Chapter 30

Buffy clicked off the bathroom light and stepped out to find Spike hovering between the bed and the window. He was dressed again, or rather completely dressed, because neither of them had gotten undressed, exactly, and he looked like he didn’t know what he was doing. It was if they hadn’t just been silently struggling on that bed scarcely fifteen minutes earlier. Every trace of that intimacy had been erased. What struck her was that it made her uncomfortable.

He looked like he was going to leave. At the very least, he didn’t look as if he was sure he could stay.

Boy, isn’t this great? Buffy thought. Fight, shag, kiss, all sorts of things, but say, ‘Please stay’ and it’s impossible. But it was. She couldn’t meet his eyes, because he was staring at her with William’s eyes, and that made it worse. Worse still was the thought of him not being here. No arm beneath her cheek in place of a pillow, or cool body around hers. But she couldn’t even get the words on her tongue.

Instead, she maneuvered toward him, brushing her hair at the vanity, dropping her earrings off at the nightstand, turning off the light, and finally coming round the bed to draw the blinds so there’d be no sun on them in the morning. She kept her eyes to herself, hoping he’d notice the significance of that little gesture, but even with an extra century, he was still a guy, post orgasm. So she padded up to him in the dark, touching his stomach with hands as light as blown leaves, hesitating, not daring to look into his eyes, shoving his coat down his arms and lowering it. She heard his breath catch in his throat, then, and had to look away, so she took the coat away and hung it over the bathroom door. When she turned back, he was undressing in front of her, and she found herself mentally stumbling over yet another one of those odd moments that seemed to lurk where she least expected them.

She’d seen him nude, obviously, it couldn’t be that. Not to put too fine a point on it, they’d been about as intimate as you could get with another person, so why did she feel so strangely frightened, so suddenly, at Spike casually tossing his clothes on the floor? Maybe it was the casualness of it. She checked her mental list of Guy irritations to see if it was a typical guy-being-messy-type-of-reaction, but it didn’t seem to be that. She padded forward on silent bare feet, and let the drapes fall closed. Turning to him, she found the pitfall she’d been avoiding.

He was naked, and she was struck by it. Naked, he reminded her of all the times he’d forced her to look into his eyes when they’d had sex, and now it was just being forced to look at him while not in the throes of arousal or ecstasy. Naked, quite simply, he was just a man, not Spike like at all, not a vampire, not frightening. In fact, with his hair all mussed, and his eyes smudged with tiredness, the very idea of applying the name ‘Spike’ to him seemed amusing. He leaned back on his hands and cocked his head at her, the way he’d done so many times before, but this time, she climbed into his lap and kissed him. It wasn’t exactly a ‘hello sailor’ type of kiss, not with her fingertips on his face, in his hair, her lips barely on his, but he slid down onto his back and took her with him. “William, William, William…”

“Hm?” He paused, blinking up as she pulled away, and propped herself on her elbow so she could trace circles on his stomach. “What?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes; afraid she’d see the response she was always afraid of getting, afraid he’d suddenly look at her the way she’d once looked at him. Except I really deserve it. The thought unnerved her.

She sat back up and took off her sweats, getting up and going to the door to toss them haphazardly somewhere in the general direction of the bathroom. She must not have aimed really well, throwing them backhanded and blind, because they hit something in the bathroom, and knocked it to the floor with a clatter, a clatter that made him flinch.

Vampires, Buffy thought, don’t usually do that.

Vampires, no. She thought. Dawn did, though; that was a very Dawn-like thing to do, when Mom’s name came up; she supposed she herself did it, when Riley’s name surfaced. She’d seen Xander stiffen abruptly in his parents’ basement, when they reminded him of their existence by anything, and even Anya gave a little involuntary shudder at the thought of poverty, free giveaways, and celibacy. All perfectly human, given the provocation. But here was Spike, twitching at a loud noise around her. And that, she thought, I did deserve.

He sat all the way up and watched her, watching her watching him, intrigued, wondering what had shifted. There was something in the air, something in her eyes, because she wasn’t a girl who was comfortable enough in her own skin to walk around nude and not care if he watched. Except….Except, just now, for some reason, he got the feeling that she had jumped past the getting-accustomed stage to the part where…..He shook the thought off as being too optimistic. She tugged at the bedclothes under him and he obligingly shifted so she could slide under them and cuddle next to him.

