"...so frustrating!" Buffy said as they went down the front walk.  "Anya keeps saying I should charge for slaying, and I can't even begin to list the number of ways that's deeply wrong..."

Spike looked thoughtful.  "I dunno, pet, there might be something in that.  Can't you hit up the Council of Wankers?  They pay Rupert a pretty penny.  I know, I nicked his bank book once."

Buffy made a face.  "Giles is looking into that, actually, but I'm not even sure I want to take the Council's money.  They'd own me again."

"So will anyone who signs your paycheck," Spike countered.  Buffy made another face, complete with gruesome choking noises.  He shrugged.  "Better the devil you know."

"I'd feel a lot better taking your advice if your idea of financial planning wasn't 'beat up demon, take its stuff, and hope it's got something worth pawning'."

He chuckled.  "Don't knock it, pet, it keeps me in blood and fags.  You could do worse than to go in for a bit of looting yourself.  If you're going to be killing the slime-covered set right and left anyway, you might as well be doing it for fun and profit."

Buffy frowned and pursed her lips.  "We're getting on the train which is not going there now."  Spike was only half joking, and she didn't want to think too hard about which half.  He didn't kill humans any longer, but it was little things like this which made it impossible for her to forget the whole absence of soul business.  And the annoying part was that she felt bad about shooting him down when he really thought he was making a good suggestion.  Time for a blatant change of subject.  "So where did you get this monstrosity, anyway?" she asked, eying the motorcycle parked in the driveway.  She wasn't up on motorcycles, but if there was a kind particularly suited to vampires with a basic black fetish, this was one of them, all dark and gleaming and... there had to be some other word besides 'sexy' to complete the description, but she couldn't think of it at the moment.  "And why did it come equipped with an axe holder?"

Spike's eyes lit with that cool-new-toy look he usually reserved for especially impressive implements of destruction.  He shoved the axe handle through the loops on the side of the bike and made sure the blade was secure.  "As you said--beat up demon, take its stuff.  The former owner made the mistake of trying to run me down with it a little bit before you got back."  He swung himself onto the saddle and eased the weight of the motorcycle off its kickstand.  "Helmet, pet."

"You're not wearing a helmet," Buffy grumbled, but she grabbed the one he tossed her and strapped it on.  It was powder blue, had seen better days and didn't match the menacing jet black bike in the slightest.  He'd probably scavenged it from the dump.  Or stolen it from a much girlier demon than the one who'd owned the bike.  She slipped in behind him on the seat.  Ooh, leather.  Comfy.

"I can survive twenty-story falls on my head, too."  He gunned the engine and the bike roared to life.  "Where're we off to tonight?"

"East Sunnydale Memorial."  It was a small cemetery on the outskirts of town, and they hadn't been there in awhile.  It wasn't all that popular amongst Sunnydale's vampire population, but Buffy felt that it was worthwhile to drop through every now and then and make sure it didn't get popular.  She frowned.  "He tried to run you down?"  That didn't sit well.  She was the only one allowed to beat up Spike, damn it, even if she had been dead at the time.

"Operative word is tried."  He flashed that who-am-I-kidding-I-love-to-brag grin over his shoulder.  "Shortly thereafter he and the bike parted ways and he didn't seem interested in it any more, so yours truly took it off his hands--what was left of 'em."

Buffy laid her cheek against his leather-clad back and wrapped her arms round his waist as Spike let out the brakes.  They tore off down Revello Drive.  The bike picked up speed, parting the night before them like a knife.  Wind whipped over and around her, threatening to tug her hair free of her helmet, and her body vibrated in time with the throb of the engine.  Between the howl of the wind and the engine noise it was impossible to talk, so she just gave herself up to enjoying the ride.

