Summer was waning, fall waxing. There wasn't a whole lot of wax yet, but the worst heat of summer had burned off, leaving the nights two or three degrees cooler, a critical difference that in turn dictated shirtsleeves two to three inches longer, and so Buffy was wearing one of her new back-to-school shirts, bought just that morning, midnight-blue and midriff-hugging, its lower half resolving into a crepe pattern that her mom had been completely wrong about, unsurprising from a woman who still secretly liked batik.

"...and I saw these flared Pamela Dennis pants that would have been perfect with the blouse," she explained, "except they had no pockets." The memory made her sad.

"Nowhere to put your stake," Willow noted wisely.

"Well, sometimes I put it in the small of my back. But not with these, because they were, like, way fitted." She sighed and scuffed her shoes along the sidewalk. "It just wasn't destined to be."

"Destiny is a tricky thing." Willow matched Buffy's lackadaisical pace, nearly but not quite bumping hips. She held a stake of her own in front of her long denim skirt, toying with it in a nimble-fingered way Buffy didn't want to mention was rather suggestive and disturbing. "You never know what fate has in store for you. Someone turns right at the corner instead of left, or bends down to tie his shoe at just the wrong moment--or takes the plane instead of a bus and meets a blonde stewardess with big white teeth from Texas named Lola who's into modestly-sized guitar players."

That was certainly something to ponder, and Buffy gave it a moment of due respect, then said, "Huh?" She couldn't tell if this was mere idle noodling or a message of coded significance.

"I'm missing Oz," Willow admitted. They paused at the low graveyard wall where they often ended up during their patrols; the ground on the other side sloped up to meet it, making it the easiest place to hop over when the gate was locked. Instead of hopping over, they leaned against the bricks in companionable proximity.

"Where is he now?"

"Salt Lake City." The three words seemed to irritate Willow. "Who plays Salt Lake City? It's all Mormons and snow and cows."

"Cows?"

Willow pretzeled her arms with an excess of anxious pep. "They drink a lot of milk there. I think."

Smiling, Buffy patted her arm. "I'm sure there are no Texan stewardesses in Oz's destiny."

"But what about the Mormons?" Willow's lower lip held a lot of worry. "They can have five or six wives. Some guys might be into that."
 
"Oz? C'mon, Will. He's a one-woman wolf." Buffy jumped lightly up onto the wall and swung herself over, then helped Willow to the other side. Denim skirts: impractical for scaling masonry.

"I know you're right. It's just...he's not here, and I am here, and there's a lot of there between us." She let a little sigh out and flapped one hand. "But I'm okay. No worries." They stepped among the gravestones, feet guiding them through the familiar pattern of markers: Mrs. Emily Wilson 1938-1962; Fred Keller, Father and Husband; Lacey Hawkins, Taken Too Soon. "Hey," she said, "speaking of big elsewheres, when does Giles get back from England?"

"He's supposed to be back tomorrow." By old habit, Buffy tried not to show her feelings about this; the restless discomfort she felt at his being gone, the anticipation of his return. You couldn't invest too much of yourself in other people's comings and goings.

"I know he's an adult," Willow said, "but what's with this whole 'having a life' thing?" Her tone had lilted into mock disapproval. "He's been Mister Misterioso all summer, with the trips and the phone calls." She didn't notice Buffy's expression of loss. "Has he said anything to you?"

"No. I don't know what's going on." But Buffy was afraid she did. He was going to leave her. He'd been planning for months, preparing her with his absences and secrets, wrapping himself up in Council business to avoid telling her what she already knew.

"Oh! Maybe he's getting married!" Willow looked ridiculously pleased at the idea, the power of her grin sending current all the way out to the tips of her cute new haircut. She bounced through her next few steps, obliviously passing the Singleton Memorial with its stone angel looming high and watchful overhead.

Startled, Buffy swallowed her first sharp protest before saying, "I don't think so. He'd have been way more..." She sought a word. "Goofier. And better dressed." She couldn't think how else to describe the evidence of Giles's inalterable bachelorhood, but Willow was a female and was nodding in comprehension.

"Yeah. He's still really Gilesy, isn't he?" They pondered this quality of character in shared silence for a minute, walking over to the newer section of the graveyard, where the grounds were not as thickly planted with corpses, and new headstones often appeared. You had to keep an eye out for the family plots, too, but most fledges came bursting from the earth in the northwest corner, under the thick umbrella of the eucalyptus trees.

"Hey," Willow said suddenly, bending over to pick up something from the grass. Buffy stopped and waited. "It's Xander's knife." She held it up, the sharp blade gleaming in the moonlight, and Buffy couldn't control a mild grimace. "He lost it last week when we were chasing that Bjicknik demon."

"He probably has ten more just like it."

"No," Willow said earnestly. "This is Sting. It's his favorite."

Okay, Buffy wondered, how come Willow knew that and she didn't? But more importantly--"He named his knife after that guy from The Police?" That didn't seem like him.

"No." Willow tipped up a smile. "After Frodo's sword...from 'Lord of the Rings'?" Her curious, steady gaze made Buffy feel as if she were being assessed for a grade in Xander Studies, and receiving something in the range of a B minus, she suspected.

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Geek much?" Impatiently she moved on, forcing Willow into a light scurry to catch up to her side. The stake had been tucked away, the knife apparently taking its place as weapon of the evening. "He's way too friendly with the toys these days," she added, apropos of...well, of the big shiny toy they'd just found, but she knew she'd put a provocative emphasis into the remark, and Willow's sidelong glance said the other woman had caught it.

"He's working through stuff, Buffy." Her voice had taken on firmness, a note of defense that Buffy associated with Xander and with a friendship between the other two that had existed years before she came to Sunnydale, since a childhood she hadn't shared with them. Willow had no doubts about Xander.

"Working through stuff is good," Buffy repeated, trying to backpedal slightly. "Working through stuff with sharp knives--not so good."

The silence that followed felt like reproof to Buffy, but then with a typical softening of manner Willow resumed her role as advocate, always ready to bridge any gap between friends. Her shirt-striped shoulders flexed, and her head bent as she tracked the path of her footsteps with an absent frown. "He's conflicted," she said. "And I think he's lonely. He hasn't been the same since Spike moved out."

"Which was the single best thing Little Chippy Sunshine ever did." Buffy didn't temper the satisfaction in her voice.

"Buffy," Willow chided. "They cared about each other. I mean, sure, Spike's an unsouled fiend with a long history of bloodthirsty homicide--but he's been good for Xander. And Xander's been good for him."

"Spike's good for nothing except making people miserable and opening pickle jars." She wasn't upset; she was merely stating a fact. "And Xander will get over him. He'll find some nice, normal guy with a pulse and a conscience, and he'll--he'll move on."

"Like you did with Angel."

Ouch. Buffy's footsteps slowed and stopped, bringing her to the edge of the duck pond where no ducks had ever been seen, though sometimes you might find a few webbed feet and bones. The water rippled in the darkness, carrying leaves away from the shore like tiny boats. "I loved someone with a soul. It's not the same, Will."

"Not to you, maybe." Her friend's voice was rueful, gentle.

It pricked at Buffy, angered her on some level she couldn't communicate, that Willow would even draw a comparison between Spike and Angel, but she made herself let that go. "Xander will be fine," she said, promising herself the truth of that statement, with a faith that had carried her through a hundred battles to victory. "He's got an apartment, a job, a life--and he's got friends. Us."

Willow's face was open, her eyebrows lifted as if to say that she wanted to believe these words, but remained dubious. "That's true. He does have us."

"You know what we need to do." The thought struck Buffy with unerring timing and perfect sense. "We have to find him a new boyfriend." Brain rifling through its Rolodex, she ticked off qualities that anyone, male or female, would find attractive in a guy. "Someone easygoing, funny, athletic--but without being a jock. Reliable, outgoing, gainfully employed--or, maybe in school." She paused with her head tilted to one side, imagining the perfect man. "Someone nice."

The television was on, blaring a raucous laughtrack toward the empty couch, but it couldn't drown out the crash or thumps that were coming from somewhere nearby. Its blue light flickered over the coffee table, which was overturned on its side next to a pile of beer cans, a half-empty pizza box, several magazines, and a potted plant whose leaves gasped and reached for freedom across a spill of dirt. On the carpet, in a line meandering off to the side, was a boot, a sock, and a shirt. This trail of dishabille ended at a chair, its progress interrupted by the splintered remains, then resumed on the other side with a long black belt, a pair of jeans, and a second, matching boot.

"Fuck," someone said over the noise of hollow, rhythmic thuds. "Bloody fucking yes."

Through a doorway--past the jamb, in which someone had embedded a throwing knife--and across another stretch of carpet there was a foot, which was attached to a leg, which was half hidden by a toppled dresser but seemed to be attached to three more legs in an improbable way. Something within this tangle was kicking the bed frame, the only part of the bed currently being used. There was a dent in the wood.

Spike pushed himself up, shoulders flexing, hips twisting demandingly to find the perfect angle, and there it was, and his chin lifted, his neck arched as he gasped out wordless, guttural sounds, while above him Xander shifted and fucked him even harder. Digging his arms and knees into the carpet, head dropping forward again, Spike groaned in satisfaction at having provoked this delicious abuse, but a moment later one perfect, splitting hit ignited a spark inside him, and eyes widening he snarled frantically into game face, aching to blood his fangs. There was nothing for him to bite though, and Xander bore forward, sliding his arms alongside Spike's own until their fingers twined. He was one brilliantly brutal fuck, and his prick made Spike's flesh spasm, almost stammer against its length.

"Oh god," Xander said, voice husky and desperate. Spike felt his eyes glaze over, his lids fall flutteringly shut. Blood surged over him behind a wave of skin, and the friction and heat and that rude, hard rod pounding away inside him drove straight through to his balls. He began to come in ruthless pulses, forehead pressed to the carpet to anchor him, hips writhing frantically below, wanting to rub off on something and teased to merciless release by thin air, everything a torment that he'd sought out and relished like the perverse sod he was, and then Xander bucked against him and shouted his name, and Spike's head rang like a perfectly struck bell, game face sliding away in one long shudder of nakedness.

"Yes." Xander's hips were snapping forward. "Yes, yes, fuck, yes!" The baseboard cracked with one final blow and Xander made a tiny, gratified sound that sent a skittering roll of lust down Spike's spine like a silver ball descending a pinball machine. His vision thinned at the edges as he clamped down to hold all that juicy, blood-hot flesh pounding inside him, a rough bludgeon that could ride him blind and stupid, and god, yeah, he wanted that sometimes, wasn't the first time he'd rolled over and goaded his way to punishment, a bitch belly-down in heat and panting for it, squirming and desperate, and oh christ that was it, you thick-knobbed bastard, clever dick, bastarding beautiful fuck. He felt himself trembling on the edge as he used to with Angelus, body quivering and eager as a woman's to spend itself on command; then the need to come a second time eased off like a thwarted sneeze. Xander worked back and forth against him as he finished, chest stroking his shoulder blades, the wiry hair on his legs dragging across Spike's own thighs.

Eventually they shivered to a stop. Propping himself up on arms that should not have been trembling from exertion--big bad vampire, here--Spike eased himself free of his human weight and collapsed to one side. London bridges falling down, sorry mates, don't mind the rubble. He felt glorious and badly in need of a fag, but his smokes were in his coat, and his coat was in the other room, dangling from the ceiling fan. After several moments, he turned his head. Xander lay in a boneless, sweaty sprawl on the carpet, arms outflung. His eyes cracked open to meet Spike's through messy licks of hair.

