Forward to Time Past by Unbridled Brunette

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Chapter 55

Five thousand dollars.

The noonday sun was relentless; it sifted through the holes in Spike’s ragged blanket, burning his knuckles and the back of his neck. He hardly even noticed. His thoughts were fixed on the thick roll of bills crammed into the front pocket of his jeans. The man in the bar—whose name seemed an insignificant detail in the presence of such a large sum of money—had agreed to give Spike half his payment to seal their deal. Naturally, there had been the obligatory “double-cross me and I’ll kill you” warning, but Spike did not intend to double-cross him. Five thousand dollars and another five thousand to come; you couldn’t beat that for a month’s labor. Hell, especially not this type of labor. It was so damned easy he might as well be paid for watching the telly.

Work didn’t begin right away. Spike’s nameless benefactor had to set things up first; Spike would be contacted once his services were needed. That was fine with him. It would give him some time to plan, to figure out what excuses he could use for not allowing Buffy to stay with him all night, if she wanted to. He knew she’d want to. She’d done it twice already and things…things were getting better between them. Not perfect, but at least now she knew that she could open up to him. He could be her shoulder to cry on…except he didn’t want her to cry. Not ever again.

Of course, five thousand dollars wouldn’t go very far or very long. According to Buffy, the mortgage was three months behind; that was three thousand dollars right there, even before taking into account the late fees. Then, there were the utilities, which were also late and accompanied by their own penalties. The five grand would cover all those and some groceries besides, but there were next month’s bills and the month after that…on and on into infinity. No, five thousand dollars wasn’t nearly enough.

Still, it was a start. At the end of the month, he would get another five thousand, and if he did an adequate job, the bloke from the bar said the arrangement could continue indefinitely. Spike would be damned sure to do an adequate job.

He had intended to go home after he left Willie’s Place, but halfway to his destination, he suddenly turned around and began running east. The half-glass of blood he’d had at the bar had done little to abate his hunger, and his head was pounding. However, he was too impatient to wait. He knew that Buffy would never take the money from him if he offered it outright. Forget the fact that she’d taken hundreds of pounds from him when she lived with him in London; this would be considered different somehow. At any rate, she would want to know how he came by it, and he had a feeling she wouldn’t be pleased by the answer. No, it was much better to be deceitful than risk her displeasure.

That was where Dawn came in.

By sheer luck, no one was in the school parking lot to see him darting up the steps with his head covered. Once inside the foyer, he dumped his blanket in the corner behind a trash bin. A woman was watching him through the open door of an administrative office. She leaned across her desk and cleared her throat to get his attention.

“Can I help you find something?” she asked.

He waved away the question impatiently—“I’m fine. I can read, can’t I?”—and continued down the hallway. The building was bigger than he’d first thought and completely unfamiliar, but small enamel plaques marked each room, which made it easier. He had a fair idea of where she would be this time of day.

The cafeteria was almost as large as a football field; there were skylights cut into the roof and an entire wall of windows, making the room almost as bright as the sunlit lawn it overlooked. Annoyed, Spike had no choice but to linger in the doorway, scanning the crowded tables, the congested salad bar and a meat line that seemed to grow longer with every student that left it. The roar of so many voices hurt his ears and made his headache even worse, and for a moment, he considered leaving. Then, he caught her scent.

He traced it to the far left of the entrance, found her sitting at a long table in a mercifully shadowed corner, chatting with a cluster of girls her own age. Carefully, he edged over to her, keeping close to the wall and the shadows cast by a row of soda machines. Dawn had her back to him, but the girl sitting across from her seemed so surprised by his appearance that Dawn immediately turned around to see why her friend looked so startled.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, clearly shocked.

“Got to talk to you a second,” Spike answered briefly. With the hardest part of his task over, he reached into his pocket for a much-needed cigarette. Hunger was not helping his head, and the smell of all the living blood in the room made his stomach gnaw at him.

