I'll Fly Away

6-3-02

Chapter 15: Sing Sorrow

"She lives beyond the grace of God, a wanderer in the outer darkness. She is Vampyr, Nosferatu…."

---Bram Stoker's Dracula

Giles threw down his pen and reached for the bottle of scotch that had been keeping him company all evening. He poured out a measure with a hand that trembled, but only slightly, and knocked the liquor back in one swallow. When the burn died away, he wrapped his fingers around the bottle's slim neck and prepared another shot.

"Let him drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more."

He wasn't that drunk, Giles assured himself, if he could remember his proverbs. His flat was utterly silent, and in the breach he heard and felt the ghosts of his past rising up, the shades of lost loves and children who yet lived. None of them were ever really his--not a one had ever set foot in these rooms--but it had been good to pretend for awhile.

Until Glory.

Until that bitter rose morning when Buffy chose Dawn and the world over life. He hadn't realized, until she was gone, how much he relied on her, a mere girl, to help carry the lonely weight of his life. He was a Watcher who'd lost his way and become a sometimes-father, a teacher, a confidant. Not impartial, not a mere observer. And when she came back, watching was out of the question.

Never again could he send her out to die, not even for the world.

His stiff upper lip trembled at the thought of her gone again within his lifetime. But wasn't her final death a certainty, and soon? Wasn't the ominous silence that pervaded the last lines of every girl's chronicle a Watcher's testimony, a tribute, to Slayers loved and lost? It was too much, too much. So he left, fled, on a red-eye flight, without even saying goodbye. That time would come soon enough, he reasoned.

The empty scotch bottle was heavy in Giles' palm, yet delicate. Like her skull felt, cradled in his hand as he lifted her from the rubble of Glory's dream.

The silence was becoming unbearable. It was Giles, John Barleycorn, and a thousand regrets, all crowded round the table. Above all, he regretted Dawn, who carried the weight of Buffy's turbulent life--her love, her dreams, her sorrows--and had to set down the burden before any of them were ready. He regretted his earlier, harsh tone. He'd almost extracted a promise out of Spike--Spike of all people!--to do must be done. Giles had spoken out of shame, and regret, and sadness for the lost Dawn. He'd bullied Buffy out of fear. Fear that he'd have to do it. Fear that he couldn't.

Fear that he could. Because he'd always loved Buffy more.

Giles looked down at the bottle, considered throwing it, stomping on the glass to make noise and fill the God-awful silence. In the end, he calmly set it aside and rose. Tottering only slightly, he made his way to the kitchen.

Everything would be all right.

He had more scotch.

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

"She's too calm."

Spike stepped into the hallway, pulling the door quietly shut behind him. He turned to face Willow, who was leaning against the wall, rubbing her tired eyes. He nodded.

"I know, Red. She's like a bottle, corked up too long. She's gotta let all that grief out--or explode."

Willow shuddered. "Can I be somewhere else when that happens? Like Greenland? Is it nice this time of year?"

Spike raised an eyebrow, and Willow shrugged sheepishly. "Buffy uncorked leads to Scoobie ouchies. I came to terms with that in the basement, preparing to die."

They made their way to the stairs, moving quickly past Dawn's closed door. Buffy had finally left her sister's room, after much cajoling, and Spike had steered her to her own bed. He tucked the covers around her shoulders the way he used to do for Dawn, during that mind-boggling summer when Buffy slept, he baby-sat, and a robot protected the world. He sighed, thinking of the Dawn that rose from the ashes of Buffy's sacrifice.

Ah, Nibblet, did you find trouble or did trouble find you? He swiped impatiently at his eyes, turning to go.

"Spike?" Her voice was like a sad wind through winter pines.

He'd spun around, startled by the sudden call in the darkness. For the past four hours, she'd been eerily quiet, drifting in and out of her memories as silently as a gliding Gentleman. Poor, strong girl, beset by spirits.

"Hmmm? What is it, Goldilocks?"

"Don't call me that."

That's my girl. I knew you were still in there. "You haled?'

The Buffy-lump under the covers shifted. "Did it…did it hurt her?"

