Warning: Use of mild language in this chapter.

Anya liked money. She liked counting it, she liked making it, but most of all she liked spending it. However, she wasn't getting to do a whole lot of that lately, because when she wasn't babysitting Dawn the Mystical Demon Key, she was at the Magic Box, going through dusty old books about ancient magics and evil goddesses who really needed a good root touch-up, if that was even her real hair colour. Or her real face, in fact. Which, Anya supposed, it kinda wasn't, since she'd also been Ben, the nice nurse guy. Were any of the care professionals in Sunnydale nice?

Anya didn't think so.

Today was a rarity: she was completely by herself. Xander was at the Summers' house with Tara while Giles and Willow recorded data about this giant bubble thingy over Sunnydale. Unsurprisingly for a town that had existed on top of a Hellmouth for hundreds of years without anyone noticing, the bubble hadn't even made the news. That was probably because they couldn't actually see it. They'd learnt that early on, when Giles had said, "Do you see that?" to a passerby and he'd said, "No." So, it was just the Scoobies who could see it. And Spike, who was basically an unofficial member at this point. She liked Spike, he was fun. He also liked spending money, but just not as much as her. No, it took a lot to get to the level of money obsession that Anya Jenkins had cultivated, although that wasn't their fault, for she was over a thousand years older than even Spike, let alone the rest of them.

At least she wasn't showing wrinkles around her eyes. Yet.

It was something she worried about, something she'd never had to consider as a Vengeance Demon. Back then, she could change, had another form she could change into whenever she wanted. And while her body now was pleasing -at least to Xander- she sometimes longed for the days without limits, when men had trembled at the mere thought of her power, or maybe just the fear of her getting near their coin purses. It wasn't that she didn't like being human, and all the things that came with it, but compared to the majesty of Anyanka...what did she have to offer, really? Especially when it came to all the danger and battling that went on around here. But there was no use dwelling on it: it wasn't like she could exactly call up D'Hoffryn and ask for her powers back just because she was feeling a little insecure in herself, could she? Been there, very done that.

No. She should think about something else, like puppies or baseball or a new handbag or...Xander.

Anya hoped that he wasn't too bored, and that he'd remembered to eat something for dinner, for it seemed none of them ate until it was absolutely necessary these days, so busy they forgot to look after themselves.

She wondered, as she pushed around her own dinner of fish fingers, peas and mashed potatoes, if this would always be her life, their life -her and Xander's- if they stayed in Sunnydale. Over two years ago, when the Mayor had been about to Ascend and Xander had refused to come with her, when he chose danger and the likely outcome of death over her and her shiny car because he had friends...well, to say she'd been stumped would have been the understatement of her eleven centuries. Now, though, she understood, or at least tried to. She liked Willow and Tara and Giles was okay and Dawn could be fun to hang out with and yes, it was irksome to see her boyfriend hero-worshipping Buffy, especially with his past feelings for her and all...But she understood. Living life was more about living for yourself. In fact, if you lived only for yourself then you weren't probably living in Anya's opinion.

She just wished it didn't have to hurt so much.

The worry, the fear, the waiting for the next ugly thing to come crashing through the door, the tiny breaks when things were normal that were like tiny sips of air after coming out of a long dive, gulping them down hungrily until you were submerged back in the water, back into the danger. But friendship and acceptance and love had grown out of that danger, and maybe the best, most important relationships in life could only be formed in such a harsh, harrowing environment.

Anya wouldn't trade them for anything, Xander and his love for her most of all, the love they'd made a home with. Indeed, Anya took in their little apartment, filled with knick-nacks and various normal-life paraphernalia, raking her gaze over the living room in need of a serious clean, copies of The Financial Times -Anya liked to keep up to date with the stock market and the rate of inflation- strewn about and...the first Harry Potter book, corner just peeking out under a stack of old magazines. Willow had been a fan, and she'd given the first one to Dawn after reading it herself, hoping to connect with her after becoming such close friends with her big sister. Well, Willow remembered it but it hadn't actually happened. Dawn had been hooked, though, and the gang had all booked tickets to see the new movie in advance, Joyce included. They'd all been so excited.