“I’m not really supposed to leave,” Dawn said uneasily. “Lunch period is almost over and I’ve got a history test this afternoon. If I miss it…”

“You won’t,” he assured her. “We’ll make it quick. Wouldn’t ask, Bit, but it’s important.”

Curious, now, Dawn began to gather her things. Her friends stared at Spike in mute fascination.

“You know, you’re not supposed to smoke in here,” one of them finally mumbled under her breath. She glanced at a group of weary adults who stood nearby and added resentfully, “You’re going to get us into trouble.”

Something in her tone made him bristle—or, perhaps, it was her dark curls and large eyes, which looked so much like Cecily Underwood’s she might have been a younger sister. At any rate, he felt a perverse urge to torment her.

“Right, then. Sorry about that.” He dropped the cigarette into her can of soda. “Is this better?”

The girl peered into her Pepsi with dismay, and Dawn shot Spike a dirty look as she hefted her bulging book-bag over her shoulders.

“Sorry, Caitlyn. He doesn’t get out of the house much.” She climbed to her feet and grabbed Spike’s arm, pulling him toward the exit. “I’ll see you later, guys.”

The three girls watched them leave, identical looks of confusion on their faces.

“Wow,” Caitlyn said finally. “Dawn’s father is hot.”

“Bugger all,” Spike grumbled as they pushed through the crowd of people surrounding the doorway. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Dawn asked. She paused as if expecting a profound revelation. Instead, Spike merely shook his head and tugged her out into the hallway.

“Those bints think I’m your bloody father. Do I look old enough to be a father to you? I mean, a little baby, I’ll grant you. But a sodding high-schooler?” He sounded disgusted.

“How old are you, anyway?” Dawn asked, half-jogging to keep up with him.

“Hundred and twenty-one, you know that.”

“No…I mean before. When you were still human, how old were you?”

He glanced at her, hesitated before answering. “Thir—twenty-five.”

“So, then, technically you’re a hundred and forty-six,” she pointed out.

But Spike wasn’t listening. He was looking in frustration down both ends of the hallway. Kids were milling around everywhere, walking to class, gathering books from their lockers, even just standing around chatting. It didn’t exactly make a great place to have a private conversation, particularly one of this nature.

“The band room is always empty this time of day,” Dawn said, as if reading his mind. He looked over at her gratefully.

“Where’s the band room?”

“It’s down the hallway. This way—” She pointed. “You take a left at the end and it’s the fourth door on the right after that.”

They walked together in silence. Companionable, though Spike did notice Dawn surreptitiously checking her watch. When they reached the band room, he closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

“I’ll make it quick, Bit. I know you’re on a tight schedule and we can’t go into it all now, but I need your help.”

Dawn’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “With what?” she asked.

“Money,” he answered briefly. “I’ve got some…and I think I’ve found a way to get some more…to help you and Buffy. Thing is, I know she’ll never take it from me, not a cent. She’s stubborn like that. I need—”

“Where’d you get money?” Dawn interrupted. Spike’s expression darkened.

“Does it matter?” he snapped. “Point is I got it.”

“Okay…so where do I come in?”

“I don’t know how to get it to her. Like I said, she’ll never take it from me directly. I thought about asking someone else to give it to her, the Watcher or one of her friends. But—”

“They’d never go for it,” she finished.

“To put it mildly. If I even opened my mouth about it, they’d let her know what I was doing, and then she’d want to know where I got it. You’re no fool, Dawn. You know that I can’t get money in any way that’d please her. I’ve got to figure out some way of giving it to her so she won’t know it’s from me…some way where she’ll take it without losing her pride, without feeling she’s taking charity. I need your help to do that.”

Dawn hesitated. It made her nervous, the thought of him getting money in a way that wouldn’t please Buffy. A lot of money at that, if he thought it would actually help drag them out of the pit of financial ruin. She knew he was right and that Buffy would never go for it. More than that, she knew if Buffy found out, it might very well end the relationship the two of them had only just begun together.