She might as well have zapped him with his late, unlamented cattle prod. He wasn't prepared to answer such a question, not on such a night. He was only one vampire and he couldn't speak for them all, but Christ, yes, it hurt. It hurt like a bitch. And it was probably worse for Dawn. William Wanker, Esquire, was older than her, less happy, and more willing to be led into pseudo-salvation by an effulgent Drusilla. And there was nothing painless about that first waking, when a body comes to all tangled and damp with blood, sweat, snot and tears, features distorted, innocence smeared; and hungry, so goddamned hungry. He'd been miserable, himself, and ready to raise fresh hell.

He'd considered lying to her, but settled on bending the truth. "Yes. At first."

She'd shuddered and sobbed and he hurried on to the rest. "But then you don't have time to be afraid. There's explosions of color, love, more colors than the wrapping paper bin at Christmas. I don't remember all of it, just a dancing of energy, a bloody whirlwind of power being exchanged, the very air around you transformed into something greater than its ever been before. I suppose that's the soul taking off for parts unknown. Ho! for heaven and all that rot…"

She'd gripped his hand tighter.

And so he sat down on the edge of the bed, and held her hand, and crafted an only slightly exaggerated tale of turning, both Dawn's and his own, of ineffable creatures-- immortal, unaging, unaltered--safe beyond time, rescued from death and change.

"It's beyond human imagination, Pet…"

He described the tide of swelling, pulling, swirling sensation, the way the night sings to the glory that is Vampire. "Suddenly, the air is sweeter, hands are softer. I could see every tracing in a sycamore tree, hear an apple fall in an orchard. Silk is like a waterfall against your skin…"

Finally, she'd fallen asleep, still clutching his cold fingers. He'd sat there for a moment, feeling vaguely guilty. On any other night, she'd have been ready for the whole truth. Right now, it would break her. And there was truth in his tale of wide eyes and youthful tresses, of smooth foreheads never marred by age.

Finally, with a sigh, he'd risen and left.

Willow stumbled a bit on the stairs as they made their way down. Spike arched an eyebrow. "How you doing, Will?"

She shrugged. "Well, I'm kinda terrified. Terror of the pee-your-pants twice variety. And Xander is driving me crazy."

As they entered the living room, Spike conducted a search and found the Whelp digging through a closet, with only his ample butt visible through the hanging coats. Xander emerged a moment later with an armload of weapons, and dropped them next to the chest.

"Harris, did another brick fall on your head? Can I have it to keep?" He worshipped any object that brought Xander pain.

"Stifle it, Lurch. At least I'm doing something productive."

Spike smirked. "Oooh, big word. I didn't know they taught that one in Hooked on Phonics." He watched as Xander dove back into the closet and disappeared behind Buffy's grass-stained camel coat. "And may I ask, respectfully, what the frilly fuck are you doing?"

"Arming us, obviously."

Spike looked down at the mini Matterhorn of stakes, swords, and axes. "She's too young to have minions. Or to have raised an army."

Xander emerged again, dragging a device that resembled a very large Gatling gun. Spike blinked and turned to Willow. "Should we circle the wagons?"

"Cough up a useless lung, Junior. I don't care. I have a bad feeling about this. The Xander vibe-o-meter is vibing. Big time."

Anya chimed in from the sofa. "Is that really a word? Vibing? If not, it should be. It's one of your more intelligent constructs." She smiled brightly.

Spike stepped back as Xander waved his hands like a maniac. "Who cares? Why aren't you people preparing for 'Dawn: The Sequel.'"

Willow piped up, offended. "We are! I hung crosses in every window. Tara cast a spell to make sure the house is safe. And Anya is counting her money…in case we have to make a fast getaway."

"Calm down, Rainman. You're scaring Willow." Spike peered into the closet, wondering if there was a guillotine stashed behind the winter boots.

"What's wrong with you people!" Xander was almost yelling. "She should be scared!"

Spike had heard enough. He seized Xander by the shirt and pulled on the fabric until they were nose to nose. "Listen good, monkeyboy. I'm short on patience, tonight. First of all, we have no choice but to sit here like ducks in a gallery, at least until she shows her pretty face. Everyone here is scared shitless--except Anya--and you're just making it worse by running around like Jesse Owens with a bee up his butt crack."

Xander sputtered. Spike gave him a sound shake.

"Secondly, we're talking about Dawn. You may find it easy to aim an arsenal in her direction, but some of us find the idea somewhat sickening. If and when it comes to that, the decision will be Buffy's alone, because she's Dawn's sister, she's fucking chosen, and she's the girl who keeps your sorry ass in one manageable piece. You'll have to forgive her for not slapping on a perky beret and setting out hunting this very night. She's a bit busy being heartbroken. So lay off Buffy, lay off Willow, lay off Tara--and Anya, of course---get your shit together and stop acting like a spastic retard." He shoved Xander roughly. "That is all."