Dawn had a sentimental fondness for Spike's old DeSoto, but as far as Buffy was concerned, the DeSoto had been yuck on wheels, and if Spike never drove the thing again she'd shed no tears.  Riding around in that huge antique boat of a car with its blacked-out windows and all-pervading smell of old cigarettes and spilled bourbon had possessed a certain edge, but nothing like this.  This was wild and exhilarating.  Spike was a really good rider, not that she had any plans to feed his ego further by telling him so.  It felt good leaning into him as they rounded a corner and roared up the on ramp, her body pressed tightly to his.  No heart beat beneath her ear, but it was hard to imagine anything feeling more vibrantly alive than the unliving body in her arms.  The flat hard muscles of his stomach tensed under her hands as he shifted his weight from side to side, effortlessly weaving from lane to lane and occasionally white-lining it through heavier traffic.  There was something utterly satisfying about speeding down the road with a sleek, powerful, savage beast purring between her thighs, wholly at her command...

And the motorcycle's pretty nice, too.

As quickly as the thought bubbled up out of her subconscious her conscious grabbed it, clubbed it over the head, and stuffed it back where it belonged.  There had been so many times in the last month when she'd wanted nothing more than to curl up in someone's arms--anyone's--and be held, wallow in the ancient, primal comfort of touch.  She just wasn't on hugging terms with anyone at the moment.  It was a little too weird with Willow or Tara, and Anya would get jealous with Xander, and Dawn was fifteen and prolonged physical contact with close relatives was hopelessly uncool and Giles would get all embarrassed and Spike... well, it would have been the height of unfairness to ask anything of the kind of him, knowing how he felt about her.

But it was OK to hold on to your undead-soulless-ex-mortal-enemy-talking-buddy when you happened to be riding behind him on a motorcycle.

Buffy really liked the motorcycle.

Spike's sharp intake of breath jolted her out of her reverie in an instant.  "Holy bleeding fuck!"  The man had staggered out onto the highway not thirty feet in front of them.  Drunk, or sick, or heaven knew what, he was wandering around in little circles in the middle of the right-most lane, making swoopy gestures with both arms at oncoming traffic.  In a few seconds he was going to be worm food.

Spike swerved, avoiding the man by a hair's-breadth.  Buffy yanked on his shoulder and pointed back; he gave her a "You're crazy!" look and hauled on the handlebars without hesitation, slewing into a turn which would have sent anyone without supernatural strength and reflexes skidding into oblivion.  He circled back, riding the lane divider into oncoming traffic.  Buffy was crouched on the back of the seat now, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back end of the bike.  As they barreled past the dazed-looking man in the road, she leaped, kicking off of the bike and soaring through the air.  She hit the man head on, hoping for momentum to carry them both out of the road, but instead of rolling, he collapsed to his knees on the grease-stained concrete, carrying her with him.

Buffy scrambled to her feet.  Headlights the size of Ghora eggs were blazing towards her and she heard the squeal of air brakes and the frantic blare of a horn.  She bent down, lifted the man up bodily, and flung him back to the side of the road and safety.  The words I'm going to die.  Again. crystalized in her brain.  The thought was curiously uninvolving.  A heartbeat later the motorcycle roared up behind her and Spike grabbed her around the waist, yanking her off her feet.  They made it onto the shoulder two breaths before the semi thundered past.

Spike held on to her, shaking like a leaf and muttering "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..." as devoutly as any prayer she'd ever heard.

OK.  No death today. "Spike," she said, a bit strangled.  "Let go.  'Cause inhaling, you know?  Important."

He blinked, then released his death-grip a little.  "Oh.  Sorry, love."

Rubbing her bruised ribs, Buffy detached herself from the vampire's side and walked shakily over to the object of their rescue.  He sat there, sprawled anyhow, blinking dazedly up at her, a thin, weak-chinned man with receding hair and a long nose.  His face was strangely familiar, but it took Buffy a minute to place it.  She hadn't seen him in long time.  "Willy?"  she asked, disbelieving.  "Willy the Snitch?"

Willy giggled inanely and pawed at the air in the direction of the oncoming headlights.  "Pretty shiny fishy," he said.  "Slishy fishy."  He squinted, faint recognition sparking in his watery eyes.  "Slayer?  Don't break the fishy, pleeeease..."

Spike got off the bike and walked over, rubbing the back of his neck and looking perplexed.  "Bloody hell, what's happened to him?"