But there was also the money…all those bills that weren’t being paid. She’d heard dozens of discussions about it; she’d seen Buffy’s eyes, the expression in them anxious and more pitiful than tears. Her sister was only twenty and she was the Slayer besides. If Spike was right, if he could get money, then it meant Buffy wouldn’t have to worry about finding a job. Maybe she could even go back to school. Things would be better with money, the way they were before their mother died.

She tilted her chin up and looked into Spike’s somber face. “What do I need to do?”

“For now, just give it some thought. After school, before you go home, come to my crypt and we’ll hash it out. Between the two of us, we should be able to come up with something.”

“I’ll be there,” Dawn promised. A bell rang in the hallway, and her head whipped around to the clock on the wall behind her. “Sorry, but I’ve got to—”

He opened the door and then stepped away from it, motioning for her to leave. Dawn knew that he didn’t expect her to say anything else, but she paused and, after a moment’s hesitation, grabbed him around his narrow waist and hugged him.

“Thanks, Spike.”

When Dawn arrived at the crypt later that afternoon, she expected to find Spike sleeping or, at the very least, waking up. It had been one o’clock when he arrived at her school; he couldn’t have gotten home before two and he must have been exhausted by then. She eased the door open just in case, figuring that if he was sleeping, she could wait upstairs and watch television until he woke up.

But he wasn’t asleep.

Instead, she found him standing in front of his miniature refrigerator, a black trash bag clutched in one fist. He was pulling pints of blood out of the fridge, scooping them into the bag.

“You’re late,” he said before she had a chance to speak. Dawn, who had been about to ask him what he was doing, was immediately diverted.

“I am not! School lets out at three-thirty and it’s only a little after four. Did you think I could sprout wings and fly here or something?”

“Would’ve been helpful.” His voice held a trace of amusement that only succeeded in annoying her further. She gave a theatrical sigh.

“So, let’s talk money already, if you’re in such a hurry.”

Spike dropped the bag he was holding and turned to her, suddenly all business.

“I was thinking about that,” he said. “How we talked about having someone else give it to her. I was thinking maybe your father would make a good stalking-horse.”

“My father,” Dawn echoed bitterly. “We couldn’t even get in touch with him when Mom died. Do you really think we could call him now? He doesn’t even pay child support. If he did, maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

“Well, yeah. That’s sort of the point.”

Dawn was bewildered.

“What’s the point?”

“That you never talk to him. It makes it easy, see. We can make it look like the money’s coming from him…and he won’t have any idea. That way, no one finds out who’s really behind it.”

“You mean send it in his name?” Dawn asked. For a moment, she was excited. Then, her face fell. “How can we do that, though? I mean, we don’t even know what return address to use. Last we heard he lived in LA but…”

“That part’s easy. We’ll just slip an envelope with an LA address on it into your box, with a letter telling Buffy it’s from your father. She’ll never know the difference.”

“I hate to rain on your parade, Spike, but there’s no way she’s going to buy that it’s real if you leave a thousand dollars in cash in our mailbox.”

Her scornful tone made him smile slightly.

“Yes, I know that. Thanks for your faith in me. We’re not putting the money into your letterbox…we’re putting a letter into it.” She raised her eyebrows at him and Spike added a trifle smugly, “A letter explaining that he’s deposited the money into your bank account.”

“And he’d know our bank account number because…”

“Because when you called him up and bitched about not getting any child support, you gave it to him.”

“I did what—?” she began. Then, her eyes lit with comprehension. “That’s…that’s actually a really good idea.”

“Yeah, well. I have them every once in a while.” Spike turned back to his refrigerator and the trash bag. He meant it for a dismissive gesture, but Dawn didn’t seem to take the hint. At any rate, she didn’t leave.

“Did the motor go out and spoil everything?” she asked, watching him. He didn’t even glance at her.

