World's Edge

Part Three: Insomnia

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I am tired of tears and laughter.

And men that laugh and weep;

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap;

I am weary of days and hours,

Blown buds of barren flowers,

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.

The Garden of Proserpine, Algernon Charles Swinburne

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"I miss Clem," Dawn confessed, her sword carving an unsteady arc through the air that matched the warble in her voice. She was not going to cry. Crying during training was for wimps and she was determined to be tough like Buffy, like Spike.

"Watch your elbow," Spike ordered from where he lounged on the back porch, dressed again in his familiar array of black. One of his white hands stubbed out his cigarette in the cracked bowl Buffy had designated as an ashtray while the other pet the cat sprawled across his knees. The kitten wasn't bothered by the loud sound of hammering booming from the Summers' home, but Dawn flinched a little at every strike.

Even if Xander's fit of home improvement was making her a mite nervous, Spike thought, there was no excuse for the god-awful display of incompetence she was exhibiting on the lawn. He and Dinner watched with concern as the blade made another rickety pass. Apparently unimpressed, the kitten yawned, displaying healthy pink gums and sharp white teeth, before tucking her nose between her paws and falling asleep.

Sorry if I'm boring you, Dawn thought irritably. It was going to be a bad day. All the days since she came back from the crypt had been bad. And she wasn't sleeping so well, as in at all. When Buffy had horrible nightmares it was because she was all chosen and connected to some great power. When Dawn had bad dreams it was just her fears running rampant in her subconscious.

"Does it ever get any easier?" she asked, letting the point of the weapon fall until it was resting on the dying lawn.

"Not if you don't practice," Spike said in the slow, measured voice he used when he was irritated with her, which he was. He was tired of talking about Clem, tired of remembering the stench of his friend decaying in the crypt. In the few days since he had thawed out, all Dawn wanted to do was whine to him about how sad she was, as though sorrow was some strange new discovery she had made. Spike was torn, as always, between the two poles. The demon was disgusted by his weakness, while the soul squirmed with guilt for how little he actually missed Clem. Weary of his own manic moments, Spike wished both twittering voices would shut the hell up, and the Bit was more than welcome to join them in silence.

"I hate you," Dawn said with sullen teenage petulance, her eyes darkening with tears. Now she thought he was evil, evil for sitting there not caring that Clem was dead. Could he be evil with the soul?

"You don't hate me," Spike sighed, resigning himself to the conversation. "Sit down, love. Have a kitty." He passed her Dinner, who curled happily in Dawn's arms, a boneless, purring mass. Awkwardly, Dawn stood before him, not wanting to sit, not wanting to stand, looking at the kitten because she didn't know what else to do with herself.

Xander's hammering, the sharp sound of nails being driven into wood, echoed again through the air. This time Dinner was startled, and Dawn winced as the kitten's wicked claws punctured her jacket and possibly her flesh. Biting her lip she tried to sooth the kitty. She wished someone would bother to sooth her.

"I think Xander's overreacting," Dawn complained. "It's not like you're going to kill us in our sleep." At least she hoped not.

Spike shrugged, his eyes dark and unreadable in the indifferent afternoon sunlight. "It's up to your sis really. It's her house, isn't it?"

"Yeah. It's her house. I just live here," Dawn said moodily, sitting next to him on the porch step.

Spike tried to remember how he had felt when his father died, well over a century ago, when he was still alive. He could recall the bitter cold numbing his fingers at the funeral, his ill-fitting wool coat unbearably tight across his shoulders. What had he been? Thirteen years old? Something like that, growing so fast nothing ever seemed to fit. Lighting another cigarette, Spike thought it was strange he could remember such random minutia but couldn't recall weeping at the funeral. Although he must have, overly sensitive, Goethe reading ponce that he had been.

Spike sighed, exhaling a small cloud of smoke, which made Dawn wrinkle her nose and give a melodramatic cough to remind him she had healthy, working lungs and he was probably giving her cancer from second hand smoke. Scowling he crushed out the cigarette. "Yeah, I miss Clem," he admitted as though confessing a secret. "But the longer you live the more people you loose, Dawn. Death is just something you get used to over time. The intensity fades."

"Not for me," Dawn insisted, kissing the top of the kitten's head. She expected him to play the adult and tell her she was wrong - that she would understand when she was older.