Now, now that wasn't going to happen. Because Joyce was dead, she was gone and everything hurt and now Buffy was gone, too, stuck in L.A. with no memories of the family, the loved ones she'd left behind. If she saw them on the street, she wouldn't recognize them, wouldn't even blink. Total strangers. So no, there would be no movie going in November, and the world was probably going to end again before that, anyways.

At least, Anya thought she wouldn't have to worry about spoilers before she finished the book.

Too many things in life got spoiled.

The sun had fully set by the time Buffy had gotten into his car, Angel focusing all his concentration and the woman beside him so that he didn't storm down to Wolfram and Hart and gut Lindsey like a salmon. So he knew that Angel knew about Buffy; he wouldn't have done what he did for any other reason than to get back at Angel. Payback for his hand, payback for Darla, even though what had happened with her and been nothing to do with him. Wolfram and Hart had been the ones who made Drusilla turn her back into a vampire, and if she'd had her fun then dropped him...well, could he really blame her? Lindsey had had potential, he could have really made something of himself, done real good, but he only did what benefited him, only played for the good side when there was a reward to be had. And while life wasn't black and white, Angel couldn't understand people who chose to work in the grey, fingers in both pies and all that.

He couldn't imagine working for someone like Wolfram and Hart, every day, and knowing it was wrong and they were hurting innocent people, every day. People like Buffy, who they'd now set their sights on. Of course, this wasn't the first time a Slayer had caught their interest -their hiring of Faith to take out Angel was proof enough that they kept an eye on the Chosen One(s) and their activities- but Angel had a feeling this was different, and that feeling had Glory's name all over it. It would make sense, given the fact that there had still been no sight of her in Sunnydale, or so Giles had said last time they spoke: Glory was likely working with them, had maybe promised them something in exchange for what? Protection? Magic power? An endless credit account at Tiffany's? Angel had no idea, and that was dangerous.

If he had any hopes of keeping Buffy safe and restoring her memories, then he had to be aware of every piece on the board, their resources and their motives. He'd learned long ago that while you can always build a strong strategy of attack for yourself, that all means nothing if you can't guess your opponents next move, if you can't...

Angel was hauled out of his thoughts by Buffy playing with the radio beside him, the sudden stylings of Britney Spears filling his ears. A smile on her face -the first since he'd found her at the precinct- Buffy began singing along, bobbing her head, ponytail pooling by the collar of her jacket. Angel cracked a grin at the sight. It was moments like these were he was vividly reminded of just how young she was, how she may have responsibilities no one, let alone a young adult should ever imagine having to bear, and yet underneath all that she was still a girl who enjoyed a good pop song, still liked to eat cereal, dry, right out of the box and wear bright nail polish and go shopping until the mall closed. It also reminded him how much he'd missed out on, these last two years. He'd seen her grow up into a graduate, but he hadn't been there for her college days, hadn't been there to support her in finding her place in the world outside of slaying. He hadn't even helped her when she suddenly had a sister, and out of everyone she knew he was the one with the most experience in that department.

No, he'd been too busy with his own life, his own problems. And while there was nothing wrong with that, and the phone is a two-way device, so she could have called if she really needed him...Angel still felt guilty. Because even if Buffy got all her memories back, would Angel even recognize the woman she'd grown up into? He liked to think so, but he wasn't sure, and that scared him, more than any battle or opponents' strategy: the fact he might not recognize the woman he loved so much.

"I take it by your silence you're not a fan of the Britney," Buffy joked lightly beside him, some of the life returning to her green eyes.

"You'd guess correctly. I'm not much for modern music."

Buffy nodded as if she'd guessed as much. "Figures. You probably like Beethoven or Mozart or Chopin or Vivaldi or Bach-"

"'I live for Bach,'" he quoted at her.

She put a hand to her chest, mock-gasping. "Oh my, he's capable of making a pop culture remark, alert the presses!" Then, more seriously, "I didn't peg you as an X-Files fan."