"I have got to invest in a Wet Vac." This remark meant very little to Spike, but then, so many of Xander's remarks did. Cryptic bugger. "Also, you owe me for that chair."

"You're the one thought it was clever to play lion-tamer."

"I was defending myself." Xander sounded far too mellow to uphold this claim. "From the evil vampire in my living room. The one who sneaks in when I'm not here and drinks all my beer."

"Yeah, been meaning to say somethin' about that. You need to stock a better brand of piss."

"To entice you back?" Xander made a half-assed sound between a snort and a laugh, and shut his eyes again. Spike ran his own appreciatively down the length of Xander's body, safe in the knowledge that the other man wouldn't catch him out. There were still plenty of things he could do tonight with all that lean, hard muscle. Still demons to be fought. A spot of aggro, a few games of pool, another shag in a dark alley--the night was young.

The night was young, but he was old. He was lying well fucked in the wreckage of a bedroom, in Sunnydale, California, in the last traces of darkness before the dawn of the new millennium, a vampire without subjects, without a queen, with a meddlesome bit of government tin in his head, and a job--a job, the bottom rung of pathetic for his kind--and he'd spent the entire summer tearing up the town and drinking and fucking himself silly with a row of useless bints and the occasional pansy-arsed trick who'd bend over for him when he couldn't bring himself to crawl back here to the stupid, pansy-arsed human who had his balls in a knot.

He'd gone quiet, lost in a broody replay of the past few months, and Xander eventually drew himself up to rest on his elbows and looked across at him. "You all right?"

The question struck Spike hard, flying like an arrow out of the blue to lodge itself in him. He'd let his guard down and here was someone who'd have once been dinner, asking if he was all right. All wrong, more like. What in the great blistering hell was he doing? William the Bloody. What a laugh. William the Bloody Poof. Ever since Dru left he'd been one cannibal short of a missionary picnic and look where it had landed him. Grimly he sat up and reached for his jeans.

"Got places to be," he muttered. Then, with a pointed jab, added, "Wickedness to do." His gaze flickered to see how Xander would react.

"Ah." Xander didn't look bothered; didn't sound at all concerned, or disgusted, or hurt, or any of the other emotions he'd whipped out to berate Spike with over the summer, during their hundred and one fights. He sat up and pulled on his shirt.
 
"It's your job to stop me," Spike reminded him, since the other man clearly intended to shirk his responsibility. "Take me down, keep me from makin' unholy alliances with the powers of darkness."

"Uh huh." Xander drew up his boxers.

Offended, Spike zipped up his jeans with rough movements, looked around for his belt, didn't find it. "You just going to let me walk out then, send me on my nefarious way to steal from the church poor-box and mug little old ladies?"

"Spike." He'd scored a hit, could hear the sharp frustration in Xander's voice. A glint rose in his eye and he smiled inwardly. The human stood a few paces away in his striped boxers and white tee, wholesome as apple pie and far tastier. An accomplishment, to be the snake in that apple.

"What do you want from me?" Xander asked. "You want me to sing a few verses of 'Spike, don't leave', maybe do the funny dance? Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm over the thrill of rejection. It tastes stale, like crackers. Crackers that have been in the cupboard too long."

Spike raised his brows. "Stale like that simile, you mean?"

"Shut up. And don't use the word 'simile' when we're fighting."

Spike felt his lips curve up despite himself. Fighting touched a match to that place inside him he kept hidden, kept the pilot light burning. It kept a lot burning below the belt line, too. "So we're fighting, then?"

Shoving a hand through his hair, Xander shifted a few steps further away. "Yes. No. I'm tired of fighting."
 
A frown drew between Spike's brows. "A man gets tired of fighting might as well make his bed on the next new grave," he said seriously, holding Xander's eyes.

"Maybe I'll do that."

A flare of anger drove Spike forward to grab Xander by the neck, startling him. "You do that and I'll be there waiting when you crawl out." He'd meant it as a threat, but something in the idea excited him too, and when Xander's lips parted, lust uncoiled in Spike's body again, making his eyelids heavy, his prick stir. Without warning he took Xander's mouth, sliding his tongue inside and sucking out all the heat he could find. The other man staggered a moment under the assault, then shoved back, grappling at his jeans and wrenching down the zipper. He took Spike's cock out and stripped his flesh with unsparing force as they kissed, slippery and frantic, dancing against each other.
 
Spike tore his mouth away and ran his tongue across his lower lip, then, dark-eyed with hunger, dropped to his knees.

The moon had risen as far as it was going to, but nothing else had. Buffy and Willow were crossing back out of their last scheduled graveyard, calling it a night after an hour of desultory patrolling. "What's up with vamps these days?" Buffy wondered. "Used to be, you could count on one or two fresh graves a night, get in a couple of good slays, and now," she looked around in pouty dissatisfaction, "it's like a morgue around here. I mean, a morgue without any tasty undead treats."

Willow considered this, head tipped to one side as she chewed gum, trying to mash out those last few cherry flavored crystals. "Well, statistically speaking, it's actually kinda weird how many vamps you slay. Say you take down an average of two vamps a night, with four patrols a week--"

"I patrol more than that!" Buffy protested.

"--four patrols a week with actual slayage."

"I guess that's about right."

"Mm, 'kay, so you're slaying about eight vamps a week, fifty-two weeks a year--take off a few weeks for vacation--"

Buffy scoffed her opinion of that.

"--and that's four hundred vamps a year."

"Wow. I had no idea I was so...productive." She drew herself up with a touch of pride. "In sheer numbers, I'm badder than the Terminator. I'm the Terma-Buffy."

"See, that's the thing," Willow put in with a geeky eagerness to explain. "It doesn't compute. There's no way we could have a death rate that high--that'd be comparable to, like, major cities, and we only have a population of thirty thousand. Even in Sunnydale, we'd be hearing about that all the time--it'd be huge news."

"Huh. " Buffy gave this some consideration, frown deepening. "Maybe they're all--or they could just be--" And then she stopped in place with panicky eyes, hands flattening out by her sides in a gesture that seemed designed to keep gravity in place. "Okay, where are all those bodies coming from? Because, having the freak here."

Willow hastened to ease her mind. "A lot of them are probably out-of-towners," she said. "And--" Then she hesitated, unsure if she should float any more distracting theories.

"And?"

Willow's eyes widened. "And there's two behind you now! Buffy, watch out!"

Already whirling at the warning, Buffy kicked out behind her and followed through to block an attack, but none was forthcoming. Her kick had sent the first vampire sprawling, and the second one was simply standing off to the side, twisting a purse strap in her hand. Both were in game face, but they didn't have a lot of zest. Instead of scrambling to his feet for round two, the vamp on the grass pushed himself up slowly with a stunned wonderment at his fall.

"Damn," he said, in a small thin voice.

"You okay?" his companion asked. She had stringy blonde hair pulled back in barrettes, and wore a quilted jacket with ragged holes in the sleeves, over a pair of faded jeans. Her voice had just as little body as his, as if it'd been starved out of her. When Buffy shifted on the balls of her feet, pulling out a stake, the girl vamp shrank back a step, all nerves.

"Fine," muttered the other, and then jumped to his feet. It was done quickly and in one fluid movement, but Willow could see even through the mask of game face that it had taken effort. If he'd still been human, he'd have been winded. "Hang tight, baby. I'm gettin' dinner."

"Well, you're getting stake," Buffy said dryly.

"Vic, we should go." The female inched forward just far enough to grab his sleeve. "She's not easy pickings, and you always say--"

"Shhh, girl. I got it under control." Vic's voice was gentle when he first spoke to her, but then he tossed his hair back and managed a sneer in Buffy's direction. "She's just a bitty thing."

"So they tell me." Buffy twitched her head, almost matching his hair toss. "And yet, five minutes from now--well, five seconds, really--I'm gonna be standing here in your dust."

"Vic, she ain't no meal, ain't no more'n a toothpick afterwards. Why don't we go, baby."

"Yeah, Vic." Buffy smiled. "Why don't you try that. Haven't had a good run yet tonight."

The scene made Willow vaguely uneasy. Though she knew that vamps were unsouled demons, stripped of conscience, sometimes she couldn't help but feel a pang for ones like this, all tattered and shabby, sad as the stray cats who lurked behind supermarkets. They probably hadn't asked to be turned. It could so easily happen to you when you're weren't looking. One walk home late at night, one step outside your door at the wrong moment, and wham. That could have been her, victim to Angelus's revenge or Spike's drunken whim, or the anonymous fangs of any of a hundred vamps they'd run across.

"Buffy, maybe you should just stake them," she heard herself say, tone falling somewhere between severity and wheedling. And drop the quippage for once, she wanted to add. Buffy turned her head slightly at her words, and there came Vic.

It was over fast, but a flinch hit Willow's gut and stretched there for one long moment as Buffy twisted back around to drive the stake home. Not the most spectacular killing, nothing to write down in your diary, but even as it was happening Willow knew that Buffy's distraction had been just another tactic. Draw the vamp in, take him out. It was like toying with dumb animals. Like a joke and its punchline. Willow didn't know how she knew that; she didn't think Buffy had meant her to know it. The satisfaction on Buffy's face was only a flash, quickly hidden.

The female vampire stared at the dust which had been Vic. "Oh sweet holy saints," she said, a disturbing, even horrifying invocation that made Willow's stomach twist further. "Vic." And she began to cry.

Buffy, who'd been approaching her with stake raised, paused, finally seeming to share some of Willow's discomfort. She took a deep breath, said, "Look, I'll make it quick."

Head lifting, the vamp slid off her demon visage to reveal the tear-streaked face of a young girl, probably no more than seventeen when she'd been turned. She looked shocked and horrified at Buffy's promise. "Don't kill me," she said, stumbling back and almost tripping on a gravestone. "I ain't gonna hurt you. I swear."

"Oh man," Willow said, feeling dizzy and nauseous, unable to remember the last time she'd felt so bad about being good. "Buffy, c'mon. Hurry."

"No," wailed the girl, holding out one hand and backing up further. "Don't hurt me, I didn't do nothin' at all, we didn't do nothin'--"

It wasn't impossible to say what Buffy would have done next; she'd have done her job, Willow was certain of it. But just then a figure appeared, a flashlight shining at them out of the darkness. Willow lifted her hand to shield her face, half blinded.

"What's going on here?" said a voice.

As soon as the cop appeared, the vamp took off, jackrabbiting across the graveyard and out of sight within seconds. Buffy started to follow, but the cop stepped in her path, and though she could have steamrolled right over him without breaking stride, she halted. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, "my friend--she's having kind of a bad trip, you know. We were at a-a party, and we told her not to drink that soda, because you never know what's in it these days. We were just taking her home."

The flashlight swung back and forth between them. "You girls haven't been drinking, have you?" They shook their heads, murmured denials until he was satisfied, and were let go with a warning.

Outside the graveyard, they walked in glum tandem toward home. "I shouldn't have let her get away," Buffy said, very quietly.

"Yeah, but..." Willow trailed off. "Yeah. But...you'll get her. Sooner or later." The words held no cheer, and weren't received with any.

The house's windows were open to the early evening, breathing in an air poised between the dissipation of sun and the first stirrings of crickets and vampires. Joyce Summers was finishing up the supper dishes, wiping plates dry with a checked towel. At the counter, Buffy was reorganizing the contents of a large, loop-handled deli bag.

