Buffy followed the sound of splashing water through the crypt, down the wooden ladder, and into the tunnels. It sounded like someone talking a bath.

Oh. It was a bath, Buffy realized. Spike in the bath making splashy bath sounds. The mind of a Slayer was like a steel trap. Who else would be bathing down here below the crypt? Well, Clem, maybe. Now that was a sight she could live without. Would all of his extra skin float? Was his penis as baggy and wrinkly as the rest of him? Bad thought, Buffy chided herself. Go wash your mind out with soap.

Happily, Spike was almost completely obscured by the huge, antique copper tub he was soaking in. Moving closer she saw he was reading with his right arm resting along the lip of the bathtub, left hand flicking ash from his cigarette onto the floor. Glancing up absently he saw her and promptly dropped the book into the water.

Buffy laughed, the light sound echoing in the tunnel. Spike didn't look so amused.

"Bloody hell," he complained. It was not clear if he was referring to her presence or the drowning book. "Well it's ruined now," he said, holding the sopping pile of bound pages up for inspection.

"Was it any good?" she asked, meaning the book.

"It was Willow's," he said, dropping the paperback unceremoniously onto the floor. He doubted that Buffy wanted to have an extended discussion on Flaubert. Since the morning he didn't burst into flames on the beach she hadn't wanted to talk about much of anything. With an emotion he could recognize as panic he wondered what had changed that made her seek him out now. Had she come to kill him in the bath?

It was obvious to Buffy that her proximity was making him nervous. Spike's eyes were wide and he sat up too straight, like a child in the principal's office. Good, she thought. Let him sweat. She came here for a reason and was determined to get it over with even if he didn't have to good taste to be clothed at that moment. Feigning nonchalance she sat on the curved rim of the tub, her back towards his feet and various other body parts she didn't want to contemplate.

"I think I want to thank you for being so good to Willow since -" since she became a murderer like you, Buffy thought. "Since you came back from Africa. You've helped her a lot and you didn't have to."

Oh but I did have to, Spike thought bitterly, or I'd have one little pissed off ghost on my hands. Not that Tara had twisted his arm in the cave, although in a larger sense he supposed it could have been considered bribery. Wait, had Buffy just conceded something about the soul? Highly unfair of her to talk to him when the smell of her skin was making it so hard for him to think.

"Willow's not bad," he admitted. Months of monosyllabic conversation had not prepared him for this sudden camaraderie. Behind implacable blue eyes he scrambled to shift gears.

"Did she really want you to turn her?"

Spike's cheeks hollowed as he took a slow drag off his cigarette, feeling the smoke churn in his useless lungs. Then he exhaled in a long blue stream, watching the cloud twist and fight with itself as it drifted through the air. At some point, of course, he would have to reply. He wanted to tell her the truth, and he knew what prompted that stupid idea. "Red was having a bit of trouble in London. It's done her good to be home," he said with awkward diplomacy.

"Has it? I feel like I should be doing more for her," Buffy said, which was something she hadn't even admitted to Xander or Dawn. "I'm the Slayer. I have the power to save the world. Why can't I protect my friends?

Because autonomy's a bitch, Spike thought, but he could hardly say that. Instead he said, "How do you think we felt when you came back?"

Okay, ouch, Buffy thought. But that had been different. She had been jerked out of heaven, which she still tried not to think about too much because sometimes having the torrential pain of the world thrown into sharp relief by the memory of eternal bliss was not such a good thing. It was the sort of thing where, if she thought about it too much, she wanted to slit her writs and make all the pain go away again. Which was what Willow had done. Tried to do.

Think of something, anything else, she ordered herself, absently dipping her fingers into the water. "This is fucking freezing," she observed.

"Cold doesn't bother me," he answered cautiously. What was she playing at, he wondered. Flirty Buffy seemed more like a portent for the end of the world than some paltry swarm of blue bees. You've had your fun, sweetheart, he told her mentally. Now go away and let me jack off.

