"I felt you die."

"And hello to you too, Peaches," Spike grinned, leaning insouciantly against the hotel doorframe.

"I felt you die," Angel repeated, extra brood.

"Slayer not tell you? I dusted me."

"She mentioned it," Angel growled, brushing past Spike into the room, looking around with a suspicious glare.

"Do come in," Spike drawled, shutting the door behind them. "See time didn't change your manners allergy."

"Right. Because you're from the future. Look, Spike, Buffy's young... and can be a little naive sometimes... but I know you. Whatever little game you're playing... it's not going to work. She is not your third Slayer trophy. And what the hell is wrong with your hair?"

"Puts me in mind of a sayin' 'bout pots n' kettles..."

"It's white. You do know it's white, right? You look like a vanilla ice-cream cone."

"Not takin' groomin' tips from someone looks like they stuck a bloody fork in a toaster. News flash, Liam; doesn't make the forehead look any smaller."

Angel picked up a book on the dresser, staring at it as if he expected it to sprout teeth. "What did you do with Dru?"

"Sent her on an extended vacation to the land of Far Away. If it comes to it, I'll deal with Dru... but she's got somethin' important to do for you. Later."

"You honestly expect me to believe..."

"Darla could see your soul. You tellin' me you can't see mine?"

Angel sighed. "I can't believe you were so stupid as to piss off the Gypsies after... what am I saying? Of course you were that stupid."

"Didn't get cursed. Sought it. Went to Africa, went through the demon trials."

"Why in the hell would anyone..."

"Had my reasons. Look, Peaches... know when the last time I saw you was?"

"Uh... the submarine, right?"

Spike shot him a look of disgust. "I'm from the future, you pillock. An' the last time you n' I had a family reunion, it was over a tombstone readin' 'Buffy Anne Summers'."

Angel went even paler, and Spike nodded. "You may not like me, Angelus, and I bloody well know I don't like you. But I'm the guy who's gonna keep your girlfriend alive or die tryin'... an' I think that officially makes this town big enough for the both of us."

"How..." Angel swallowed hard. "How does she die?"

"Couple different people involved." Spike looked up at Angel with a quirky grin. "Wanna help me kill 'em in really painful ways?"

A slow, exquisitely evil smile spread over Angel's face, bleeding fire into his eyes and Irish into his accent. "Willy, my boy? I think I may have actually missed you."

"I'm telling you, Giles, something way big must be coming, something the vamps are afraid of. I'm starting to feel like Buffy: The Late-Night, Uneventful Stroller. I'm saying we converge the Scoobies, get into research mode. Whatever can make vampires squeal and flee -- well, that's not me..."

Giles leaned against the library counter, removing his glasses. "I believe the answer is far more simple, Buffy. Have you, perhaps, spoken to Spike lately?"

"The undead mother-macker? Not so much. And hello, kinda busy busting up Cordy's new gig as the Bride of Frankenstein." Buffy made a face, then turned serious. "Giles, look, when I told Angel he was here, he went total Defcon One. Angel said he can't be trusted, and get this, Giles, his real name isn't Spike, it's..."

"William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers?"

"Oh. Okay, you already knew that... I'm processing... so, you wanna explain why he's not blowing in the wind yet? Cause the whole 'Slayer of Slayers' thing? So not giving me the happy feelings!"

"He does have a soul now, Buffy. You know what Angel was like before his."

"Yes, he was very mean and ate people, I got the memo... but hello, he didn't have a nickname involving killing me!"

"I can't blame you, Buffy... I'm not entirely comfortable with Spike yet either. But I have spoken to Angel on this topic... he met with Spike after you informed him of his presence, and seems willing to allow Spike the chance to prove himself."

"Y'know, Giles, relationships are founded on communication. Oprah totally says so! Why am I just finding out about this now?"

"I had hoped to have more information before..."

"Okay, you know what? Way too many men in my life who think they have to protect Buffy from yucky knowledge... and now some future-witch has decided I need another one? As presents from the future go, I think I'd rather have the flying car."

"Not just 'some witch', Buffy," Giles sighed. "Willow was the one who sent Spike back to you."

"Oh," Buffy stuttered, then remembered she was ranting. "Well, why didn't anyone tell me that? It's a total vibe-change towards the good. If Willow thinks I need him... did he say why Willow thought I needed him?"

