***************************************

Buffy frowns as KZLA returned to its regularly scheduled sad-song-a-thon. "Ugh. You don't think that's the sign of another apocalypse, do you? Because I do not have it in me." She grimaces and shifts, trying to find a comfortable spot on Xander's threadbare car seats.

Repeated pounding on the door of Spike's apartment had yielded no results. Xander insisted his work here was done but Buffy, anxious and short-tempered, had dragged him back to the car. "Where does Spike hang out?"

"If you're looking for the living dead, I'd start with the cast of Desperate Housewives. I hear they film in Burbank."

"Nice to see you haven't lost your sense of humor along with your adherence to personal hygiene," she replies acidly. "You might as well help me. The sooner I find Dawn and Spike, the sooner I can stop bunking on your couch."

"When you put it that way..." And now, after a few minutes driving in strained silence, Buffy dimly recognizes the Sunset Strip, its clubs and boutiques and liquor stores all shouldering each other for space.

"Why are so you angry at me, Xan?"

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel. "Because Anya's dead and you're not."

Well.

She thinks to herself that maybe brutal honesty is overrated, when he goes on. "No. No, that's not - I'm angry because Anya's dead and I'm not. And I feel like we fooled her, Buffy. All of us. We let Anya - and Spike - believe that they were...included. But in the end, the Scoobies only watched out for each other."

"Oh...Xander."

"And, y'know, it was Anya who saved Andrew. And it was Spike who took in Dawn. So maybe the Scoobies don't have so much to be proud of after all."

She closes her eyes briefly. It's not as though she hasn't thought the same thing; it's not as though she hasn't gone over and over and over those last moments at Sunnydale High, trying to pinpoint how she lost the people she loved, and what she could have done differently.

Buffy carries plenty of failure on her conscience, and that last battle is no exception, but she's examined it long enough to know that Xander's wrong. Justifiably bitter, but wrong about the Scoobies edging out anyone else in her heart.

Xander pulls into a bar she wouldn't have noticed if not for the tiny patch of asphalt that serves as a parking lot. Buffy's overall impression is Ick. She cocks an eyebrow at Xander. He colors just slightly.

“So we’re both functional alcoholics,” he mumbles. “And neither one of us likes to go anywhere fancy.”

“Whatever,” Buffy says, trying for exasperated but in truth she’s consumed by the idea of seeing them – him – her – again. “Lead the way, Sad Clown.”

***

Oh. Oh. They're dancing.

Dawn smiles widely, leans into Spike who gives her a good-natured nudge back. She stumbles but he catches her and she gazes up at him, dizzyingly radiant, like he's just rescued her from certain death. It’s not exactly flirting, but it’s closer than Buffy ever thought she’d see from them. She’s reminded, all of a sudden, of what Spike and Dawn share that Buffy doesn’t.

They are so beautiful, these two scrawny outcasts, and Buffy wants to hold them forever and stroke Dawn's hair and poke at Spike for days just to make sure he's real, really really real and she wants their apologies and she wants their forgiveness and she wants to be part of that love between them, however off-kilter. All that after strangling them both.

But instead she stays rooted to the spot, fascinated, until Xander says behind her: "If his hand goes anywhere near her butt, I'll stake him with a bar stool."

Ah, yes. This is more familiar footing. "Hello, pot," she replies. "There's a message from kettle in your Inbox."

"Am I ever going to live that down? I didn't know it was Dawn -" "You were shamelessly ogling at the Bronze?"

"And thank you for articulating such a painful subject."

“I just don’t want to be the only one who feels like pond scum.” She gestures to the nestled pair. “Shall we?”

But then. Then the song changes – something slow and mournful in the way that only a song played in a Hollywood bar can be – and Dawn pulls Spike closer. He doesn’t resist as she arranges the two of them with endearing fastidiousness: settling Spike’s arms at her waist and raising her arms to loosely encircle his neck. They sway lazily, Spike still smiling down at her as she talks. Soon, though, Buffy sees Dawn’s words stop, sees their foreheads brush, and noses – cheeks –

She breaks into a run, startling the other dancers, and can almost hear the skidding sound as she stops in front of them. “What the hell is going on?”