"There's a lot you don't know about me," Angel replied truthfully. "I wish I could pull of an eighties tie like Mulder, for example, but unfortunately I don't posses the power."

"Yeah, some of those were so bad!" Buffy said with a laugh. "I think you dodged a serious fashion bullet there."

"I do actually like Bach," he told her. "And Jazz. I like jazz music."

"My mom and dad used to listen to jazz all the time when I was little, before they got divorced," Buffy reminisced, absently twirling the strap of her watch between her fingers. "They'd dance around the living room, listening to it, you know, the typical picture-perfect childhood memory. I used to think I'd never seen two people so in love, that nothing could touch something like that. Boy, was I wrong. I guess you have to stop dancing at some point, right?" she asked him, and Angel wanted nothing more than to put his arm around her, to kiss her on the forehead and tell her it was alright, that he'd never stopped loving her, and nothing had ever come close to touching that, to breaking it, not demons or Darla or any other woman. But he couldn't. So he merely said, "Maybe. Not everyone finds the right partner."

"Ain't that the truth," Buffy remarked dryly. "I swear, my mom has gone on so many first dates with men who could only be described as robots that it's made me jump out of the dating pool."

Angel sucked in any unnecessary breath. Has gone. As in, still alive to go on. Buffy thought her mother was still alive, that she hadn't been sick, or if she had her voice didn't indicate any lingering pain or worry for her. Oh, God, what had Glory done to her?

In a blink of an eye, he seemed to pull up at the hotel, keys rattling as he switched off the engine. And just because he could, because he wanted to do something nice for her, however small, he went around and pulled the door open for her.

She tossed him a grin, snatching up her bag -one she'd grabbed from her locker after agreeing to stay the night. "Why thank you, Jeeves. Who knew getting set creepy flowers would lead to such stellar services?"

"Only for the L.A.P.D's finest," he grinned back.

She didn't go in, instead letting her gaze travel up the length of the building, all the ways to the stars beginning to peek out above the roof. He felt it coming, and he was more than ready. "You know, maybe I should just go back to my place; I don't think your guys -and gal- like me all that much."

I should start putting money on these things, Angel thought.

"You're staying, stop being so stubborn. Nothing is gonna change my mind," he said, trying to be as athoritive as he could. It should have been easy, but he'd never been good at telling Buffy what to do. "We'll work on the case," Angel promised, sweetening the deal, knowing it would make her stay.

"Alright, fine, I'll have a sleepover with you. But I'll be expecting pillow mints," Buffy drawled, walking into the lobby.

Well, would you look at that?

The cemetery was always looked best at night. True, it wasn't like Spike could go out in the daytime and admire it's grandeur, but it felt more like home when it was dark and there was nothing but owls and the sound of night birds. However, tonight the vampire was not stopping to smell the cobwebs; no, he had a job to do. Since Buffy was currently 'abscent,' it had fallen on the Scoobies to patrol. Supposedly, they'd done it before, when Buffy had left town after killing Angel. They'd even had codenames. Spike was not surprised. But he was surprised by how rusty they all were, and after about five minutes it was clear that the only one capable of filling in the Slayer's shoes, at least for the time being, was good 'ol Spikey.

So out he was, patrolling around Sunnydale, nothing but the night breeze for company. Not that loneliness bothered him: being a vampire, you learned to live by yourself, to rely on yourself and your instincts. But still, this wasn't nearly as much fun as hindering Buffy on her patrols, appearing out if nowhere behind gravestones and annoying her until she was pink in the face. God, did he miss her. It was kinda pathetic, really. Here he was, William the Bloody, moping around Sunnnydale with a stake in his hand and a crossbow in his pocket all because he'd become enamoured with the Slayer who wasn't even old enough to legally buy alcohol.

At first, he'd assumed, hoped, the feelings would go away, that it was plain lust or that he'd been without Dru for so long he'd just latched onto the first pretty thing that happened to walk by. It wasn't. Deep down, he'd always known it wasn't. What he felt for Buffy was nothing like how he'd felt for Dru, but not in a bad way: he could never have loved someone as dark as Drusilla the way he now loved Buffy.