She could see practically nothing, and hoped that he could. In the dark, she felt invisible, but not carefree as she had before. It was different than escaping her responsibilities, it was as if she could cope with them differently because they had different shapes and incomplete forms. In the dark, she was only aware of warmth and comfort and cool skin; his lips against her forehead, her hands pulling him closer. In the dark, she could do the things she wanted to do, and hoped that feeling them was as good as seeing them. So she traced his lips with her fingers, over and again, as if she were writing her name there, holding his palm to her cheek while she buried her hot face against his chest, and tried not to let it overwhelm her. His hands stroked her back, up and down, just fingertips, as if he were tracing her for memory. She did his gesture; his head on her arm while she curled her fingers in his hair, tracing his face with the back of her fingers. She couldn’t see at all, only feel, and it gave her the courage to put motion to her feelings, completion to her impulses. She pressed her face to his, and braided her fingers with his, wrapping arms and everything around him, not even thinking, not even worrying. Maybe she couldn’t say it with words, what it was that she felt, but this was her declaration. She pressed her lips to his palm and held his hand there till he pulled it away to take the gesture from her and give it back. In the dark, she was no longer a vampire slayer, and he was not a vampire. He was love and comfort, and all the sorrow that had permeated her melted in her fibers and seeped away.

Lorne picked through the pizza leftovers and wondered if the microwave would make too much noise. At least LA was a big city where he didn’t have to worry about what would happen to his green behind if some parents found him lounging around the kitchen while their nubile daughters slept the sleep of the innocent in the living room. Where’s Emily Post when you need her?

He stepped out on the deck, checking to see if the door would lock behind him. He considered his options; wait in kitchen, sit in chair, stretch out on dining room floor or dining room table, steal Spike’s car and drive himself back to LA with his unkicked-butt in tow, win the lottery and just go wild? He wondered if he did win the Lottery if it would be worthwhile to go on working. On the one hand, there was helping the helpless, that sort of thing. On the other hand, Angel had that pretty well covered, and there was Club Med.

He sat down and looked up the stars. Shame about not getting Hallie to sing. He must be getting old, that was all there was to it. Once upon a time, he’d been young and could have done a whole room full of people at once; now he had to take them one at a time, and then rest a bit between them, unless they were really shallow. He glanced at his watch. Two hours away from LA. Two hours away from LA. Good God, what did these people do for fun?

“I don’t like this one.”

“Yeah, well,” Warren said, “You don’t want to do the dirty work, you don’t get to pick. She’s not bad.” He cast what he hoped looked like an experienced eye over the woman’s silent, sleeping form. “Besides, after what happened, I gave her an extra large dose.”

“Is it gonna last longer this time?” Andrew asked cautiously. It was so easy to say the wrong thing around Warren; he just erupted over everything, especially since the Katrina debacle.

“Yes, of course it’s going to last longer, Curious George. Why don’t you go away and count pimples or something?”

“I don’t have any pimples.” Andrew said. “I use Stridex.”

“Yeah, well, go away already. I need to work.”

They both looked at the unconscious woman again. “Hope I didn’t give her too big a dose,” Warren said thoughtfully. “She’s bigger than---than----the other one.”

“Well, I don’t want to be second. I did see her first.”

“She was the only woman drunk enough to try it on, you moron.”

“Still…Well, she’s too drunk now, anyway.”

“What are you talking about? This would be perfect. She’ll never know.” Warren drummed his fingers impatiently against the coffee table. “Then we can just get rid of her and find the perfect one.”

“Buffy.”

“Buffy.” Warren agreed. “But until then, we have to practice.”

No more ice. Angel winced into the freezer and tried to remember if being killed had hurt this much. Actually, being evil, he’d been pretty much impervious to pain, so perhaps this was an okay development. Anything, anything at all that kept his aggrieved brain cells from thinking about the hammers attacking them was a good thing. He closed the freezer and took a can of soda out of the fridge and pressed it against his skull.

Cordelia watched from the doorway, sympathetic but amused. Connor snoozed in her arms, emitting tiny baby snores. “That’s a new look for you.’

Angel didn’t even bother talking. Sarcasm was wasted on him while he was this embalmed with alcohol; nothing could hurt as bad as his skull did now. Nothing. He carefully placed one foot in front of the other in her direction, but she shook her head and took a compensating step back. “Nuh-uh. Get away from this baby. You’ll get him drunk with your breath.”

“I don’t breathe.”

“Well, you do something, because I can smell alcohol, and I don’t want to have to go to toddler AA. No Barney DT’s for me. So back off, buddy. Besides, you’ll get me drunk, too.”

That hit the conversation with a certain force, bringing to mind as it did certain incidents which had proceeded while under a drunken sensation. Not drunken, technically, but just as intoxicating. They both avoided each other’s eyes. “He’s wet. I have to change him.” She risked an impish look in his direction, Cordelia in charge yet again. “Besides, his diaper’s soaked with alcohol fumes.”

“I can take a hint.” He protested.

“Then why am I the one leaving?”