"Maybe not," Spike conceded. He was amazed by Dawn's eternal innocence in the face of the horrors the Hellmouth threw their way: demons and gods, the deaths of her mother, Buffy, and Tara in short succession. "Maybe not for you." But if not, he thought, it was going to be a long winter.

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Upstairs, Buffy lounged on her sister's bed, trying not to be amused by Xander, who was attempting to install a lock on the inside of Dawn's door with his one good hand. To give him credit, he'd done a great job putting the lock in Buffy's own bedroom with minimal swearing. (And of course he would put the lock in her room first. Xander, always overprotective of her anyway, now combined with lethal boredom now that his arm was broken, would probably weld her into a chastity belt if he'd thought of it.) Now though, his initial energy spent, screwing two more ity bity locks into the Dawn and Willow's doorframes seemed about as realistic as scaling Mt. Vesuvius. As she watched, the little pieces of the lock fell between his numb fingers, raining down on the carpeting, Buffy hoped he wasn't going to ask her to help him.

"One armed guy could use some help here, Buffy," Xander said, with the furrowed brow of the eternally frustrated.

"Look, if you want to storm through the house ruining the molding, I won't stop you. But I'm not going to pitch in on this little project. I know you're worried about Spike's chip free state, but I think you're overreacting," Buffy said, taking the hammer from Xander before he had a chance to slam it into a wall in a display of macho frustration.

"I know what you think," Xander nodded emphatically. "I have come to terms with the fact that your thoughts and my thoughts are never going to be as one on this particular issue. But I'm not asking you to stake the guy. All I'm saying is a little precaution might be in order." There, Xander thought, that sounded reasonable, didn't it? Reasonable to the insane, which Buffy clearly was at this point.

Buffy knelt down on the floor and gathered up all the little metal screws and nails, one by one as though she were picking strawberries. In some ways (small ways that made her question her own sanity per square foot) she was almost relieved the chip was out because now the question of Spike's identity as a legitimate reformed guy vs. bloodthirsty psycho killer would be revealed and she could stop trying to make up her own mind on the subject. Buffy was hoping for the former because if not there was a sociopath sleeping in the basement, and that tended to be the sort of thing Child Protective Services frowned on.

"Are you sure this is about Spike? You and the big anger I mean? Are you sure you're not upset about Anya?"

Xander paced up and down Dawn's room, bursting with pent energy.

"You think I don't see what you're doing here but I see it: the bait and switch with the demon ex's. Let me take this moment to point out that even with the return to vengeance, Anya still won't have a craving for warm blood O'Dawn as a midnight snack," Xander snapped, and then resented it. He wasn't mad at Buffy. He didn't want to take his anger out on her. There was a word for this, Anya read it in a book once and told him all about it while he didn't listen. Displacement? Subplacement? Willow would know.

Buffy stood, letting all the metal bits in her hands trickle from one hand to the other. Standing there in old jeans, her hair falling out of its knot, she looked not at all like a hero. She just looked like an old friend, somebody he could tell his mundane little problems to, somebody he wanted to protect.

"I think I'm still in love with her," he confessed, because when Buffy looked at him like that he wanted to tell her everything in the hopes that she could fix it. "I think I made a mistake with the calling off the wedding, but maybe I didn't. See my problem? Can you even marry a demon?"

Buffy smiled sadly and looked prepared to say something wise. "Then I think you need to talk to her."

Defeated, Xander collapsed into a chair and covered his eyes with his good hand. That was it? That was her wisdom? Maybe he needed to call Giles who was old and had actual wisdom and was.single. Maybe not. Maybe he just needed to focus on the task at hand.

"Sure," Xander agreed reluctantly. "I'll talk to her after we secure your perimeters."

At least he was honest, Buffy thought. Xander was probably worried about her perimeters more than anything. What's next, she almost asked. An armed guard at her bedroom door? But no way was she going to put that idea in his head when he was in his Big Brother is Watching You groove. Xander as a Watcher, now that she could almost see.

"If I help you do this you realize it's only to humor you," she warned.

"Yes! I long to be humored!" Xander exclaimed, happily divesting himself of that last lingering shred of dignity.

Turning the hammer over in her hands, Buffy wondered what she was afraid of. That she would ruin the molding? That Spike would be insulted? No, she wasn't worried about the feelings of their local sexual predator. Former sexual predator? Sure she thought he was safe now with the soul, but she'd thought he was relatively safe before. Maybe she did need Xander to watch her back. Relying on her own judgment had turned out so magnificently awful the last time.

