There was an awkward silence.  "Maybe we should take a break from the research," Tara said.  Expressions of relief broke out all around the table.

"Great idea." Buffy tightened her arm around Spike's middle with the rebellious glee of a small child bouncing on the good sofa.  He couldn't blame her; he had the dizzy feeling that this was all a figment of his overactive imagination.  If he pulled her closer, would she disappear?  The slight, strong body in his arms remained flesh and blood as he draped both arms round her shoulders, and the rebuff he still half-expected didn’t come.  Elated, he bent his head, nuzzling her ear.  She tensed a little, then leaned into him defiantly, shoulders against his chest, the sweet curve of her ass pressing into his crotch.  Ha ha, I'm touching Buffy!  Touch touch touch!   Felt good.  Felt wonderful.  Felt like... felt like the mood was making a remarkable comeback.  "In fact, I think we should try to find out more about all the, uh, bears and things, and if there's any--" Buffy gasped slightly as his arousal became more evident, straining towards her warmth.  "--connections.  Spike and I can search--" She cast a quick look at the front door; still sunlight out.  "--the tunnels."

Spike nodded.  “I’m game.”  Without further ado Buffy broke for the door to the basement, Spike right behind her.

Willow called after them, "Do you need any he--"

"NO!"

Spike kicked the door shut behind them.  Buffy spun around and grabbed him, yanking him down a step or two.  They collided on the stairs, hands clutching bodies with white-hot bruising passion, slamming against each other, blind with two years of pent-up need.  He caught hold of her waist, hands sliding up under the halter top, stroking, caressing, drawing little whimpering moans from her while her lips and tongue traced patterns of fire down the cords of his neck.  Her hands went back to work on the buttons of his fly--good, going to be some serious damage done if something didn't give down there soon.  Warm hands, fuck, there was a God.  She freed him from the jeans and he gasped in relief, but it was only momentary; her touch made him so painfully hard it was a marvel he didn't come right then and there.

Fresh desire surged up in her, musky and intoxicating, the moment she took him in her hands.  Spike staggered for a second, drunk on her scent, caught his balance, and lifted her up bodily.  They crashed into the storage shelves at the bottom of the stairs, sending vials of mandrake root and asphodel flying.  Buffy braced herself against the shelf.  He heard cloth ripping as he pulled her jeans off her hips--didn't care, not when his Slayer was squirming and moaning under his hands, her teeth nipping at his lower lip, her mouth warm, so warm, but nothing compared to the tropical paradise between her thighs.  She was wearing some lacy scrap of nothing under the jeans and both layers of cloth were soaked through already; she yanked the underwear aside and reached down to guide him into her.

Then he was sliding into that lovely moist heat in one long sure stroke, borne up in the ocean of her eyes--if the world had stopped turning on its axis, he would not have felt it; if prophesy was fulfilled, he would not have cared.  All he knew was that in her body he had returned home at last.

5:00 PM

  "Again?  Can’t--oh.  OH..."

"Oh, but you can.  Again.  And again, and again.  Don't know your own strength, Slayer?"

"I--oh, yeeessss.  Get in me, now.  Harder.  Didn't know your strength.  Everyone else... got... tired... OH!"

"Rrrrrowwrr... Ah, that's lovely, that is.  You've got the prettiest little pink quim, and you're so wet, all for me, so hot and tight...  I get hard just breathing you in, you know that?"

"Getting the picture.  Nice big picture.  God, Spike, you feel so good... yeeeesss!  That's it!  Right there!  Yes, yes, YES!!"

6:00 PM

"Do you think they're still up there?"

"Do we give a fuck?"

"Welll..."

"Makes me horny, thinkin' of them clustered around the door, listening for pointers..."

"Everything makes you horny."

"True.  Let's not waste it, eh?"

7:00 PM

  "Oh, come on, love, you act like you've never seen one before.  I know damn well the poof wasn't snipped."

"I know, but we didn't exactly... you know, spend a lot of time looking at each other.  It's so... cute.  Like a little turtleneck."  (a giggle)  "OK, a not so little turtleneck."

8:00 PM

"Say it."

"I bloody well will not."

"Say it.  You know you want it.  You won't get it till you say it."