"Bravo, bravo!"

A smattering of applause erupted from Anya, but Xander barely heard through the red rage clogging his ears. He lunged at Spike. "You think I didn’t love her! I FUCKING TAUGHT HER TO DANCE!"

Spike was stronger, of course, but Xander's attack caught him off balance. The two of them tumbled backward in flurry of grappling limbs. Willow fluttered around the edges of the fight as they bounced off the couch and rolled across the rug, spilling the coffee table onto its side. Spike was snarling. Xander was squealing. The framed pictures on the mantel trembled, about to do a mass kamikaze dive. Willow wrung her hands.

Both men sprang to their feet at the same time, circling like angry dogs.

Anya kicked off her shoes and stood on the sofa to get a better view.

Tara burst into tears.

Xander drew his fist back, ready to swing.

"ENOUGH!"

Buffy's voice cracked across the room, snapping vampire and human to attention like a bullwhip. All eyes turned toward the staircase, where she stood on the landing, trembling like the thinnest leaf, looking every bit as fragile as she had on the night of her resurrection.

But her voice was still strong. "Xander, back off. Will, take care of Tara. Anya…whatever. Spike, I need to talk to you. Right now. Alone."

She made her way down the stairs, leaning on the banister all the way to the bottom, and brushed off Spike's hands when he tried to help. She made her way into the kitchen, back straight and proud. Spike gave Xander a dirty look and loped after her.

She was standing in the shadows of the kitchen, and turned immediately when he entered.

"How long?"

Spike blinked. "Is this a sex question, love? I'm confused, here."

"How long has the chip been kaput? How long have you been all hitty-bitey?"

He was honestly befuddled. "What…how…?"

"Two excellent questions. You and Xander were getting into it pretty good in there, huh? How's that possible, Spike, unless you disabled the chip?"

Spike sputtered. "But I didn't, love! Not on purpose! I didn't even know!"

Buffy bit her lip. "Well, if you didn't do it. Then how…?" Her eyes suddenly widened. Spike got it at the same time. He pressed his lips together.

As one, they turned to look at the broken toaster, still sitting innocently on the counter.

Spike felt a hysterical laugh welling up in his chest.

"Oh." That was all Buffy said, in the smallest of voices. "Oh."

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

Xander's jaw dropped. "A thirty dollar toaster did what a neurosurgeon couldn't?"

Anya chimed in. "Not one of the better models, either. Mine has convenient, extra-wide slots. And a timer that often beeps during sex." Everyone ignored her.

"Looks that way, Whelp. Willie wants to bite!" He didn't really, but enjoyed Harris's reaction, nonetheless. The big doof dove for a stake, but Buffy's voice stopped him cold.

"Xander, I said back off. There will be no staking of anybody unless I say. And I say no. And Spike, don't tease." She was sitting on the couch, back still ramrod straight.

"But, Buff--"

"I said no. Leave Spike alone. If you're very lucky, he'll do the same." She covered her eyes with her hands. "I can't deal with this right now, Xander."

She caught Spike's eye. "When this is over, you and I are going to have a serious discussion about this… development."

"Lookin' forward to it, Ducks."

Buffy leaned her head back, burrowing into the couch cushions. Her eyes drifted shut. Xander continued to glare at Spike, fingering his stake all the while.

Spike just smiled and flashed his fangs.

Willow plucked the stake from Xander's fingers. "You won't be needing that, Xan. Spike's not going to bite anybody. Are you, Spike?" She held his gaze with her own.

Spike shrugged regretfully. "Nah. Got plenty of blood bags in the freezer. Any of you lovelies care to make a donation?"

"A big yuck, no." Willow answered for the females in the room. "Keep your fangs in your head and we'll all get along just fine."

"Fair enough. Truce, Whelp?"

Xander shook his head. "Hell, no. But I won't stake you until Buffy comes to her senses and tells me to."

Anya coughed meaningfully. "I hate to interrupt. Male bonding is very stimulating. And not a sign of homosexuality." She was waving her hand back and forth in front of Buffy's face. "I think she's gone wonky." She looked at Tara. "Like you were, after Glory twirled your brains like wet spaghetti."