“Good point.” He pretended to skirt around her while she made a huge point of plugging the baby’s nose, but that was an excuse and he knew it. He was so drunk that he was still intoxicated rather than really starting on his hangover, and he wondered if he could just die before that happened. Of course, the fact that he was already dead could mean a number of different things, all of which he desperately wanted to avoid thinking about. Maybe Wesley knew a vampire hangover remedy or something. Maybe Wesley just had an extra stake he wasn’t using. He staggered down the hallway, trying to find a pain-free position, but none of that was working. He finally came to a door, and fetched up against it to keep from falling over.

Inside, Wes looked up guiltily, and Angel wasn’t so drunk he didn’t notice. “Going to get Lorne?”

“Yes.”

He eyed the stuff spread out on Wes’s desk; weapons, Tupperware, and Thermoses. Some clothes. “Either you pack like Buffy, or you’re taking your vacation time.”

“I like to be thorough.”

“Thoroughly weighed down?” Angel winced as a thought made his brain cells hurt.

“Well, I just like to have everything I might need.” Wes straightened up from where he was tying a knot on a sleeping bag’s tie sack. “There’s nothing worse than needing something, hundreds of miles from home, and not having it.”

“Well, makes me wonder.” Angel said. “How long are you going to be there?”

As long as it takes me to get away from Fred for a while, Wesley thought. I’ll do some research, whatever. I’ll work.

Looking at Angel’s sodden face, he thought with a shudder, Perhaps I’ll get drunk. With Spike. There was a certain rebellion in his face as he returned Angel’s curious look.

That’s what people do when they’re miserable. I’ll get drunk and I won’t work. I’ll…drown my sorrows. Just the thought of getting away was lifting his spirits.

“Angel, why are you asking me questions?”

There, that was the Boss tone. That should work wonders. And it did; even drunk, Angel bristled a bit. “I just think it’s interesting. Spike comes to town, asking for money, petty cash disappears, Lorne drives off into the sunset with Spike, why wouldn’t I ask questions?”

“Well, you’re really in no condition to be doing much except sleeping it off, are you?” Wes jammed a pile of stuff into his overnight bag, but knocked his Tupperware container of sandwiches to the ground, and thus missed Angel’s carefully-blank face.

“It’s just that I get the feelings there’s something going on here that you’re not telling me.”

“Sometimes employees don’t need to know everything.” Wes said quietly. He wavered a moment between shame and triumph, then Angel finally looked up and met his eyes, and he felt something entirely unexpected.

Fear.

Chapter 31

Anya might have been human only for a few years, but sometimes she acted like it had been centuries. It was like she’d been reading Cosmopolitan for decades, at least, absorbing all the girl stuff possible, so that you really couldn’t tell she was only a recent addition to the family of Homo sapiens. On the other hand, sometimes Xander wondered if there was much of a difference between the female of the species, and any female of any species anywhere, and he was especially curious about verifying this when certain cycles happened to align themselves with the torture of Housework Day.

He hadn’t expected her to come home early from the party. He thought she’d stay there, bitch about men and demons, and maybe come back in just enough time so he could clean up the junk food wrappers and score rare brownie points for being both neat and addicted to health food. Instead, he found himself rocketing up off the couch, chips geisering out of the bag as he clutched at it convulsively. He wondered if Halfrek had decided to throw him a demon bachelor party, but before he could decide on his hiding place of choice, the door flung open and he found himself in the headlights of Anya. It was just amazing how demon-like she could look when she was either pissed-off or shortchanged.

“Uh, Anya…? Honey? Sweetie? What’s…” He swallowed. “…wrong?”

She kicked off one shoe, glared at him, then the other. “Everything is the matter. I can’t remember everybody I got revenge on, can I?”

“Well?” Xander cautiously laid the chip bag down as if it would explode with rough handling. “Um, An, why would you want to? I thought…” He swallowed. “I thought that was all behind you?”

“But I keep getting reminded of it!” She exclaimed. “And I don’t want to be.”

“What-- happened?”

“Hallie came to Dawn’s party and talked about all kinds of stuff, and it just brought back memories of how Spike became a vampire, and then Buffy and I had…words…and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Huh?” He shook his head as if to loosen the brain cells. “What was Halfrek doing at Dawn’s party?”

“She wasn’t invited.” Anya said sulkily. She flopped down on the couch next to him, tugged at his shirt hem, and he sat down, hard, next to her. “ But she came anyway. And then…” She sighed in a way he recognized; the pay-attention-to-me-because-I-feel bad sigh. It was going to be a loooonnnnnng evening now, he realized. No hockey for me. “I can’t remember everything I do.” She looked at him. “Do you remember what you had for breakfast ten years ago yesterday?”

“What?”

