Spike was pretty much stuck with me for the day. Not because he couldn't steal a blanket and make a mad dash for the nearest manhole cover, but because I complained that he couldn't go out in the sunlight and he decided that I shouldn't be left alone.

I don't watch soaps. I find them brain-numbingly puerile. And there are no big flashy explosions. Not very often anyway. Yet I found myself curled up on the sofa, eating chocolate fudge chunk ice cream and watching 'Passions' with the undead.

"What a bunch of utter crap."

Spike gave me an offended look. "This here's a piece of bloody brilliant programming," he insisted.

"Zombies and spell books?" I asked skeptically "Witches bringing dolls to life who fall in love with the people they're suppose to be trying to kill? Geeze, Spike, sounds like a day on the Hellmouth. And it's not nearly as well written. I thought escapism was about escaping - this is just total lameness. The lamest of the lame. I can't even begin to describe how incredibly lame-"

He interrupted my lameness tirade just as I was getting on a good head of steam. I hate it when people do that to me.

"Oh, like Battlestar Galactica is such a shinning example of cinematic excellence!"

I hate it even more when they're right. Okay, it's a guilty pleasure. And it's every bit as lame as Passions.

"Yeah, well..." I cast about, trying to find a way to defend the honor of Starbuck, Apollo and all the noble Galacticans. "At least there are cool sounds effects and laser fights and Cylons getting blown up and stuff!"

Yeah. Blow shit up and you've got my attention. I'm an action whore. I admit it. Sue me.

He just rolled his eyes and looked back at the screen. And growled in frustration. "Stupid wanker! She's on the balcony next door to you, can't you smell her?"

"Human, Spike. Clueless," I reminded him as he ranted at the onscreen character. "And besides, it's a soap. Staggeringly huge amounts of angst are kind of like a necessity, right?" He just ignored me.

I padded into the kitchen, tossed the empty ice cream container into the trash and washed the spoon. Almost three. Dawn would be home soon. I suppose making dinner was next on the agenda for the day.

I rifled through the contents of the fridge. Oranges. Carrots. Some spinach. Leftover pizza. Juice, milk. Strawberry Jam. The pantry didn't offer a whole lot more. Some tins of soup, a can of tuna. Tomato sauce. Rice. Mac and cheese. The freezer was worse. Half a box of Eggo's and a package of chicken legs. This did not bode well. How did that girl manage?

Sometimes when I get stressed, I have a cigarette. I was feeling stressed. I went back into the front room and grabbed Spike's duster from the chair he'd thrown it on the night before. I was rifling though the pockets when he noticed.

"That's my coat."

"Yeah, I know." I kept searching. How the hell many pockets did this friggin' thing have? There were at least 5 or 6 that had been sewn into the lining.

His tone took on a hint of exasperation. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all." Ah, bingo. I pulled the Marlboroughs out. Now where was the Zippo?

"Oi! Those are my fags!"

"No, I thought they were Popeye gum sticks," I snarked. "Where the hell is your lighter?"

He came over and snatched the package from my hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

My mental nic fit was demanding satisfaction. "Okay, I'm sorry, I should have asked first. Spike, bum me a smoke." I snatched them back, taping the bottom of the package so that one slid out. I tucked it behind my ear and handed them back. "Now, can I have your lighter please? I'd ask you to join me, but I think the back porch is a little sunny for you at the moment."

You could have knocked me over with a feather when he leaned forwarded and
plucked the cigarette from its spot.

"You," he informed me in a tone that brooked no argument, "are not putting any carcinogenic material into that body. In case you've forgotten, it's a loner. Alcohol is one thing. A fag is quite another." He slid the cigarette back into the package and tossed it onto the end table next to him.

My mouth dropped open. The unmitigated gall! The nerve! And not only that, but now twice he'd been right about something and within a 20 minute time span.

"Spike." I tried reasonable. "One smoke is not going to kill her. I don't have a pack a day habit or something. I'm feeling on edge. I just want one."

"No. I'm not letting you."