After a gaze out the window, thoughts musing in a placid drift, Joyce picked up the dropped thread of idle, mother-daughter chatter that punctuated this time of day. "I'm glad that Mister Giles is returning. He always seems to help channel some of that pent-up energy."

"Mom! I'm not pent. I'm completely unpent. Also...weirdly verging on the inappropriate there, aren't you?"

Joyce turned around with a starched, indignant look. "Buffy! You know I didn't mean..." She sighed and snapped Buffy with the towel. "Tease the mom."

"Olé!"

"Isn't that an awfully lot of food?" Joyce asked, eyeballing the goods Buffy was packing. "You did just have dinner. You didn't grow an extra stomach while I wasn't looking? And why does that question seem not so rhetorical?" She tipped her head, striking a dry and reflective pose.

"Relax. The extra stomachs are all in my friends. One per friend." Buffy smoothed a bag of pretzels, a tiny crease of thought centering her brows. Non sequitur forming. "Hey, you know that guy you used to work with--the one with the beach house?"

"Eric?"

"What's he doing these days?"

Pausing between absent swipes of the counter, Joyce mused, "I think he moved to L.A. He wanted to get back into acting."

"Oh. What about that guy with the nose ring?"

"Peter. He quit, very suddenly. We never heard from him again. I always wrote it off as one of those 'Sunnydale things'. Of course, now that I know what that means..." Joyce sighed, then focused on her daughter. "Why this sudden interest in my old co-workers?"

"I'm trying to find someone for Xander. A nice guy--the kind who walks on the sunny side of the street."

"Oh, Buffy." Joyce's lips compressed, and her eyes held warning and concern. "I don't know if that's a good idea. And what about Spike? Aren't they still--" She hesitated, moving her hand in a vague gesture that Buffy raised brows at.

"Sharing the same beer bottle?" she finished helpfully. "No."

"That's a shame."

"Mom. Evil undead. Not exactly Hugh Grant material."

Leaning against the counter now, Joyce tipped up a shoulder. "I don't know. I've always rather liked him. Spike, I mean. Hugh Grant is just...odd. Don't you think? All that floppy hair."

"Ignoring that." Bag fully packed, Buffy set it on the floor. "Spike's likableness isn't a factor here. Killing thousands of people isn't excused by having a pretty face and a taste for marshmallows."

"Buffy!" Joyce stared at her with astonishment, then lowered her tone. "I know that." She shook her head, gaze sliding away as if to find answers in the plain, clean lines of her kitchen, where a vampire once visited. "I just can't look at him and see what you see." With resignation not unlike helplessness she met Buffy's eyes again, a world of feeling unexpressed. "I guess that's why I'm not the slayer."

"Buffy, did you find the--" A bag of tortilla chips came flying through the partition, and Willow caught them neatly. "Thanks!"

Xander appeared next to her at Giles's dining room table with a paper grocery bag and began removing goods for Willow to arrange: dip, soda, cheese wheels. "Remind me why we're here again," he said, sounding not at all rhetorical but as if he honestly couldn't remember. His blue cotton shirt hung loosely off his shoulders; Willow recognized it as an old shirt, but she couldn't decide if it had always hung like that, or if his endless work-outs had carved a few more slices of flesh from his body. Its sleeves were rolled up, and there was a thumb-shaped bruise on the back of his hand, like you get when they draw blood. Except he hadn't had blood drawn. Not there, anyway.

"Giles has been gone for three weeks," she reminded him. "And he said he had some big news for all of us."

Coming out of the kitchen with a bucket of ice, Buffy said, "We should have gotten nuts." She put the bucket down and looked at the snacks with dissatisfaction. "But he might have had some on the plane--do they still give you nuts? He's probably all nutted out. Also, they're fatty. When you're his age, it's time to cut back, even if it is the good kind of fat." She paused, apparently following her own private mental connections to add: "Plus, all that salt."

Willow and Xander exchanged a glance. "I think we have plenty of nuts, Buff." Xander's voice was light and dry, removing any edge from the words, but Buffy didn't even seem to hear him.

"Cups," Buffy said, and disappeared back around the corner.

"What's the wig?" Xander asked Willow in a lower voice.

"I think she's worried about Giles's news. He's been closed-mouthy all summer, and she's been getting more and more freaked, except she won't say so. They're like clams, both of them."

"She certainly is a tightly-wound little slayer."
 
The door opened and they both turned, and Willow felt her heart give an expectant bump, but it was just Riley, carrying more soda. They nearly had enough to float on by now, and Giles didn't even drink soda. "Hey," he said, smiling when he saw them. Perfunctory, thought Willow. That was the ten-dollar word for a smile like that. It wasn't fake, but he wasn't entirely behind it. She knew Riley liked them; he wouldn't smile that way unless something was wrong. Probably not a big something. Just one of those small somethings that had been piling up over the summer.

"Hey," Xander said, followed a beat later by her own greeting. They shifted away from the table just as Buffy came back out with her cups.

"You made it," she said to Riley. "I thought you had to work?"

An uncomfortable look passed over Riley's face and he stuck his hands in his pockets, elbows jutting out to the sides. "Yeah. I figured this was more important."

"Thanks." First the pleased Buffy, then concerned Buffy. "But I don't want you to lose your job or anything."

"Actually...it's a little late for that. I quit."

Oh oh, thought Willow. She pretended to be suddenly and deeply absorbed in twisting napkins into a kitty-katted pile, as if there was nothing of great significance being said. Xander seemed rather less worried, and watched the exchange openly.

"Another job? Why--what happened?" Buffy asked, questions flying fiercely at this news, then took a deep breath and visibly blew it off, covering her anxiety with a less than convincing smile. "Never mind. We can talk about it later. Hey, can you pick out a record? I think we're stuck with fuddy, but maybe you can find something low on the duddy."

Honoring the request with strained good humor, Riley saluted. "Record patrol, reporting for duty." He headed toward the stereo while Buffy drifted off again to unnamed preparations.

"He really is kind of a dork, isn't he," Willow observed to Xander, watching Riley pluck out records and scan the covers. "But it's not a bad dorkiness." Especially since it raised her own cool factor by comparison. There weren't so many people she could say that about.

"We should all be so dorky," Xander said. He paused a beat as the words sank in for both of them, depth charges that exploded a thousand memories of high school trauma. "Forget I said that."

"Forgetting now."

The front door swung open again, Willow's heart leapt again, but it was Spike. He stood on the threshold a moment, a phenomenon of leather, smoke pluming from his cigarette as he surveyed them, then took one last drag and tossed the butt aside. He carried a brown sack in which could only be a bottle. Willow had a feeling it was not so much a gift as an accessory, but he surprised her by thrusting it into her hands, and she slid off the paper to find an expensive fifth of Giles's favorite scotch.

"'Lo," he said shortly, to her or to Xander, or to whoever cared.

She held the bottle awkwardly and dredged up a smile. The scotch would have been more meaningful if he weren't a bartender and a thief, but that was no reason not to acknowledge the gesture. "Thanks, I'll just put this..." Letting action finish the thought, she moved off to set the bottle by the bar. She didn't mean to glance over her shoulder. It wasn't any of her business, when it came down to it, and though there was unfortunate history on the Buffy front, Xander had never suggested to Willow that she stop dating a werewolf, which tied her tongue, at least until he showed signs of heartbreak, and so far he didn't. It wasn't what you'd call a tragic love affair, not when it seemed to add two inches to his height and that sort of pantherlike shimmy to his walk, which she suspected she'd be seeing now if there'd been walking involved, but Spike had left no space between them whatsoever.
 
Was it wrong to find it kinda hot when your best ex-boyfriend was kissing another guy? She wondered that, because when they ended up draped against each other like tigers, greeting each other at the mouth, she noticed the temperature go up a few degrees, and Xander's hand was splayed against Spike's ribs in a tender way, and that wasn't just hot, that was cuteness. They had cuteness. It was terrible.

Buffy appeared from somewhere and stopped short when she saw Spike, who had broken off his hellos to wander couchward. "What's he doing here?"

Closing in to fix a drink, Xander said, "I invited him." He sounded calm but his eyes challenged Buffy to make something of it, and Willow's own gaze flicked nervously back and forth between them.

"I thought you'd broken up." Buffy paused. "Again."

"Oh, there was breakage." Xander's eyes glinted, and a wicked, satisfied, not-quite-there smile shaped his lips. "But we keep a lot of...glue on hand. To put the pieces back together." Willow got the feeling that by 'glue' he meant something other than 'glue' but she wasn't sure she wanted details.

"So you're back together," Willow said, hoping this would deter match-making plans and trying to message this to Buffy with her eyes.

Xander looked like he was tiring of the subject. "Not in the Hallmark anniversary card sense. You know how it is."

"And how it isn't," Buffy said, folding her arms. "Isn't healthy, isn't smart--"

That was all it took, and Willow's stomach sank as Xander tensed and leaned close. "You know, I don't need to hear Buffy lecture number five hundred and twelve right now--"

"No? Because I think that's exactly--"

"--especially from someone whose love life makes Romeo and Juliet look like high comedy--"

"--not enough glue in the world to fix your relationship--"

"--Typhoid Buffy ever since a certain--"

There was a throat clearing from across the room, and their argument dried up as quickly as it had begun, three heads turning to find Giles standing in the doorway, suitcase beside him, carrier bag slung over his shoulder. "I hope I'm not interrupting," he said mildly. His eyes captured them all in a stunned snapshot, somewhere between dismay and surprise.

"Giles!" Relief crashed down over Willow, making her giddy. She yanked the noisemaker she'd been saving from her pocket and blew it with a weak tweeting sound. "Welcome home."

They all sat together in Giles's living room, cooperating in a tacit truce so as not to distract from his announcement, but Buffy was nestled against Riley in an almost pointed display of heterosexual, human-loving wholesomeness, across from Xander, whose arm was draped over Spike's thigh. Giles, perhaps sensing the atmosphere, didn't look entirely comfortable, but he manfully forged ahead, cradling a glass of scotch in his hands.

"Well, I-I'd hoped to share this news with you sooner, but I wanted to be certain before I said anything." He paused with a serious expression on his face, fingering his glass, then took a sip. "I think you all know that the last twelve months have not been particularly...easy for me." Across the room, Buffy had discreetly detached herself from Riley and was worrying at a ring on one of her fingers, twisting it back and forth. "My--our--fall out with the Council placed me in a difficult position, far more so than I let on, I'm afraid." He glanced around, catching their eyes one by one, lingering last on Buffy. "I didn't want to worry you with details, but it is only with great effort that I've begun to repair the ties that were severed."

"I'm so sorry, Giles." Buffy's face was unhappy, drawn with guilt. "I never should have quit the Council."

"It wasn't the most strategic decision for the long term," Giles conceded. "But I don't fault you, Buffy. Or myself, for that matter. We did what was necessary at the time." He hesitated. "As I must do what is necessary now--"

"Giles, don't leave!" Everyone looked at Buffy with varying expressions of startlement or confusion, including Giles. "I know they've probably offered you a great job, doing research or, or watching a new potential slayer, and I know I can't pay you--"

"Buffy."

"--but we need you here, and maybe you can find a job--they have other libraries in Sunnydale, and bookstores--or maybe you could open your own magic shop, and oh, the last proprietor was just killed, so that's great! For you I mean. Bad for them--"

"Buffy, I'm not leaving."

"Oh."

"Bit of an anticlimax there, Rupes." Spike, slouched in his seat, looked as bored as a blind man at a tennis match. Giles ignored him.