“No, it didn’t go out.”

“Then, why are you…?”

“Figured it might be a good idea to clean house,” he explained reluctantly. “Get rid of the things that might…that would…”

That would make Buffy look at me the way she did last night.

He couldn’t say that, of course, but it was the reason. In fact, once the self-righteous anger at her friends had worn off…once he’d set into motion the plan to earn her some money…it was all he could think about, that look of disgust on her face when he spilled his blood on her. He didn’t really blame her for it, although it still struck him as unfair that she should have no problem with Angel’s drinking it, yet be disgusted when he imbibed. But she wanted William; she wanted the man. If he was going to prove he could still be that for her, then the blood had to go. At the very least, it had to be kept out of her sight.

When Dawn realized what he was doing, she looked almost indignant.

“You mean you’re getting rid of it because Buffy doesn’t like it?” she asked. “You’ve got to be kidding me. She’s a vampire slayer; she sees blood all the time.”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” he snapped. “She sees it all the time and she doesn’t want to see it here. God knows, it isn’t a great sacrifice on my part.”

“What’s not a great sacrifice? Giving up eating?” Her voice was cutting, though the anger was clearly not directed at the vampire in front of her.

“Don’t be daft. I’ll still eat; I just won’t keep it here. It’s not that hard.”

“I guess that’s why you’re wearing those clothes then. For Buffy.”

Spike looked down at himself: gray cargos, white t-shirt, and a blue button-down left open on top. He felt like a ponce, but it was what Buffy wanted. Right? For him to dress like this? She’d liked the polo shirt so much she’d taken it away with her, but he’d spilled blood on her while he was wearing his own clothes; he’d been a monster to her in his own clothes. If all it took for her to see him as a man was an empty refrigerator and an outfit from Old Navy…well, he wasn’t about to complain.

Still, he felt himself squirm inwardly, embarrassed by Dawn’s penetrating stare, embarrassed for her to see him like this. Unsure of when Buffy might come, he’d changed his clothes as soon as he woke up and hid them, along with his duster, in a cardboard box underneath the bed. Now, he wished he’d waited until after the Bit had gone before doing it.

“Just drop it,” he said harshly, as he tied a knot in the top of the bulging trash bag. “It’s none of your damned business.”

“I just don’t understand why you feel like you have to change for her,” Dawn insisted. “She’s not making any changes for you, is she? You like her just the way she is. So, why can’t she be the same way with you?”

Because, I’ve already changed, he wanted to shout. Because, she fell in love with someone I don’t know if I can be anymore. I’ve got to bloody try. Otherwise…

He didn’t want to think about otherwise.

Angry, now, he threw down the bag and turned on Dawn. “Have you ever been in love?”

She looked taken aback by his violent tone, by the blue eyes that were suddenly tinged with yellow. She hadn’t expected him to be so angry.

“Have you?” he pressed, demanding an answer.

“No,” she said softly. “I haven’t.”

“Well, then. That’s why you don’t understand.”

Buffy just couldn’t understand it. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reconcile the photographs—the horror—with the man she had fallen in love with. Archer, of course, didn’t come as a surprise. She’d read about it and, even before that, part of her had felt it was inevitable. In a way, she almost agreed with Spike: the man had deserved to be punished. Perhaps, not in that way. Of course, not in that way. But William had been confused and in pain…and angry…she could understand his reasoning; she could understand why he had done it.

She couldn’t understand the women.

That afternoon, confused and exhausted after the first job interview she’d ever had, Buffy returned to her chair at the kitchen table—and to the stack of photographs that awaited her there. Inasmuch as she didn’t want to look, she also couldn’t stop herself. Had he really been so angry with her for leaving him? She knew anger could accompany grief; she’d experienced it firsthand and had been angry with her own mother for leaving her. But this? A century of torture and murder just because he was grieving? All the victims looked like her, and it made her shudder to think how much he must have hated her for leaving him, if he was able to do that.