“Well, then, why should I have to remember everything I did a hundred years ago. Or a hundred twenty?”

He noted the second figure, wondering why a little sensor in his brain was telling him the same thing it always told him, for example, on Housework Days: Here be Dragons. Nevertheless, he had a duty, a calling, a death wish, so he plunged on ahead. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t see why Hallie’s so pissy.” She sniffed. “It’s not like he killed her. You can’t be a vengeance demon and dead, you know?”

“Uh, don’t take this the wrong way, sweetie, but what in the hairy hell are you talking about?”

“Ugh, Xander, that’s gross.”

“Well, okay, then what are you talking about?”

“Spike. He used to know Hallie. She’s the reason he’s a vampire, and he’s the reason she’s a vengeance demon, so it really doesn’t have anything to do with me, and you know what? I think I’m going to stop returning her calls. Every times she’s around, things just get so complicated.”

“Well.” Great. There goes the seating chart again. However…. Fewer vengeance demons around the house? A good thing. More confusion around the house? Business as usual. Once again, he found himself compelled into No Man’s Land. “An? What are you talking about again? Spike and Hallie? An item?”

“No, they’re not an item, it’s Spike and---“ Anya clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh. My. God.” She jumped to her feet and to Xander’s bewildered eyes, started doing the Macarena. After a moment, he realized instead she was digging in her pants pockets, although he was completely confused as to why. Confusion ended abruptly as she yanked out a pendant and dangled it before his eyes. She stared at it and then at him. “It’s Hallie’s vengeance pendant. Oh. My. God. She’s helpless without it. I have to call Buffy. Oh my God, poor Hallie, who knows what could happen to her?”

Phone.

Crap.

Phone ringing in ear.

Fumble, fumble, mmm, Spike sighing himself awake under her cheek, oh, no, house full of girls…Buffy jerked awake with a violent start and sat up in the darkness. Crap. She rolled over to grab the phone off the nightstand, rolling on top of Spike to do so, and finding herself unable to roll back when he wrapped his arms around her and kept her on his chest.

“Hell—o?”

“Buffy, it’s Xander. Do you know where Hallie is?”

Buffy stopped a moment to consider this. Why, yes, of course, Xander, I keep track of her movements religiously so I can worship her more effectively. Clamping down heavily on the sarcasm pedal, she counted to ten and found a tepid answer. “Not a clue, Xander. I encouraged her to leave.” Spike raised one eyebrow at this, and Buffy glared back, wriggling to try and get into a position where she could talk in a normal tone of voice. He slanted a look up at her under his lashes, wondering what he could get away with.

“Why, uh, did you encourage her to leave?”

Oh, crap indeed, she thought. Because she hurt Spike’s feelings. Because I couldn’t let her do that without wanting to smack her around for some reason. Crap. “She was causing trouble.”

“Anya said something about Spike being there.”

“He was at the time. He left, too.” Of course, he also came back, and currently is lying in my bed, under me, looking up at me with the sort of eyes that mean big trouble, but why mention that? “Why?” Mm. Big trouble.

“Well, would he know where she was?”

“Who, Hallie? Xander, you woke me up after a day full of boybands so we can talk about a vengeance demon who….what?” Who hurt Spike really badly? Definitely not to be included in the conversation.

“Anya’s worried. She has Hallie’s pendant.”

“So…she can’t accessorize now?”

Spike pulled himself higher on the pillows and loosened his grip. Buffy, without even being aware of it, made a sulky face at that, and sat up, sheets tumbling off her to curl around her legs. She looked so pouty that he cocked his head at her thoughtfully, finally reaching out and brushing the hair out of her eyes.

Anya danced around Xander, making grabs for the phone. Xander, very much in the manner of King Kong batting away bi-planes, waved her away. “No, Buffy, she’s helpless without her pendant, right, Anya?”

“Well, not exactly.” Anya said. “I’m really not sure how bad it is. I think they tell us that so we won’t try stuff without it.” Spike sat up slowly, shifting, the picture of caution, till he was beside her, face buried in her hair. His hands slid with infinitesimal slowness over her skin, and she began to sweat under his fingers. “Uh, well, it’s always been understood, sort of…” Spike, kissing her neck now with the lightest of touches, sucking on her earlobe….. She arched, and he slipped closer, eyes glittering in anticipation, sliding his hands around her….

“Huh?” Xander and Buffy said simultaneously.

“At least I kind of think so. Officially, she’s helpless without it.”

“Officially?” Xander and Buffy said. Xander sounded slightly squeakier.

“Well….” Anya said guiltily.

“I’ll call you back.” Xander said tersely.