"Anya." Buffy's warning voice waned into a tired murmur.

Willow peered anxiously into her face. "You still with us, Buffy?"

A slight nod. "Want to sleep." She swung her feet up onto the couch, and Tara draped a blanket over her. Xander gave his stake one last, longing look.

"Xander." It was Willow's turn to use a warning voice. "If you two aren't done wrestling, take it outside. Buffy's sleeping."

Xander shook his head. "A big no on the outside thing, Will. Spike's was someone's lunch once. I have no plans to follow in his exalted footsteps."

Spike rolled his eyes. "She'd find you a nummy treat, too. Xander McNuggets, the best snack for a teen vampire on the go. Convenient and tasty. Like portable yogurt."

"Spike!" Willow frowned. "Don't talk about eating Xander. It's icky."

"But he's so snackable." Spike pushed a packet of cigarettes into his pocket and shrugged into his coat. "Can you morons watch out for yourselves for a bit? And not become Dawn chow until I'm here to watch?"

Xander snorted. "Somehow we'll manage."

Willow bit her lip. She wished Buffy would wake up and do that bossy thing. "Are you sure it's a good idea to leave?"

Spike sighed. "Of course it isn't. But I have to go out."

"And do what?"

"See a man about a vampire."

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

Clem's face crumpled and he burst into tears.

The patrons of Willy's bar turned on their stools and looked for the source of the great, honking sobs. Spike glared at them and bared his teeth.

"I'm sss…sorry…she was just such a ni...nice little girl." Clem gulped and dabbed at his eyes with the edge of Spike's duster. "We watched Little House together on the Slayer's birthday. She laughed when the Ingalls' crop failed."

Spike patted the wrinkled demon awkwardly on the back and handed him a cocktail napkin. "She liked you a lot, too. Said your Mama raised you right."

At that, Clem launched into a fresh round of crying. Finally, he composed himself enough to speak. "How'd it happen?"

Spike shook his head. "We don't know. That's why I'm here. Was hoping you'd heard something around the poker table. Or on the street. Those gits love to gossip." He took a long drag on his cigarette. "Haven't been spending much time out and about lately, myself."

And even now, he was restless, anxious to find his answers and get back to Buffy and her troupe of likable rejects. Not that it hadn't felt good to step out for a breath of air and make a sweep through the cemetery before hitting Willy's. Chasing demons under a full moon, working out his anger and sadness, mourning with fists and fangs and feet. It was what he was all about. He'd cut a bloody swath through the cemetery lanes, swooping down like the thing he was, an angel of death. Finding two Shalag demons loitering near his crypt, he'd cracked their skulls together, crunched them like peanut shells.

In her name, was his mantra as they fell.

But when it was over and he sank to the ground, exhausted, the pain was still there, as bright and sharp as fangs. He'd made his way out of the cemetery, leaving the graves behind, along with that peculiar cemetery odor of roses, earth, and grave-rags. His feet seemed to have a mind of their own; and they carried him down dark avenues, under trees just starting to lose their summer gloss. Without ever thinking of a destination, he found himself on Fourth Street, in front of the little church that he'd passed often on his way to buy blood and smokes.

Something had drawn him there, a memory, perhaps, from William's barely lived life, of sitting in a long pew, his feet swinging above the floor, listening to a sermon about the better place, about what awaited the faithful, about the preservation of the soul. He'd stood outside the church for a long time, smoking, thinking about going in and lighting two candles, one for Dawn and one for Buffy. And maybe others, for Willow, and the rest of the merry misfits, for Dru, another lost soul, and Giles--poor, beleaguered man. Hell, he'd even light one for Angel. Not out of grief, just understanding. Angel was what Spike would one day be, a memory of ashes.

In the end, though, he'd just ground out his smoke and left, not willing to ask favors of a faith abandoned more than a lifetime ago. If he'd ever really had it at all. It was hard to remember back that far.

By the time he'd made it to Willy's, the Friday poker game was long over, and only Clem remained. Spike had found him pushing quarters into the jukebox, trying to get the perpetually broken machine to play "Achy Breaky Heart."

Clem's voice drew Spike from his thoughts. "Yeah, man. I noticed you've been MIA on the Siamese circuit. Thought maybe you learned your lesson when Sea World came calling."

"Not a chance. But the Slayer thinks the whole business is, and I quote, 'barf-worthy,' so my kitten poker days are over." Spike puffed irritably on his fag. "I don't like it when she's upset."

