Buffy sat down heavily on the bench, arching her back to crack it. Amazing that a whole night fighting creepy crawlies left her feeling keyed-up and ready for more... yet eight hours in the land of Doublemeat could utterly drain her dry.

Everything hurt. Slayer strength was meant to see you through battle... not standing in the same place for hours on end, boredom becoming tedium becoming near catatonia. Standing over the grill, feeling the grease seep into her pores, waiting for the horrid screechy buzzer that told her to turn the patties over. Can't have variation. Variety is definitely of the bad. Each patty must be the same size, same shape, same amount of doneness, just like every day at work, a neverending monotony.

Why be alive? What was the point? Your days fell into this mind-numbing rhythm. She'd given Spike such crap for not having a soul, but she couldn't even feel her own anymore. She was trading her youth, her talent, her brain, her everything, for... what? Full copper re-pipe, upkeep on a house that was falling down around her head, this sucking vortex of need in the world that she alone was required to fill... and it would never stop, there'd never be a moment of freedom, a day when the bills didn't arrive and there wasn't a need to step into the machine...

Spike popped into her head then, such a random memory, that time he'd come to town all busted up over Drusilla... and she remembered him smashing this vamp's head into a table over and over. So incredibly lame, like everything Spike did, but... the glee on Spike's face, the huge grin, the obvious perverse enjoyment he'd gotten, the violence and joy all rolled together... hell, he'd looked almost innocent, like a little kid with a new puppy, just... pure happiness.

She'd felt that once, that savage joy, the adrenaline thudding in her veins, the goodness and rightness of her muscles in motion, the power surging through her. What had Faith said? Isn't it crazy how slayin' just always makes you hungry and horny?

Buffy didn't even realize she'd pulled a stake out of her purse and walked into the cemetery until the first vamp attacked, bursting her out of her thoughts. A few seconds of tussling and the stake slid into his chest without resistance, leaving him dust.

Her pulse hadn't even sped up.

So much for this stupid idea. Might as well go home, get in the shower, and scrub like hell... the problem with Slaying after work was that the grease made the vamp dust stick, made it into a sort of... meaty death paste.

Yes, this was the grand reason she'd come back, the calling she'd been ripped out of heaven for. Full copper re-pipe, and meaty death paste.

She realized she'd started humming under her breath, and laughed at the irony; "Lust For Life", by Iggy Pop. Of all the wildly inappropriate songs to get stuck in her head...

Except... wait. It wasn't in her head.

Party in the graveyard. Fabulous. That meant a vamp nest. She should probably go get... no, dammit, she could do this on her own, she didn't need...

Spike?

The door of his crypt was wide open, light blazing from within, the source of the music and pounding drums... and as she watched, he emerged... his hair wet, curly, and tousled, his red shirt untucked. Had she ever seen him wear it as just a shirt? With... the sleeves rolled up haphazardly?

Cigarette dangling from his lips, Spike crouched out of her line of sight. She moved to her right, sidestepping the tombstone, and she could see him... in front of a... hibachi?

He pulled his flask out of his back pocket, taking a swig... then poured the contents carefully over five steaks, sizzling on the grill.

Spike was... having a cookout?

Buffy stared, entranced, watching his face in the glow of the coals, his head bobbing to the time of the music as he flipped the meat. God, those cheekbones...

The ring on his index finger flashed orange in the firelight, drawing her eye up the length of forearm exposed by his rolled up sleeves. All sinewy and veiny and oh, she knew how it looked the rest of the way up his sleeve, the cut where his bicep met the rest of his arm, the way those arms could lift her so effortlessly, pin her against a wall as his mouth crushed down on hers...

Stop it, Buffy!

A shadow passed between the light and the doorway, a feminine figure leaning against the doorframe, backlit, her golden curls a halo.

Another date? God, he was such a manslut!

She wondered if this one was allergic to wood. Might be fun to find out.

"Y'know, for a really flammable guy, you'd think you'd be less of a pyro," the woman laughed.

Oh, God. Buffy knew that voice.

Anya.

Xander was gonna have kittens.

Anya moved from the doorway, peering over Spike's shoulder. "I didn't figure you'd cook yours."

"Like 'em rare, Pet," Spike grinned up at her mischeviously. "Not that rare. You, on the other hand... you look ready to eat."

Anya giggled. "Shut up, Spike. And come inside. You're missing all the fun."

Buffy heard a low growl and whipped around before realizing it had come from her own throat.

Another feminine head poked out of the door. "C'mon, Spike, Clem's no good at this girly stuff."