With that, they both turned to their respective companions at their end of the phone line, and hung up. Xander planted his hands on his hips and shook his head at Anya, and Buffy reached around and grabbed Spike, kissing him onto his back, and only then remembered that she was supposed to be perturbed at the way he’d tried to distract her during the phone conversation.

Somehow she managed the bi-athlete-like feat of rolling her eyes and shaking her head at Spike, then crawled forward a bit and lowered her face onto his chest. He tried not to give any indication at all that this was unusual. “Good thing he hung up.”

“Tedious, isn’t he? Nice to see you admit it.”

She poked him in the side in an especially ticklish spot, and he wriggled like a hyperactive ten-year-old for a moment. She gave him a sphinx-like look, savoring his reaction and filing it away for future reference. He subsided as she continued to blink up at him with solemn eyes, till finally he leaned down and unleashed the ultimate weapon; the nose tip kiss. Poking him in the ribs again briefly seemed a good idea, but she decided to settle for wriggling closer and nudging against his face. He eyed her consideringly, thoughtfully, before he consented to be kissed, smiling against her mouth, urging her closer. Biting her lip, she pulled away. “Sleep.” She muttered.

He kissed her again, rolling them onto their sides, pulling her closer, till it Buffy pulled back, sulking up at him. “Can’t.”

“Why not?” He punctuated this by kissing her chin.

“Girls downstairs.”

“We were quiet.”

“You tried that one already.”

“Worked too, didn’t it?”

“Well, not this time.” But she looked into his eyes for so long, blinking up at him, that he was content to lie there, indulging in periodic kisses while she made up her mind. Only when he slipped from her mouth to her breast did she sigh and shift, pulling him back up to face her, smiling slightly and shaking her head.

He supposed in the name of men everywhere he should put up a fight, but she was warm against him and the best was a nest of soft blankets. She wiggled under him, pulling him closer, and he subsided on her breast, stroking her arms with hypnotic sweeps of one hand. He could feel her sigh as much as he could hear it, feeling her breath in his hair, her fingers playing across his back. They were both asleep in minutes.

“What the….?”

Hallie blinked with eyelids that seemed glued shut, and tried to figure out if she was dead or not. She was in too much pain to be dead, but she couldn’t move, either, which made her wonder if she was paralyzed.

“Well, Sleeping Beauty finally woke up.”

Hallie didn’t recognize the voice; it was male, human, and excessively optimistic, if he thought had a chance against a pissed, hungover and impatient vengeance demon. “Who are you, human?” She began to realize that her hands were cold from the wrist down.

“Human? Who do you think you are, Spock?” The voice shifted, steps approached her, and a male face topped by a frizzy rodent appeared in her vision. She squinted, and realized it wasn’t a rodent, it was his hair. The sight actually made her hangover worse.

“I’m a vengeance demon, human!” She hissed, but he looked blank. “A vengeance demon?” She clarified. “ A justice demon!”

“Yeah, but you look human. You’re just trying to scare me.”

Hallie rolled her eyes, which made her head throb like it was going to explode. She couldn’t necessarily exert her powers on her behalf, but she could certainly defend herself. She sniffed scornfully at him, and concentrated….

Nothing happened.

She blinked, running through her pre-curse checklist; she hadn’t missed anything. When you did something every day for a hundred and some years, you got the routine down. She hadn’t omitted anything. Her concentration, however, was distracted when Warren ambled closer and leaned over her. Her fists involuntarily clenched, and she realized that she was tied down. “I don’t know, she just doesn’t look like a demon.”

“She has a name.” Hallie spat out furiously. “It’s Hallie.”

“Well, nice to meet you, Hallie.” Warren said sarcastically. He directed an irritated look at Andrew. “You must’ve done the spell wrong, doofus. She’s supposed to be still unconscious.”

“I did it all right.” Andrew shrugged. “She said she was a demon.”

“She sure looks like one.” Warren said. “Damn.” She couldn’t see for sure, but the two of them looked like they were exchanging accusatory glances. “So, demon, why don’t you curse us?”

Hallie tried to push aside the hangover and remember what it was she was doing wrong. “Untie me and I won’t hurt you.” Much, she thought to herself.

“Why should we?” Warren demanded skeptically. “You just look like any old chick to me.”

Hallie focused on recent setbacks, current irritations. That ridiculous Spike, the Slayer standing up for him, undoubtedly because there was something going on there, Anyanka taking her pendant….!

Her pendant!

Fury temporarily overcame alcohol fumes and she snapped into demon face abruptly. Warren froze, and Andrew wilted to the floor with a yip that got cut off once he made impact with the cheap linoleum. “OH, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” Warren muttered. “You are a demon.”

“Untie me, and I’ll let you live.”

“How can I trust you?”