Buffy shook the water off her fingers, suddenly distracted by something on his chest. "What is that?" she demanded, tapping him precisely over the heart.

Spike flicked his cigarette butt across the tunnel and watched it burn itself out. He didn't need to look down and see what she was talking about. Over his heart were two precise imprints where Tara had touched him, the whorls and ridges of her fingertips impressed into his chest like it was wax.

"That's a gift from a friend."

"Some sort of S&M thing?" Buffy demanded.

Did that sound jealous? Because she was so not jealous. Wrinkling her nose, Buffy tried to work out what was pissing her off. She concluded it was about justice. It wasn't fair that she had been horny and alone for months while he was off possibly, probably, screwing everything that moved in London. Where was it in the Slayer Handbook that she couldn't have a rollicking sex life? Of course it's easy for the evil undead to get laid, she sniffed; they have no standards.

Spike gave her a sad smirk. Poor little Slayer, he thought. She was hell in bed - he would give her that - but she had no concept of the things he had done, or her sacred Angelus either. Why had he gone and fallen in love with a small town girl? He tied her down and she thought she was being avant- garde.

"Nothing quite so fun. It came with the whole sunlight package," he reassured her.

Buffy wondered if the scar would heal, and if so, would he be relegated back to darkness again? She had tried asking him about the present when they drove back to Sunnydale in the Desoto, sunlight streaming through the open windows making his hair glow. Shit he's pale, she had thought.

Behind the wheel Spike just shook his head in bemusement, as though waiting to wake up. Buffy could tell he wasn't going to volunteer any information now either.

She picked up the bar of soap out of the tray and gave it an experimental sniff. Surprisingly it had a pleasant, familiar sent. Thinking of her expensive rows of shampoo and conditioner at home she wondered why it was beauty for women and merely hygiene for men?

"Do you really wash your hair with this?" Buffy asked, flourishing the bar of soap.

"Yeah," he answered in a tone that clearly meant 'why.'

With a malicious grin Buffy began to lather his hair, amusing herself by massaging it into foamy little peaks and waves. Spike closed his eyes for a moment and then trembled, as though trying to stop himself from running away. He decided the evil, vindictive, control freak facet of her personality was probably enjoying watching him squirm.

"There've been too many vamps out the past few nights. I'm thinking something portenty perhaps?" Buffy asked, trying to shape his hair into little devil's horns. Way to discourage your stalker, Buffy chastised herself. Then again, she wasn't thinking about heaven anymore, and not contemplating suicide was always a good thing.

It occurred to her this was the first time she had touched him since he returned. Well, there was a fair amount of contact in their sparing matches, but any sexual tension between them when they fought was gone. Their training sessions were about as sexy as having teeth pulled: all business and no pleasure. That was what really made her believe in the soul.

"Vamps could have something to do with the Massacre," he conceded, doing his best to ignore her, and of course failing like he failed at everything. Her hot hands stroking his skin filled his dark corners with frustrated desire. Don't look at her, he ordered himself, don't touch, don't smell. Concentrate on work. "Haven't seen anything in the manuscripts about vampires, but that doesn't mean much. Willow and I are fairly bogged down in the translation. Stupid Suturanin language has too many variables. The same word can mean birth, or death, or life, or tree. I think we'd be better off with a bloody magic eight ball."

"I need the information sooner rather than later."

"I'm trying," he said with a calmness he didn't feel. I'm not going to send you marching to your death. Didn't much like the way it felt the last time.

Spike kept his eyes trained on his long, alabaster toes, which gave Buffy plenty of time to examine him without being watched in return. Sitting before her like that, ridged, and scared, but proud, she allowed herself to admit he was beautiful. Doubtless that was why Drusilla had picked him in the first place. And Angel picked Dru. Now was not the best time to think about that family tree. Absolutely never was probably the best time for that.