Tara?

Multiply those kittens. And wasn't Tara spending tonight with...

"Aw, c'mon, why can't I? I'm old enough to drive and stuff!"

Dawn.

A thin film of red began to cloud Buffy's vision. So this was Tara's idea of a wholesome place to take her little sister? A cookout with three demons?

Anya took Spike's hand, tugging him to his feet, and Spike rose in one graceful, catlike motion, letting Anya haul him inside.

Buffy crouch-walked behind the tombstones, aligning herself so that she could see through the door into interior brightness of the crypt... like a rectangular painting, lit from within.

Dawn moved into the frame and back out again, thrash-dancing wildly to the music, her long brown hair swinging in a curtain... then Clem, grinning broadly, arm stuck in a bag of Doritos. Anya next, a pile of clothing over her arm, holding up a shiny shirt and examining it critically.

And finally Spike, holding Tara by the waist, lifting her up and setting her on top of the sarcophagus, settling himself between her spread legs.

What... the... hell.

Buffy moved closer, trying to hear their voices over the jubilant music.

"Alright, Pet," Spike tilted Tara's face towards him. "Close your eyes."

What the hell was he...

Buffy blinked.

And did it again for good measure.

Spike was... putting eyeliner on her.

Dawn danced through the rectangle of light again, arms over her head, swaying.

Spike stepped back, regarding his handiwork critically. Tara grinned at him, taking a sip from a tumbler full of pale amber liquid, and Spike moved forward to do her other eye.

"Wow, you're really good at that," Anya said, moving into view and squinting over Spike's shoulder.

"Had to do it for Dru," Spike shrugged, putting the cap back on the eyeliner. "Give my princess an eyebrow pencil, and she'd play connect-the-dots with her face."

He and Anya switched hand contents, and Spike moved back between Tara's legs. "Give us a pout, love."

Buffy watched as Spike spread lipstick slowly across Tara's lips, Tara's face leaned back, her eyes closed in perfect trust. It was almost sensual, and God, he was being so incredibly gentle...

She tried to imagine Spike doing this for Drusilla, imagine the kind of patience he must have had to nursemaid a crazy woman for a century. Patience... it wasn't anything she associated with Spike...

In my world, the dance lasts for hours... for days. I don't need to breathe. I don't need to stop. And I've had a hundred years of practice.

She was shivering... because it was cold. Yeah. That was the ticket. And she was angry because Dawn had come here without permission. It didn't have anything to do with the way the inside of Tara's thighs rode the outside of Spike's, the way she was arched into him, the intensity with which he looked at her as he blended the lipstick with one powerful, beringed thumb, dragging it across Tara's lower lip with aching slowness.

She wasn't jealous of that soulless, evil thing.

And besides, Tara was gay.

She was all-the-way gay, wasn't she?

The doorway suddenly went black, full of Clem, trundling outside carrying a paper plate to get the steaks off the grill.

Move, Clem, move...

Finally, he did, ducking back inside the crypt, setting the plate of steaks on top of the sarcophagus. Behind him, Spike vamped out briefly, tearing the top off a bag of precut salad with his fangs. Tara moved into frame, setting a bottle of ranch dressing next to the steaks... then Anya, with an armful of sodas. Dawn scooted herself up on top of the stone, whirling around on her butt, cross-legged, laughing.

Spike took the soda Anya passed him. "Oi! Proposin' a toast here. Weighty occasion n' all."

"Hear, hear," Tara giggled. She sounded a little tipsy.

"To the Nibblet, our resident Francophile, and her..." Spike looked at Dawn expectantly.

"A hundred and five," Dawn grinned.

"On her test today All hail the mighty brain o' Nibblet."

They all clinked cans.

"Say somethin' impressive in Frog, Bit."

Dawn grinned evilly. "Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?"

Spike spat soda, staggering backwards. "Bloody hell! Soddin' chip! Somebody hit her for me!"

Tara smacked the back of Dawn's head, which only made her laugh harder. "Okay, I hit her, now what did she say?"

"Somethin' she'd bloody well never say again!"

Buffy watched her little sister, bathed in light, giggling helplessly as she dumped a really obscene amount of dressing onto her salad, slapping Spike's hand away when it rumpled her hair.

It looked so... domestic. The warm yellow light, the laughter, the five of them bent over their plates, eating, talking, smiling. It was everything the house on Revello no longer was, with its long shadows and longer silences.

When did the grave of a dead guy become all... homey?

And when had Buffy's home started to echo like a grave?