"Okay," she agreed. "Let's batten down the hatches."

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Giles spent a lot of time not calling Buffy. Much time was wasted looking at the phone, examining it like some ancient artifact he could not quite comprehend. It had been good of Buffy, of course, to call him, tell him about the Massacre, assure him they were all alright, but now he had to keep squelching the urge to ring her up and impart fatherly advise. Keep your wrists straight when you throw a punch, get enough sleep, don't keep demons in the house.

Damn it he was going to call because. because. well he didn't really need a reason. Dropping his spectacles on the table he reached for the phone. Each ring that someone didn't pick up his heart skipped in an odd pattern and he invented awful reasons as to why they couldn't answer the phone. First ring: Emils demon eating Willow in the park. Second ring: Buffy rushing Xander to the hospital because of critical blood loss. Third ring: Dawn - luckily someone picked up on the third ring and he didn't have to ponder the dastardly things that could be befalling Dawn at that moment.

"What?" a harsh voice growled on the other side of the line. Phone edict in the Summers house had eroded significantly since Spike had moved in.

"Oh. Spike." Giles didn't bother hiding the disappointment in his voice. There was really nothing he wished to discuss with the vampire. "How, er, how are we doing? With the portents I mean?"

"Two down, one to go," the Spike shrugged. How was it supposed to be going? "Dru's dead. Clem's dead. We're all having a grand old time."

Not for the first time, Spike noticed that guilt made him snappish. Now that he'd had time to think about it, choosing Xander's life over Drusilla's felt like a mistake. Living the moment again and again in his mind he could not fathom making the same judgment a second time. Stupid soul induced snap decision. And if he'd gone along with Dru's silly massacre Clem would still be alive instead of rotting all over the inside of the crypt. Other people would have died of course, but considering the ramifications of his actions had always given Spike a headache.

"Well," Giles fumbled, "that's, er, perhaps I should talk to Buffy."

"Please do," Spike said. He walked into the living room where Buffy, Willow, and Dawn lounged, vapidly gazing at the TV. "Your Watcher wants to talk with you," he told the Slayer, holding out the phone.

For a moment, Buffy thought he was having a Bob Dole moment. Then she realized her meant her other Watcher. Her real Watcher. Giles.

"Hi," she said into the phone.

"The thought occurs, I never congratulated you on vanquishing the second portent" Giles said, deciding it was better to talk shop at first rather than lecture her. She was an adult. He was not her father, even so, it was terribly tempting to slide into his Watcher voice and try to tell her what to do. The truth was she had never listened to him anyway.

Giles's voice over the phone sounded so dear and calm it made Buffy want to cry. Please come back, she wanted to say. Everything here is tense and scary and I'm tired of saving the world all the time. Sometimes I don't even like the world. It has murders, and tax fraud, and sexism, and dictatorships. Why do I have to be the girl who defends that? Instead she said, "Oh yeah, I vanquished. If I vanquish anymore I get the free tee shirt. Or, you know, the end of the word. Lucky me."

"I see some of Spike's cynicism has worn off on you." Giles's tone was disapproving.

"I'm pretty sure I've always been like this," Buffy sighed. She knew she was disappointing Giles again. It had been funny in high school to count how many times she could make him exhale loudly and clean his glasses in frustration, but now it just engendered Big Guilt.

"How is he now? Without the chip?" Giles asked, sliding against his will into the deep waters of paternal concern. It would be on his conscious if Spike did anything to harm Buffy and her friends. He was the one who opened the door so to speak, and invite the vampire back into the Slayer's inner circle. Many hours of his life had been wasted over the past few months trying to figure out what he had been thinking when he put Willow in Spike's custody.

Buffy glanced over her shoulder towards Dawn, Spike, and Willow in front of the TV and slipped surreptitiously into the kitchen.

"Pretty much the same," she admitted. "He helps Dawn with her homework and hasn't eaten anyone, so I guess we're okay. Weird, but okay."

"With her homework?" Giles repeated. He allowed himself a moment to ponder whether that would be a help or a hindrance to Dawn's educational success.

"Soul," Buffy reminded them both, which had become her explanation for most of Spike's behavior lately.

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After a few weeks they had all settled into steady rhythm. Unfortunately for Spike, that rhythm did not involve sleeping in. With a growl Spike pulled the Hello Kitty pillow over his face and cursed his predatory hearing. "Quiet down! You're waking the fucking dead!" he wanted to shout. But it was Buffy's house and he supposed if she wanted to bang every cupboard and door in the entire sodding house the self-righteous bitch could do just that.