"You're not going to go all stalker boy on me now, are you?" Buffy demanded, combing his hair up into a foamy Mohawk. He used to take being knocked into walls as encouragement. Her taunting him could only lead his mind to dark places.

"No," he said evenly.

Mentally he added, I promise to match your weirdness. Since he had returned Buffy had been too calm. Now he thought he saw her anger coming out in small, cruel ways. This must be how she is going to get back at me, he thought. Tease me to death.

Tilting his head back Buffy covered his eyes with one hand, feeling his eyelashes brush her palm. With her free hand, the one not protecting the vampire from the terrible fate of soapy eyes, she found the tumbler of water on the floor and poured its contents through his hair. Her mother used to bath her and Dawn like this when they were children.

Spike grimaced. "That was vodka, Buffy."

Buffy laughed. Okay, maybe this was slightly different than what her mother used to do. She dipped the cup into the glacial water. "I guess we'll have to try that again."

Spike cursed her silently each time her flesh grazed his, but he remained eternally grateful that she positioned herself so she could not see his erection.

______________________________________________________________________



Dawn invited Clem to go with her to Xander's apartment. It was easy for Buffy to be Miss Popularity when she was in high school. All of her friends knew about vampires and the evil that roams the earth. Everything is easier for Buffy, Dawn thought. If I happen to let it slip that I staked a vampire on my way home from the cemetery everybody looks at me like I'm mental. So she spent a lot of time with Clem that summer. He was one of the only people, well people like creatures, she knew who didn't belong in some intrinsic way to the Slayer. Dawn was determined to stake out her own small place in the world. Right now that place was Clem.

Usually she hung out with him at the crypt. While Spike was gone she'd pretty much had the run of the place. Now it was mostly only when Willow and Spike were out somewhere that she and Clem could lounge around and watch bad TV. Buffy had been ultra clear about how much recreational time she could spend with Spike out of her sister's presence, as in none at all.

"Dawn!" Xander grinned, opening the door. "And Clem? Hey - you." Sometimes Xander wondered about the people Buffy let her kid sister hang out with. Not that he had anything against Clem in particular. The demon was a little gross with the skin thing, but hey, not much the guy could do about that. His friends on the other hand, those were things Clem could choose.

"Spike and Willow are working on the Manuscript at the crypt. You know, the one about the end of the world?" Clem said, entering the apartment behind Dawn. "They're taking it pretty seriously."

"Clem, welcome, okay? Mi casa es su casa, but the names Spike and Willow are not to be uttered in the same sentence in this house. Or Spike and Buffy. Or -"

"No Spike! Check!" Dawn interrupted.

She sat on the couch and drummed her knees with her fingers. Was this going to be one of those nights where Xander completely wigged out? She really hopped not. She had a theory about Sunnydale driving everybody insane over time, and Dawn was betting on Anya being next.

"Beer?" Xander asked Clem, feigning calm. He wasn't calm. His ex-fiancé wouldn't even look at him, his best friend was turning into some sort of goth goddess and his other best friend was making nice with Mr. Sexual Assault. And there was nothing he could do about any of it. Just call me ineffectual boy, Xander thought bitterly.

"Beer's good," Clem smiled, sitting next to Dawn on the couch.

"Me too," Dawn chirped.

"Oh har har. That's our wacky little slayerette," Xander called over his shoulder from the kitchen.

"I'm never going to get to be a Slayer," Dawn pouted. Because Buffy got there first. Buffy got everything first.

Clem tried to see that as a bad thing and failed. "Well, there can be only one."

"Except that there's two." Dawn scowled and started poking through drawers for Xander's playing cards. Okay, so one of them was a homicidal bitch stuck in prison, but still, two.

While Xander retrieved the beer and soda from the fridge Dawn expertly cut the cards in the living room. Last summer, when her sister was too dead to invent stupid rules about who she could hang out with, Spike had taught her all about poker. Now she tried to perfect her game against Clem, who always won anyway.