Dawn looked so happy, grinning at Tara as Tara wiped off a blob of dressing that had ended up on the tip of Dawn's nose. How long had it been since Buffy had seen Dawn look like that?

"Time to get you dressed," Anya said, taking Tara's hand, leading her towards the ladder.

"Look, be careful down there," Spike called. "I've only got it partly cleaned up... there's a lot of rubble n' such."

"Hi, vengeance demon," Anya laughed. "Pretty good with the rubble navigation. And creation."

Spike stacked paper plates, shoving them into a trash bag he'd hung from the iron railing. "Right then. Just gonna change my shirt and make m'hair behave..."

Dawn caught his wrist. "Don't make the hair behave. You look way cuter this way."

"I'm the soddin' Big Bad, Nibblet. 'Way cute' wasn't exactly the look I was goin' for."

"Aw, c'mon. I made a hundred and five! There were bonus points involved." Dawn stuck out her lower lip, batting her eyelashes. "Pleeeease?"

Spike rolled his eyes, but he smiled. "My hair is at your command, O Genius One."

The CD stopped, and Dawn rolled over to restart it... but Spike stopped her hand.

"Hang on a sec, Bit. Hear somethin' out there."

Buffy turned and ran.

----------------------------------

They moved as a group into the streetlight at the edge of the cemetery, and Buffy stifled a gasp behind her hand.

They'd made Tara look... wow.

She recognized the clothes as Anya's, but the way Tara filled them out was... different. Between the clothes and the makeup Spike had put on her, Tara looked... exotic, sultry, maybe even a little dangerous.

Well, until she tripped over a crack and nearly sent Clem crashing to the ground.

"So h-hard to w-walk in these t-things," Tara whispered.

Spike was beside her in an instant. "Just have fun with it, Pet. It's a costume. Pretend it's Halloween."

"I f-feel kinda s-silly..."

"Well, you look bloody fantastic. An' that's the fun of it, right? Keep 'em on their toes, never let 'em know what to expect. Believe me, pet, this is gonna send Red's brain into overdrive wonderin' what you're up to. Not gonna be able to think about anything but you, gonna drive her nuts."

"He's right," Anya added. "This is a very effective tactic to lull humans out of complacency. I've seen it work thousands of times."

"I-I just don't know if I have the attitude to match," Tara laughed weakly.

Spike grabbed her by the forearms. "Glinda. Tonight... you're me."

Tara looked into his eyes for a moment, then laughed. "Okay. Okay, I think I can do that... pet."

Buffy's eyes nearly popped out of her head as Tara tipped her head to the side, giving Spike a laviscious look from peroxide to boots, her tongue circling naughtily over her teeth.

"Bloody hell," Spike whispered in awe. "Hundred percent certain on the gay thing, love?"

Tara laughed. "Hundred percent."

"Red's not gonna know what hit her," Spike grinned.

"That's the general idea, isn't it?" Tara smirked.

"You go on ahead. I'll catch up," Spike waved the other four off, and Buffy's stomach did a little flip at the very appreciative glance Spike bestowed on Tara's departing, sashaying ass.

"Slayer?" Spike called, shoving his hands into his duster pockets. "Come out, come out, wherever you stalk."

Buffy moved further into the cover of the trees, cursing under her breath.

"Slayer, this is bloody ridiculous. You could've come in and had dinner with us, y'know. Nibblet would have liked that. Do you good to eat some real food, too. That damnable Doublemeat would be more nutritious if it were made out of people."

At her silence, Spike rolled his eyes and headed straight towards her. Buffy sighed, stepping out of the shadows.

"Well," Spike smiled. "Aren't you stripey."

Damn her Doublemeat Palace uniform, and damn it for being so orange, and damn him for looking amazingly fantastic in a cobalt silk shirt she'd never seen before.

"I didn't know you cooked," she finally said.

"Been around a long time, Slayer. Picked up a few things."

"Like German curse words to teach my impressionable little sister?"

"Got captured by the Nazis," Spike sighed. "Certain words get repeated in your presence."

"Yeah, right. You were at Woodstock, you got captured by the Nazis..."

"Don't believe me? Ask Peaches. He's the one rescued me."

"Like Angel would ever rescue you..."

Spike shrugged. "So ask him. You think I make up stories where Captain Forehead saves the day? Not bloody likely."

"So what was this, tonight, huh?" Buffy huffed. "Little meeting of the second-string Scoobies?"

"Second-string Scoobies," Spike mused, lighting a cigarette. "Haven't heard it put quite that brutally before. Don't worry, Slayer. We all know where we stand in your fabulous Scooby club, namely on the outside. But hey... since we've all been chewed up and spit out, maybe we can call ourselves the Scooby Snacks."