The door creaked open and Dawn clattered quietly into the basement. She wasn't supposed to be down here, but there she was anyway, peering at him over the wooden rail of the stairs. So he had only been there a couple of weeks, Dawn thought, but he should have done something to make the room look more like a home and less like a basement with their old guest cot set up and some candles and black clothes strewn around.

Spike did a quick inventory to make sure all essential parts were covered from Dawn's prying eyes. During his fit of home improvement, Xander had thoughtfully installed a lock on the outside of the basement door in case they ever needed to keep the demon in (which to Spike's surprise nobody had used.) Mornings like this, the groggy vampire wished the carpenter had installed a lock on the inside of the basement to keep curious ex-keys out.

"I missed the bus," Dawn confessed.

"What a shock," he grumbled, which it wasn't. The Bit was about as good at early mornings as he was.

Petulantly, Dawn stuck her tongue out at the pile of blankets, which was safe since he couldn't see her. She was pretty sure he couldn't see her. As far as she could tell, the only thing paying attention to her right now was Dinner. The harsh light shining from the kitchen made the cat's eyes reflect back at Dawn like two silver coins.

"Can you give me a ride?" she begged in a coercive, little voice. "Please?"

"Do I really have an option?" Spike asked the basement ceiling.

"I could stay home with you," Dawn suggested. Bending down, she tapped her fingers along the wooden step in the hope of getting the kitten's attention.

Throwing his pillow towards the washer, Spike finally sat up looking thoroughly annoyed in the gloamy basement. "Go away," he ordered, because Buffy would stake him for sure if he got dressed in front of Dawn's virgin eyes. Upset by his sudden movement, Dinner stretched languidly and looked from the vampire to the human and back, as though attempting to decide which would be more likely to feed her.

Dawn gave up her tapping and retreated up the stairs, not sure if she was getting a ride or not. Finally reaching a decision, Dinner scrambled out of Spike's bed and tore up the stairs, sliding into the kitchen moments before Dawn closed the basement door. She got the cat, Dawn thought. At least that was something.

In the kitchen five minutes later Buffy was handing Spike a steaming mug of blood.

"I kind of surpassed warm and went strait to hot," she apologized. There had to be some syndrome, a name for people who couldn't even work a microwave properly.

"Oh," he said, accepting the cup. Well, this was nice. He hated it when Buffy did nice things. It confused the hell out of him.

"Thanks for taking Dawn to school," she said, nibbling the piece of toast that was her own attempt at breakfast. Eyes blurry, hair curling every which way, it was obvious the vampire was not adjusting well to diurnal life, which was fine. He'd apparently adjusted to the soul easy enough. It was only fare that he struggle with something, Buffy thought.

"Not a problem," he shrugged. Who needed sleep if the Slayer was going to scare him awake with her kindness? Besides he owed her something for letting him crash in the basement. "It's not like I'm paying rent. Should I be paying rent?" Spike was suddenly alarmed. It had taken him three weeks to come up with that idea.

"Nope," Buffy smiled, amused by the shadow of concern that fell across his face. "The mortgage is beyond covered by the Council, and it's not like you eat anything. At least not anything I'm going to buy." She wrinkled her nose, and slid the strap of her satchel over her shoulder.

Dawn, obedient to the kitten's wishes, had fed Dinner and was eating her own breakfast at the counter. As she devoured her corn flakes, she was thoroughly amused by the exchange between her sister and Spike. Mornings were her favorite part of the day, the only time when they were all together for a little greet and snark before separating out into their lives. Almost all together.

"Where's Willow?" she asked around a mouthful of cereal.

"Here!" Willow called, rushing into the room, long black sleeves floating behind her, hair still wet from the shower. Living in the crypt Spike had missed the bouquet of freshly washed Willow.

"Okay. I'm here. I'm ready. Are we late?"

"Always," Buffy shrugged, finishing off her toast and brushing the crumbs from her coat.

"You should eat something," Spike told the witch, sipping at his too hot blood. He hated the soul and the paternal things it made him say. Maybe it would be best to stop talking for a few centuries, prevent those embarrassing looks of surprise.

"I'll grab something on the way," Willow promised, oddly touched by the vampire's concern.

Examining her dark dress and black fishnets up and down, Spike wondered when she was going to stop dressing like the Queen of the Damned. She was sad, and she felt guilty, and that was all very fine and well, but other people's angst had always annoyed him. It was time she bloody well got over it and spared them all.