"I don't know.  I don't think I threw him that hard."  She poked gingerly at Willy's lank disordered hair.  "I don't see any injuries..."

The vampire sniffed.  "No blood.  Or not enough for me to smell it over the diesel fumes, anyway."

"We need to get him off of the highway."  Buffy glanced around.  All right, the DeSoto did have its good points after all.  "Can all three of us fit on the bike?"

"Sure, love.  If we're completely insane."  At her look he sighed.  "Maybe we could tie him to the handlebars or something."  He dropped to a crouch and waved a hand in front of the bartender's eyes.  "Oi, Willy, about that tenner..."

Willy's rat-like face broke into a sweet, foolish smile.  "Wheee!  Talk to the hand!"

Spike sucked in his cheeks and rocked back on his heels.  "The old skinflint really is gone if he doesn't remember..."  He stopped, an evil smile slowly illuminating his angular features.   "Of course we've got to help the poor bloke," he said piously, getting to his feet.  "Only decent thing for hero-types to do, innit?  Come on then, Slayer!  Give us a hand."  He hauled Willy to his feet and led the scrawny man towards the bike.

Buffy gave him another look.  "Spike, what are you up to?"

"You have a nasty suspicious mind, Slayer."

"Someone gives me lots of practice."  Buffy patted Willy down and pulled a shabby brown leatherette wallet out of the appropriate pocket.  She began going through it.  "Huh.  There's still a good hundred dollars in here, and credit cards--" She smacked Spike's hand away without looking up and he pouted.  "--so if he was mugged it wasn't by a very efficient thief."  She pulled out a California driver's license and peered at the small print in the chancy light of the freeway floodlights.  "4520 West Endicott, Apartment 23D.  That must be where he lives."  She stuffed the card back into the wallet and folded it up.  "I guess we could take him there," she said doubtfully.  "I'd say hospital, but the way he's acting, it's like..."

"Yeh." Spike took her meaning immediately.  "Like Tara was when Glory got to her."  His dark brows dipped together for a moment as if he were trying to remember something, and he shook his head slightly, as if that could dislodge the thought he wanted.  "But Glory's dead."

Buffy shivered.  "Yeah.  Really quite sincerely dead.  Show of hands for everyone in this conversation who's also been dead?"  Spike grimaced, conceding the point.  Her mouth firmed.  "Well, he's got to go somewhere, and I'm not feeling Mother Theresa enough for it to be my place."  She opened up the wallet again, looking for someone to contact in cases of emergency, but there was nothing.  Not surprising; in the circles Willy moved in, you were healthy or you were dead, with very little middle ground.  "If he's like Tara, someone will have to feed him and stuff, and I'm sorry, but eww, Willy."

She could have sworn there was a twinkle in Spike's eyes, but maybe it was the floodlights.  "Keep in mind that if you take him back to his place--assuming the address on the license is current--you'll still have to take care of any feeding yourself, as yours truly won't be able to walk in the door."

Buffy gave him the evil eye.  "Willy," she cooed, "Can Spike come inside your apartment?"

Willy goggled up at her.  "Spikey in the morning...?"

"The invite's got to be done at the door in question anyway, pet," Spike said with considerable amusement.

She smiled sweetly.  "I'm sure I can talk him around by the time we get there."

Getting Willy off the highway ultimately entailed hog-tying him with his own suspenders and balancing him between them, draped across Buffy's lap like a trophy deer.  Buffy found this considerably less enjoyable than the previous arrangement, and Spike wasn't any too happy about the situation either.  They took the next exit and followed surface streets to Willy's place at a speed which, for Spike, approached sedate.

The apartment complex was old and grungy.  Several flavors of loud music battled for dominance in the night air and no one seemed inclined to pay attention to two people lugging a body across the parking lot.  Willy's apartment was a one-bedroom roach trap on the bottom floor which looked as if he'd offered to store all his neighbors' spare grunge.  After finally discovering the keys in another pocket (Buffy made Spike search this time, because eww, Willy) Buffy dragged Willy inside and dumped him unceremoniously on the couch.  Five minutes of coaching on her part finally induced Willy to say something which satisfied whatever supernatural laws prevented uninvited vampires from entering private dwellings and allowed Spike to follow them in.