Oh, bad word choice. I gave him the once over and figured out where the lighter probably was. This was going to be nasty of me, but it was easier than trying to fight with him. And I figured it was his own fault for being stupid enough to tell any female that he wasn't going to let her do
something. He'd brought it on himself.

Sultry pout, on. Provocative body language, activated. "Spike." I pressed up against him. "Never say that to a woman." I slipped my hands in the back pockets of his jeans, making him jerk forward involuntarily. His hands flew up to my shoulders, and he was obviously torn between pulling me closer and shoving me away. The fingers of my left hand curled around the item I was
seeking. I grabbed it then pulled away, snatched the cigarettes from the end table and made a beeline for the back porch.

He was after me in a second, but I had enough of a head start to crash through the door just as I felt his fingers grazing my shoulders. He barely stopped in time, catching one side of the doorjamb to keep himself from flying out into the sunlight while I vaulted down the steps. I turned to face him, impudently making a big production of lighting the cigarette in front of him. I took a long, drawn out drag, but kind of ruined the effect by coughing. Virgin lungs. I cleared my throat and took a shallower drag.

Oh, head rush.

His face was tight and angry. Uh-oh. "You are," he grated out through clenched teeth, "without a doubt, the biggest bitch I've ever met."

My own face screwed up in anger. "I think that's Buffy your thinking of, babe. I'd be the second biggest."

The slam of the door was his response.

Note to self - remember original observation that impulsivity was not the best option in decisions I make concerning Spike. I sat on the bottom step and tried to enjoy my hard won smoke. The ashes of victory. Suddenly not nearly so enjoyable.

Having such a well-developed sense of guilt sucks. It's why I can never get away with being a fully nasty bitch. My feelings of regret kick in before I can really take any pleasure in it. As opposed to what I'd said to Willow the night before, I could never actually say that stuff about Angel to his face, cuz I know that soul-boy would be hurt. Have I mentioned that I'm pathetic?

I took one more drag, and then crushed out the half smoked cigarette, then went back in to face the music. Spike was back on the sofa in front of the TV. I cleared my throat. He ignored me. Sigh. I walked over to the tube and flicked it off. He glared at me.

"I was watching that!" He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and went to turn it back on.

"Please don't, Spike."

He tossed the remote down, then leaned back and crossed his arms. "Something else you wanted then? Some pot maybe? A little crack?" The bitterness beneath the sarcasm made me wince. I didn't respond right away, instead I sat beside him, unable to meet his eyes and silently handed him the smokes and the lighter.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry." I finally looked up at him. "I shouldn't have done that to you."

Confusion and wariness warred for dominance on his face. "You shouldn't be polluting the Slayer's body."

I shook my head. "That's not what I'm talking about. I mean, I know that, but I still don't think one smoke is going to give the girl lung cancer. Especially when you factor in Slayer healing powers. I meant I shouldn't have hurt you like that."

He scoffed. "I don't know what you're talkin'..."

I reached out and touched his hand and he trailed off. "I'm really sorry, Spike. It was cruel of me to use..." I gestured towards myself. "...this body to get a stupid lighter. I'd like to think I'm a better person than that. I'm officially blaming my utter lack of regard for your feelings on the unsettling events of the last 24 hours, and I promise I'll try hard not to be such a bitch again."

His gaze never wavered as he studied me, weighing my words. I bit my lower lip as I waited for him to give me some indication of what he thought. Finally his mouth quirked into a smile. "Well, you were right about one thing."

"Yeah? What was that?"

"You are the second biggest bitch I've ever met."

"Bite me, asshole."

I got the dead-sexy look. "Anytime."

I punched him in the arm. "In your dreams, Blondie."

He chuckled and rubbed his arm. He was readying a comeback when the phone rang. I glanced at it and then back at him. "Do they have an answering machine?" I asked him.

"Yeh, but I don't think it's on. You should answer, it might be important." I nodded and picked it up. "Hello?

I was hoping it was just Willow calling in to see how I was. Bzzz! You lose, thanks for playing.

"Hi, Buffy. It's Todd."

Todd? Who the hell was - oh! The pretentious git she worked with at the DMP.

"Oh, hi. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if I could trade shifts with you..."