"That's a lovely frock you've got on, pet," he complimented her cruelly. "Dru had one just like it."

Willow did the forehead crinkle of angry confusion while behind her Buffy worked to hide a smile.

"I always thought Drusilla had wonderful taste," Willow lied, trying to preserve some dignity. Pointedly she turned her back on the vampire and his inappropriate sense of humor to face her favorite ex-key.

"Have a good day at school, Dawnie," Willow smiled. Even the black lipstick and dark eyeliner couldn't mask Willow's shining grin.

"I'd have a better day if I didn't have to go to school," Dawn complained, vaguely hopeful Spike wouldn't force her to go, but he probably would. Since he came back with the soul he had been exhibiting strangely responsible tendencies.

"No! School is fun. School is learning. You get books and tests and," suddenly Willow seemed to realize this argument wasn't going to motivate anybody who wasn't as geeky as she was. "Just go anyway," Willow lamely concluded her pep talk as she walked out the back door.

Buffy tried not to laugh and failed. Goth queen or not, Willow was still responsibility girl when it came to school. Thank god some things didn't change, she thought as she followed Willow out the door. Then she paused and focused on Spike again and it was all with the serious.

"When you take Dawn to school, please pretend that you believe in the laws governing vehicular behavior," Buffy demanded in her Slayer Knows Best tone.

"Yes, mom," Spike promised. He was tempted to point out he had been driving longer than she had been alive, but then he'd also been in more accidents than Evil Knievel, so it wouldn't have been the most effective argument.

Buffy closed the door behind her and Spike drained the rest of the scalding blood in one, painful gulp. Might as well get on with the frelling day now that he was up.

"Get your helmet, Bit," he said. Feeling thoroughly housetrained, he washed out his mug and placed it in the dish rack.

Dawn sighed and dropped her dishes into the sink as her hopes at truancy were dashed.

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December in Sunnydale was kind of a joke. The nights were cold, but the day were pale and warm with hard, tired sunlight reluctantly illuminating the streets and the plastic Santas standing in snow-free yards. Every morning Buffy walked by them on her way to school, trying to decide if they were deliberately ironic or not.

School wasn't really at the top of the Slayer's priority list that winter. She went daily - pretty much, but the tide of motivation was at low ebb. When would she ever have the chance to use trigonometry in the real world? Any image of life beyond slaying was, well, death. And she was fine with that. Instead of being afraid of dying, the thought made her kind of nostalgic. Which was yet another thing her friends didn't need to know. When her mind wandered during class she wondered why Willow assumed her soul would be damned to a hell dimension anyway.

"Buffy, what do you think Browning is trying to tell his audience with Proferia's Lover?"

Oh. Right. Class. Squirming a little in the plastic seat she remembered how much she hated talking in class. It was high school all over again, only with bigger words. And Buffy was still hating poetry. It all sounded like "Bliddy bliddy blah" to her. Spike had read some of it out loud last night, and listening to him she had wanted to laugh at the image: big boots, evil afterglow, reading Browning in her living room. Spike's recitation didn't illuminate the subtle meanings of Victorian poetry, but she did notice his accent changed so he sounded like an actor on Masterpiece Theatre. She wondered if that was how he spoke when he was alive.

"Ms. Summers?"

"What? Oh. I think Browning is saying love isn't an absolute good. Porphyria's Lover is, well, in love. But that does make him less demented, or purify him. He kills her so he can rape her, so he can possess her. And because he loves her, and we all know you aren't supposed to kill people you love, he convinces himself he's doing what she wants. In his mind he's saving her."

"That's an intriguing comment. All the reader is allowed to see is what the murderer believes happened. Tell me, Ms. Summers, what do you think Browning was attempting to accomplish with his use of an unreliable narrator?" professor Smith asked as the merciful bell rang. "I want to finish up this conversation tomorrow. Please remember your essays are due next Wednesday; they will be 40% of your total grade. Ideally you should have started writing them by now. Class dismissed."

As she rose to her feet Buffy tried to decide if the word "intriguing" had positive or negative connotations. For the sake of her GPA she really hoped it was positive.

"Buffy?" someone asked at her shoulder.

"What? Yes," she confirmed awkwardly to the dark eyed, dark haired boy who knew her name, but of course she couldn't remember his.