"She must be going crazy tonight. I mean, Dawn. Wow."

Spike shook his head. "We're in the calm before the storm. Once it hits her…it would be smart for us all to assume crash positions."

Clem blew his nose, startling the punks at the next table. "I'm sorry that I can't help. Haven't heard anything." He pointed to the bar. Spike followed the wrinkly finger with his eyes. "But maybe he has." Clem was pointing to a short, fat demon with huge, drooping appendages attached to the sides of his head. "The guy's all ears."

"Thanks." Spike stood and slowly made his way to the bar. Tubby, blissfully unaware of his approach, continued to sip his single malt. But he squawked as hands seized him from behind.

Spike spun the creature around and leered into his face, adding a hint of fang. "Happy hour's over, Dumbo." He got straight to the point. "What do you know about the Slayer's kid sister? And I want the truth." He grabbed one pendulous ear and twisted, eliciting a squall of pain.

"Let go!" The demon batted at him. "I don't know nothing!"

"Proper English, please!" Spike took an ear in each hand and pulled. "And that was the wrong answer."

"Honest to Satan, I'm telling the truth!"

"Wrong again! No cookie for you!" Spike flipped his lighter open and brought the flame dangerously close to a fur-lined ear. Floppy struggled. Spike grinned.

"Okay, okay! I give!"

Spike waved the Zippo in front of the demon's twitching, mouse-like nose. "Depends on what you give. If I'm satisfied with it, maybe you'll live to eat pellets again, gerbil boy."

"A girl was in here, um, last week, I think. Bragging that she was gonna turn the Slayer's kidlet. None of us believed it! She was just a fledgling, herself!" The demon started to sob.

Spike stomped on a furry foot. "Name?"

"Janey! Judy! I can't remember! I was drunk!" He mewled in terror when Spike tightened his grip. "Janice! Her name was Janice!"

Spike abruptly let go, and Ears fell to the floor, crying. Janice. A memory flash brought him Dawn, in an ice cream shop, talking about painting the town red…when Janice came. Another flash…foolish Janice, snockered in the cemetery, all but advertising her numminess to the vamp population. All she needed was the T-shirt that said, I'm a stupid girl, come turn me.

Of course, of course, Dawn would have let her in. It was her best friend. Sweet, trusting Dawn, in all her goodness, never asked for any of it. He was sure of it. Kind, doomed girl. At least the soul of her was safe, somewhere else, somewhere bright. May it wake in glory.

Lost in his thoughts, Spike didn't notice Ears rising from the floor. One wicked claw shot out and plunged into Spike's gut. The demon barreled into Spike while he was still gasping for breath, and the two of them crashed into a nearby table, spilling mugs of beer and scattering peanuts. The table's occupants shrieked.

"Fight, fight!"

The whole bar seemed to rise as one, and gleefully melt into a hodgepodge of flying fists and falling bodies. Willy blew furiously on a silver whistle, like a track coach, and shouted above the din. He ducked as a barstool hurtled past his head, smashing into the many bottles of cheap liquor. Spike saw it all from the floor, where he grappled with Ears. The bugger had sharp little teeth. Like mini razors.

Suddenly, Ears slumped forward, right on top of Spike, who peered up in confusion. Clem loomed over him, holding the remains of a broken vodka bottle. "You're Welcome." He gave Spike a hand up. "I'm going to crawl back under the card table, now. If no one's broken it."

Spike was dragged into the center of the fight, and lost sight of Clem. Emerging a few minutes later, he leaped onto a tabletop--eyes bright, blood singing--and launched his lean body back into the snarl of bodies. Clem's quarter kicked in, but Billy Ray's lament could barely be heard over all the grunting, screaming, and swearing. Spike grabbed a chair and put the jukebox out of its misery. It had crappy selections, and that pissed him off.

He spun around, looking for more violence. He needed more violence. Every time a demon fell under his hands, she was avenged, just a little.

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

Tara cast her circle, defining the borders with rose petals and rosemary sprigs.

She scattered the pungent blossoms, murmuring under her breath, soft words of celebration, of renewal and passage.

Our dead you have taken…"

When the barrier was complete, she knelt in the grass and began to feed her herbs into the small fire. The flames flickered, casting bright shadows on the silent house. The wind was a ghostly rider, twisting the ropes of Dawn's empty swing with invisible hands and sending it skyward on a gusty gale. The backyard was fragrant with impending autumn.

all threads are woven anew."

