He'd been gone for twenty-seven days, and she missed him every minute. She missed the intoxicating scents of smoke-infused leather and peroxide and the soft sexy gruffness of his voice in her ear when they were thrusting together in their blissful rhythm—the only times they were ever in sync, come to think of it. She missed his hands cupping her ass when they kissed, the sly, teasing smirk he offered so readily, the warmth of his sincere smile, the one she was pretty sure he reserved for the Summers girls alone.

It took about a week before Buffy truly believed that he had left town, a week she spent scouring the well-worn streets of Sunnydale under the premise of patrolling, killing vamps in her path but keeping a hopeful eye out for one in particular. She even asked about him down at Willie's, and although two Cyrangi demons she questioned exchanged nervous glances, no one knew anything.

Dawn, in the meantime, was an emotional hurricane, leaving a path of destruction in her wake wherever she went. She blamed Buffy first and foremost for chasing Spike away, but had devised an entire list of guilty parties who were subject to her wrath: Xander, for being so hard on Spike (no one had the guts to point out to her that not only was Spike not deterred by Xander's disapproval, he actually relished it); Willow, for the spell that had brought Buffy back incapable of the full range of human emotions that might have salvaged the relationship; even sweet Tara, for having the inside scoop from the beginning and doing nothing to ease Buffy's insecurities about being with Spike. And, inexplicably, Giles. Because he had left, and everyone had fallen apart.

"What about Spike?" Buffy demanded of Dawn in the middle of one of the endless shouting matches they'd held on the subject. "He's the one who left, Dawn. Why don't you put the blame where it belongs for a change? We didn't make the decision for him."

In response, Dawn had stormed off to her bedroom, leaving Buffy with a growing certainty that Spike was the one she was truly angry with. It was just easier for her to blame the ones she could look in the eye and shout at and slam doors against. If Spike ever came back, Buffy was sure he would have his own special kind of hell to pay with her sister.

If he came back.

Clem was living in his crypt, holding the fort down and leaving the place a jumble of snack food wrappers and beer cans and empty pizza boxes. Buffy had gone there at the beginning of her search and discovered the new living arrangement, and it left her uneasy for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint. Spike was oddly neat for a vampire, and would probably hit the roof when he saw the condition of his old residence.

If he came back.

It always came around to that.

xXxXx

"Giles, I have to tell you something."

"Buffy. What's the matter? Is everyone all right?" Giles' voice, distant through the phone lines, was sleep-fuzzed but held an edge of alarm.

Buffy glanced over at the clock on her bedside table and tried to do the time zone math in her head. Giving up on that, she plunged ahead. "No, everyone's not. I'm not. Not at all."

She could hear faint rustling movement and envisioned him sitting up in bed, fumbling for his glasses in the dark (it was almost four in the morning over there, the recesses of her mind confirmed, having finished the calculation), reaching for the lamp. "What is it?" he asked, his voice sharper now, more alert.

"Giles, I've been sleeping with Spike."

Dead silence on the other end.

"Giles? Did you hear me?"

"Buffy, are you in danger, or did you just call to give me a heart attack?"

"I'm not in danger, no. But did you hear what I said?"

"Of course I did, I'm not deaf. Good Lord, Buffy, is this what you called to tell me?"

"Yes. I want all my cards on the table. You were the last to know, my holdout because I didn't want you to be ashamed of me, so there, now you know, and now he's got nothing left to throw in my face. If he ever comes back. And if you are ashamed then go ahead and tell me now, get it out of your system, because, Giles, I don't really care anymore. All I know is that since he's been gone I haven't been able to think about anything else, and I miss him, and I need you and everyone else to know that it's not just the sex or the comfort. I mean, the sex is good. Really, really good." Buffy shook her head, realizing how far off track she was drifting. "But that's beside the point. I love him. I do."

"Buf—are you—what the devil are you talking about?"

"I love Spike."

"Wonderful. Is that all?"

"Huh?"

"Buffy, I'm beginning to fear for your sanity. If you've gotten everything off your chest—certain details of which I needn't have known, thank you—then I suggest you hang up the phone now and let me get back to sleep. I'll call you when my head is clear and my heart is not pounding in my ears from the fright you gave me."

"Okay, but really, this is your last chance to tell me you don't approve. You only get the one freebie. After this I'm going to smack down anyone who tries to intervene."

A weary sigh from her Watcher. "Well really, what I think is hardly relevant here. When has my approval or lack thereof ever made the slightest difference in any course of action you choose to take?"

She considered for a moment. "Good point."

"Just promise me one thing, and you'll never hear another word from me on the subject. Promise me you'll be careful."

"I'm always careful. Too careful. But I think this conversation is one step toward fixing that. Go back to sleep, Giles."

xXxXx

Spike laid into Clem when he saw the deplorable condition of his crypt. Clem, who had been taken completely off guard by Spike's sudden appearance in the doorway, was further perplexed by his friend's reaction to a little clutter. Made the place homey, he thought. Neatness was overrated.

"Neatness is overrated," he said.

"Says the floppy-skinned slob," Spike replied sourly.

"Hey! No need to get personal."

"I'm just saying, I asked you to look after the place, and it wouldn't have killed you to clean up after yourself a bit."

"So … are you back, as in, back?"

Spike shot him a look. "Looks like."

"The Slayer will be happy to hear that. Poor girl spent forever trying to find you. Even came down to Willie's asking around."

"What did you tell her?" Spike demanded.

"Nothing. I didn't know anything. You wouldn't tell me where you were going."

"Just as well. Did she—You haven't seen her since, though?"

"Nah, I figure she gave up when you didn't turn up after a while. The kid, though…"

Spike looked up sharply. "Yeah? What about her?"

"She comes by every now and again. Pretends to be just stopping in to say hi when she's in the neighborhood, but I kind of think she's hoping to find you here every time." Clem drained the last from the can of Coke in his hand and crushed it, then made to toss it into a corner where he had built up a pretty impressive stash of identical balls of crumpled tin. Catching Spike's warning glance, he shoved the can into his pocket instead. "Says she doesn't care, though. She's a tough cookie, that one. I sure wouldn't want to get on her bad side."

"I s'pose I'm on her bad side, then."

"Hoo boy, are you! She told me if I ever saw you again, to tell you to go get staked. Um, not that I'm telling you that, I'm just telling you what she told me to tell you…" Clem stammered nervously.

Spike nodded. No big surprise there; he'd expected as much. The bit was a tenacious force once you'd crossed her, and he'd crossed her in a big way. But now that he was back—not quite the same but maybe better, at least in their eyes—he could work on regaining her trust. That, and becoming a more deserving candidate for Buffy's love. Surely this shiny new soul could help him achieve that.