"Austin," he supplied. "My name, I mean. It's Austin. You, uh, seem to be really good at the whole poetry interpretation thing and I'm exceedingly, well, not. I was kind of hoping we could go over some of Browning's themes together. Before the final."

So very transparent, Buffy thought. But cute boys deserved to be cut some slack.

"I'm meeting a friend of mine for coffee right now," Buffy hedged. Coffee with my friend who tried to destroy the world. After that I'm going over sword techniques with a vampire, after which I will be making dinner for my sister who was created by some monks. Then it's off to patrol the cemeteries to kill the living dead. No time for a normal life on that agenda.

"Do you drink coffee?" she asked because, well, he was breathing. Cute and breathing. When was the last time she had experienced that combination? Spending some time with normal people might not be so bad for a change.

"I have a certain fondness for the beverage," Austin admitted.

"Then you should come along," Buffy decided. "Willow won't mind if we talk poetry. She's always happy to be helpful with the knowledge." In Buffy's opinion Willow could use from recreational time away from prophecies and creatures that went bump in the night.

"I don't want to impose," Austin said politely.

Buffy laughed. "Trust me, I'm a tough girl to impose upon."

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In Tara's opinion, Spike was going a little crazy with the money. New clothes, that was practical considering everything he owned was a little.gross by the time Judas was done making a mess of the crypt. But who needed six pairs of leather pants? Then there were the things even Tara's kindness couldn't justify: throwing knives for Dawn (as though Buffy didn't have enough of those lying around), an antique art deco cigarette case (Spike feeling nostalgic? That could only lead to bad things), an emerald necklace set with the seal of Astarte for Willow (which was pretty, really pretty, but not exactly necessary). And now this.

"I should have brought a Polaroid," Spike muttered, preening uselessly in front of the uncooperative mirror. Buying a leather jacket to replace the duster was turning out to be harder than he had anticipated.

"A bomber jacket?" Tara objected from where she stood, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, among racks of new smelling leather coats. "Y-you look like a stockbroker in the Hamptons." One of the small pleasures of being dead was that she got to say things she would never have had the nerve to when she was alive. Spike's glare was full of malice, which she blithely ignored. "I'm telling you: stockbroker. Or, or maybe a real estate agent."

For her honesty Spike graced Tara with a condescending smirk. Why would he want her fashion advice anyway? She looked like a refugee from a sodding Renaissance fair with those long skirts and velvet peasant shirt.

"Can you do something about the mirror, love?" he asked the ghost. If she was going to hover around and insult his sartorial taste, she could at least make herself useful.

"I, uh, don't know what's wrong with the mirror," the shop girl said, blanching. Of course the stupid little bint would assume he was talking to her. It wasn't as though she could see the ghost standing next to him.

"You don't have to talk out loud," Tara said helpfully. "I should be able to hear you if you just think really loud."

"CAN YOU MAGIC UP A REFLECTION FOR ME, PET?" Was that loud enough for her? It felt loud.

Tara touched her forehead and blinked back tears, as though she had bitten an exceptionally hot pepper. "M-maybe not that loud," she amended. "I can't give you a reflection. The sunlight? That was your gift. I can't do anything more for you. Well, I can do this." Tara waved her hand and the salesgirl wandered off.

"Cute trick," Spike said, shrugging out of the jacket and looking around the store for something tougher. For a moment he considered a biker jacket, black with cruel silver spikes along the shoulders, but he could imagine Willow rolling her eyes and reminding him that punk was deader than he was. Not that he gave a shit about Red's opinion on the topic. Oh no, he told himself, you're as bad as can be. Finally he settled on another trench coat, three quarters length, more structured than his old duster, one that didn't look like it had been run over by a car. He had to change with the times after all.

"That's it," Tara said. "It totally says reformed psycho-killer."

"Great," Spike said unenthusiastically. He was less impressed by her endorsement than he was by its inside pocket, handy for his new cigarette case.

"So, which of these do you think Dawn would like?" he asked the ghost, waving his hand vaguely at the rows of coats.

Tara recognized the familiar gleam of maniacal over-consumption sparkling in his cold eyes. Vampires, she supposed, had never been famous for moderation. Whatever else he may have become, Spike was still a demon. The soul would never erase that.

Tara tilted her head, considered for a moment, and then summoned one of the jackets from the rack with a graceful wave of her hand. It occurred to Spike that mind control of shop girls and public acts of magic weren't really mousy little Tara's style when she was alive. She had been all about order and balance; the flashy shit had been Willow's forte. He wanted to think about this more, but there was still a jacket floating two feet away from his nose and it was either take it or let the happy shoppers of Sunnydale mall witness the wonder of levitating apparel.