"Well," Spike said, surveying the room with hands on hips.  "Couch, telly, two-foot stack of Hustlers, and windows covered with tin foil.  I feel right at home.  Wonder if he's got any blood in the fridge.  I always suspected he was holding out with the good stuff."  He began rummaging through the mess of dirty magazines, old newspapers, and empty beer cans on the table while Buffy untied their oblivious host.  He came up with a somewhat gnawed-upon ballpoint pen and a pad of yellow legal paper and began scribbling away, squinting slightly at his work.

Willy sat on the couch and looked around vaguely.  Buffy looked at him, at a loss for what to do now.  "I guess we should call Willow.  Maybe she and Tara can do something for him."

"Best bet," Spike agreed.  He handed Willy the pen and shoved the legal pad in front of him.  "Sign here, there's a good Willy."

"Round and round, all the fishies," Willy said, making a wild whorl with the pen.  Spike guided his hand back to the bottom of the paper.

"Just write your name, nice big legible letters..."  He took the pad back, ripped off the page, folded it up and tucked it into his inside coat pocket.

Buffy looked up from the phone where she was dialing her own house. "Spike, what...?"

He looked as innocent as it was possible for a vampire to look, which was not very.  "Private business matter, pet.  I'm not diddling him out of the family farm or anything, just taking care of a few loose ends."

She gave him a good long look.  She seemed to be doing a lot of that tonight. "I trust you, Spike."

God, it was incredible when his eyes softened like that.  "It's nothing you'd want to stake me for, love, I promise.  Here."   He pulled the paper back out.  Buffy took it trepidatiously and began deciphering Spike's surprisingly lovely but old-fashioned handwriting.

"'In consideration for services rendered to me by William the Bloody a.k.a. Spike this night of November 28th, 2001, I hereby cancel any outstanding debts owed by the aforementioned William the Bloody to the Alibi Room or to...'  You're trying to get rid of your bar tab?  She bit back a laugh and returned the paper to him.  "Um.  I can't exactly say I approve, but no, I don't want to stake you for it.  Besides, I don't think he's gonna consider that binding when he comes to.   I don't think Willy knows what 'aforementioned' means."

Spike, who'd been watching her reaction with surprising anxiousness, relaxed.  "Probably not, but a bloke's got to try."  As she waited for Willow to pick up the phone, he looked at the sheet of paper thoughtfully, lower lip caught in his teeth.  After awhile he heaved a rueful sigh and tore it into four neat pieces.  "It's the little things, you know," he said, examining the scuff marks on the toes of his boots intently.  "Where I get lost.  I mean killing people and eating them, it's bloody obvious that's not... but all this other rubbish you have to do to be good..."

"Spike..."

He glanced up, still worrying at his lower lip.  "I know, love, I can't be.  Not really.  But still... I don't want you to be ashamed of knowing me."
        He has got to be the weirdest vampire on the planet.  But it's a sweet kind of weird, sometimes...   She coiled the phone cord around her hand as the answering machine kicked in, and waited impatiently for it to get through its spiel.  "Spike, I've hated you, despised you, been a little--very little, and it was a long time ago, so don't get a swelled head--scared of you once or twice, wanted to kill you more times than I can count--but I can honestly say I've never been ashamed to know you."

He cocked his head to one side and smiled--not his usual cocky grin or self-satisfied smirk, just a pleased smile.  The corners of his eyes crinkled up in the nicest way when he did that... "Ah.  Well, that's--that's good to know."

Was the fact that he could take something like that as a compliment more on the weird side or the sweet side?  The tension in the phone cord brought her up short.  Somehow or other she'd taken several steps closer to him.   Spike was looking down at her with his hands buried in his duster pockets as if he didn't trust them out in the open.  Funny how she always thought of Spike as being tall, when he wasn't, really, well, taller than her of course, most people were, but--

A nasal drawl behind them said, "Aww, isn't that sweet?"

