind the Doublemeat to get an explanation.

Buffy stepped out the back door.  He was nearby.  She rolled her eyes and kept walking, having no time for either his suggestions or his ultimatums.

"What's wrong with Dawn?" he asked as he stepped out of the shadows into step with her.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, instantly worried about her sister. Slowly she asked, "Where did that come from?"

"Come on, I heard you telling the chief bottle washer 'bout a family emergency."

"Damn, I need to look the word 'private' up, because I don't remember eavesdropping being a part of the definition." Buffy sped up, momentarily outpacing him as she headed into the cemetery.

"So my hearing's sharper than a dog's. So what? I demand to know what's wrong with the Bit."

Buffy stopped, crossed her arms and stared. "You demand?" She continued to stare, narrowing her eyes, attempting to stonewall him. But she couldn't. One of the few things in her world she felt certain about was that he genuinely cared for Dawn and it was wrong to leave him on tenterhooks, even if she so enjoyed these rare moments of his off-balancedness. Sighing, she said, "Honestly Spike, Dawn's fine. While I can understand why you'd jump to that conclusion, it's not her."

"Who then? Not your father?" Realizing as he asked that her eyes were too bright, too shiny. He steered her to a bench saying, "Talk to me."

There was a long moment of silence, followed by a shuddering breath.  "It's Giles. He's missing."

"He's just across the pond, I wouldn't exactly call that missing."

"Anya called. He's missing."

"I'm sure he'll turn up. Probably lost track of time reading some dusty old book in some dusty old archive and got locked inside."  Spike shrugged, "He'll get out in a day or so."

Buffy bristled. "This is not a joke! Something, something terrible has happened. He needs my help. I have to find him."

What Buffy left out was that she'd known something was wrong even before the call. She felt her connection with him break. A connection she'd never fully realized they shared. It was like every one of her senses was muffled. No wonder Giles had been so disoriented by her death and reanimation.

Spike bolted up. "So you're off to England?!?"

"Say that a little louder Spike, some vamps on the other side of town didn't hear you."

"Oh, that's rich." He said, pacing in front of the bench.

"What's your problem?"

"You!  You and them! They leave you high and dry. Then they snap their fingers and you come running.  Sticking around doesn't get a bloke anywhere. I should leave you in the lurch. Maybe you're tune would change when it comes to me."

In a flash, she was up and in his face, teeth clenched. "This is not about Angel.  Or Riley.  And it's most definitely not about you!  It's Giles." She took a couple steps back. "You know, I thought about asking for your help, but that would have been a mistake." Turning on her heels, she wondered why she hadn't left out the front door.

Flatfooted, Spike shouted at her retreating figure, "Well bloody good you didn't because I'd have said no anyway!"

***

The cigarette butt glowed in a red arc to the ground, where it fell amidst a heap of its mates.  A black boot-heel ground it into the dirt, crushing the spark to lifelessness.  "Oh, dammit!"

Spike burst through the door to sounds of anger and frustration coming from upstairs.  "Why can't we just get Tara to put a spell on it?"  Dawn cried.  "Then it will all fit."

Willow's voice floated from her room.  "That's not what magic's for.  One day, you're resizing luggage, and you've taken the first step toward erasing memories.  You... " her voice broke "you have to reserve magic for the big stuff that you can't do otherwise...  Once you cross the line, it's too hard... too hard to go back."

"Buffy!" Spike yelled up the stairs.  She stood at the top of the stairway, glaring down at him.  "What do you want?" she sneered.

"Look, you don't want me to go with you, and I'm ok with that," Spike paused. "I think.  Bloody hell, I am.  But I've got something, the kittens have been very good to me this month, treated me right, and I've got a bit, not much, stashed up.  I thought, I thought you could use it, in England, for food, and such like."

"Spike, I don't..."

"Just take it would you?  If not for yourself, take it for Dawn, and all the little guppies going with you.  Here, I'll just leave it on the table."  He wandered into the kitchen.

"Fine." Buffy went back into her room, grabbed her luggage.  A car horn honked below.  "C'mon," she hollered, "time to go!"

Willow came down the stairs, lugging a suitcase and wearing a backpack.  Dawn struggled behind her, holding three suitcases on top of each other, and attempting to peer over the top.  Buffy sighed, and grabbed the top one in her left hand as she maneuvered two others into her right.  The three women banged and clattered down the stairs and out the door.  Buffy dropped her bags, turned and grabbed the money off the table, and helped loaded the luggage into the waiting taxi.  A clash of doors closing and they were off.

The house was empty, except for Spike who continued to putter in the kitchen. "Don't these people have anything bloody edible!!?"  He couldn't see what was happening in the living room.

Blue lightning flashed up the legs of a small table, turning its legs to rubber.  A black sludge tinged with blood-red highlights flowed from the center over the suddenly bowed legs toward the floor.  The goo hardened and coalesced slowly into a small flat rectangle.  The black faded and was replaced by browns, oranges and a splash of sky-blue.  The legs straightened and turned back to ordinary wood.

Spike stood at the bottom of the stairs.  Up above him, a measly dozen feet away was her room.  He knew what he would find there, her clothes, her smell upon them; and on her bed, her pillow would have the shape of her head, strands of her hair caught in the folds, and the smell, oh God, the smell.  He imagined holding it to his face, drinking it in, drunk on the sensation.  He put his hand on the rail, his foot on the first step.

Then, shaking his head, he blurted "Oh, sod it!" and headed into the living room. He sat on the couch and took off his coat. He looked about for something to do and spotted the table. There was a postcard on it, and he took a closer look.

Welcome from Historic…

"Well, innit that curious." He turned it over.

Got Giles?

"Oh that's bloody clever. I hate those milk pillocks."

By time you read this...

Spike instinctively looked at his watch

he will be gone. And nothing you do can bring him back!

"Can almost hear the 'Bwahahahahahahaha' there, can't you?"

He's gone forever

"This git does go on, doesn't he?"

and nothing can stop me now.

He glanced at the signature. "Bloody hell!" Spike grabbed his coat and almost went through the door instead of out it, such was his speed.