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"You can't be serious," Xander almost shouted.

Walking to the Magic Box Xander had been all prepared to girt his - well whatever one was supposed to girt in preparation for battle, but then Anya had blindsided him with her latest batch of exciting news and it was all with the shouting again. Poor Dawn cowered in her chair, tugging her cardigan closer to her body for protection while Anya, who seemed to draw strength from his anger, feed off it, stood firm and defiant in the center of the store.

"Of course I'm serious, Xander. It's been months and the shop still isn't put back together. Nobody comes in here anymore now that it reeks of the dark arts. I need money to live off of."

"So you're going to, what? Sell the Magic Box to some developer who'll knock it down to build a Wall Mart or a celebrity themed restaurant?"

Anya shrugged, "That's capitalism, Xander."

"Yeah.well capitalism sucks." Perhaps not his wittiest comeback. In his mind, Xander composed a brief diatribe against the consolidation of the nations resources in a handful of mega-conglomerations that were crushing small stores and the entrepreneurial spirit out of the American landscape. But why bother? He was vastly familiar with Anya's brook no opposition look. So he sat down at the table and did his best impression of the Lincoln Memorial: cold, stoic, and heartless. It was hard to look heatless with his arm throbbing in its cast.

"What are you going to do now?" Dawn asked, trying to imagine Anya without the magic shop. Then it occurred to her that the demon did have another vocation and she wished she could take the question back.

"I'm going to England," Anya said decisively. "To wreak.justice, and possibly open a small apothecary shop. Giles and I are considering something in Hampstead Heath." Which was a lie. Giles didn't even know she was coming to London. Yet.

Xander looked pained and wrapped his good hand around his cast. She felt an unexpected stirring of something resembling pity.

"It's not like you can even fix the shop with your arm like that, Xander. And really it's not your responsibility. You didn't ruin it," Anya blurted out, and then resented her weakness. She wasn't the one who had dumped them into this awkward situation. He was. Him and his stupid running away.

"Oh," Xander sagged against the research table. In his mind Anya would have forgiven him in some ephemeral future and they would return to the happy formula of sex and dating. Guess not, he thought. Hello gruesome reality.

"When?" Dawn asked because Xander seemed to have lost word-forming ability.

"Soon. Next week. I'll pay you if you want to help me pack the place up." Anya looked at Xander helpless and confused against the table. Still not as wounded as she had been when he walked out on her. She turned back towards Dawn. "You can tell your sister's vampire he's welcome to any of the books. Giles said its fine to leave them here."

Xander's pained expression convinced her she hadn't lost her touch at vengeance after all.

______________________________________________________________________

"How's your hand?" Buffy asked with awkward concern.

Spike paused under one of the cemetery streetlamps and displayed his palm, its broad surface cracked and blistered in the shape of a cross. Bloody Xander's latest round of home improvements had involved soldering religious paraphernalia onto the doorknobs of Chez Summers. He hadn't been ready for that; Carpenter-boy had been verging on sanity regarding the living situation until Anya made up her mind to move to Merry Old.

Buffy bit her lip and tried to decide who she was more annoyed with, Xander for his surreptitious use of Christian iconography, or Spike for kicking in the offending door, destroying the door, and the molding, and shattering one of her mother's antique lamps.

"Been quiet," Spike said, closing his hand, hiding it in the pocket of his coat.

"Too quiet," Buffy sighed, sweeping her eyes across the desolate cemetery. "Not a bad guy in sight."

"Just as well. You'd best get home and study for that Psych test," Spike said, sounding ridiculously responsible before he was propelled face first into the dirt path by a translucent, slimy demon who hadn't gotten the memo that evil was laying low for a while.

Spike rolled out of the way, hoping the gravel wasn't going to scar the new jacket, and let Buffy deal with the creature.

"I don't even know why I bothered going back to school," Buffy complained, lunging forward, swinging her sword at the gelatinous, mucus-dripping demon. "I'm the Slayer. My career path is pretty much set. And, honestly, the slaughter of evil fiends is about the only thing I'm good at." The blade sliced neatly through the monster's torso, and Buffy watched with dismay as the wound healed seamlessly.