Buffy was so lost in her own thoughts, her own grief, she didn’t even hear the sound of Dawn’s footsteps coming up behind her.

“How’d the job interview go?”

Trying not to appear startled by her sister’s sudden appearance, Buffy answered slowly, “It went…well…it just went. I have no idea if she liked me or not; the woman said she would call in a couple of days to let me know what her decision was. If I ever hear from her again, I think I’ll die of shock.”

“It’s always good to keep a positive attitude,” Dawn said. Buffy surprised herself by grinning.

“Well, you know me,” she answered. “Little Miss Optimism.”

Dawn dropped into a chair next to her. “What are you doing anyway?”

“Oh,” Buffy sighed. “Just…thinking. God knows, I have a lot to think about these days.”

“That’s for sure,” Dawn agreed. “Anything in particular you’re thinking of right now?” She smiled wryly. “Like maybe a certain sun-shy boyfriend?”

Buffy winced and Dawn’s expression immediately changed to one of concern.

“What?” she asked. “Did something happen? Is something wrong?”

Buffy hadn’t intended to tell Dawn about the Council’s ultimatum, but after turning the matter over in her mind for almost nine hours straight, she felt as if she had to talk to someone or she would go mad. Because Dawn was certain to be sympathetic to Buffy’s plight, she seemed the most obvious choice.

Except that Dawn wasn’t sympathetic when Buffy told her; she was angry.

“That’s disgusting!” she said shrilly. “How could the Council be so slimy—and how could Giles let them? You’re not seriously thinking about it—”

“Of course, I’m not thinking about it,” Buffy answered, her defensive tone completely belying her words. Dawn’s eyes narrowed.

“You are! I know you, Buffy. I can see it in your face. You’re actually considering doing it…you’re considering dropping Spike to get money from the Council.”

“What the hell is going on with you and Spike?” Buffy flared. “Why are you so protective of him? You hated Angel—you didn’t like Riley—”

“I liked Riley!” Dawn interrupted. “I thought he was great until he cheated on you with the undead prostitutes—”

“Okay, so you liked him. You certainly didn’t latch onto him the way you have Spike, the vampire without a soul. I mean, look at all he’s done! No wonder Giles was willing to listen to the Council!”

She shoved the folder across the table to Dawn, opening it up as she did so to reveal the topmost picture—a pretty blonde with a railroad spike through her throat.

Unlike Buffy, Dawn didn’t even flinch when she was confronted with the graphic, bloody image. She glanced at it briefly, shoved the folder back at her sister, and said coolly, “Yeah, so?”

“You can’t possibly mean that,” Buffy said. “You can’t really think that this—” she jabbed her finger at the picture “—is okay.”

“Of course, I don’t think it’s okay,” Dawn retorted. “It’s evil and gross and wrong—and it also happened, like, a hundred years ago. Big deal.”

“They didn’t all happen a hundred years ago! One of those girls was killed right before he came to Sunnydale. Right before he came to kill me.”

“So what, Buffy? You knew he was a vampire two days ago when you spent the night with him. So, now, you have photographic proof of it. Who cares? Angel killed and tortured and did everything Spike’s done—but you still kept going back to him. You still trusted him. Because, he’s changed. People change.”

“How, though? How has Spike changed? Because he loves me? That doesn’t make him different from before. That doesn’t give him a soul. That doesn’t make him—” She stopped.

“It doesn’t make him William, you mean,” said Dawn sarcastically. “God, Buffy. You are so dim. You expect him to behave just like he did a hundred years ago, just as if he’d never been turned. You’ve even got him thinking that he has to be exactly what you want him to be—that he has to be human—just to be with you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, he’s throwing out all his blood and dressing like a frat-boy because he thinks that’s what you want. You say he can’t change, but look at how hard he’s trying to!”

He threw out his blood?