But who was he kidding? He'd seen her play out her dances with her guys, seen them look at her all googley, like she'd hung the bloody moon and their world orbited solely around her. Spike had thought they were right idiots, the paltry lot of them. Then he'd become one of those idiots. If he'd been able to see himself -not that he could, what with no reflection and all- when he looked at her, Spike knew he'd be exactly the same. So he'd had this startling epiphany, and then of course Buffy had to go fight Glory and get zapped. Now, according to the information Captain Forehead had given Giles, she didn't even remember him! On the bright side, she didn't remember Angel, either, so at least he wasn't alone in the 'I'm Miserable Because Buffy Anne Summers Doesn't Remember Me' boat.

No, Spike was not the only one in pain. The one in pain out of everybody was little Dawn, put through too much crap by the cruel universe that really didn't seem to like the Summers family. The other day when she'd broken down crying into his chest, he'd never felt so useless, wishing he could do more than say it would be okay, and have her believe it. Cause she didn't, and he didn't blame her. Spike remembered what it felt like to lose your mum, and although his own mother had not died as unexpectedly as Joyce had -given the fact he'd killed her after turning her into a vampire- that didn't mean it hurt any less. And if he'd had a sister like Buffy, someone he loved and respected and admired, only to have them gone too...well, let's just say he didn't know how the kid was still standing.

Maybe it was because she was Buffy's blood, had been made out of her or whatever, but Spike suspected that was only part of it, and that the little Nibblet was stronger than most gave her credit for, especially herself.

Suddenly, Spike picked up a sound, out by the cemetery on the edge of town. Keeping to the shadows, he angled his stake, his footsteps making nary a sound as he inched across the grass, readying for a fight. The sound intensified, and he could make out...banging? Like someone hitting something hard.

"Weird," Spike mused but kept on walking.

Coming into the cemetery proper, Spike rounded a corner, following the noise, stake raised, ready to shift into his 'Game Face' when...when he finally saw what was causing all the racket. Spike lowered the stake, dropping it completely. Hands planted firmly on his lips, suddenly annoyed as all hell, Spike yelled, "Dawn Summers, just what the bloody hell do you think you're doing young lady?"

For a minute, Spike couldn't help but balk at his own shrill, parental tone. Dawn must have as well, for there was a sliver of pain in her eyes, pain at the loss of her mother. Mentally cursing himself, Spike was about to apologize but was sidetracked by the sight of all the stuff she'd lugged out here.

"What in the name of Manchester United is all this?" he demanded, feeling like all he needed now was a dishcloth draped over his shoulder that he could wag at her to complete his motherly ensemble. Or an apron with flowers on.

Dawn stood in front of her assembled tools, toeing the handle of a shovel behind her, as if she could somehow hide it with her tiny mass. "It's nothing," she said, folding her arms over her chest, shivering slightly as the wind kicked up. It was funny how Sunnydale could still get crappy weather, even when trapped under a mystical dome the colour of pink bubblegum.

Then it hit him. And like that, all of his annoyance drained away like bath water down a plug. "Oh, sweetheart. Please don't tell me this is what I think it is."

"It's not what you think it is."

Any other time, he would have praised her cheek. But not right now.

Slowly, he walked over, taking in the mounds of dirt, the broken handle of another shovel, trowels bent at unnatural angles.

"You were trying to break the forcefield."

"So what I I was?" Dawn demanded hotly, fire burning in her eyes. "*So what if I was?" As if to emphasize this, she picked up a chainsaw -Jesus Christ, where in the bloody hell had she gotten that from? And how had she carried it all here?- wobbling slightly as she adjusted to it's weight, but she raised it determinedly and the blade met the substance of the bubble, energy sparking, singeing her denim jacket, flying out onto her hands.

But the bubble didn't move, didn't so much as ripple. Dawn let the machine fall out of her hands, not even bothering to turn it off.

Despite not having beat for nearly a hundred and thirty years, what little remained of his heart broke completely and utterly at the raw devastation and misery he found on her face. Crouching down, he switched the chainsaw off, the quiet suddenly too loud.