"Buffy... I must say, Spike's actions thus far have demonstrated only the best intentions... and I believe Spike is the reason you've been experiencing such dramatically reduced vampire activity."

"Splainy?"

"Spike has taken a position with the city as Head Groundskeeper."

"Whoa-whoa. Spike's a gardener? Having major problems with the garden-glove visuals."

"Groundskeeper, Buffy. He's in charge of the city cemetery system. Did you think six-foot-deep holes dug themselves? It allows him inside information on everyone being buried on any given night, which he cross-references with the obituaries..."

Realization flared on Buffy's face. "He's staking the vamps before they're even buried?"

"It is a rather good setup for him, I must say. Beyond the financial and, er, dustier benefits of the position, it means that he is an employee of Mayor Wilkins, with an ear inside that office..."

"We care about this why?"

"Because Mayor Wilkins turns into a massive snake-beast and destroys the high school."

"Okay, good reason..."

"Spike spoke of your desire to have a more normal life, Buffy. He feels that by reducing the vampire population, you will be able to devote less of your time to patrolling and more time to social activities or... God forbid... your schoolwork."

"He's dusting vamps to bring up my grades? Oh my God, he is my stepdad."

Giles blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"That's Willow's theory. Mom's got major crushage and so won't admit it, and he's pulling a total Angel-in-reverse. I come home, he poofs."

"He did speak rather fondly of Joyce... and his attitude towards the group was a bit odd, like..."

"Like someone who knows us, but isn't really part of the team?"

"If he perceives you as his daughter, it would explain why he feels such a, well, rabid desire to protect you..."

"Here's what I don't get, though. If he's my stepdad or a Scooby or whatever, why's he being so avoidy? I haven't seen him for more than five minutes since he showed up."

"I believe he's merely busy, Buffy. But that does remind me..." Giles opened a drawer, retrieving a small metal key and sliding it across the counter. "He left this for you."

Buffy picked it up. "Um... okay...?"

"With the groundskeeper's job comes the groundskeeper's cottage in Restfield, into which Spike has just moved. He's stocking it with first aid supplies, food, replacement weapons... and he's offered you the use of it should needs arise during patrols. He suggested you might want to leave a few changes of clothes and toiletries there, in case of..."

"Getting covered in head-to-toe acidy demon goo?"

"That would be one instance where you might find it handy, yes."

"Somewhere to take potty breaks," Buffy grinned, sliding the key into her pocket. "Now I'm all endeared. You ever seen the public restrooms in the park? Super eww."

"He's suggested we investigate common demon poisons and their antidotes as well, keep a stock. Apparently you've been poisoned by demons at least twice that he can recall."

"Antidotes, clean socks, and Slayer Snacks? He is so my stepdad."

"Well, I certainly can't say I mind the idea of you having a father who is actually involved... and can offer you something beyond yearly, guilt-induced shopping binges..."

"Giles, do I detect a note of bitterness?" Buffy chirped over-brightly.

"You detect an entire melody of bitterness. You and your mother deserve so much better than..." Giles stopped himself, whipping off his glasses to clean them. "I'm not certain Spike is the answer, but..."

"Giles? Thanks."

"I'm sorry?"

"For the repressy British rage towards my dad. It gives me a kind of warm fuzzy feeling."

"Well, I..."

"And Giles? Spike may be my legal stepdad, but you are always gonna..."

Giles ducked his head, blushing, and Buffy laughed. "Right. Emotions in public, very Colonial of me. I gotta get to Trig."

Giles watched her go, a shocked, pleased smile spreading over his face.

"Spike?" Buffy knocked on the door of the groundskeeper's cottage, clutching her small pile of folded clothing. "Spike? Are you home? Hello? Spike?"

She shifted her clothes to one arm, fishing out the key and opening the door, flicking on the light switch. "Hello?"

"Wow. Minimalist," she commented, surveying the empty living room. "Guess your time machine wasn't a U-Haul."

Buffy drifted toward the one object in the room, a cheaply-framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Smoothed out behind glass, it showed cracks and wear...

Well, he probably had it in his pocket, duh. Not like he packed to time-travel...

... but clearly showed Joyce, Buffy, and a younger, brunette teenager.

Ha, ha. You are so busted... dad.

Buffy picked up the photo, entranced; she was older in this picture, way skinnier, and her hair was a different shade of blonde... that she might just like better on herself, now that she looked at it...