Spike whipped round, his eyes going yellow, and Buffy almost dropped the phone.  She could hear the beep as someone hit the button to turn the recorded message off and Willow's tinny voice from the receiver saying "Hello?  Summers residence.  Hello?"

"Uh, never mind, Will, it's under control," Buffy said, slamming the phone back into its cradle.

Willy the Snitch was sitting on his couch, rubbing his temples with both hands and glaring impartially at the two of them.  "I have the Slayer and her pet vampire making googly eyes in my living room.  I get it.  I'm in hell."  He cowered reflexively at Spike's growl, then straightened up and poked a  belligerent index finger in the vampire's direction.  "I'm not scared of you, Spike!  That chip in your head'll put you flat on your back if you so much as lift a finger against me, so just get out before I throw you out!  And don't think about comin' back later 'cause I'm having someone do the spell to uninvite you so fast that--"

Despite Willy's bravado there was a panicky note in his voice and Spike didn't look particularly intimidated; he might not be able to hurt Willy, but it was unlikely that Willy could do much to hurt him, at least not without a lot of help.  Buffy walked over to the couch, flicked her hair over her shoulder, put her hand in the center of Willy's chest, and shoved.  He sat back very suddenly.  "Hey!" he whined, rubbing his sternum.

"One of us can still hit people, Willy, so if I were you?  No more googly eye remarks, especially about people who've just taken an hour out of their busy schedule to keep you from becoming a pancake on the 405."   She bent over to look him in the eye.  "Don't take this personally, but why are you rational?"

"Why am--" All of a sudden memory of the last several hours hit, and Willy hunched his shoulders and shrank in upon himself, trying to sink into the ancient stained fabric of the couch.  "I--I dunno."

"Can you remember what happened to you?"

Willy pinched the bridge of his nose in concentration.  "I was in the office--at the bar, y'know?  I hear this noise out back and went to see, we get bums goin' through the garbage all the time lookin' for empties that ain't empty, if ya know what I mean.  There was this guy out in the alley..."  He trailed off and rubbed his mouth.  "Didn't look exactly like a bum, though.  Too clean.  Middle-aged guy, pretty good shape, dark hair, a little grey maybe..."  He shook his head, baffled.  "Wasn't a vampire or nothin', I can tell 'em near as good as you can, Slayer.  Just a guy.  I ask him what he's doin' out there, he says just passing through, and I say fine, and he says--then it all gets confused."  He looked around.  "Shit!  If the back door was left open those assholes will clear me out!  I gotta get--" He got unsteadily to his feet and lurched across the room to the front door before a dizzy spell hit.  He grabbed the doorknob and leaned heavily on the grimy doorpost before sliding to his knees.

Just a guy.  Ben had been just a guy.  Ben was dead.  Which was why Glory was dead, which was... damn.  "We'll make sure the back door's locked.  We've got to make a stop there anyway."

Willy pulled himself to his feet.  "Well, in that case, ain't you gonna offer me a ride?"

Spike smiled--definitely of the evil.  "I think we can arrange that."
 

The faded letters on the front of the building said 'The Alibi Room', but no one ever called it anything but Willy's.  Willy's bar greatly resembled its owner--small, shabby, and furtive, it crouched between two larger  buildings as if trying to escape notice.  As soon as the motorcycle rolled to a stop in the parking lot said owner unfolded himself from his awkward perch and lit out for the front door, a look of absolute terror in his watery eyes.

Buffy watched him go.  "Did you absolutely have to make him ride on the handlebars?"

Spike paused, lighter halfway to cigarette, and thought about it for a moment.  "Yeh."

"Just checking."  She reluctantly let her arms fall from his waist and got off the bike, checking out the parking lot warily.  "Is it safe for you to be here?  Last I heard you weren't very popular in Demonsville."

Spike took a drag on his cigarette and snorted smoke.  "I've got a big strong Slayer to protect me, haven't I?  'Course it's not safe, that's half the fun."

"This 'fun' you speak of, it's one of those English words that translates to 'nerve-wracking terror' in American?"