"I'm founding a school." One of those silences fell in which everyone looked at everyone else to make sure they'd heard correctly, while Giles reached down to the floor by his chair and picked up a loose scroll of paper. He shook it out across the coffee table, and Riley leaned forward to flatten the other end. Willow's brows lifted as mental tumblers clicked into place.

"It's blueprints," she said.

"Yes." Reserved British enthusiasm lit Giles's face as he spread his hands across the drawing, tracing its lines familiarly. "It's the plans for Graydon Manor, an estate house just a mile east of here. We've just finalized the purchase and renovations will begin on Monday."

"You're founding a school," Xander said, blinking. "Like a boarding school?"

Giles gave him an odd look, then seemed to realize that the rest of them were feeling just as bewildered. "Ahh...no," he said carefully, taking off his glasses and gesturing with them as he spoke. "Though I suppose there is that aspect. It's an academy for watchers, here on the Hellmouth. Watchers and associated agents of the council, I should say. Researchers, translators, witches--"

"Oh my god," Willow said, sitting up straight with a sudden jolt of electricity and waving her hands around as if she could somehow shake comprehension into the others. "You're--you're opening up a Hogwarts!"

Cocking his head to one side, lips parted a moment as if he were processing this dubious but fascinating descent into the pop cultural idiom, Giles slowly replied, "If a 'Hogwarts' somehow translates into 'academy for watchers', then yes," he nodded, "exactly so."

"This is so cool! Isn't this cool?" Grinning, she looked around at her friends. Buffy's face had lightened, losing several shades of worry, and Xander seemed intrigued.

"Terrific news," Spike said sourly. "Nothing I like better than having dozens of little nancies in starched knickers running around, tripping over themselves and nosin' where they don't belong." He glared at Giles in personal accusation. "Why the hell d'you think I left London?"

"I must admit I never considered the question, Spike." Giles's faint, smooth smile suggested he was not at all displeased at the idea of inconveniencing the vampire. "But I'll be sure to note that in your file."

"Huh," Spike said, and then performed a small double-take. "Wait. I have a file?"

"Relax, how much information could they have?" Xander said reassuringly. "The vampire is a stealthy creature. They probably don't know your favorite color."

"Black," Giles and Spike said at the same time. Spike glowered in outrage as if to say, "See?!"

"Okay, we're calling that one a lucky guess. Still--it's probably not a big file," Xander chanced.
 
"One thousand, two hundred and forty-seven pages, I believe." Giles tipped his head. "Of course, that's without the index."

Spike stood up abruptly, looking a bit jarred. "I need a smoke."

"Be stealthy!" Buffy chirped as Spike departed. Xander gave her a dirty look--well, closer to slightly smudged.

The rest of them shifted in their seats, and Giles leaned back with his drink.

"So," said Riley, hands resting together at the palms as he hunched forward. "You're going to be a headmaster."

"More or less." Giles began to lift his drink absently. "And though I have yet to firm up details, I think this will be an extraordinary opportunity for all of us to--"

The doorbell rang. Five heads turned in unison, struck to silence. "Did someone order pizza?" Xander wondered.

Giles went to answer, the set of his shoulders betraying the subtle but ever-present caution that any of them would feel at a strange knock on the door. In Sunnydale, hypervigilance was the unavoidable price of battling evil. Somehow the rest of them discovered a need at that moment to be nearer to the entrance, grouping like buffalo around the buffet. Willow picked up a handful of potato chips and nibbled, watchful gaze pinned to the door.

"Hello," Giles said, sounding bemused, and that was enough for Willow to amble forward with intent to snoop. A polished, thirtyish woman stood at the threshold in a navy suit, a leather bag slung over her shoulder. She was holding a sheaf of papers and smiling. "Hello," she said in a pleasant voice. "I'm looking for Buffy Summers? Her mother said I might find her here."

"Of course, yes." Willow sensed there was a 'do come in' on the tip of his tongue, but if so, it was withheld. "Buffy," he said, stepping back with his hand on the open door. "A-a someone to see you."

"Hey...lo," Buffy said, going from bright to uncertain in the space of a syllable when it became clear she didn't recognize the visitor. "I'm Buffy."

"Karen Denham, Buffy." She shuffled her papers, held out a padded clipboard and a pen. "I just have some papers for you to sign."

"Oh." Buffy blinked, stared down at the papers she found herself holding. "Are you from the college?" Stress hit her voice on schedule. "Didn't I complete all my paperwork? Because, I swear, I made sure this year to call and find out all the deadlines--"

"I'm not from the school. I'm a process server. You've been subpoenaed, Miss Summers." Karen Denham smiled again. "Have a nice night."

Buffy stood holding the papers in her hand, eyes going straight to Giles as the remedy for her confusion. He took the subpoena from her, then drew his glasses from his vest pocket and put them on. Silently, he read over the contents until everyone was on tenterhooks.

Whatever those were, thought Xander. Tenterhooks. It sounded like something you'd find in a meat locker, and that couldn't be good. "What is it?" he asked, unable to stifle his curiosity any longer. "Buffy, have you been double-parking in front of the ice cream shop again?"

"No!" she said, then looked quickly to Giles. "Can you get subpoenaed for that? Giles?"

He glanced up, face serious. "The charge is homicide."

Riley broke the stunned silence. "I may not know a lot about law, but I think we skipped an important handcuffs and mugshots step somewhere. Not," he said quickly to Buffy, "that I want you handcuffed." The matter was grave enough that no one followed up on that juicy line, not even Buffy.

"Okay, I didn't murder anyone." Buffy's gaze gathered up her friends as if they might doubt her, and Xander flashed back to what he knew of Faith's adventure in foul play, and felt a pang for Buffy's defensiveness.

"No, of course not. But it appears you did slay someone." Giles read from the document. "'This action seeks an award of compensatory and punitive damages for the wanton slaying of Victor Farrell, deceased, on the night of September 18, A.D. 2000.'"

Looking at Buffy, Willow said, "That vampire last night. That was his name--Vic."

"Since when is it against the law to slay?" Xander asked, feeling as if he'd missed a memo from The Powers That Be. At least this time he wasn't the only one.

Giles flipped down the top paper of the sheaf he held and frowned at it. "This is a summons to appear in front of the Tribunal."

"The who now?" said Xander.

The other man's face suggested he was searching for words to explain complex thoughts in simple sentences. "It's an otherworldly court of justice which hears petitions not suited to normal legal channels. If I recall, there are two levels of redress, one arbitrated by a Tribunal judge, the other settled by mortal combat."

"Combat I can handle," Buffy said, visibly relieved. "Mortal, immortal, I'm the can-do girl of combat."

"A regular Slayer Barbie." Spike joined them, cool, tobacco-scented air wafting in with his presence. "What are we combatting?"

"Not us," Willow said. "Buffy."

Holding up one finger, Giles broke in. "Actually, the subpoena indicates that trial by arbitration is the first measure. It appears to be a civil suit."

"I take it an appeal would involve pointy weapons and salty tears." Xander stuck his hands in his pockets, already resigned to the inevitable.

"We would of course endeavor to avoid that," Giles said, looking through his glasses at Xander on a slant of reproof.

"Call me cynical, but if the last few years have taught me anything, it's that every reasonable course of action ends in a death match." Xander's remark received a sidelong smile from Spike, sardonic but almost admiring, and Xander felt that familiar flippy thing happen to his insides. He knew Spike considered himself a mentor of sorts, seeking to instill in Xander all the qualities of distrust, misanthropy, and self-preservation that had kept him around for over a hundred years. And Xander wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, but he knew that he was quite capable of growing his own pessimism without outside help.

"What happens if I just...don't show up?" Buffy asked, turning the focus back on the problem at hand. "It's not like they can arrest me, right?"

Giles blinked. "No. But there may be repercussions. Further research is indicated before we commit to a course of action."

Perking up, Willow declared, "Research party!" Xander could tell she'd been missing the books. He'd bet good money that she'd already bought back-to-school supplies for both semesters and maxed out her library card.

"Count me in," Riley said. "I've got nothing better to do."

For crying out loud, thought Xander. Don't call attention to the fact, buddy. He skimmed a quick look at Buffy's face, saw a shadow pass across it.

Spike was watching them both too, much in the same way he watched reality TV and soap operas--making no distinction between the two--with his head cocked as if he were trying to remember what it was like to be that human. Sometimes he accompanied his viewing with incredulous mockery, other times with an attentive frown that suggested he was making mental note of attitudes to mimic. Now the mockery was surfacing in his expression, tinged with faint disgust.

"Call me when there's killing to be done," he said, and matter-of-factly looped his hand around the back of Xander's neck and hauled him in for a kiss guaranteed--even designed--to irritate all his friends; a kiss that tasted of cigarette smoke, a kiss of death's deep tongue, but oh Jesus, for all of three point six seconds Xander couldn't make himself care about any of this, or anything else.

Spike swept out, leaving Giles and Riley brimming with masculine discomfort, Willow blushing, and Buffy...well, it was hard to tell, but Xander got the feeling she was disappointed in him. Surprise, surprise.

"I guess we should get to work," Xander said. It wasn't an apology, but it was an olive branch, and she sort of bit her lip and nodded, ducking her eyes away from him.

At two o'clock in the afternoon under a bright blue sky, Sunnydale was a very different place. This was the world Xander had expected to grow up into, one with simple rules and schedules, with digital clocks beeping you awake in the morning, salami for lunch, dinner timed to network news. In this world you had supermarkets, banker's hours, ice cream trucks. You went to the mall, shot some hoops, trucked out to the beach on summer weekends.

"Watch your proportions, Harris." Oliveria came over to squint importantly at the cement mixer. "You're putting too much water in."

"Thanks," Xander said. The longer he worked at Nash Construction, the more of his natural talents were surfacing. Accepting advice and making his appreciation sound genuine was a skill he'd honed to a razor-sharp edge. Especially when he wasn't putting too much water in. "Trying to get about three-quarters in before I dump the aggie."

"Yeah," said Oliveria. "Good." He walked off toward another area of the site, tool belt jangling on his ample hips, transmitting advance warning of his presence wherever he went.

Tom Kronlunk snorted under his breath at the departing supervisor, then leaned toward Xander in a comradely fashion. "You're putting too much water in my ass," he mimicked in a falsetto. "Oooh, Harris. Not so much, I'll bust my diaper."

Xander smiled, hoping that looked natural too. He wanted to fit in, at least on the surface. Had to in order to keep this job, because getting along was half of what they paid you for, even if they pretended otherwise. Good old teamwork, with the teams and players not so different from the ones he'd avoided in high school. And even now it remained a puzzle to him how other guys managed to adapt so easily to their surroundings, blending in with chatter about their girlfriends and wives, chucking off-color jokes back and forth like baseballs, bitching about their cars, their workload, their everything.

No one knew he was gay, of course. No one knew he shagged a vampire in his off hours, and killed others with pointy stakes he carved from scrap wood stolen from the site. These personal tidbits he kept under his hard-hat. He liked his balls and his paycheck and wanted to hang on to both, and that meant smiling when the other guys cracked jokes, and telling a few of his own if it came to that. He wasn't a regular guy, but he played one on TV.

Pausing for a moment, he wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. His body had settled into its mid-afternoon work ache, a not all that bad feeling of exertion that was lessening over time as he adapted to the rhythms of the job. Another six months and he'd be piling forty-pound cement bags on his shoulders three at a time like Tom. Xander glanced over at the hefty hubcaps of Tom's shoulders, and revised that prediction. Maybe two at a time.