"Buffy Summers is the Goddess of Head and the owner of the Magic Tongue and I beg her on bended knee to apply her rosy pink lips to my poor abused cock before I fucking explode."

"That's not what I--oh, screw it, it'll do."

9:00 PM

"Are you sure?  I've never--"

"Love, I could break the damned thing in two ticks if I wanted to.  I don't want to.  I like it."

"But it looks like it hurts."

"Oh, yeh, it hurts.  Hurts real good.  Just keep on--ohfuckingchristYES!"

"Wow.  I guess you do like it.  What if I... oooh.  You know, a girl could get into this..."
 

11:00 PM

"Buffy?  Love?  What's wrong?"

"I--don't stop!  I'm not crying.  I'm not.  I--I never knew it could be like this.  I--no one ever did that to me before."

"No one...?  What, was Commando Boy sodding insane?  He had you in his bed for a bleeding year and a half and never...?  I'll fly down to Brazil and kill 'im tomorrow...  Or better yet, I'll stay here and do it again."

1:00 AM

"Mmmm.  William..."

"What?"

"Oh.  Sorry.  Spike.  Spike?  Are--"

"No--s'all right.  Just... no one ever said that name that way before."

"Hey.  I’ll say your name any way I like."

"Ah, so now it’s my name?"

"Shut up and do me, William."

3:00 AM

"I love you."

"Spike, I..."

"Don't.  I know.  It’s all right.  I've just got to say it now and again."
 

Buffy awoke to the sound of a heart not beating.

In repose, they fit together, an interlocking puzzle in ivory and gold: his nose buried in her hair, his occasional breaths stirring the fine loose strands; her head still pillowed on his shoulder, an unforseen advantage of sleeping with someone whose circulation couldn’t get cut off.  His arm curled across her body, hand cupping her breast.  Her fingers splayed across his chest, savoring wiry muscle layered over bone.  She could see the trail of fingernail-welts over the curve of his shoulder, already starting to heal.  She watched the flutter of his lashes, startlingly dark against his pale cheek.  He looked younger, more vulnerable, in sleep--hair tousled, the lush, almost feminine curve of his lower lip all the more irresistible set against the severe planes and angles of cheek and jaw.

Had she intended to take it this far, this fast?  She couldn't remember; skin-to-skin contact with Spike left her brain little more than a cascade of white sparks.  She flexed her body experimentally, wincing at all the delicious little aches the movement roused.  She was ravenously hungry, in desperate need of a shower, and feeling...

Spike made a little protesting noise, drawing her closer, and she curled into his side; there was a warm spot there, where she’d lain next to him all night.  All of this changed nothing, of course.  Last night she’d screamed, laughed, wept, made him do the same.  They’d touched ecstacy beyond her wildest dreams--and then had a rousing fight over whether or not he got to smoke in bed after touching ecstacy.  Some time in the night the glass wall had shattered for good, cutting her to the bone and making her howl with joy at the pain.

She couldn't remember if Angel had breathed in his sleep.

One thing she was going to have to keep in mind if this went on was that wild spontaneous sex in unheated basements was very Blue Velvet and all, but waking up in the unheated basement next to an unheated vampire was just chilly.  Was that rag in the corner what was left of her halter top?  Forget the morals of it all, your wardrobe can't afford an affair with Spike.

His arm tightened around her and his eyes blinked lazily open, blue and clear, with a told-you-so smirk that had nothing to do with being a demon and everything to do with being a guy.  His fingers began tracing  arabesques on her breasts and belly, and she arched into his touch, her mouth seeking his with unerring instinct.  After a moment she had to breathe, and forced herself to sit up, casting about for her clothes, whatever was left of them, anyway.  "What time is it?"

Spike yawned, (why on earth did someone who didn't breathe yawn?) did a long, slow, crack-every-muscle stretch--and pounced, pulling her down and nibbling her earlobe.  Melting now.  "Buggered if I know.  Buggered if I care.  C'mere and let me give you a nice thorough shagging."