"I tried digging under it," Dawn told him hollowly. "I tried and tried, but it didn't do any good. It's still there. She's still there and I'm still here, and I can't get to her, I can't see her, all I know about her is what people bother to tell me. Even if I did, what would it matter? It's not like she remembers me, knows my name or my favourite colour or that I don't like olives on my pizza. I just thought, maybe if I found her, I could try and make it better. I could try."

Dawn finally let the tears that had been building as she spoke fall free, sinking into the grass, mindless of the damp or the cold or the fact she'd be staining her jeans. No, you didn't think about stuff like that when you felt like the world, your whole world, was falling apart all around you.

Spike didn't hesitate. Shucking off his leather duster, he draped it around her shoulders, trying to stop her shaking, shaking so hard it made even him, who's name was not anything to do with a crazy hairstyle, flinch to look at.

"I couldn't save my mom," Dawn sobbed. "I couldn't save her, could-couldn't do anything," she told him through her tears, fighting for breath, for calm. "She died, and-and that was it. But Buffy...I don't want her to thin-think that I didn't try, that I just accepted it all without do-doing something. I never want her to think I didn't lo-love her enough to do whatever I could."

Spike rubbed his hands up and down her arms, attempting to warm her up. "Oh, sweetheart, she could never think that, not for a second. You're an amazin' girl, and I know Buffy's proud of you, and she'd be proud that you tried so hard. Although she wouldn't approve of the power tools, but that ain't important right now." Gently, Spike tilted her chin, forcing her to meet his blue eyes, steeled with compassion and determination. "But this is not the way, Dawn, not when it's hurtin' you. We will figure this out, okay? But hacking at it with sharp objects won't do you any good: what if someone actually wanted to garden around here? Well, they wouldn't be able to, on account of you stealin' all the bloody shovels in Sunnydale."

Dawn let out a quiet laugh that was more like a sniffle. Progress.

"How did you get all this stuff up here, anyway? You surely didn't carry it all in one go?" he inquired, genuinely curious how she'd masterminded this whole operation.

"I did it in stages," she confessed. "I took something here and there, then dumped it in an old mausoleum until I thought I had enough stuff. All I had to do then was find the right time to sneak out of the house."

"Pillow in the bed, tape recorder snores?" Spike asked with a smile.

She nodded guiltily.

"You've watched too many movies," he chided half-heartedly. Then something clicked. "Xander was on sentry duty, right?"

"Yeah."

Spike rolled his eyes, letting out a snort. "Figures. Only he would fall for that crap. Alright, Nibblet, let's get you home." He began to pull her up, but Dawn tugged on his wrists. The vampire raised a brow.

"Are you gonna tell everyone what I did?" she asked shamefully.

Spike replied instantly, "No, of course not. I ain't no snitch, Dawnie. You only did what you did outta love, so why should you be punished for that, when we all love her? No, so long as you know what you did was not okay, and promise not to go stealin' power tools or digging around the forcefield ever, ever again, that's enough for me."

"I promise." Dawn let him pull her the rest of the way up. She threw her arms around him, hugging him this time. "You're the best," she told him.

Spike placed a kiss on the top of her head. "Oh, girl, don't make me blush in my old age." Then, he said, very quietly, "I think you're the best, too."

Author's Note: Hi, everyone. That scene between Spike and Dawn...it was one of the hardest scenes I've ever written, emotionally, but also the most rewarding. I really enjoyed writing this glimpse into the goings-on in Sunnydale, and I hope you did to. We're coming to the end of my pre-written chapters, so I likely won't be posting every other day, it's going to be longer because I've actually got to write them. Anyway, please leave a review and share your thoughts.

Also, if you're looking for something different, I'm currently working on another Buffy fic, a season one rewriting where Spike is cursed with a soul in 1898 instead of Angel, chapter three of which I'll be uploading tomorrow. And I've got a whole bunch of oneshots, too. I do not own the X Files quote, of course, and yes, Buffy was listening to 'Baby One More Time' by Britney Spears.

Until we meet again!

Have a lovely rest of your day!

All my love, Temperance Cain