"Draw poker, nothing wild," she informed Xander when he handed her the soda. "Ante up people," she demanded. Everybody threw a quarter onto the table and Dawn began to deal the cards.

"So, Clem," Xander said awkwardly. What does one say to a demon with ten feet of extra skin on him? Ask him for tips on exfoliating? Xander wasn't sure there was a suitable conversational gambit in his repertoire. "So what kind of demon are you exactly? Do you have any cool powers?"

"Xander!" exclaimed Dawn. It seemed unfathomably rude to pry into Clem's demon-ness. Not that she wasn't desperately curious herself, but asking him directly went against her new life philosophy. While Willow was in London, Dawn had decided people could no longer be pushed, prodded or questioned. That way led to sexual assaults in bathrooms and evil dye jobs.

"It's kind of funny," Clem said, popping a chip into his mouth. "My kind are abnormally mathematically inclined."

"Huh?" Xander said. "And I take two." Dawn, wearing her disinterested dealer's face, dealt him two cards.

"We're like the abacus of the underworld," Clem explained, accepting one card from the teenager.

Good at math. That would lend itself to counting cards, right? Dawn laid her cards facedown on the table with a sigh. That must be why she never won a single game that summer.

"I think I fold," she said.

"Isn't there some nefarious purpose behind the skin?" Xander demanded. He tossed his hand on the table as well.

"Nope. It just keeps me warm." Clem gave a clueless grin. "Are we still playing?"

"Spike's won against you," Dawn said thoughtfully. Did that mean Spike had supernatural mathematical powers too?

"Spike cheats," Clem shrugged. He had been known to cheat as well, but not against Dawn. That just wouldn't be fair.

At the sound of Spike's name Xander threw his beer across the room, frightening Dawn who managed to stifle her shriek. The bottle exploded against the far wall, spraying sticky foam and glass throughout the distant half of the room.

"I feel better now," Xander proclaimed. "Much less tense."

Dawn didn't think he looked any less tense. She tucked her arms close to her body and bit her lip. Maybe Xander would be the next one to crack after all.

"That's going to be hell to get out of the carpet," Clem said, pleasantly oblivious.

______________________________________________________________________



There were stained, rumpled sheets of legal paper littering the entire floor of the crypt. It looks like the morning after Mardi Gras in here, Spike thought. Each yellow, lined page was covered in the same sort of gibberish as the one in his hand.

It will be time/days/months of death/life/renewal. Blood/manna will stop/flow/purify until the rising/death/loss awakens.

Right, so blood, mayhem, the usual apocalyptic promises, he could tell that at least. But it had been three months since Buffy stopped the first portent, so where the hell was the blood?

All this blithering about death was making the vampire hungry. Time to turn his attention to his own meal. Fangs eager and exposed, Spike growled at the kitten sitting before him on the counter. Failing to understand the gravity of the situation, the fluffy ball looked up and him and mewed for attention.

"Don't bother begging for mercy. You're dinner and that's that," he warned the pitiful creature.

He hadn't had anything warm and alive in months. It felt like eons really. Not that one little kitten was a full meal, but it was better to have a fresh aperitif to his musty pig's blood than nothing at all. If he at all the cats he had locked away downstairs in one sitting he supposed they might make a decent feast, but he wanted to draw the pleasure out. He won them. He could consume them as slowly as he wanted.

The black kitten rubbed up against his hand and started purring. With a sigh Spike stroked his fingers along its tiny jaw line, which, much to his chagrin, the cat seemed to enjoy. Rumbling with content, the kitten rolled over to let him pet its fuzzy stomach. Bloody hell. It was really cute.

"I'm going eat you little kitty," he reminded them both. Oh bugger it all. With an exclamation of contempt Spike let his ridges fade, submerging the demon to let the soul run rampant over his good judgment.

"It's cute," Tara said cautiously, lowering her head so she was eye to eye with the kitten. "Really, really cute." She smirked up at him.