"Noooooo!" she moaned, not at all convincingly.  She squirmed out of his grasp and crouched on hands and knees, surveying the storeroom with alarm.  There were pieces of broken glass from the toppled mandrake jars all over the floor, along with splinters from the broken shelf.  Amazing that they hadn't sliced themselves to ribbons or accidentally staked Spike.  If we don't happen to be in an alley, by gum, we'll make the place look like one!  Anya was going to freak.  "No touchy!  Dawn's probably worried sick--"

Spike caught her ankle and ran the tip of his tongue along her instep. "Dawn's fifteen, not five, and probably thrilled to have a night to herself for a change.  'Sides, Will and Tara’ll have told her where we were."  He grinned.  "Not exactly where we are, I hope."

"Well... oohh... No!  If nothing else, I've really gotta pee.  And I'm starving."

He sighed and let her go, reaching for his own clothes.  "I could use a spot of brekky myself."  The grin widened.  "Nothing like exercise to work up a healthy appetite."

Buffy, clutching the remains of her halter top to her chest, bit her lower lip.  "Spike..."

"Yeh, love?"

"You didn't..."

"Eh?"

"You didn't go all grr.  Even once."

He raised an eyebrow.  "So?"

"Does that mean..."  She felt herself going red.  How on earth was she supposed to ask this?  "I mean--was--did you... enjoy it?"

He cocked his head to one side and stared at her.  "Did I--?  That's a damned fool question--there's things a bird can fake, but in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a bird."

She ducked her head.  "It's just--whenever Angel got...uh... excited..."

Wrong thing to say.  Hurt and irritation swept the look of nostalgic lust off Spike's face in an instant.  "Look, Slayer, if this little get-together was about indulging your death wish, take the next sodding bus to L.A. and look up Grand-sire.  I don't screw my food."

Buffy flinched.  "It wasn't Angel who kept reminding me I wasn’t worth a second go!"

She didn’t try to keep the bitter edge out of her voice, and got the dubious reward of seeing him flinch in turn.  Spike made a disgusted noise and got to his feet.  A moment later his hand was tipping her chin up roughly, forcing her to look at him.  His winter-blue eyes caught hers, looking right down into the bottom of her soul; was it fair that he, who had none, was so good at reading hers?  She felt his fingertips tracing the old bite scars on the side of her neck, and shuddered.  He studied her face for a moment, then bent his head.  Slowly, methodically, his lips brushed her neck, teasing her--then he bit down, hard, suckling at her throat, that amazingly talented tongue caressing her sensitive skin in the wake of his grazing teeth until she was dissolving under his touch.  She was gasping when he drew away, on the verge of another climax, and she could feel him hardening against her.  His face was still completely human; he hadn’t broken the skin.  "Listen," he said, harsh and intense.  "Last night was the most amazing experience of my life.  Better than the best kill I ever had--if sex was blood I could live off you, Slayer.  I’m yours.  You and the Bit.  In the immortal words of Buffy Summers, deal."

He was still a monster.  A beautiful monster, a monster who loved her, her very own leashed and muzzled man-eating tiger.  Buffy lifted a hand to his face, stroking his cheek, not caring that her fingers trembled.  Nothing had changed--

“Here,” he said, handing her his T-shirt.  “Looks like this survived the carnage.”

--except that someone, somewhere, had just won that pool.
 

  Tanner sat on a hummock of limestone, rubbing his upper arms with his hands.   He was cold.  The temperature in the caves was constant, but chill, and his coat was too thin for comfort when sitting still.  A few guttering candles dripped wax down the sides of the stalagmites where they were perched--as an attempt to hold back the immense rolling darkness, they were pathetic, but that was not their primary purpose.

The figures huddled around the central altar didn’t appear to notice either the cold or the darkness.  Skeletal limbs swaddled in rags, eyeless faces turned upwards, they brandished staves adorned with fragments of bone and feathers, their droning chant importuning the attention of something ancient and dark.  Tanner didn’t understand the words; they were in a language that had died before the first ape stood upright on an African plain.  The echoes rolled back and forth across the cavern, creating a polyphony that gnawed its way into the brain, an endless tapestry of sound.

One by one the chanters dropped out, until only a single ragged voice remained.  “Shkaur!” it cried, striking downward with the butt of his staff.  Sparks flew from the cavern floor, as if the staff were steel to its flint, and for a moment actinic green light illumined the whole vast space around them, glinting off swags and canopies of flowstone,  translucent crenelations, pendant forests of rust and cream and gold.  Then it was gone and the darkness rolled in once more, still and cold and overwhelming.  The eyeless men stood rigid for a long moment, then lowered their staves, slumping in exhaustion.  One of them turned to Tanner, the muscles of its ravaged cheeks twitching with fatigue.  “It is done.”