I listened with half an ear as he explained. I'd kinda forgotten about Buffy's pathetic job. I was going to have to figure out what to do about that if I was going to be here for any length of time. I realized Todd was waiting for an answer.

"Uhm, can I get back to you on that?" Oh, good save.

"Can you let me know at work tomorrow?"

"Yeah, sure," I agreed, wanting to get rid of him. "Bye!" I hung up.

"Hey, Spike, when is the next time Buffy is supposed to work?"

"Bloody hell!"

"Exactly."

We both slumped back into the sofa. I wondered if I could fake it. I've done waitressing before, but I always managed to avoid the fast food outlets. An idea tickled the back of my brain and I looked over at the depressed looking vampire beside me.

"Hey."

He glanced my way. "What?"

I turned to sit facing him, and leaned forward slightly. "Did you mean it? Did you mean what you told Buffy when she started working in that hell hole?"

He looked at me quizzically. "What you talkin' about?"

"You told her to leave that place. You said you could give her money. Can you really? Aren't you the same guy who had thugs after you for 40 kittens?" "Buffy wouldn't take my money," he reminded me sourly.

"Ah, but you forget, I'm not Buffy. And unlike Her Slayerness, I have no qualms at all about accepting your help. Well, as long as it's not stolen from little old ladies in the park or something like that."

"Some of it might have been liberated from a demon or five."

"Like they have mortgage payments to worry about."

"Well, actually, there are a few who do, but-"

"Were they bad guys?"

"Yeah."

I shrugged. "Okay, 'nuff said."

He gave me that funny, lop-sided, little bit painful smile again. It made my heart hurt a little. "You're certainly agreeable."

I knew he was wishing the not-so-agreeable version were here, even if she wouldn't accept his help. So did I. But until then, I'd do whatever it took to make it through.

"Occasionally. Look, I'm a realist. There aren't enough groceries in this house to feed three people for more than a couple of days. Working at a minimum wage job and trying to pay plumber bills, mortgage payments, insurance premiums and still have grocery money? Ain't happening, my friend. She needs a real job, one that pays a livable wage." I wrinkled my nose. "And preferably, one that she doesn't reek of afterwards."

"She's going to be mighty brassed off when she gets back."

I gave him a cheeky smile. "Well, then, I'm glad I won't be here to deal with her." I just happened to glance up at the clock. Almost 3:30. Time to get dinner in the over.

I was putting defrosted chicken legs in a casserole dish on top of a rice and mushroom soup mixture when Dawn walked in the back door. I covered the dish and slipped it into the oven, then set the timer. When I stood back up, I found her watching me curiously.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," she replied with a surprised chuckle. "First you and Spike this morning. Now you're actually cooking real food for dinner. Are you sure you're not a pod person?"

" 'Lo, Nibblet."

Dawn flashed another one of those megawatt grins when she saw Spike standing in the entrance to the kitchen.

"Spike! You're still here! And not as a pile of dust!" She turned back to me. "Can I go to the Bronze tonight?"

Ahhh, I recognized that tactic. Mom seems to be in a good mood, hit her up for what you want now. I'm not that easy to fool, little girl.

"Is it a school night?" I had to ask, I really wasn't sure what day it was in this universe. The scowl I got told me it was.

"But Kira and John get to go."

"How nice for them," I remarked as a grabbed the spinach from the fridge.

"The Java Babes are playing, and it's one night only!"

I rinsed the greens in cold water. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Okay, you're not a pod person. You're my fuddy-duddy, killjoy sister with no sense of fun."

I smiled sweetly. "Love you too."

She glowered at me for a moment then gave up. "I've got homework," she groused as she headed up the stairs.

Spike gave me an appraising look. "Buffy would have gotten into a screaming match with Dawn over that."

I nodded. "It's just experience. Buffy's been doing the mom thing for what, 6 or 8 months now? And wasn't she dead for a couple of them?" He nodded. "Parenting's hard enough when you get to grow into it naturally. I can't imagine having been handed a teenage daughter when I was in my early 20's and being expected to just figure it out on my own."

I patted the spinach dry and threw it in a salad bowl, then julienned some carrots I'd peeled earlier. I threw them in as well, then covered the bowl with plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge.