Warren eyed her carefully, assessing the distance to the exit out of the corner of his eye. “Hell with it,” He muttered, and bolted.

Angel soaked a towel under the cold-water faucet, and draped it over his head. Cordelia, having tucked Connor into bed, watched this sympathetically but a certain amount of anticipation. After all, she didn’t often get to tease him, and here was the opportunity of the year. “Two new looks in one day.”

A baleful eye glared at her from underneath the dripping towel. “I’ll remember that when I’m…”

“Sober? Oh, I can hardly wait. You consumed the equivalent of the gross national product in one sitting, assuming they measured it in spew units, and you’re threatening me with what you’re going to do when you’re what? Less pickled? If you open the fridge again, you’ll spoil Connor’s milk.”

Another baleful look. “Why is this funny?”

Cordelia shrugged. “Because you’re not exactly funboy, Angel. It’s good to see you go out and have fun with your friends.”

The eye disappeared, guiltily. Angel looked away. Cordelia didn’t notice, and went on. “So what was the occasion? Did you get the wedding invitation?”

“Huh?”

“Xander’s getting married.”

“Xander…?”

“Xander? Buffy’s friend? God, you really are drunk.”

“No so drunk.” Angel muttered. He cocked his head at the sound of Wes banging around in what had once been Angel’s own office. “Not so drunk I don’t know people are lying to me.”

Spike, in love? Who was it? Dawn? Willow? That other person Buffy had mentioned, Willow’s new girlfriend? Joyce’s memory? It seemed to intensify his pain, not knowing, not being able to warn this anonymous woman. At the very least, Buffy would be able to..?

There was a thought forming in the mass of alcohol-soaked marbles that made up his brain. Buffy should know. Buffy would know. Wes. Buffy. Wes. Buffy. Phone call. He’d crashed before then, what had Wes found out?

He raised his head, and tried to squint at the hallway to see how many miles’ away Wes’ office was. My former office, one of the more pickled parts of his brain piped up. Enough of that, admonished the mature brain. He wasn’t sure how that part had gotten less alcohol, but it was distinctly unpleasant. “Cordelia, can you do something for me?”

“What?” She asked cautiously.

“Ask him what Buffy said when he called her.”

She gave him a resentful look. “I knew I should have gone with you guys. Men just don’t know how to gossip effectively.” Unwilling to miss a minute, she backed out of the room, and kept her eyes on him till she’d covered the three feet or so to Wes’ office.

“Hey, Wes?”

“Yes?” He looked up from his suitcase. Only Wes packed for an overnight trip as if it were for an expedition to Sri Lanka, Cordelia thought, conveniently ignoring the contents of her oversized bag, which included shampoo for those emergency situations.

“Angel wants to know what Buffy had to say?”

Wes blinked at her, flummoxed. Angel remembered that? “Um, about what?”

“Hey, Angel, about what?”

Angel cringed at her tone of voice, which was, admittedly, slightly above normal speaking level. “What?”

Cordelia turned and looked back at Wes. “Do I have to act as interpreter here, Wes?”

Wes looked out. “What were you asking, Angel?”

“What. Did. Buffy. Know. About. Spike?” Angel whispered, clutching his head, or rather, his towel.

“Um, not much.”

“But what did she know?”

“I, ah, couldn’t get a lot out of her.”

Angel thought about it, weighing consequences in his brain. “I can get a lot out of her, Wes.” He straightened up. “I have to go with you.”

Chapter 32

“Buffy!”

Buffy stirred to consciousness reluctantly, too comfortable to want to wake up. She was curled up against some male-shaped object, which, in turn, had its arms wrapped around her. Nice arms. She wriggled closer, then realized there was a lot of niceness to be had pretty much everywhere…. Her eyes snapped open. Spike, eyelids at a sleepy half-mast, gazed at her drowsily, too peaceful to move, and naked to boot. He was lying face down, so if anyone poked their head in her door---and why shouldn’t they, who knew he was here?----the first thing they’d see would be his flawless behind, then perhaps his arm flung across her, his head pillowed on her shoulder. She rather suspected that perfect though his butt was, it might be rather startling to come upon it unawares. She jumped out of bed before that could happen, tripping over their clothes, all of which were strewn around the room. She grabbed garments at random and wound up in jeans and camisole, then poked her head out the door. “Dawn?”

“Hey, we’re leaving.”

“Oh, shit.” Spike one’s visible eye looked amused at this, then shut. She slipped out the door, seizing her sweatshirt on the way and yanking it on as she went.