"Hey," Tom said. "You coming to the Ready Room tonight? Guys are gonna give Lanza a send-off." Lanza was leaving Sunnydale to follow his wife, a lawyer, to her new job in Burbank. He'd received a lot of chaffing about that and would probably get a lot more tonight, along with a beer bath and a DUI, if the crew lived up to past performance.

"I don't know." Xander shrugged. "I'm supposed to go over to a friend's house, help him put up some bookshelves." And could that lie be any more ridiculous, he wondered, picturing for a moment Spike's apartment with its milk crates and rotting walls, and then picturing Spike, blooming against his mattress like some pale, exotic fungus; naked, curls of smoke drifting from his cigarette, probably stroking himself at this very moment, in that lazy-fingered way he had, so slow and--get a fucking grip.

"Put your shelves up and bring him along," Tom said, breaking this vision like a wrecking ball through glass. "Hell, Lanza won't care, long as you buy him a drink."

Xander nodded once to acknowledge the invitation. "I'll think about it."

"You're always thinking about it. Maybe you think too much."

Warning bells rang on the perimeter, and Xander had an itching awareness of being scrutinized. He wondered if this was how vampires and other creatures felt when they were trying to pass for human, this low, gut-level anxiety of being found out. Probably not. They were predators, not prey.

"My teachers used to say that a lot." He kept his voice light, knowing that any irony would fly right over Tom's stolid, well-muscled head.

"You got to get out once in a while, Harris."

I get out all the time, Xander thought. Every night, with the patrolling and the killing, and now and then the raunchy sex against tombstones. But he just said, "Yeah. I know."

But Tom was lumbering on earnestly, dumping rubble in his wheelbarrow at a comfortable union pace. "Seriously, you gotta cut loose--you're a young guy. And not some college fruit like Princess over there, either." Xander followed his gaze to where Lewis "Princess Di" Diamond, a UC Sunnydale soph with an uncle in management, was tightening the bolts on some scaffolding. "You're getting your chops in and you aren't afraid of hard work." Meaning that Xander readily accepted any shitwork task they gave him--his lack of choice in the matter didn't seem to weigh into Tom's good opinion.

"Well, my food habit forces me to earn a living wage. Sad, really. I tried crack and begging, but it just wasn't the same."

Reaching over to clap him on the back (Xander jumped), Tom said, "Hard work and hard liquor is what made America great, pal. And you can tell that to the British."

Thrown for a loop by this bizarre encouragement, it took Xander a moment to shake himself back to life. "I'll make sure he knows it."

The British was working behind the bar when Xander arrived, and adhering to at least half of Tom's philosophy, slamming back as much liquor as he served. Even from across the room he radiated a foul mood. His hair was sticking up all over in the wild baby-bird tufts that meant he'd slept late and ignored all hair care rituals (a look Xander privately found trashy and sexy as hell, though he'd never said so and never would), but the vampire's eyes were rimmed with shadow and his head was bowed at a particular, heavy angle that signaled drunkenness and danger. Patrons seemed nervous about approaching him

Xander walked up to the bar and took a seat. The bar-top was sticky under his hand, and decorated with the orange peels, parasols, and strewn napkins of several hours of previous visitors.

Dragging his head up, Spike focused a scowl on him. "Look here," he said. "It's the carpenter, come to nail me."

Very bad night, oh yeah.

"And hello to you."

With a disgusted look, Spike straightened to stand with his shoulders drawn back. It was a slow thing of beauty to watch, a snake's arching and deadly grace. He was fuckable and scary, and after months of snake-charming Xander had unlearned the difference. "What is it, time to kill?" Which couldn't be mistaken for a figure of speech. Also, Spike was trying to look at his watch, but he didn't own one. After a moment he gave up and dragged an ax out from under the bar. "Let's go, then."

"Whoa!" Xander came to his feet and glanced behind him to make sure no one had seen, then pushed the ax back across the bar into Spike's hands. "You might want to put that away for now. Let the place clear out."

The patrons were already straggling from the bar, most without needing to be asked, the remainder prompted by the bouncer until the room was empty, the lights turned off. The bouncer himself disappeared a minute later, leaving Xander behind the bar with Spike, helping him with his closing routine. Trying to.

"Just leave it," Spike muttered as Xander began to clear some glasses away into the sink. He knocked Xander's hand aside, then swayed.

"Spike, what the hell is wrong?" Niceness didn't cut it with Spike, and though Xander was used to thinking of himself as a nice guy, at times like this it was a relief not to have to bother.

"What then," Spike said, mouth twisting in private bitterness. "You want the digest or the special edition?"

"Whatever."

Pointing to his head, Spike said, "Government work mucking up my insides. Need a can opener to get it out. Found one."

A chill passed through Xander's body. "You found someone to remove the chip?"

Spike laughed, staggered away a few paces, then slid down the back of the bar until he was sitting on the floor, arms dangling over his knees. With his head bent, it took Xander a moment to realize his laughter had turned to sobs. He dropped down next to Spike, instincts tangling and knotting like shoelaces, and laid a hand against the vampire's arm. Some part of Xander loathed the violence trapped inside the other man, waiting for release. Snakes in a can, but not so funny. He'd come to care, though. Hiding his feelings behind comedy and irritation, playing it cool with his friends, defending his turf even while he denied to himself that he felt anything. Spike, oh yeah, what was I thinking. Boyfriend--don't you mean renovation project? Great fuck, sure, even greater annoyance. He practiced these thoughts in the mirror while shaving. But even the famous Harris brand products, bullshit and self-delusion, weren't infinite resources. You couldn't have someone pressed close night after night, face upset by hunger, mouth unlocking you, and not figure out how to care. At least, he couldn't.

"Had it all set," Spike said at last, heel of one hand pressed to his brow. "Paid ten grand to a warlock said he could magic it out if he had the right stuff. Had to special order it, he said. Went by tonight but he'd buggered off. Place was empty." He kicked out with astonishing suddenness, boot smashing through the bottom of the bar to leave a jagged hole in its woodwork, and then roared and vamped out, blitzed and in pain--and as usual, very noisy about it.

It was impossible to feel anything but relief. That and anger. "When the hell were you planning to tell me? When your fangs were ripping out my throat?"

A demon's eyes met his own, and then the demon slipped away, leaving a tired man. "Wasn't going to kill you."

"Why do I find that so hard to believe?"

"I had pets before. Me and Dru."

Sweet tits of Hecate, thought Xander. That was his defense? "So you wanted me to what--wear a collar? Bark and roll over on command and maybe fetch you blood? That's supposed to make me feel better?"

Spike's mouth tightened before he said, "You knew what I was about."

And Xander had. That was the terrible thing. He'd known and he'd let the knowledge slide off; he'd deferred it, thinking it might be ignored indefinitely. He'd come this close to meeting with an unchipped vampire tonight; would have let himself be fucked without question, ignorant until it was far too late. He imagined Spike with a belly of human blood, his lust stoked by fresh kills; sickened, he stumbled to his feet. The bar's sweet, boozy odors surrounded him like a bath of failure and unhappiness. He felt dumb.

He was moving to leave when Spike caught his arm. No way to shake that loose, and Xander stiffened as he was drawn back to face the vampire. "Don't," Spike said. Just that. Eyes big and dark and strangely desperate, he stared at Xander.

"I don't know what I'm doing with you." The truth gave Xander a sore throat. "I've hated every vampire I ever met. I hated you before I wanted you...I don't know what the hell you are." He tugged against Spike's grip. "Let me go."

But Spike was shifting toward him, strange pain on his face. "I let you in," he said in a low voice. "I let you have me."

"Spike!" Xander tried to make himself heard, but nothing seemed to be getting through.

"You don't know what I am." Spike cracked a laugh and looked down to one side, swept his free hand across his temple. "You think I do?"

"Let go."

"'S not that easy." Spike looked at him, emotions mixed on his face like muddy paint. "It's like this chip--doesn't come out on its own, all that ache and torment."

Xander's wrist was hurting. That should have fired the chip, but the lines of consent between them had been blurring for months, and it was terrifying to realize that neither one of them might know when resistance became want, or the other way around. The chip worked for black and white, but they were close enough to be grey. Except sometimes like now, for a sharp moment that cut through familiarity, Xander would see Spike as the creature who'd killed and fed on so many people--it showed in the bones of his face and the darkness of his eyes, and it was real and unquestionable. Solid as the hand wrapped around his wrist, all sinews and muscle and whiteness. Something that drained men of blood without feeling anything, a clever machine built from dead stuff lying around a graveyard.

And then a flickering second later, the vampire's eyes would fill with so much anguished emotion that Xander couldn't see anything else, just that smokescreen of false humanity, tricking him into desire and even tenderness, the kind of feelings he associated with the soft clink of Spike's belt buckle coming undone in his hands, and lamplight and the smell of cigarettes, and the writing of cool fingertips across his own chest.

"What am I supposed to do about it?" he asked, wishing he could just leave. The words came out tight, with a hard edge that seemed to slice down between them. Spike blinked and finally let Xander's wrist drop. He looked done in.

"I got used to having anything I fancied. Shiny people, toys and blood and shags. Now it's out of reach. Golden apples."

"They say you can't always get what you want."

Spike met his eyes with unexpected sobriety and steadiness, took a deep breath. "Yeah. Heard that one."

Xander swallowed his own ragged breath. "Well, maybe it's time to figure out what you need."

The invitation lingered between them.

Daylight from tall windows filled the room, along with the hubbub of laughter and the clatter of dishes from a line of students trailing in a chipper, brightly-dressed ribbon around the counter and out the entrance doors, shuffling forward at a lazy pace as they socialized.

The orderly nature of cafeteria lunches comforted Buffy now as they never had in high school. Real food--food not constructed like particle board from mysterious substances--accounted for much of the difference, and with the relief of reliability she'd come to depend on the neat rows of boxed cereal and milk, the yogurt cups, the bowls of fruit, the perfect spirals of ice cream, the sandwiches pristine in cellophane looking untouched by human hands, though when you thought about it, that didn't necessarily bode well.

"You just got a salad?" Willow asked, a hint of concern in her voice as she eyed Buffy's otherwise empty tray.

"I'm the Buffy rabbit today. I tried on my suit for swim class this morning. Remind me not to do that again on a full stomach. Or an empty one."

They sat down with their trays near a window table, each taking her favorite seat with the synchronized ease of habit. "So, thumbs up on the slayer-fu," Willow said, "but you might want to work some more on the girl-power."

"Hey, I'm all about girl power! I'm girl to the power of ten."

Willow raised her brows. "Not when you help perpetuate the beauty myth of the male economic establishment, Mister." Buffy sensed at least a small chunk of tongue in that cheek.

"Did I do that?" Oops, she thought. "Sounds like Women's Studies is making an impression. So wait--should you be calling me 'Mister'?"

Grinning, Willow acknowledged the score and lobbed one back. "If we recognize gender as a fluid continuum, sure."

Buffy groaned with theatrical angst. "Yet another thing I have to worry about."

"Gender?" Willow took a bite of her sandwich with a questioning face.

"Xander." Scoping the cafeteria with a casual eye, Buffy tried to identify nice gay boys she could fix Xander up with. "Who looks gay to you?" she asked, gaze settling with critical interest on a table of guys who might have been drama majors. Maybe English Lit. Arty shirts, a few pairs of glasses, a certain type of stylish hair cut--good prospects.