“Great.  So what about my half of the bargain?”  Tanner got to his feet, stiff with long sitting.  “I can’t keep this together much longer.  It was sheer luck we found that poor schmuck under the picnic table.”  And poor fare the man’s mind had been, too--half gone already, as so many of the chronically homeless were.  Odds were good he’d remain one of the ones who never left the junkyard camp, one more mouth to feed and back to clothe for those of them who remained able to function.

The eyeless man smiled, perhaps the most unpleasant expression Tanner had ever witnessed.  “Your foolish panic has wakened other powers. Their arrival stirs others yet, already made wary by the shifting of the Balance.  Complications such as these we needed no part of.”

Tanner shrugged.  “You pick a crazy guy to do your dirty work, you take your chances.”  Unease coiled within him even so.  He’d been running on the ragged edge of sanity that night, or he’d never have tried that half-assed summoning to begin with.  It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but he couldn’t begin to analyze his own motivations now.  The loa were not forgiving masters, and he had no right to beg their protection--yet Ghede had answered. Chill black waves flowing from his hands into the Red Witch’s skull.  He shivered.  “I did what you asked me to.  Pay up.”

 A desiccated chuckle.  “Never fear.  Your reward is at hand.”
 

   "OK, so the spell you used on me--the incantation was Fomorian, right? And no physical components at all?"

  Willow, head propped listlessly on her fist, nodded and flipped over another page of  Unnatural Maladies.  Grimacing at the gory illustration of a victim of a Fyarl demon's acid mucous, she skimmed the accompanying text and flipped the page again.  "That's right.  Just words and hand-wavy stuff.  I didn't figure I'd have time for anything fancy while Glory tried to pop my head off."

  Tara went back to the diagram she was working on.  Willow sneaked a look over her shoulder; it was a more elaborate version of the scribbles she'd been working on yesterday, showing all the component parts of the altar.  They'd taken the bus out to Weatherly Park that morning and hunted till they found the isolated picnic table-altar and the scattered remnants of the spell.  Tara had sketched the whole thing carefully, and now she was trying out different reconstructions of the patterns formed by the stones and the ritual objects.  Willow didn't know what Tara expected to get out of the project; obviously Daniel Tanner's version of the spell wasn't what they needed, but she didn't feel up to arguing about it.

You're not up to much lately.

She stared down at the ornate script on the page before her and heaved a sigh.  It was a whole big ol' fashioned Scooby research party--well, minus Giles, who'd bowed out, as he did so often these days, to deal with the shipping company which was moving his library back to England.  And minus Buffy and Spike, who'd been incommunicado since the previous afternoon.  No one had quite gotten up the nerve to knock on the basement door yet.
 Willow should have been in her element, but she felt fuzzy and unfocused, unable to concentrate.  Something inside was dried out, scraped bare, and how long it would take for her inner reservoirs to renew themselves... ugh.  She didn't even want to think about that.

Xander and Anya were having an argument over by the counter; eavesdropping on them was more interesting than trying to puzzle out what the author of Unnatural Maladies meant by 'lesions caused by the unmentionable foulnesse practiced among the Fyarl of Bavaria.'   They were arguing a lot lately--about the wedding, about money, about anything at all.  "Look, it doesn't matter how the bear fits in." Xander sounded edgy and snappish.  "We just don't have enough info, so we stick to the mission: find crazy people, catch crazy people, fix crazy people."

A chill worked its way up Willow’s spine, as if dark water were rising around her.  Of course, you realize all this is futile--without a source of power to tap, you won't be able to fix the crazy people without making more crazy people.  Every spell has its price.

No!  That's not so!  Well, the price part, yes, but-- She looked round at the stacks of books, feeling the dark water rise, a wave of defeat washing over her.  There wasn't anything in them that could help, she knew--she'd gone through every single one of them researching the original spell she'd used to cure Tara.  The niggling little voice was right.  You couldn't draw power out of nowhere.  But she’d had a lot of experience in being creative about where she drew it from--work at anything hard enough and you’d find a catch.  If you couldn’t beat the simulation, reprogram the simulator.  Wasn’t that what Buffy’d been doing for the last six years?