At the foot of the stairs so much gear was piled up, it looked like the invasion of Normandy, assuming Normandy was invaded by either drag queens or teenagers. She saw bags, suitcases, deflated air mattresses, comforters, pillows, and more makeup boxes than there were actual girls in the house. Among them were Dawn’s. She looked around for the clock, then Tara and Willow. Nowhere in sight, and the girls milling in the living room looked distinctly uncomfortable with her presence. “Hey!” She thought. “I’m a cool older sister! Honest! No dork cooties here! Seriously!” She nodded and waved at them as if to indicate her own harmlessness, and they responded by staring in appalled silence and then huddling in furious whispers. With a queasy smile, she thought, “You’re all going to wind up dating chess club members!” and headed for the kitchen, where voices of the witches alerted her to perform a nookie check in the hall mirror. To the uniniated eye, this looked, in fact, like nothing so much as an itching attack, as she frantically patted various body parts in the reflection and checked not-so-surreptitiously for hickies. A cough made her freeze. Three of Dawn’s guests, arms folded across their non-existent chests disapprovingly, stared at her from near the front door. As she blinked at them in horror, they exchanged glances, then whirled and escaped to the living room, where another furious storm of whispering erupted. She tiptoed after them, and beheld a group of girls, each of whom seemed to be hissing into her own pastel-hued cell phone. She shrank back from the doorway, and made her escape.

At the kitchen door, she paused, trying to compose her features into that of someone who had not just spent the night, naked, in the arms of a vampire. The club was just not ready for that quite yet, she was afraid. Hell, look how she’d dealt with it, and for her there’d been the definite compensation of orgasms, not only her own, but Spike’s, which were…She derailed that train of thought with effort and plunged onward. “Hey, guys.”

Tara and Willow were on opposite sides of the island, and as she glanced from one to the other she felt the sinking sensation of She Who Has Been Talked About. Fine. What, was she not supposed to…? She dragged herself back to the present with almost-visible effort. “What’s up?”

“Well….” Willow said. “Dawn wants to go over to Janice’s house.”

Janice, the very definition of The Bad Teenage Influence. “Uh…” Buffy started to say.

“She wants to make it up to her for not being able to invite her to the party.”

Buffy thought about it. “Kind of defeats the whole purpose of it, doesn’t it?”

“Well, there’s that.” Willow said. “But, you know, Buffy, if you try and keep them apart any more than you have, they’ll just, you know…”

“Act like you and I did when we were their age?” Buffy asked wistfully. “But Janice just doesn’t have any sense…”

“That’s why we invited them over to my places,” Tara said proudly. “You don’t know about that, by the way.”

“I don’t?”

“No.” Tara said firmly. “That way, they get to have a little slumber party, and we get to curry teenage favor, and Dawn gets to feel like she pulled one over the Authority Figure’s eyes.”

Buffy was impressed. “Is this a two-person job?”

Willow flushed. “Well, you know, chaperoning and all that…”

The front door opened and there was a flurry of voices and commotion. Buffy poked her head out and found herself confronted by a man she’d never seen before. “Hi?”

“Hi. Are you Buffy? Jake Long.” Her hand disappeared into a huge mitt that could have caught baseballs. “Nice of you to have my girls over. We’ll have to have Dawn over real soon.”

“Oh, no problem.”

“Oh, no,” Dawn said suddenly. ”No, this was like the best party ever. Really.” She put her arms around her older sister’s shoulder and hugged her a little too desperately to be convincing. “It was great having you.” She followed them out onto the porch, casting an innocent glance in Buffy’s direction that implored her to stay inside.

Spike’s upstairs, sleeping, Buffy thought. Her own private mantra, tailored to the occasion. She drifted back to the kitchen, noticing once again the odd feeling of unease with her friends. Willow seemed more comfortable with Tara than she did with Buffy, and Buffy herself was suddenly tired. She’d told Willow something about Spike, but Willow had not offered her anything about herself. How’s the magic addiction going? What’s up with that?

Parents sifted through promptly now, making her wonder if there had been some pre-arranged signal. If she were a parent in Sunnydale, she sure as hell wouldn’t leave her kid unattended even during the daylight. She hung back, uncomfortably aware she hadn’t brushed her teeth yet, certain that if she ducked upstairs to do it, they’d all vanish behind her back. She kept her mouth firmly closed, smiled, and waved. Tara, Willow, and Dawn were the last to go, and she tried to feel bad about locking the door behind them. Even before she turned away from the lock, though, the reason for that was behind her.

Spike came padding down the stairs in bare feet, bare-chested and rumpled. He was wearing sweats. More importantly, he was wearing her sweats. She was torn between two thoughts, looking at him, looking at the narrow line of hair that led from his bellybutton to where the waistline loosely floated, inches below. If I pull that drawstring, she thought…Bad enough, that one, but even worse was the sequel; I guess vampires get morning erections, too. She swallowed suddenly, her face abruptly flushing, her throat dry, her temples hot. Heat bloomed through her veins, as she looked back into his eyes. She leaned back weakly against the front door, watching him swallow, too. “They gone?”