"Um, I'm not sure that appearance is the best way to judge--"

"Oh, what about him?" Buffy discreetly cut her eyes toward a nearby table, where a pretty boy with a goatee was laughing at a friend's joke.

Willow followed her gaze. "Definitely. But Buffy, you can't just pick some strange guy and foist him on Xander like--like a new puppy, or some suit you want him to wear because you think he looks bad in jeans."

"Who said anything about foisting? It's been a while since I've exercised my match-making skills, but trust me, I used to put the yen in yenta. I fixed Katie Gilchrist up with John DeMeo, even though he was a cornerback and she was, like, so tragically Goth, and no one thought they would last but they went out for five whole months before the overdose--" At the expression on Willow's face, her own words caught up with her, and she changed direction midstream. "--and that might not be the best example, but usually I'm a crack shot."

"Yeah, 'cause dope fiends? Really hot."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "I accept your mockage, but--"

"Hey," descended a voice from somewhere behind her. Buffy turned to see Riley sliding out a chair and taking a backwards seat. Her pleasure at seeing him--as dependable and satisfying as lunch--was marred only slightly by a twinge of worry about his employment status. His status of un.

"Hey yourself," she said, with an approving smile for his tidy hair and wide open face, and the way his tee-shirt clung to his muscles. The whole guy package. It occurred to her for one odd moment that if Riley had been gay, he'd have been the perfect boyfriend for Xander.

Better not mention that.

"Anything new on that situation?" he asked.

"Situation? Oh, the situation." She reached for her iced tea, shook her head dismissively. "Zip. All quiet on the paranormal and legal fronts. Giles thinks we should file a--a what?" She looked to Willow for help.

"A counter-claim."

"Right. Aiding and abetting." She jiggled her straw in her cup and tilted her head as she dwelled fondly on this idea. "Wouldn't it be cool if vampires were illegal?"

Riley leaned forward against the chair-back and grew an earnest frown, the bowed set of his shoulders somehow conveying to Buffy without words the way he wanted to encompass and protect her, which meant he was worried. It gave her a warm fuzzy and a pang of impatience. "I'm still not sure about this plan," he said. "Blowing off that court appearance won't close the book--they'll find you, Buffy. You should have someone with you round the clock until it's safe."

"He's right," Willow put in. "You don't want to mess with lawyers. It could get ugly."

Right now, slayer-fu wanted to chop the debate short. She'd yinned the yang before on this, back and forth until it tired her. She had a job, and it was too bad for Riley that he didn't. She understood that he wanted something to fill his restless hours, but she didn't need a baby-sitter tagging along on every graveyard milk run. And--what else--following her into the bathroom, waiting outside the stall? Hovering next to her seat in History 201 like a Secret Service goon? Sleeping at the end of her bed like a dog? It was just a big pile of wrong. He needed to get his act together and do the thing with the boundaries you were supposed to do, according to all the books with full-sentence titles currently residing in a box in her mom's section of the basement, a post-divorce heap of pop psychology that Buffy had absorbed too much of to forget, and which made her feel now that she needed to take a firm stand.

A goodly part of this passed through her mind in a blink and she said, "Ugly I'm used to. And I'm a slayer, guys, not a diva. Bodyguards? Not part of the gig." She took as much sting out of the words as possible, and watched Riley surreptitiously to make sure he didn't get his feelings hurt. Spotting a flinch, she compromised on the spot. "But hey, I'm looking for a patrol buddy tonight."

The questionable moment passed and Riley smiled, and if there was any feeling more complex behind it than amiable boyfriendliness, Buffy couldn't tell. "It's a date then."

"It's a date," she echoed, cinching the deal.

Sixteen years of her life had been spent in pursuit of her dream, nine years toward making partner. A Bachelor's in Theology, a law degree from Loyola, and a senior year internship at Wolfram and Hart had led with planned inevitability to an invitation to join that prestigious company, and thus down a career path most of her peers could barely imagine, much less hope to achieve. Karen Denham hadn't lost a single case yet, and didn't intend to lose this one. Or her head.

It was unfortunate that her client was such a wet blanket. Karen eyeballed the vampire across from her, barely hiding a sneer of distaste behind her Merlot lipstick. The girl sat slouched in her chair as if someone had poured her from a laundry sack, mousy hair draggling into her face and weak features stamping her a victim, a fateful combination of poor breeding and undernourished ego obvious even in demon face. She'd been biting her nails and tugging the cuffs down on her borrowed dress for the past thirty minutes, and Karen was ready to take her rosewood fountain pen and stab the sorry little bitch through the heart.

"Stop fidgeting," she said, more sharply than she'd intended, then pasted on a smile to cover her slip, unaware that this sharklike effort of lips was no less intimidating. Around them, the dark emptiness of Judge's Chambers rustled with the movement of unseen presences. When a shape cut from the fabric of hell flapped past overhead with a grinding screech, the vampire cowered lower in her chair. It was unnatural, thought Karen, to see a demon cringing like that. Unnatural and reason enough to kill her when this was all over with. But she supposed it made her case easier.

"I really don't want to see that blonde girl again," her client whined.

"The slayer's not going to hurt you, Vicky." Karen crossed her legs, hoping that Vicky might emulate her pose and patience. "You're under the protection of Wolfram and Hart. No one can hurt you." Except us, she added mentally.

"She killed Vic. Just snuffed him out like a bug." Vicky's human face surfaced with a tiny, bone-crunching sound made loud only by the vacancy surrounding them, and tears slipped down her cheeks. "If we don't win, I don't know what I'm going to do. I never hunted by myself before. It was always Vic who took care of me."

"Which is exactly what we'll tell the judge," Karen said, smoothing down her skirt and fighting boredom. "I feel sure that any jury--or demonically empowered magistrate--will be sympathetic to your case. We just have to let them know the facts. Your head of household has been slayed, leaving you a poor widow, alone, with no means of support--"

"We didn't actually have a house," Vicky broke in sadly. "We had a nice trailer for a while, 'fore Vic took a bite of the park manager."

"It doesn't matter. It's your pain and suffering that's important."

"Yeah," Vicky said, sounding unconvinced. She chewed on a nail for a moment, the picture of pathos with her white, knobby-kneed legs twisted around her chair legs like that of an ungainly adolescent--which in point of fact she still was. Eternally. "Those are real pretty shoes," she said in a shy voice.

Karen looked down at her Manolo Blahniks, stroked to momentary goodwill by this tribute to her fashion sense. "Thank you. Neiman Marcus."

"Oh, he's a real good designer, ain't he?"

Massaging the bridge of her nose, Karen muttered, "I need an aspirin."

"Court is in session!" boomed a toneless voice, resonating in the chamber like thunder at the height of a storm. A cone of white light appeared just ahead of them in the dark, illuminating an empty judge's bench with a witness stand on one side. From around the corner a small, lumpy demon in ceremonial robes strode, taking a place next to the stand.

"The Honorable Tribune of the Ninth Sub-District Court of California presiding," the demon said in a normal voice. "All rise."

Karen got to her feet along with Vicky and waited while the Tribune took his seat. His face held an unassailable respectability, stern and timeless. He looked a little like Tommy Lee Jones, but with more horns. He took his time getting seated, rattling through his papers with a few coughs, then sipping some water. "One of those late summer colds," he said conversationally. "Those are the worst." He coughed again. "Okay. We've got here one Victoria Bourbon, claimant..." He paused to peer over his glasses at Karen and Vicky. "Bourbon?"

Without any ripple in professionalism, Karen said, "That's correct, your honor."

"Uh huh. New one on me. Victoria Bourbon versus Buffy Anne Summers, Slayer. Action seeks permanent injunction...yadda....damages, yadda...wrongful death." He read for another moment in silence before saying, "Well, that seems clear." Looking up and around he said, "And where's our defendant?"

Karen smiled.

Even Willow had to leave the library sometime, though the smell of books was vast and sexy and she could almost hear their papery voices calling to her with millions of sibilant words that hung just outside the range of understanding--

Wow. Really time to go now, thought Willow, gathering her texts and dumping them into her carrier bag. She was just passing through the wide doors into the foyer when she bumped into someone. You'd think with all that space a bump would be avoidable, but no, there was the old collision of particles and familiar sound of books and papers dropping--not hers--and the blush of embarrassment she'd meant to leave in high school.

"Oh wow, I'm so sorry," she said, ducking down to help the girl pick up her stuff. Long hair made a swing of curtains in front of her face, and then she looked up with warm eyes and a little lip-twisty smile of greeting. "Tara!" Willow perked up immediately. "Hey, you're here. I mean, of course you're here, in school here, but now you're in-my-face here. In, you know, the good way of in-your-face. There is one, isn't there?" Her rush and twitter ended on a worried note, and Tara's smile grew to a grin.

"Hey, Willow." They stood up together, belongings reordered. Tara, all generous curves, held her books in front of her more like a schoolkid than a college sophomore. "I-it's good to see you."

"Yeah. You too." Anxiety rose and tickled in Willow like soda bubbles. "I was getting kinda...I mean, you said your cousin was here and I know how it is. Family." She loaded the word with comprehension. "So I didn't stop by, but then...I was like, no, she's busy. And me. Busy. So." Jitters were scaling her body toward her ears, which she felt turning red. She trailed off, hoping she'd gotten her thoughts across, and was made hopeful by the punctuation of Tara's smile.

"It's okay. She just left." She gave an uncharacteristic, fed-up eye roll that explained everything and warmed Willow's cockles, as she sometimes felt Tara was a bit too wispy about standing up for herself. "I wanted to see you," she assured Willow, "but it was kind of..." She shrugged.

"I get it. I'm just glad we're...you know. Okay."

Tara ducked her eyes a bit and a flush touched her cheeks, but she nodded. "Oh, we're okay." Her smiley tone washed away Willow's last doubts. "How is everybody?" she asked, easing off the subject. "Buffy and Xander?"

"They're good." Willow shifted her bag, thinking in a physical way, almost without words, that it might be an idea to walk somewhere, get a coffee.

"And the evil?" Tara asked in a lower voice, with wide eyes and an almost comical seriousness, her tone somehow suggesting that evil was a horrible rash that might nonetheless have cleared up over the summer.

"Um, still there." One cool thing about being a fully initiated Scooby was the air of savoir faire it gave you in all things ghoulish and macabre--at least in front of newbies, and Willow had always felt a secret, guilty glow at how impressed Tara was by her experiences. She never wanted to seem condescending, though, trying instead for a matter-of-fact tone. "Right now it's this whole Tribunal thing," she said. "Evil lawyers. Otherworldly lawsuits."

"The Tribunal?" Tara looked astonished and doubtful, as if maybe she hadn't quite heard right.

Unaware of the slight disappointment in her otherwise surprised voice, Willow said, "You've heard of it?"

"Oh. Well, I don't know if it's the same. But in our parts--back home--they say it's the Devil's Court. If you cross someone, you might end up there. And you can lose." And of course you could lose, thought Willow, but Tara made the word sound more ominous.

"Lose what?"

"Your life. Your soul." Tara was picking up a worried look, and Willow could feel that vibe building and twanging between them, growing stronger with every word.

"Buffy's not going, though."

"I think they take you wherever you are." Tara's forehead wrinkled gently; she might have been apologizing. "One man--they lifted him right out of his car when he was driving."

That little matter of fact struck like a wasp, and Willow's breath caught. "I have to tell Buffy," she said distractedly, trying to remember which cemetery she'd been planning to patrol first. "I-I have to go." Tara stepped aside with graceful understanding on her face, and Willow rushed off with only one thought in her head: to reach her friend before the forces of darkness did. Again.