Anya sniffed.  "The last time one of those bears came around, you got cursed with a grotesque sexually transmitted disease.  As the person you have sex with, I have a right to be concerned." She unlocked the lid to the front counter display case and arranged a pair of enameled bracers (guaranteed to fend off shark bites) in a prominent position in front of the 'Store Special!' placard.  She stood up and surveyed the shelves critically.  "Drat.  We're out of the lemon meditation candles.  Go get me another carton out of storage, Xander."

"Oh, thanks for the reminder! I'm not the one who stirred it up this time." Xander tossed a snide look in the direction of the basement door.  "Someone else’s parts can fall off.  And I am not going down there."

Anya shrugged.  "All right, I will." She started off towards the forbidden door.

Xander caught her arm, his voice taking on a note of panic.  "You can't go down there!"

"Why not? It's my store."

"Because--because it might be dangerous! What if they left the door to the tunnels unlocked, huh? They haven't come back yet, maybe something got them and maybe it's down there right now about to--"

"Xander," Anya said with commendable patience, "They didn't go into the tunnels.  They went down to the basement to have sex.  Although I wish they'd gone into the training room instead; there are far fewer breakable items in there, and I know I heard crashing noises.  But since the training room has no exit, it would have been obvious that they intended to have sex, and I did notice that Buffy was employing the misdirection you keep talking about.  It doesn't work very well.  Or maybe she's just not very good at it."

Xander clapped his hands over his ears.  "Gnnng."

"Poor Xander," Tara whispered.

Willow wrinkled her brow.  "I wonder if he's really upset or if this is some kind of autonomic reflex.  If he didn’t kick up a fuss it would ruin his reputation.  Besides, you know, him and Anya--I suppose technically she's got a soul, but--" If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.  What a boring philosophy. She tried very hard for Xander's sake, but Anya was just annoying.  Nails-on-chalkboard annoying.  She speculated idly on the chances of Xander noticing if Anya lost a little mental energy for a good cause.  Bad Willow.

Still , said the niggling little voice, not a bad idea in theory.  You could steal a tithe of energy from many minds to heal one.  Who would miss it?

The necessary spell flashed into her mind, almost fully-formed.  Eww.  No.  Where did that come from?

"I'm surprised it's taken this long," Anya continued blithely.  "It's been obvious for some time that Buffy's sexually attracted to him.  Spike is pleasent to look at, has well-defined muscles and appears to be exceptionally well-equipped to give her orgasms.  Also the two of them have a great deal in common.  They both enjoy witty repartee, wearing leather and killing things."

Dawn slammed her book shut, pulled her backpack from beneath the table, and hopped to her feet.  "Not that hearing you guys speculate about my sister's sex life isn't oodles and bunches of fun, but I'm getting nowhere and it's almost twelve.  I'm supposed to meet Lisa at the mall.  Can you tell Buffy when she gets back from her, uh, search that I'm gonna have dinner at Lisa's and--"

"I'm sure Buffy will be back by then," Tara said firmly.  "Phone home at six and see what she says."

"Buffy will say be home by ten or face the Slayer's wrath," Buffy said.

Everyone's attention was immediately riveted to the back of the shop, where Buffy stood, wearing yesterday's jeans (somewhat the worse for wear) and Spike's t-shirt.  Spike lounged in the doorway behind her, equally rumpled-looking and bare-chested underneath the duster.  It was astonishing how the ever-present tension between them was simply gone--evaporated.  Spike took in Xander's look of exaggerated horror and Anya's frank appreciation with amused equanimity; Buffy just looked disconcerted to see that everyone was staring at them.  Dawn bounced over to her sister (and someone was going to have to tell Dawn that with the way she was growing, getting Dawn-bounced was becoming a little alarming) and hugged her.  “This is so great!"

"Ah," Xander said, straight-faced.  "I see.  We're now looking for a clothes-eating monster."

"You guys haven't been out here since--?" Buffy asked nervously.

"Not at all," Anya assured her.  "We left when the noises got too distracting.  You’ll be paying for everything you broke, of course?"

"She's joking, Buff," Xander said, glaring at Anya.