"Dinner will be up in an hour. What say you and I figure out exactly how I'm going to spend your money?"

Spike and I had the dinner table covered with bills, notices and overdue statements. I'd found a notebook and we were using it as a makeshift ledger. Buffy had been robbing Peter to pay Paul, and it was a wonder her fragile house of financial cards hadn't come crashing down on her. One thing was certain - there was no way in hell her and Dawn could survive on what she made at the DMP.

The buzzer on the stove interrupted our budgeting session. I ignored it for the moment. I was too busy arguing with Spike that Buffy should re-negotiate the mortgage. I guess the bickering was fairly loud because the next thing I knew, Dawn was standing in the room staring at the paper-strewn table.

"Oh! Hi Dawnie," I managed, wondering if she'd overheard anything incriminating.

She looked up at me. "You want me to take the casserole out?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, please." Food, please God, let it have been the smell of the food that drew her downstairs. Spike chose that moment to assert his opinion again.

"I still say leave it," he insisted quietly. "Higher interest rate be damned. If she rolls all the bills together, then she's paying more in the long run. It's not worth it."

Sigh. He was right. "Fine. If your have enough money laying around to pay off the Joyce's car loan and Bu-" Dawn walked back in the room. "My student loan, I'll leave the mortgage alone."

"Deal."

"Good." I grabbed the cardboard box that had held all the papers and started tossing them back in. "I'm starved. Let's eat."

This time, two weird looks, one from each of them. "What?" I demanded. Dawn's face was glowing with burgeoning hope. "Are you inviting Spike to stay for dinner?"

I looked over at the vampire. Undecided and torn between desires was becoming his new look. Okay, on one hand, I should try to act in character. Buffy wouldn't do it. On the other hand, why the hell should I? The girl was a flippin' idiot. Fuck it.

"Yeah, why not?" I said, as if I was just deciding to be magnanimous for her benefit. Spike gave me a surprised look, but he saw the twinkle in my eye and nodded as if to say 'good show'. We were setting the table when I heard the front door open.

"Hey, Willow, good timing," I called out. "We're just sitting down to..."

Oh. Not just Willow. Xander. Great.

The ambient emotional temperature in the room dropped about 20 degrees as the two males unconsciously squared off against each other. Fuck, fuck, fuck! One crisis averted, another one pops up. Buffy's life sucks.

"Xander," I caroled out brightly, quickly moving towards him. I slipped an arm around his. "Just the guy I needed to talk to. Now. Over there, in the other room." I tugged him out of the room, easily overcoming his resistance, and Willow trailed along behind us. He continued to glare over his shoulder at Spike until he was out of sight, then he fixed his gaze on me.

"Buffy, what's he doing here?" he demanded. Like he had some God given right to demand anything. I really wanted to slap him silly.

"Xander, what are you doing here?"

Willow chimed in. "I, uh, I told Xander that he should come by, cuz, you know, that stuff that happened last night. That we should talk about it. That you should, um, explain what happened to you. Explain it to him."

"Will said you were acting weird and that you weren't yourself. She didn't tell me that Evil Dead the Return was sniffing around." The burly construction worker tensed up. "Is he harassing you again?"

He's a good kid, really. He means well. I know he loves Buffy and worries about her and Dawn. The thing is, he's a very black and white kinda guy. Not a lot of room for shades of gray in his world. I suppose it comes from the crappy childhood he had - the boy seriously needs some therapy if you ask me. But I have a few issues with Xander, some of them dating all the way back to his treatment of the Buffster when she was dating Dead Boy. Heh. One mindfuck coming right up.

"Xander, I know how you feel about Spike, but I know you love me more then you hate him. You'll have to find a way to accept that he's a part of our family now."

Harris has a very expressive face. It was highly entertaining to watch the struggle as disbelief, horror, revulsion and disappointment vied for dominance. Moments like this were worth the guilt.

Willow shot me an evil look and tried to explain that I was joking, but I don't think he was processing any further input at that point. I chuckled.

"Dinner's ready. Come on in, there's plenty for everyone."