Spike growled and lunged for her; Buffy dodged, laughing, then stopped so abruptly that he nearly ran into her.   "'Smatter, love, losing your touch?" he asked teasingly.

Laughing.  She'd been laughing.  For a moment there, she'd felt...good.  Really good.  Alive, and happy to be so.  Astounded, she tried to grasp the sensation, analyze it, clutch it to her heart--and of course it dissolved under her scrutiny, fraying away into bewilderment.  She avoided his eyes.  "No, no, this is just--we can't be playing around.  Business, now, here."

She could feel that blue gaze burning into the top of her head, heard a faint sigh.  "You're in charge, Slayer."

Willy was already there when they arrived in the alley behind the bar, scouting suspiciously around the loading dock to see what had been stolen in his absence.  Buffy examined the alley in minute detail, determined to do or say nothing which could remotely be described as googly.  There were empty crates and a big cube of crushed cardboard boxes on the loading dock, and a dumpster full of assorted bar trash down in the alley proper, presumably what the mystery guy had been going through when Willy discovered him.  A smaller container stamped 'SUNNYDALE RECYCLES' stood nearby, half-full of empty beer cans and broken bottles.  She wasn't sure what she'd expected to find, but if anything useful was here, it wasn't in a form she could recognize.   Spike paced around looking at things in a less organized fashion, the faint frown back on his face, nostrils flaring every now and then as he tried to pick up a scent.  He'd put his cigarette out, which meant he was really serious about it.

"I give up," Buffy said at last.  "If there are clues here, I'm missing 'em.  Unless... Spike, is that clue-face?"

He came to a halt in the middle of the alley, took his half-smoked cigarette from behind his ear and re-lit it.  He ran one hand through his hair, ruffling the pale waves further.  "This is 'What have I sodding forgotten?' face.  There's something... familiar here, but I can't suss it out."  He jerked his chin at the bar.  "Ought to see if anyone inside knows who this bloke is.  'Sides, I'm famished."

Buffy didn't think that it was very likely that any of the patrons would recognize Willy's vague description if Willy himself, who knew everything worth knowing about Sunnydale's less than savory inhabitants, didn't know who the guy had been.  But... it was closing in on eleven, and maybe a break would clear her head.  "OK.  Let's go."

The dim lights inside Willy's did little to conceal the accumulated grime.  The flyspecked mirror behind the bar failed to reflect a good third of the patrons, and probably wished it couldn't reflect another third.  The crowd wasn't a large one, but from the moment they crossed the threshold every eye in the bar that wasn't on her was on Spike, half a dozen sullen gazes pinned to the center of their backs, evenly divided between preparations for fight or flight.  Normally when Buffy dropped by Willy's, broken furniture and smashed glass resulted.

Spike, having undergone an instant transformation into Big Bad mode the moment he'd crossed the threshold, was eating it up.  He strutted over to the bar, platinum blond head held high, all cocky swagger and knowing smirk.  Enjoying himself, and the knowledge that one wrong word, one wrong move on his part would precipitate a brawl.  He leaned one elbow on the bar top and flashed the natural-born-killer grin at the female Bracken demon behind the bar.
"O-neg with a Guinness chaser and a club soda for the lady."

The bartender looked uncertain.  "Um...there's...you..."

"Cash on the barrelhead or get out, Spike," Willy snapped, bustling up behind her.
 Spike raised an eyebrow at Buffy.  "There, you see?  No good deed goes unpunished."  He turned back to Willy, obviously ready to argue the point.  Buffy put a hand on his shoulder.

"Charge it to the Magic Box, and give us a receipt," she said firmly.  "We're on the job, it's a slaying business expense," she added at Spike's inquisitive look.  "Anya'll charge it back to the Council of Watchers, or deduct it from the shop's taxes, or something financially brilliant like that."

Spike looked as if he weren't sure whether to be pleased at getting free drinks or annoyed at being cheated out of a skirmish, but finally settled on pleased.  He smirked at the bar girl, or demon.  "In that case, give us some nachos too."

Buffy started to object, then shrugged.  It couldn't hurt.  After all, this was strictly business.

Part 1

Part 3