“Of course.”  Anya looked quite earnestly upset over the idea that her humor might have been misconstrued.  “Except for the paying for breakage part.  Oh!”  An expression of rapture blossomed over her face.  “If the two of you are a couple, I can save money by getting you one Christmas present!”

“Because our tastes are so similar?  But I’m getting you and Xander separate presents,” Buffy shot back.  “No fair.”

“Right, no cutting back on the prezzies when you and Harris are the only ones in this merry band with a steady income.”  Spike leaned over and whispered something into Buffy's ear.  She smiled up at him and tugged him down for a kiss that rapidly deepened to the point where shutting the door on them again began to look like a viable option.  "I'm going to nip home and get something to drink," the vampire said when they finally broke apart, doing the whole husky-voiced, smouldering-gaze thing.  "Later, Slayer." He started back down the stairs, stopped, and leveled a warning finger at Anya.  “And yes, I’m coming back for my car, so if you have it towed I’ll come hang about through your whole Christmas sale week and harass the paying customers.”

Buffy watched Spike go with a little smile, took a deep breath and turned back to the others.  "So," she said.  "Got something for me to beat up yet?" Not carefree, bouncy, pre-Angelus Buffy; that girl was long gone.  But certainly happier than Willow could remember her being since before the whole mess with Riley and vamp hookers, before Joyce Summers had died.  If Spike can do that, then maybe I should be playing matchmaker. Come to that, Spike had looked pretty darn pleased with the universe, too.

Hard to believe it was only three years ago he was threatening to cut your face open with a broken bottle, isn't it? Of course he's harmless now--for the time being, at least--but it's sobering to think any new-risen fledgling could do the same to you now, with your powers at such a low ebb.. .

Willow fought off a reflexive shudder as the memory of that horrible night in the old factory washed over her afresh--and Spike had been the least horrible part of it, in retrospect.  Perhaps that was why she'd been able to let go of the fear and anger towards him so easily: when it came down to it, she'd hurt herself far more than he'd hurt her.  Still...  she had been afraid, that night.  It could never happen to her now--

Except, of course, that it just did.  At the hands of a mere human hedge-wizard.

"You'd better just go looking for crazies," Tara was saying.  "Because the leads we have on any of the rest of this stuff are--well, they aren't."

The others didn't notice as Willow rose from the table.  She had the eerie feeling that time was slowing as drifted over to the stairs, the earth ceasing its revolutions for her and her alone.  Everyone else was frozen in place, too busy talking to Buffy about the unsolvable problem, as if the Slayer could beat it into submission.  But it wasn't unsolvable.  The solution just wasn't in any of the books down on the lower level.  Willow whispered the words that allowed her access to the balcony.

She knew exactly what part of the restricted section of the library to go to, exactly what part of the shelf to reach towards, exactly which book to slip out from its dusty slot, taking care not to disturb the volumes around it.  It was small and squat and bound in battered black leather, and any title embossed upon its spine or cover had worn away long since.  It was one of a box full of books Xander and Spike had recovered from Doc's apartment over the summer, when they'd searched it for clues to who the mysterious old man--or demon--had been.  Most of them had been concerned with necromancy of one sort or another--not surprising, considering that Doc had been an expert on the subject.

Her fingers brushed the greasy leather.  This one...  this one had proven valuable.  She'd found the passages that had inspired her modifications of the Raising spell here, part of the Protocols of Osiris.  She'd intended to translate the rest of it at some point, but there just hadn't been time.  Quickly, Willow tucked the book under her arm and climbed down the ladder again.  She slid the book into her dufflebag and zipped it up.  Time lurched into motion again around her.

"--just doesn’t seem right somehow,” Buffy was saying.  “Buffy the Homeless Wino Slayer?  Not exactly a fair fight, is it?  What do I do, catch them with butterfly nets?”

“Say that again after a pack of them come this close to sucking your brains out,” Xander said with great feeling.

“Mm.”  Buffy didn’t look convinced.  “All right, we’ll get on it.  I’m gonna go home and hit the showers or no one will be able to tell me from the crazies.”

“Get the mail, will you?”  Willow asked.  “I forgot to check the box when we left this morning.  Oh, and tonight before patrol?  There will be dish.”