"Ten thousand dollars," said Xander, scuffing his feet across the raised, flatbed tombstone he was using as a foot-path and coming to land with a gentle thump of work boots on the other side. He still couldn't let the subject go. "If I had that kind of money, I'd buy this cherry 1955 Buick Century a guy at work is selling. Man, that's a sweet ride. Then with the rest, I'd get a new place and maybe--"

A black scowl tipped his way. "D'you mind? I'm trying to put it out of my head." As soon as he spoke, Spike winced at his own choice of words.

"Sorry. Can't believe you paid him up front. You're not exactly the trusting sort."

"Told you. Tosser said he needed supplies. I threatened to kill him, of course." Spike stopped in front of a headstone, read it with no visible interest, then kicked it in half with his boot.

Xander took hold of his arm and pulled him back from the damage, as if proximity might entice him to kill more marble. "You're hell on the infrastructure, you know that?" The dejected slump to Spike's shoulders moved him to unwanted sympathy. He couldn't let himself forget the cause of that gloom, though. Spike might hate his handicap, but Xander was grateful to the chip. Small as the diamond in an engagement ring, it was the gift of fate that allowed Xander to stand within ten yards of a vampire hottie without becoming kibble. "I know you don't want to hear it--"

Gaze swinging up and narrowing, Spike cocked his head.

"--but maybe this," he tapped lightly against Spike's skull, "is for the best." The timing was right; Spike's hopes dashed, his prospects bleak. Xander was finally voicing his own hope, and his words came earnestly as he sought to connect with the man in the monster. "I know it feels like crap now, but maybe this is the universe's funny way of saying you can take a different path. Do something good with your unlife. You're not the first guy stuck with a foot in both camps--look at Oz, Anya, even Angel--but you can choose your next step. This chip could just be destiny helping you along."

A pause stretched in which Spike's widened eyes met his own and he actually seemed moved to consider this challenge. Then his face cleared. "Nah." He sighed. "Need a better plan." His gaze drifted off around the graveyard, as if he might spot that plan somewhere in the weeds.

Temper throbbing like a live thing, Xander clenched his jaw. He would let it go, just let it go.

"What's that?" Spike said, stiffening with his attention on some spot in the trees, alert as a setter. Xander didn't hear anything, but he trusted vamp senses and pulled a stake from his pocket. It filled his hand smoothly like something else he was used to handling, and his heart did a tricky little rumba, confusing sex and slayage in a sloppy way he hadn't yet dared to examine closely, but just as happy to be pumping for either one. He could hear footsteps now thrashing through the underbrush as something came closer, and then a figure in plaid pants and an orange sweater broke into view.

"Xander!"

"Will." He let his grip relax when he saw nothing was chasing her. "What's wrong?"

"Have you seen Buffy?" He shook his head, unnerved by her breathless alarm and the hoppity foot thing she was doing, which never boded well. "I met Tara and told her about the Tribunal. She said they call it the Devil's Court. And if you don't show, they'll suck you up like a vacuum, no matter where you are."

That was terrifyingly easy to visualize. "We'll find her." He began to launch himself in a more or less random direction, then paused. "Wait. Should we get Giles?"

Red hair shook in a negative. "There's no time!"
 
He nodded, met Spike's eyes to assure himself they were all on the same page. And then they were off.

If you were a slayer, chosen by higher powers to stand against the vampires, the demons, the unholy yadda, you learned to make use of every spare minute in your otherwise hairy schedule. Multi-tasking was an art form. You filed and painted your nails in class rather than in the morning. You tried to learn French verbs while pummeling a training dummy. You scoped for vamps while you shopped. And when you patrolled, there was nothing wrong with taking your honey's hand and leaning close. It was like...undercover work. Just a pair of lovebirds out late, strolling through the graveyard. Not at all dangerous. See our young, pretty necks, Mister Vampire?

"So what are you going to do?" she asked, and then, afraid she sounded like a nag, added quickly, "I mean, not that you don't already do a lot of stuff, a real big...stuff. Which is very important. There can never be too much killing." She paused. "Of bad things."

Riley's hand felt so big against her own, comforting, that it was weird to think he was the more fragile one. The awareness distracted her; not in a huge way, but it lurked on the edges of her mind whenever they patrolled. Her instincts were always at war--girlfriend instincts saying, he's tough, don't try to protect him, he'll hate it, while slayer instincts snapped, get between him and that vampire, draw it off, take it down fast and get back to his side.

She thought she might lose him--today, tomorrow, someday--and it scared her. Because Riley was perfect for her, and if she couldn't find the balance with him, what hope did she have of any normal life?

After a reflective silence, Riley took a breath and said, "I was thinking about grad school."

This surprised her. "Really? Though, I bet that whole ex-professor-was-a-zombie thing would make it hard to validate credits." She gave this thought. "Then again, they've probably heard that one before."

"I took classes before I was posted here. Mostly applied science. But Professor Walsh..." He broke off for a moment, staring into the middle distance, though he didn't seem aware of where his feet were carrying him. Buffy swallowed any words of comfort. There really weren't any she could give. "...she got me interested in psychology."

Trees whispered above them, and up ahead a heavy branch was making a soft creaking sound, the sound a wooden boat might make in an ocean of leaves. And Buffy had nothing to say--why didn't she have anything to say? She began to speak anyway, because the silence was worse. "I think that's a great i--" Which was when the vampire jumped out of the tree, its weight driving her to the ground.

"Buffy!" she heard, and then scuffles and grunts of a fight, indicating that Tree Vamp wasn't working alone. She blocked the fangs heading toward her throat and kneed the vamp hard; he winced and relaxed enough to let her throw him off.

"What are you, Tarzan?" she snarked in disbelief as the creature scrambled into a crouch and hissed at her. Pulling out her stake, she flipped herself like an improbably gymnastic turtle off her back and onto her feet, prepared for some hand-to-hand and then a stake-to-heart, but her foe spun off and took flight. Very unfoelike.

She followed at a fast clip, legs pumping. It was all she could do to keep him in sight, and rather than detouring to avoid the many headstones in her path, she hurdled over them one by one, the distance gradually closing.

Riley Tazered and then dusted his vamp, a little winded and more than a little disgusted with himself. He'd worked hard all summer to hide his condition and to correct the damage done to him by his own government. Correcting involved a lot of hard re-conditioning, but that wasn't working as well as he'd hoped. Down on one knee, he caught his breath and glanced around, almost glad for a moment not to see Buffy, whose worrying could all too easily become coddling.

It was a chick thing, he always told himself, not a slayer thing--before Buffy he'd dated a long line of girls with soft hands, the kind who brought you homemade soup when you caught a cold, playing wife and hoping you'd get the hint. Buffy couldn't make soup, not even from a can, and her hands were hard. Riley thought she'd make a terrible wife, in the most wonderful way. For a slayer, though, she was still all girl, which was what he reminded himself when she got that look on her face, as if she was gauging his fitness level. She just worried about him, and it shouldn't make him so ungracious and resentful.

His mother would have been flat-out ashamed of his bad attitude.

"Buffy," he called, getting to his feet. He kept his Tazer in hand, in case something else emerged from the night. God, he had a hate-on for the Hellmouth. He'd seen reports on other towns, places where the vampires were weak; migrants, trash, shit-kickers too dumb to live. Here even the fledges were strong, soaking up the place's energies right through hallowed ground to rise tough and cunning. And the 'mouth attracted all sorts, older vamps from Europe and Asia, demons, weird powers like this Tribunal. It looked a peaceful little burg, but it was a jungle.
 
Turning, he found himself face to face with Spike, who'd given no warning of arrival, watching him for who knew how long with those cold eyes. Proud of controlling his flinch, Riley grimaced what passed for a greeting. "What do you want?"

Spike, looking more like a streetcorner hustler than a master vampire, smiled in his mocking way as Xander and Willow came running up. "Look what I turned up," he said conversationally. "If Slayer Ken's here, our girl can't be far off. Not like you'd be out by your lonesome, is it?" he added to Riley.

Mouth tightening, Riley fondled his Tazer and thought about how good it would feel to shove it right in the bastard's chest. Just for shits and giggles, as his good old buddies back home used to say. But he was a better man than that. "We got hit by a couple of vamps," he said, directing this remark to the other two. "I dusted one--she ran after the other." Their expressions were sinking in and making his gut clench. "What's wrong?"

"We need to find her," Xander said. "She may be in trouble."

"Now this is where you need to ask yourself--" Buffy whirled and side-kicked the vampire back several feet. "'Do I feel lucky?'" Perkily, she advanced with her stake as the vamp swayed to its feet, a wary and confused set to its ridges. "Well? Do ya, punk?"

"Well, uh...now that you mention it," the vampire said, "not really, no."

"Oh." Buffy blinked, slightly thrown as she realized her next line didn't work now. "Okay, see, I'm pretty sure that was rhetorical."

She slammed the stake into the vamp's chest and watched him explode. That never got old. "Go ahead," she said to the dust settling in the air, tossing her ponytail. "Make my day." She frowned and then said with a dramatic flourish: "Make my night!" Paused to consider the implications of that one. "Ewww." Sighing, she put her stake away.

As she turned to head back to Riley, a cone of light appeared from the sky, stopping her in her tracks. She shielded her eyes and gazed upwards, thinking that for a helicopter it was incredibly quiet, and then noticing there was no chopper wind. The air around her was silent and luminous, like an invitation from heaven, and she might have continued to stand there mesmerized if something hadn't drawn her gaze back to earth. Past the light's thinning perimeter she saw her friends appear with Riley and Spike, startled looks on their faces. She started to shout a warning and bolt for safety, all in one fluid realization of urgency--

And then she disappeared.

To her it was no more than a wink and a disorienting sparkle, and for a moment she might have thought she was still in the clearing, but when she focused Buffy knew she was somewhere else entirely. She took in the smooth stone floor and a sense of unwalled vastness, then turned with one sharp movement at a sound behind her, which left her blinking dumbly with her stake raised when she found herself confronted with two ordinary wooden tables, several chairs, and a judge's bench. Karen Denham sat at one table with a familiar vampire, whose name Buffy remembered after a moment, from the subpoena. Vicky Something. Vicky and Vic. Adorable.

"Miss Summers," a voice said from the bench, and in response Buffy inspected the demon there, not able to place the species, not especially caring. It looked harmless compared to some things she'd seen, almost human, but that meant nothing and she didn't feel safe, not when she could be snatched out of thin air and brought here. "So glad you could join us."

"Not my choice," she snapped, covering fear with irritation. "Is that what you call due process?"

"I'm afraid you gave us no choice." The judge frowned over his glasses. "I'm inclined to fine you for contempt, but we'll let this one pass. Take a seat, little lady."

Oh, please. "Why don't we cut to the chase?" She glanced at Karen, not masking her disdain for humans who took vampire clients. "You're bringing some ridiculous," she underscored the ridicule in her tone, "trumped-up lawsuit, and I have to defend myself. So let's go." She flipped her stake and caught it again, with a pointed look for Vicky now. "Because I--"

An unseen force yanked the stake from her hand and sent it spinning off into the darkness, then slid her stumbling into a chair behind the second table, where it pinned her. She tried to get free and glared at the judge when she couldn't. Fear had ratcheted up a notch under her ribcage, but she wouldn't show it. A stubborn determination to get the better of her situation set in. After all, she'd done nothing wrong and would have no trouble justifying her actions. Not that she should have to, but...it looked like she might have to.