Even as the words leave her she’s cursing herself, cringing inwardly at the shrill, accusatory tone. This is not how she imagined this meeting.

Emotions chase themselves across Dawn’s face – shock, relief, apprehension. For his part, Spike merely tightens his grip around her. “Slayer,” he says evenly.

She composes herself. Save the psycho-bitch routine for when you and Spike are alone, she thinks, and then curses herself again for the images her mind immediately conjures up. “I mean – I mean – Dawn. What happened? What are you doing here? Why haven’t you come home?” Her voice falters. “I’ve been scared, Dawn. So, so scared.”

Her sister swallows, looks to Spike - ! – for guidance. He just purses those lush lips, probably biting off a thousand nasty comments directed straight at Buffy.

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me.”

“I did. I know I screwed up but my God, Dawn, you can’t just take off like that! What were you thinking? You could have been killed!” Crap. The shrillness is back. Buffy clamps her mouth shut and envelops her sister in a fierce hug. Dawn hesitates, then embraces her in turn. Buffy tugs at her hand.

“We need to talk. Privately. Now.” She arches an eyebrow at Spike, who returns the favor.

Dawn’s high heels clatter on the floor as she follows Buffy to the ladies’ room. Once inside, Buffy whirls, intending to deliver a Joyce-worthy lecture. Possibly punctuated by more hugging.

But what emerges is not what either of them expects. “You and Spike?”

“Huh?”

“Please tell me you haven't - haven't –”

Comprehension sinks in. “Oh, my God, Buffy. We were just dancing."

"Dancing. Right. What is it with you and my boyfriends, anyway? First the Immortal -"

Dawn gasps. "Buffy – listen - the Immortal -"

"And now Spike."

“Argh – Buffy! You're delusional!" A beat, and then Dawn asks, "Was Xander ever your boyfriend?"

"What?!"

"Just wondering. He looks like he could use the love of a good woman. And possibly a loofah. Anyway, that’s not important. Buffy, the Immortal –”

A knock sounds at the door. “Occupied!” Buffy screams.

“Buffy? Is that you? Are you and Dawn all right?”

She freezes, turns slowly to face her sister.

“Is that – is that him? Is that the Immortal?”

Dawn sighs. “I am saying. He’s alive! Well, you know. In a manner of speaking. I totally brought him back to life, Buffy – Spike kind of helped too, but he wasn’t happy about it. I rocked out with the metaphysics, let me tell you.”

Buffy’s head spins. Outside, the knocking starts up again. “Buffy, do you need help?”

A terribly familiar, derisive snort. “Wanker. Told you not to interfere, she managed fine without you for years.”

Dawn closes her eyes. “Oh, God. They’re starting again.”

“Again? Wait, no.” Buffy holds up a hand. “What happened?”

Dawn leans against one of the cleaner-looking stalls. “He’d been following me. The Immortal had. And I told Spike and we went to go, like, exorcise him, you know? Except it turns out that the reason he’d been following me was because he was bound to me. And also because I could bring him back.”

“Of course,” Buffy mumbles. “He was only mostly dead.”

“’And mostly dead,” Dawn finishes, “is slightly alive.’ Plus, um...the whole Immortal thing. He really isn’t kidding about that.”

A slow smile breaks over Buffy’s features. “He’s alive.”

Dawn smiles back. “Yep.”

Her reunion with the Immortal is a blur; later, Buffy remembers it with fondness but little detail. And maybe she’s pretty vague about it at the time, too, because it’s not long before he absents himself – Dawn entices him out to the dance floor and Buffy is surprised that the vision doesn’t inspire the incoherent indignation that seeing Dawn and Spike together did.

Xander, Spike and Buffy watch them, until Spike chafes at the tension and stands. “This round’s on me. The usual?” he asks Xander, who nods gratefully.