“It goes so well with that eyeshadow!” Lisa peered over Dawn’s shoulder at her reflection in the mirror on the counter.  Dawn tilted her head this way and that, doubtful.

“You don’t think it’s too red?  But then, Buffy does go for that blood-of-the-innocent look.”

“Trust me, it’s luscious.  She’ll love it.”

Dawn stuck the lipstick back into its slot on the tester rack and twiddled a few others round to read the names.  Raspberry Dew, Cotton Candy... no wonder little kids tried to eat the stuff.  She looked around, but there were no clerks in evidence anywhere near the makeup counter.  Par for the course.  Nordstrom’s was festooned with swags of gold and silver crepe and crowded with early Christmas shoppers, and the air was redolent of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and the smell of Department Store: a mingling of perfume, leather, plastic, wool, and fake evergreen scent.  “I can’t believe they had this stuff out before Thanksgiving,” she muttered.

“Are you kidding?”  Lisa waved at the nearest display of holiday cheer.  “They had it out before Halloween.  Here, smell this.”  She spritzed her wrist and stuck it under Dawn’s nose.

“Phhweh.  Smells like cantaloupe.  I don’t think fruit salad is sexy.”

“Huh.  So much for designer fragrances.  On the other hand, mothers aren’t supposed to be sexy.”  Satisfied, she dropped the bottle into her shopping basket and consulted her list.  “Got Mom, got Dad... he’ll be so thrilled with another tie, but honestly, I have no idea what to get him--Jamie wants that Green Day album...”  She hesitated, then choked out in a rush, “Do you think I should maybe send that guy a card or something?”

“What guy?” Dawn asked absently, trying out a slightly less fire-engine shade of lipstick.  “Alan?”  Forbidden Passion.  Oh, yeah, this was it--if nothing else, watching Buffy’s face when she read the name was going to be worth it.  “Stand right there.  Hold it.”  She took another quick glance around to ascertain that there were still no clerks in sight, and shifted her body so that her back was towards the security camera.  One quick flick of the wrist and the lipstick of her choice was in her purse.

“You’re so good at that.” Lisa was frankly envious.  “I’d totally panic.  No, the--the vampire guy.  He did kind of save my life.”

“It’s a knack,” Dawn said, giving her hair a careless flip.  She was good.  Even Spike said so, and he was the professional.  “Sure, send him a card.  I think he’s got a post office box, I’ll see if I can get the number.  If not you can leave it at my place and I can pass it on.”

Lisa nodded, still a little red about the ears.  After the way Megan had been drooling all over Spike, maybe she was afraid he’d take it the wrong way.  Little chance of that considering recent developments.

She was glad she’d already had plans with Lisa for this weekend; it kept her from obsessing to much about those recent developments.  She was happy for her sister and for Spike, of course, but she couldn’t help worrying about how this would change everything.  She’s wanted this--wanted the two people she loved most to come together, wanted their weird little almost-family to finally coalesce into something real.  Sure, it was silly to think that Spike would move in and he and Buffy would show up together for Parent-Teacher Night, but the fact that there was now a solid, nameable connection between them was reassuring.  From This is Spike, the dead guy who hangs around a lot to This is Spike, my sister’s boyfriend was a big step.  Sister’s boyfriends got to come over for Christmas and didn’t have to skulk around in the bushes with a beat-up box of chocolates on birthdays.

Still, it was hard not to be nervous.  Every change over the past year had been one for the worse.  Change was bad.  So naturally something awful had to be lurking over the horizon to mess up this seeming good news.  She just wasn’t going to think about it.  “Men’s clothing next?” Dawn asked.  “I want to get Xander just one decent shirt and I’m gonna have to pay for that.  Oh, and we have to stop at Williams and Sonoma, I know Tara wants some weird egg-strangler kitchen device.”  Which she wasn’t going to be able to afford, most likely.  She had a Williams and Sonoma shopping list and a K-Mart budget.  Which made it practically noble to take a five-fingered discount on a few things, since they weren’t for her.  Right?

They set out for Men’s Casual, navigating the maze of clothing racks and dodging displays of elegantly-dressed mannequins tastefully disporting themselves amidst piles of fake snow.  Neither girl noticed the man in the dark suit step out from behind one of the mirrored pillars and start to follow them.

Part 10

Part 12