The events of the previous night suddenly came rushing back, and Buffy’s face grew hot as she thought about how she’d looked at him—how she’d felt about him—when he had accidentally spilled his blood on her. Like he was a monster, like he was everything Giles had accused him of being. The feeling hadn’t lasted long, but she suddenly realized that he might have been aware of it, that it might have hurt him. Afterward, as sweet as he’d been to her…

But he killed all those women because he was angry with me for leaving him. What if I leave him again? What if things don’t work out and that chip in his head misfires? What then?

Her emotions must have showed plainly on her face because when Dawn went on, her tone was much softer.

“Why can’t you just accept what he is, Buffy? You care about him; I know you do. Just get over all the other stuff and let yourself be happy. It’s about time you were.”

Buffy nodded grimly.

It’s about time…

It was much later when she arrived at his crypt. She could tell by the look on his face when she walked in the door that he hadn’t expected her to come. It almost hurt her to see the way the shock faded from his blue eyes, the way it became relief and another emotion that could only be described as ecstasy.

Ecstasy, just because she was there.

“How…how’d it go today? The interview and all. Got a job yet?” His voice was soft, almost awkward, and when Buffy looked at him, she was startled to see that Dawn was right. He was dressed like a frat-boy, just as he had been on the night of their “stakeout” and his ill-fated attempt to prove that his feelings for her were genuine. Now, she knew they were.

“I don’t want to talk about the interview,” she said softly.

Spike nodded, clearly eager to keep the conversation in safe waters, to keep her happy. It hurt her again to see how hard he tried. Was Dawn telling the truth? Had he really thrown away his food supply just to please her? His eyes followed her when she walked to his refrigerator to check.

“What…?” he began.

Buffy shut the fridge door with a snap—it was empty, just as Dawn had said it would be. She spoke before he could finish his question.

“Giles showed them to me…the photographs of all those blond girls.”

He looked confused.

“What blond girls?”

Had they really meant so little to him? She answered him slowly. “The ones you killed over the years; the ones you tortured…because of me.”

Spike looked stricken, suddenly terrified. She knew why: he was afraid that she was going to leave him for it.

“I didn’t torture them. They—they were already dead when I—”

“But you killed them, broke their necks or whatever, and did all those things to their bodies afterwards.”

He nodded. What alternative did he have but to be honest?

“Were you really so angry with me?” Buffy’s voice was rising, though not from rage. Her chest hurt and she could feel the threat of tears. She turned her back on him before adding, “They all looked like me. Did you really hate me so much for leaving?”

“I didn’t hate you!” he burst out, fumbling, eager to explain. “I—I hated them. I hated them because they were there—they were there and you—you weren’t. All I wanted was for you to be—”

His voice broke off, but Buffy didn’t turn around to see why. There was a dagger resting on top of the refrigerator—the same one he’d dropped when she had first come to him a few days before. She toyed with it, pretending to be far calmer than she actually felt.

“I keep thinking about that,” she said softly. “How angry you were. It didn’t matter with whom…the results are the same. You were angry and people died because of it. If we broke up now—if you didn’t have the chip—you would do it all over again.”

“I wouldn’t!” Now, he sounded angry. “Jesus Christ, Buffy. You act like I’m some kind of sodding animal who can’t control himself. I told you—if you had been there, Drusilla’s turning me wouldn’t have made one damn bit of difference. I would have been good—I would have been anything you bloody wanted me to be. If you left me now, I sure as hell wouldn’t go back to killing even if I could!”

“Why not?”

“Because, I wouldn’t want to ruin my chances of getting you back!”

There was a rush of possessive satisfaction at the words, although she knew they weren’t the right ones for him to say.

Does it really matter though? If he’s good, does it even matter why? Angel is good because of the soul…Spike is good because of me. Is it really all that different?

She swallowed the lump in her throat, focused her gaze on the dagger in her hands—

Can you really control yourself, Spike?