"You push me on this and I'll kill the damn thing out of spite," he warned her. The ghost looked unconvinced. When Tara reached out a hand to pet the kitten it shied away from her. Spike noticed the feline's terror with acute interest.

"You're out of place here," he said, hoping the dead witch would not turn him into a toad for this piece of candor.

"So are you," Tara retorted, hiding the scorned hand behind her back. The skin between her eyebrows crinkled and Spike could not remember if that meant hurt or anger on her. Maybe it was both.

"Demons, vampires, this world was ours first, pet. Technically I'm home."

For a moment Tara looked uncertain. She had always chastised Willow for using magic too much, twisting the natural order to suite her need of the moment. There was nothing natural about haunting the undead.

"There's something coming," she said, hoping to distract the vampire from this line of questioning. There was no way in hell she was going to tell him the real reason why she was there.

"The Massacre?" Spike was suddenly interested.

"You're kind of important in it."

I kill people? I can't do that anymore, Spike thought. No more hunting with the chip electrifying my brain. The kitten cowered away from Tara's ghost and he picked it up out of pity, cradling it against his chest. Through his shirt Spike could feel it purring in terror. Some people had laughed as he killed them. Most begged or told him stories about their families, but the ones who were the most frightened laughed in his face with a touching impudence.

"You told me I wouldn't have to come back here to the Hellmouth," he said accusingly. The gibe was implicit. You lied to me before. How do I know you won't lie again?

He was going to argue with her now? Tara twisted her hands together and thought.

There were things she could do to him. The gift was his, but she could do something small like make every CD player, or radio, or TV he ever used play "Come On Eileen" over and over again until Spike gave up and promised never to question her again. Or, to be a little more comprehensive, she could conger a small demon to sing "Rikki Don't Loose That Number" quietly in his ear so he was the only person who could hear it for eternity. Tara was pretty sure Steely Dan would drive the vampire out of his mind. Maybe it was best to try for honestly before resorting to any tricks.

"I made a mistake," she admitted, looking nervous, as though there was something the vampire could do to her.

"Did you? Then maybe you've made another one."

"I'm trying to be helpful," Tara snapped, frustrated. She should have picked somebody else to talk to. Somebody less callous.

"Well I've been warned. Now go away; you're frightening my kitty." Spike didn't wait to watch her go. Turning he carried the nervous feline down into the lower level of the crypt. Tara glared at his retreating back for a long moment before choosing to dissipate.

______________________________________________________________________



"The children will die first," she decided, leading her tribe up through the tunnels. "Humans always cry lovely tears over their babies. And they remember them forever and ever."

"Maybe for once we will not be forgotten," Judas said beside her. He took the name because it implied age, although he was still young, not even a decade. She had turned him to replace another, a lost lover, and he was conscious of always trying to best that absent presence.

"I see sorrow and I see blood. Sweet little children tasting like lemon- drop and cherry candies. They will melt in our mouths. The ghosts of the parents will wail and mourn."

Ah, Judas thought, so we kill them all.

Her minions followed her up into the night, flowing behind her like the train of a coronation robe. She could feel their eagerness pushing at her back, making her strong.

Judas had met other vampires, ones who thought they had power. Even they moved in fear, hunting their victims like 1950s movie noir gangsters, hiding in alleys, skirting through the shadows in search of prey. Not her. She only had to smell the air and know where the right victim could be found. It was perfect.

She led them, her dark children, into a dark auditorium. On the stage young humans in gauzy skirts bumbled around, nervous in front of the crowd, forgetting their steps. Dancing unhurriedly toward the platform she hummed a little song to fill the awkward silence. Nobody spoke when she lifted a small towheaded child into her arms and smiled.

"You look just like a doll," she said with wonder, her features sliding into something horrid and snake-like. As she drank she allowed the child to scream. A little background music was always nice.

Now that she had drawn first blood her followers attacked, drinking and killing, mindful they were not to let anyone escape.