"Oh, Slayer. It's you. Had just gotten out of the shower, gave me a hell of a turn."

Buffy whirled to face a doorway full of wet vampire... clad only in skintight black jeans and battleaxe.

Holy muscle definition, Batman!

Spike leaned the axe against the wall and ran a hand through his damp nest of curls, causing all kinds of really interesting things to happen to shiny, wiry muscles. Buffy realized she should probably quit staring... and she would!

In... just a minute.

"Sorry the place is so barren... gonna get furniture, just haven't gotten around to it yet. Laid in some of that cookie-dough-fudge-mint-chip stuff you fancy, though, if you're peckish. Kitchen's that way."

The body of a Greek god and fabulous taste in ice cream? Go, mom!

"Well, that settles the question of whether or not you have an diabolical plan to destroy me. Obviously, you've come from the future to get me fat."

He grinned. "Got that raspberry fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt crap if you're feelin' virtuous."

"Wow. You really do know me."

"Well enough to have crunchy peanut butter to go with the ice cream."

"Hey, you are evil."

Huh. Weird; that joking little twinkle in his eyes had just sputtered and died, and he was staring at his feet with great interest. Moody, much?

"So... who's the brunette?"

"Beg pardon?"

"In the picture." Buffy wiggled the frame she still held. "Is she a Scooby-of-the-future?"

"Manner of speakin', yeah. That's Dawn." And now he smiled again, fondly. "You'll like her."

"So, I... brought those clothes you mentioned to Giles? You have somewhere I could put them?"

"Sure, yeah. Lemme give you the tour. Like I said, kitchen's thataway... there's a laundry room off it." Spike moved through the doorway into a hall, opening the first door. "Guest room here, got its own bathroom. Thought that could be yours, yeah? Nice big closet, room for the stuff you brought... weapons chest, not a lot in there at the mo' but I'll fix that, an' there's the bathroom..."

He seemed unwilling to go into the bathroom itself, merely gesturing nervously from the doorway. "First aid stuff's under the sink. Shower n' towels, case you get slimed by some nasty. Got you some of that vanilla stuff you use, other girly bits."

Buffy brushed past him, noticing with a little frown how he shrank from her touch. "This was really nice of you, Spike..."

"Yeah, well." More staring at his feet.

She opened the lower cabinet. Hello, paranoia? Hydrogen peroxide, alcohol, mercurochrome, poison kit, ace bandages, gauze, seven different types of band-aids, over the counter medications for pretty much anything a human could get from poison ivy to hemorrhoids, and... a box of tampons.

So, so, so her stepdad.

"Wow," she laughed, poking a bottle of Nyquil. "You thought of everything."

"Just want you safe," he grumbled.

"So," she grinned, straightening up. "Guest room for Buffy, huh? You gonna put a bed in there? I've got some extra bed-stuff from the house I could bring, sheets and stuff..."

"Bed?" He looked alarmed at the prospect. "Er, yeah, suppose that'd be handy if you got knocked unconscious or what have you. I'll get on it..." He paused, grimaced. "I'll look into gettin' one."

And walked out of the room as if it were on fire. Okay -- weirdness level rising steadily...

She followed him. "Spike? Thanks. I bet this is going to be really helpful. It's sweet of you."

"Er, well..."

"I'm sure Mom will think it's very sweet, too..." Buffy added with a wicked grin.

That whirled him. "Thought your mum didn't know you were the Slayer yet?"

Well, that answered a lot of questions. "Not... yet."

"Ought to tell her soon, Slayer, when you've got time to sit down n' chat it out. She'll deal with it a lot better'n gettin' it dumped on her in the middle of a crisis."

"Okay. Okay, I'll remember that. Thanks... again. I appreciate it."

He had the strangest look on his face... like every word she said confused him.

So weird, but it reminded her of something that had happened years ago, back in L.A.; they'd gotten new neighbors, who'd had a dog they kept constantly chained up to a tree in their yard.

After a few nights of lying in bed, listening to the dog whimper, she hadn't been able to stand it anymore; she'd gotten a bowl of water and some leftover hamburgers and crawled through a hole in the fence.

And it was that look, the way the dog had looked up at her while she petted it, surprise and pleasure and wariness, just waiting for her to go all Mr. Hyde and start kicking it... that she recognized on Spike's face.

What the hell had he been through?