Tara closed her eyes. I miss you, Mama.

"What was that?"

Tara looked up. Buffy stood on the back porch, arms crossed protectively over her breasts. Tara wondered if she was cold--or trying to hold herself together.

"It was a pagan chant. For Dawn and Angel." She smiled sheepishly. "And me. I hope you don't mind."

Buffy shivered. "Does it help?"

Tara nodded. "Why don't you come sit with me?"

Buffy came down the steps, silent as a wraith, and sat across from Tara. The orange flames flickered in her sad, green eyes. Autumn was coming for her, too. Tara fed more herbs into the fire, explaining as she went.

"I'm offering juniper for love, yew for rebirth, bay for strength, parsley for cleansing "She placed her last handful on the fire. "Basil for peace. May our blessings be received."

Earlier, she'd written a letter to Dawn in ink made of soot and pink wine, folded it three times, and sealed it with herbs. The remains of that missive were just curling bits in the fire, now, and all of Tara's wishes and dreams for Dawn were on the wind, following the path her soul took when it crossed into the Summerland.

Tara gripped Buffy's hand tightly in her own. "Would you like to say another prayer?" Buffy nodded.

Two bright heads bent in the glow of the fire. Tara began.

The flames leapt higher.

And higher still.

The fire died down, and the last of the herbs cast off their scent. Tara wiped bashfully at her wet eyes and tried to smile at Buffy, who was staring intently into the dying flames. She watched in concern as Buffy slowly got to her feet, unfolding like an aged person. She looked down at Tara.

"I have to go."

Tara grabbed her hand. "Buffy, where?"

The Slayer's eyes glittered like dull knives. "To find Dawn."

Tara searched her face. "And do what?"

Buffy shrugged, and a chill ran up Tara's spine. "I don't know." She turned on her heel and went into the house.

Oh, Goddess, be merciful. Tara gathered up her long skirt and ran to find Willow.

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

Xander arrived as the fight was dying down.

He looked around, awed by the remains of Willy's bar. Willy himself was nowhere to be found. Xander didn't hold the fleeing in terror thing against him. Much. The room was a mess of broken furniture and shattered glass. Chairs were thrown every which way. The front windows were broken. And some nut had gone O.J. on the jukebox.

He located Spike, struggling under what looked like a huge…rat. "Hey, Death Warmed Over, you need a hand?" He ducked a flying beer stein.

"Get him off me! He's crazy!"

Clem crawled out from under a table. "Spike pulled his ears. I think they're very sensitive."

"Help me, you git!"

Xander shook his head. "I'm not touching…that!"

"Let me do the honors." Clem moved Xander aside and brought the bar's dart board down-- hard--on the rat's head. It broke in the middle, and hung around his furry neck like a bizarre necklace. He toppled to the side, and Xander made a disgusted sound.

Clem winced. "He'll need much Advil tomorrow."

Spike struggled to his feet with a groan. "Thanks, again." He looked down. "This bugger's never heard that shit about bygones."

Clem slapped Spike on the back. "No problem. When mice attack, I react."

Spike straightened his disheveled clothes. "What are you doing here, Harris? Shouldn't you be home, watching Romper Room?"

"I came to find you. Willow made me. Buffy--"

Spike spun around so sharply that Xander felt whiplashed. "What about Buffy? Did something else happen?" His cobalt eyes narrowed.

Xander sighed. "You could say that. While you were out having your…talk…she and Tara did some kind of mojo in the backyard. It seems to have snapped her out of her trance. This morning, I wouldn't have been freaked about it." He avoided Spike's eyes. "But tonight…"

Spike finished for him. "You saw how she was. Drained. Empty. Probably couldn't even fight Bilbo, here." He nudged the rodent with his boot.

Xander swallowed. "She's going to get herself killed, Spike."

"There's only one way that'll happen, Harris." Spike was already striding out the door.

"And how's that?" Xander scrambled after him.

Spike's growl drifted back, wafting on the fumes of spilled alcohol. "Over my dead body."

TBC!

Coming up next: We all know how Buffy reacts when Spike gets in her way. Cough*dead things*cough. Maybe things will go a bit differently this time. Or maybe not. And Dawn has some surprises for the gang. Yes, that's me cackling gleefully.