"I cannot believe you said that."

"How'd you come up with that name, anyway? Always wondered. Figured the whelp was Shaggy and the witch was Velma... now, does that make Angel Fred? 'Cause I see definite hair similarities."

"I don't think we, ah, ever..."

Spike took a step towards her, his voice turning to a velvet purr. "Look bloody fabulous in a bright red ascot and smurf-blue bellbottoms, wouldn't he, though?"

Buffy managed to turn the laugh that threatened to escape her throat into a polite little cough.

"Y'know... I've seen Angel in bell-bottoms," Spike grinned. "Might even have pictures."

"You do not."

Spike shrugged again. "Suit yourself. I'm off, then."

"Spike?"

He turned. "Yeah?"

"Maybe, um. Maybe when you..." Buffy sighed, her hands clenching into fists. "Oh, never mind."

"If you've got somethin' to say, Slayer, spit it out."

Oh, God, that voice, making her knees go all twingley and floofy. Stupid, arrogant, soulless, evil, vain, condescending, annoying, obnoxious vampire...

"Nothing. It's not important. Go back to your harem."

Spike cocked an eyebrow, an insolent smirk spreading across his face. "My harem, eh? Must say, I like that better than the Scooby Snack thing. Not quite sure where Clem fits in, though. Lovely fella, not quite my type."

"Oh, and Tara is?"

Oh, God, I said that out loud!

The eyebrow soared higher. "Slayer. You're not... jealous, are you?"

"Don't be an idiot. Willow's my best friend."

Spike grinned innocently. "Fair enough. Need to be catchin' up with my harem, though."

He took two steps away and turned back to face her.

"Almost forgot." He reached in his pocket, pulling out a small white card. "Met a fella knows a fella has a martial arts school. He's tryin' to find an instructor for a new class. Self-defense for women. Full-time position, benefits n' all that. Told him I knew a girl might be interested in a career change."

Buffy glared at the offered card. "I don't want or need your help, Spike."

"Suit yourself." Spike let go of the card, let it flutter to the pavement. "Doublemeat bein' double-sweet an' all. You've got dedication to your chosen career. I respect that."

He gave her a little wave, turning in a swirl of leather towards the Bronze.

She should stake him. She should totally stake him. It would be so easy, so satisfying, to break the leg off this bench and hurl it towards him, watch that condescending smirk explode into dust, shut his teasing, taunting, tormenting, tempting mouth forever.

But... Dawn liked him, and she'd be mad, and stuff.

Buffy waited until Spike was out of sight, and picked up the card off the pavement. Wouldn't hurt to keep it around. Not that she'd trust any 'fellas' Spike knew any further than...

Well, she could throw people pretty far, actually. She'd thrown Spike all the way across that house, thrown him right against that staircase, thrown him into the wall so hard she'd cracked it, right before she...

Dammit!

Why did he have to be so confusing? He was bad, he was evil, he didn't have a soul, he'd tried to kill her countless times, not to mention everyone else... and yet somehow, he was the one her little sister ran to when she got a good test grade? He was the one taking her out to celebrate?

Hello! I died for her! I flip burgers for her, which is actually worse! What more do I have to do, huh?

And what the hell was he doing hanging out with Anya and Tara? Laughing and cooking and giving freaking makeovers? Having a barbecue, like he was some kind of... soccer dad? A soccer dad who lived in a freaking half-exploded crypt? Who didn't breathe or have a beating heart?

He was such a... such a big... girly girl! Couldn't get along with Giles, couldn't get along with Xander, couldn't get along with Angel, oh no, but he's all happy putting on Drusilla's eyeliner and buying her dollies for a century.

Y'know, he probably had, like, fourteen sisters when he was alive, and he was probably the baby, and they probably all spoiled him rotten and curled his hair and dressed him in dresses and treated him just like Dawn does, with her oh-your-hair-is-so-cute-like-that ridiculous crap and all the touching, why did Dawn have to touch him all the time and act like Spike was Dawn's own personal version of Angel?

Why couldn't he just be simple? Run around being evil and horrible all the time so she could dust him properly and not do stupid confusing things? What kind of Big Bad watched Passions and cried at that phone commercial with the lost puppy and risked his life to save her little sister and tried to find her a job she'd actually enjoy and gave her nine orgasms in a row that was, apparently, 'only the tip of the iceberg'?

"Hate him," Buffy muttered. "Hate him, hate him, hate him."