“Now I know why you two are drinking buddies,” Buffy says. “Spike pays.”

His jaw tightens. “Careful, Summers. I scraped up some pride while you were gone.”

She draws back, nonplussed. She hadn’t meant it...hadn’t meant it like it sounded.

He’s waiting for the drinks when Dawn appears at his shoulder. “How’s it going?”

“’Bout as good as it can, I suppose. Rather be in Reno, all things considered.”

Dawn glances over, to where Buffy’s hands twist together on the tabletop and Xander’s expression is rigid and drawn. “She came back to rescue us, you know. All of us.”

“You sure about that?”

“Pretty. It’s a battle for her, just like all the others. She won’t leave a man behind.”

“We’ll see. In the meantime, you should pack your things. Imagine Big Sister’s booked you on the next flight out of here, and you know who she’s gonna get to drive you to the airport –”

Dawn snorts. “Pack? I’m not going anywhere.”

Spike, who has just finished paying the bartender, stares. “What, now?”

She liberates a beer from his order. “I’m staying right here. I like L.A. And I’ve got a job, and God knows Xander needs all the help he can get – honestly, Spike, you should have told me what a mess he was – and –”

Spike’s holding up both hands. “When you say you’re staying ‘right here’, do you mean –”

“With you? Might as well. You’ve got that cushy guest room and the HDTV.”

“Ha, ha. No. No, no.”

“Oh, Spike,” she says, and there’s such gentle, amused affection in her tone. “You’re stuck with me, now.”

He scowls, takes a healthy swallow of whiskey. “I never should have let you in the front door. Point of fact, I never should have let you in, full stop. All these years of hair-tossing and sulks and The Princess Diaries and that damn mouth on you.” She’s laughing at him openly now. “Knew the moment I saw you you’d be nothing but trouble. Must have been mad.”

“Must have been,” she agrees. She rests her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Spike. Please don’t have sex with Buffy in my bed, ‘kay?” She kisses him lightly and flits off, and he tells himself that he’ll set her straight tomorrow but isn’t drunk enough to believe it.

When Spike returns from the bar, Buffy tries again.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know what. Taking Dawn in. Protecting her.”

He gratefully accepts the drink that appears at his side, then scowls as Xander drifts into the darkened outskirts of the bar. “Was no hardship.”

“I know, but…you hadn’t exactly sought us out, before.”

“Same here, Slayer.”

“Right. Right.” Conversation stalls; Buffy looks down to see a beer in front of her. Xander can be unobtrusive, when he wants to be. Across the room, Dawn appears to be relating a complicated and vivid story to the Immortal, if her wild gestures and his tolerant expression are any indication.

“Bound together, huh?”

Spike shrugs. “According to the Liaison. Bein’ that they’re both immortal, I figure. Still don’t like it. He stalks her for months –”

“He didn’t have a choice –”

“And now it’s all water under the Hellmouth.” Spike’s calculating gaze settles on Dawn. “Don’t like her being twisted up in him, Buffy. Can’t be good.”

“To be honest, I’m not thrilled either. But I know he wouldn’t hurt her. He wasn’t even angry when he died because of her. You can’t ask for much more than that.”

“If he’s such a prize, why aren’t you over there with him?”

Excellent question. The combination of exhaustion and adrenaline has her too wrung out for another round of verbal sparring. “Because I don’t want to be there. I want to be here.” She has every right to sound petulant, she assures herself. She has jet-lag.

Her honesty seems to have set Spike off-course. “Okay,” he says finally.

“’Okay?’ That’s…underwhelming.”

“Maybe for you.” He stands abruptly. “Think I need something to kill.” His eyes drift back to the Immortal.

“Forget about it. If for no other reason than that it’s a lost cause. Plus,” she finishes, “I like him.”

Spike digests this, then cocks his head to the door. “Care for some bloodshed?”

“Why not? It is what we do best.”

“Second best,” he says, as they head for the exit.

Part 7: This Must Be the Place

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