"The prosecution has the floor."

Karen rose smoothly to her feet. "Thank you, your honor. "The prosecution will show that my client has been deprived of spousal support and threatened with death--and that she is still in danger from the slayer. She seeks damages for the cruel and wrongful death of her husband, for pain and suffering, and for loss of companionship. There is also an economic hardship, as Mister Bourbon was the sole breadwinner for his family."

"I guess he was out shopping for bread when I staked him." Buffy mimed a philosophical look. "The lunging for my neck--that's what threw me off."
 
"Let it be noted for the record that the slayer has confessed to staking my client's husband." Karen smiled in a reptilian, but almost grateful way at Buffy.

"So noted."

"However, we still seek to prove the extent of liability," she went on. "For that, I call my client to take the stand." She touched the vampire's shoulder and Vicky beetled over to the witness box, giving Buffy a wide berth. Karen followed to take up a position nearby. "Vicky, will you tell us in your own words what happened that terrible, tragic night?"

Buffy folded her arms--at least she wasn't completely immobilized--and projected her unthrilled opinion of this charade, in case anyone wasn't already clear. She stared down the vamp with a stony gaze until Vicky's own gaze shifted, latching onto Karen. In human face she was younger than Buffy remembered, with baby-fine blonde hair and pale blue eyes, small as a mouse and motionless in the spotlight. Her flowered dress was cheap.

"Vic and I was out walking," she said. "We was hungry--we hadn't eaten for five days--and he said he'd get us some dinner. We saw a girl--"

"This girl?" Karen asked, gesturing at Buffy.

"Yes, ma'am. And he said he'd get her for us."

"'Get her.' What did he mean?"

"You know." Vicky hunched. "To eat."

"So you were going to kill her?" Karen asked, standing off to one side and speaking broadly to the court, her posture suggesting she was practicing for a much larger audience.

"Oh no, ma'am. Vic never killed no one. We only ever took what we needed, then we'd leave them where they'd be found."

"That's such a crock!" Buffy burst out, her words followed by the bang of the judge's gavel. "Vampires always kill," she protested, over his command to silence.

"Miss Summers, you will remain silent or I will have you gagged."

Unfortunately believing this, Buffy settled back into her seat.

Karen leaned one arm on the witness stand, radiating a soothing support. "Did you know this girl here--did you know she was the slayer?"

"No, ma'am."

"You were surprised then, when she attacked your husband and viciously and willfully ended his existence, and then threatened you with the same bodily harm?"

Vicky began to cry, while Buffy fumed at this characterization of her actions. Could they say that? Was that fair? She would have spoken again, but another look at the judge convinced her to remain silent. It was quite possibly the stupidest excuse for a case she'd ever heard, and she resented the tiny ball of guilt that Vicky's tears were stirring up. All vampires killed.

"I ran. I was afraid."

"Of course you were." Karen affected an air of sympathy. "Vicky, you're an orphan, aren't you?"

"Oh my god," Buffy muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Your parents died when you were just a girl," the lawyer went on, "leaving you alone in the world. But you had Vic. He looked after you. When you got sick, he turned you so you'd never die. What did he tell you, Vicky?"

"He said it was a holy gift," Vicky whispered. "He had the power to heal, but the government was after him." Her eyes were big with memory. "We could only go out at night, to be safe."

An awful sensation was growing in Buffy. She'd never had any doubts about her calling, at least not the slaying-bad-things part. Vampires knew what they were, of this she was sure. Monsters without souls, demons walking around in human shape. They enjoyed what they did, and didn't feel bad.

"Did you feel bad, Vicky?" It was as if Karen had read her thoughts. "When you had to feed?"

"I felt real bad," Vicky said, twisting her skirt between her hands. "I never wanted to hurt no one. But Vic said we needed to eat from...you know. Innocents. It kept us holy, bathed in the blood of the lamb. We made sure they was always okay, patched up after. I swear we did."

Karen nodded and squeezed Vicky's shoulder as the vampire broke down again into horribly honest tears, and then turned a sly, triumphant smile on Buffy, who felt her world slow and stop, and tilt.

"I blame myself," Giles said. He couldn't help the words, no matter how beside the point they were at the moment; he often found expiation as much in speech as action, though one didn't always have even that small luxury. He was angry at himself, with the kind of anger that would linger, even if--when--she came home safe, a low, savage anger that he could fuel for days, by drink and its bitter meditations. It wasn't a stretch to say that his incompetence would have been grounds for dismissal had he not already been dismissed; he'd been back not twenty-four hours before he'd failed her, letting himself be lulled to complacency by the ambiance of his apartment, the reassurances of his books, and the trust placed in him by these odd young people he called friends. He'd allowed himself to feel comfortable, and he'd misjudged matters.

"Giles, we don't have time for this." Willow was gazing at him fiercely, red haired and flushed, and her sharp words embedded themselves below his skin. Even in guilt, the stoked furnace of his temper made something inside him catch and flare, but it was a discipline of the mature mind to accept correction without regard to its source, and a discipline not to lash out at children.

"You're right," he said, ruthlessly tamping down his feelings. He turned toward his shelf, running his eye across the books in the hope of finding a source he'd missed.

"What are we going to do?" Xander asked.

He wished they wouldn't always ask such broad and provoking questions when something was, in fact, being done. Couldn't they see he was trying to find an answer? "Tara's information had the benefit of experience," he said, letting the habit of distraction fall over his words, creating a small buffer behind which he could focus. "Unfortunately, not everything is set down in books."

"Blasphemy on the lips of librarians," Spike said, and oh, it would have been a pleasure to turn his temper in that direction right now for one brief, brutal moment, but Giles let the dart bounce off, barely hearing Xander's impatient snap at the vampire.

The Micharta text. Bloody unlikely, but...he slid the book down and let it fall open in one hand, turning the pages rapidly with the other until he found an entry that might be relevant or might be grasping at straws, and he knew he'd have nightmares later, the ones where he fumbled through page after page, reading nonsense as Buffy's blood spread closer, but now he focused.
 
"I'd hoped to prepare a countersuit," he said--had in fact been working all day, but it seemed the rashest waste of time now. "We may be able to adapt that ritual, interrupt the proceedings on the grounds that Buffy is unrepresented by counsel."

"What do we need?" Riley asked.

Giles looked up from his book and briefly stiffened as he saw all their bright young faces fixed on him, and their painfully obvious hopes. He managed a steadying breath. "First we need an urn..."

On the witness stand, Buffy felt as if she'd been called up before the principal and subjected to interrogation from some teacher with a grudge, or one of the school psychologists who used to make her life so miserable. Karen Denham was walking toward her, fingers steepled loosely.

"Tell the truth, Buffy. Victor didn't attack you--you attacked him first."

"He was going to attack."

"You didn't know that."

"I knew that." Buffy's voice was hard and flat. "He was a vampire. That's what vampires do." She stared coldly into Karen's eyes. "They attack you, suck you, and kill you, and sometimes, if you're really unlucky, they turn you--into one of them."

"But he wasn't going to kill you. He just needed to eat. He was weak and starving, and it was a fundamental biological need. Just like we all have." Karen spread out her hands inclusively now, inviting the judge and Buffy to share a common bond. "You eat, don't you, Buffy?"

"I don't eat people."

"Are you a vegetarian?"

Buffy's muscles tightened with a desire to lash out and wipe that smug smile off the lawyer's lips. "Cows aren't people."

"I'll take that as a no." Karen stepped closer. "So, being a slayer. That's a hard job, isn't it?"

Drawing herself up a little, Buffy said, "The hardest job you'll never know."

Something in the woman's face changed subtly, just below Buffy's threshold of recognition. The false notes of earlier sympathy were replaced by understanding. "You're right, Buffy. How could anyone but you know what it means to be chosen? To make decisions night after night that men twice your age--men of war--would lose sleep and soul over. To know that the only judgment you can depend on is yours." Her quiet voice held no edge, and her gaze never wavered from Buffy's. "You're judge, jury, and executioner. Sometimes you even have to kill people you've known. People you've loved."

The harsh light and hypnotic litany of words worked on Buffy like a spell, made worse by the knowledge that it wasn't. Vampires couldn't get inside without being invited, but humans could. She ducked her head, breaking eye contact, but though she told herself she had nothing to be ashamed of, old pain and guilt and doubt dragged at her conviction.

"All that stress must take its toll," Karen said, her voice so gentle now it could have been a mother's. "It's easier when everything is simple. Good and evil. Black and white. Kill or be killed."

"I don't simplify things!" Buffy lifted her head again, riled to defensiveness. "I've fought vampires for years. I know what they are."

"You know what your watcher tells you. You kill first and ask questions later."

"No."

"How many vampires have you slayed? A few hundred? A thousand? They're all the same to you. Faceless, nameless." Karen loomed over Buffy in her heels, forcing her to look up. "You make the world safe for your kind, and you justify yourself the same way every killer has over the centuries: they're a race of savages. Animals. The only good vampire is a dead vampire."

"It's not the same thing at all," Buffy said, her voice rising and tripping toward a stammer.

Karen was close enough for Buffy to smell her perfume, a light and expensive scent, to hear the small ticks of her wristwatch. "Buffy," she said. "Look at my client." Buffy looked over at Vicky, a small figure lost in her sack dress, her eyes filled with a dumb-as-dirt sadness that drowned all certainties. "Are you sure it's not the same?"

"Are you sure this will work?" Riley wondered, looking around the circle they'd established on Giles's living room rug, marked with the symbols of  invocation. A small incense burner smoked in its center.

"I'm sure of nothing," said Giles, lifting his book again and frowning at its contents. "Stop talking now. Willow, when I signal, throw the amulet into the circle." He paused to peer across at her. "You have it?"

Willow held up the disc. "Yep. Where'd you get this, anyway?"

"Er, a junk shop in Portobello Road. Now, please. Concentrate." He began to recite the words of the incantation, sprinkling his powders across the incense as he did. Smoke flared up in bright red, then black. From his seat on the couch, Xander waved a hand and coughed, a faint streak of movement in the corner of Giles's eye.

"...Rhadamanthus, Astraea, Themis, we beseech thee to hear our petition, in the name and spirit of justice." He gestured to Willow, who threw the pendant in the circle. It vanished in another, stronger plume of smoke, which made everyone cough this time. As the smoke cleared, they all paused in silence and looked around as a group. And then the lights went out.

Or, no. Not the lights, thought Giles. The colors. His living room had taken on the tones of an old photograph, heavy shadows blurring everything, and everyone, to shades of black and white and grey. Willow held out her hands, touching her skin with an expression of shock, while Spike and Xander examined each other up and down, Spike's pallor more pronounced, his features brushstrokes of black paint and ash, Xander a husk of himself, drained of all hues of life.

Smoke billowed from the circle as a light within it brightened and spilled across the floor. And then it exploded with nuclear intensity, swallowing Giles where he sat.

"Miss Summers, do you have anything to say in your own defense?" The judge leaned to one side of his bench and gazed down at her. She sensed the aloofness with which he held himself, and knew that her case was already lost. What else could she have expected?

She marshaled her arguments anyway, though she wasn't quite sure what they would be until she said them. "Five years ago I was called as a slayer. When I saw my first vampire--and my second and my third and my tenth--I saw for the first time what evil was. Real evil. The kind of nightmares they scare kids with. Vampires killed my friends, they fed--and they laughed about it. They didn't just kill to eat. They killed for fun. I've never met a vampire who didn't enjoy the pain he c