—and then she ran the blade across the pad of her thumb.

Buffy could tell that he smelled the blood immediately by the way he shifted behind her. When she looked at him, he had his face to the wall, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched, reminding her so much of his former self her heart ached. He didn’t even turn around when he heard her approach.

When she reached him, she put her right hand against the back of his head, her fingers twining in the short hair that was stiff with gel. She leaned up, kissed his earlobe, whispered, “William—look—”

He glanced over and she reached up with her left hand, dragging her injured thumb across his bottom lip, leaving a trail of blood.

She’d half-expected him to vamp, to bite her, to immediately lose his senses. Instead, he hesitated, blood on his mouth, face completely human and so upset it made her wonder if she’d done the right thing.

“It’s okay,” she said. She bit him on his neck, gently mimicking what he might have done to her. She murmured again, “It’s all right.”

The tip of his tongue came out, tentatively tasting what she’d given him. Although he still didn’t change, she felt him harden against her leg; she heard the low moan that rumbled in his throat and didn’t quite reach his lips.

I guess he can control himself, she thought and felt a shiver of pleasure run down her spine.

She pushed her streaming hand to his mouth, sucking in her breath as his cool tongue traced along her wrist and hand, cleaning up the line of blood that had snaked down from the wound. When he finally reached her thumb—when he drew it into his mouth and began to coax the blood from it with gentle swallows—she felt her stomach drop. Her free hand slid from his skull to his shoulder, clutching it to keep from falling when her knees began to shake. She felt almost dizzy with lust, a reaction she hadn’t expected.

“See—” she gasped, grinding against him, rubbing his clothed erection with her hip. “I’m not asking you to be a human—I just want to you be—”

“What?”

“—mine.”

That wasn’t the word she meant to say—she meant to say good. But, somehow, once it was out, she couldn’t bear to correct herself.

None of her friends doubted that Buffy would accept the Council’s offer.

Secrecy never being a strong suit with the group, they all knew about Giles’ visit with her and the ultimatum he had given. It was the favorite topic of conversation as they sat at the Magic Box’s reading table the following afternoon, and each of them had their own opinion about why Buffy would choose to abandon her relationship with Spike.

Willow assumed that Buffy would jump at the offer of money, the chance to catch up on all those bills. If she didn’t do that soon, then foreclosure would be a real possibility, and she knew that Buffy would do anything to keep from losing her mother’s house.

Xander thought it was only a matter of time before Buffy came to her senses about it all, and even though he hated the thought of her being in pain, he would feel relieved once it finally happened. Better that the vampire be shown doing something hurtful and disgusting now, while they were just getting involved, than wait until poor Buffy was even more vulnerable. God knew, he had already taken advantage of her enough as it was, both in the past and the present.

Giles was confident that Buffy was thinking seriously about what he had said to her and was considering the offer he had made. Whatever relationship she might have formed with William Hartley (and he didn’t approve of even that), she must know that it was foolish to try to recapture it with Spike. He thought it best to give Buffy her space and wait patiently for her to come to him, safe and contrite and ready to be taken care of.

And, when the bell over the door rang to announce her arrival, it seemed that she had.

Buffy wasn’t surprised to find them all gathered together. In fact, it was the reason she had decided to wait until so late in the evening to come. Willow and Tara were out of class; Xander’s construction job was over for the day, and the shop’s clientele had slowed to a trickle. She figured that if she was going to do this, she might as well do it right and save them all the trouble of gossiping about it afterward.

Still, she never expected it to be this hard, with all of them watching silently as she passed the table. The sheaf of printer paper clutched in her right hand felt limp and damp as her palms began to sweat. Like any good proprietor, Giles was standing at the cash register behind the glass display case. Buffy stopped in front of it, just across from him, and their eyes met.

Then, she threw the photographs of Spike’s handiwork into her Watcher’s face.

“Tell the Council I don’t like being propositioned.”

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