"And you know this from your vast Doublemeat Palace experience?" Spike questioned, diving back into the fray, sliding a little in the monster's gooey trail.

Sometimes Buffy wondered if he even know when he was being mean, or if it was only that nobody had ever introduced him to tact. Raising his crossbow Spike fired a bolt directly into the creature's head, which did remarkably little to slow it down. Buffy graced him with an eye roll, even as she scurried out of the demon's path. The thing swiveled its eyeless head and continued towards her at a steady, unconcerned pace.

Spike stepped back to reload, an awkward process with his scalded hand. His mouth, as always, worked just fine.

"You can do whatever you fancy. Sooner or later someone will get sick of Faith and take her out. Once that happens, a new Slayer's called to the Hellmouth and you can be on your merry way. Now that the chip's out I could do it for you if you like." To his surprise the idea of adding another Slayer to the list wasn't unappealing. Perhaps, he thought, the soul was defective after all.

Buffy frowned, trying to filter out the vampire's homicidal prattle. There was something moving in the gelatinous creature's body, swimming slowly through its torso like a fish in a bowl. The demon moved to strike and she lunged, ramming the sword through its giving flesh, impaling the goldfish on the blade. Much to her relief, the whole demon dissolved into a smoldering pile of goo. Moving to stand beside her, Spike prodded the mound with the toe of his boot to assure himself it was dead. Then he took a moment to wipe steaming demon snot off his new boots against the edge of a tombstone.

"You better be joking," she warned. "About killing Faith, I mean."

"Yeah," he said, all injured looking. "Of course I am."

They strolled slowly through the cemetery because - well - she really wasn't looking forward to cramming for her Psych final tomorrow. As Buffy walked she swung her sword in an idle ark, which Spike followed with vague interest, as though curious about whether she was going to turn and chop off his head.

"Dawn's taking Clem's death really hard," she said, knowing even as she began she was going to regret this conversation.

"Yeah," he agreed, not sure if he wanted to know where this conversation was going. He supposed he should be thrilled she was talking to him about something other than the end of the life as they knew it, but the days when they could tell each other their worldly concerns were long gone.

Buffy glared at him, but plunged on anyway. "And now Anya's leaving."

"Yeah." Eyes roaming over the cemetery, Spike found himself wishing for another monster to attack. Either that or Buffy could get to the point. What did he care about Anya's travel plans?

"Look, oh monosyllabic one, I'm trying to have a conversation here."

Spike paused to light a cigarette, hands cupped protectively around the flame. It was, Buffy thought, an oddly human gesture. Turning his head he exhaled a plume of smoke away from her.

"I can see you are trying to talk about something. The problem is I can't tell about what."

"Dawn," Buffy said with exaggerated patience.

"Your sister," he supplied helpfully.

"Very good."

"All right then. What about the Bit?"

"Would you mind not referring to my sister as though she's a snack food? Especially now that you can.snack. Again."

Spike opened his mouth to object that she should know perfectly well he wasn't gong to hurt the brat. That she should trust him just a tad, but of course she shouldn't trust him at all, had no reason to. So he closed his mouth and puffed away in silence.

"The thing about Dawn," Buffy said, back on track now and determined to get it over with. "Is that she sees her world as an ever collapsing circle of people. She freaks out when she loses anyone and she's lost, well, a lot. We all have."

Spike nodded, looking politely bored by this lecture.

"So I want to know if you're going to be around. I need to know if somebody else is going to walk out on her because I don't know how much more she can take."

He was going to say, "Kids are resilient." Or he was going to laugh at her, because the idea that Dawn, with all that she had been through, was going to collapse into a hopeless little puddle because he was gone was just laughable. Then he realized the Slayer was offering him an out. Get in the Desoto. Leave now and don't worry about guilt or death or redheads with god- awful fashion sense. Run away. Run away now, the demon prattled, before she regains her senses and lives up to her name.

"I don't think I'm going anywhere, Slayer," he said, watching the moonlight bounce erratically off the swaying sword. "I'll probably be here until the end of the world."

Buffy nodded absently, apparently neither pleased nor displeased by his proclamation.

______________________________________________________________________

Notes:

For those who are interested, here is the full text of Porphyria's Lover

Porphyria's Lover

by: Robert Browning (1812-1889)

The rain set early in to-night,

The sullen wind was soon awake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight

She shut the cold out and the storm,

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sat down by my side

And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me---she

Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me for ever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,

Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:

So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last I knew

Porphyria worshipped me; surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word!