She nodded, knowing her voice would squeak if she talked.

He hesitated, seeing the flush on her face, afraid his own voice would crack. They stared at each other. A long minute ticked past. “Want to go back to bed?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered breathlessly, and then he crossed the five feet or so at the foot of the stairs and kissed her so hard that her head actually fell back against his arm. She wrapped her arms around his neck so tight he gave a little grunt, then pressed her hard against the door, grinding into her, hitting the seam of her jeans just perfectly. The sweatpants revealed every line of him and he took full advantage of this, shoving against her at just the perfect angle, even while he cursed the concept of button flies. She was making noises of her own in the empty house, urging him on with little pants and moans, till he grabbed her waist and pulled her around him. She pulled back and gasped, “Right here?”

Breathing hard, he jerked his head no. “Uh uh. Too fast the last few times.” He stumbled toward the stairs with her wrapped around him like some pretzel. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and she responded by tightening arms and legs around him and squeezing fiercely. “Just wait,” he hissed at the threshold of her room, then stumbling to the bed. He wanted to go slow this time, but his blood was frantic, his hands shaking. He’d thought, hours alone, an empty house, but he felt he was going to burst if she touched him. She yanked him down against her, fumbling out of her sweatshirt, not even noticing when he ripped her camisole. He tore at the buttons of her jeans, pausing one moment to draw a finger over her crotch and feel how wet she was, even through the material. He was so hard it was physically painful, blood beating in his head in a way that shouldn’t even have been possible. Not that he noticed, not with her wriggling out of her jeans under his shaking hands, shoving them down to her ankles, and spreading her legs for him. The sight of her, wriggling for him, trying to skin the jeans off her ankles even while she sucked his tongue into her mouth, almost ended it for him right there. His cock was poking out of the sweats on its own and with something like desperation, he shoved the fabric down and shoved inside her as if she were some sort of finish line. It was harder than he’d intended, and she stiffened around him, clenching him so hard he arched backward like a bow, trying to stave off the crashing orgasm, feeling the minute throbs of her muscles around him as she slowly relaxed around him. Every muscle on his body was rigid with the effort, not helped by Buffy bracing herself as close to him as she could, her nipples hard and red, brushing his chest like little fingertips. He swallowed convulsively, not even able to look at her for fear the sight of her would set him off, not even daring to thrust.

He breathed again slowly, letting it out, lowering himself to her, bowing his mouth to her breasts. Her gasping echoed in his ears as he found his rythm, pulling out as far as he dared, then sliding into her like some long wave at low tide, going as far as he could, then just a little bit further. He twisted on top of her, desperate to touch everywhere, cocking her leg against his side, and startled by the jeans still around one ankle. She toed them off behind his back and wrapped her legs even higher around his back, so that when she pulled him against her, her knees kept bumping into her own arms. The bed beat against the wall and his fingers tore holes in the cover as his hands clenched and released with the tide of her movements.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod….he couldn’t tell if it was her or himself gasping that frantic refrain with each thrust, didn’t matter who did it. He could feel it, feel it start with her, twist her around him, till he shook against her, forehead against hers, gasping in time to a pulse he didn’t have, emptying what felt like his soul into her. If anything, she wrapped her legs even tighter around him, kissing his forehead, his hair, his shoulder, whispering things he thought he was hallucinating. Couldn’t be hearing it, couldn’t be thinking that he was hearing it, don’t trust anything anyone says at orgasm.

Except she whispered into his hair, her body shaking against him, under him, and he remembered, that’s when I say it. That’s when she lets me say it. With the last strength he had, he pulled out of her, and tried to be surprised at the way she pulled his body back against her, and pulled his head to her breasts. Her hands traced him over and over as if she were taking an inventory, and he noticed it. It was what he did. She was shaking, her fingertips unsteady in his hair, but her lips were soft on his forehead.

“Don’t tell Xander.” He muttered.

“Huh?”

“Don’t tell Xander.”

“How romantic.” She lifted his head so she could look into his eyes. “Why?”

“Because I like the idea of him not knowing.” He wiggled a little, till he was nose to nose with her. “Not knowing what,”---his voice dropped to a whisper---“what we do when we’re alone.” He bit his lip, looking at her lips. “I want to look at you across the room and see you the way only I see you.”

“Well, you and the football team,” Buffy said lightly, trying to look away.

“Ha.” Spike said. “Isn’t that cute?” He sat up, between her legs, and was rather startled that she didn’t shift or act uncomfortable in the slightest. It was all he could do not to look at her till he lost consciousness, all that soft skin, the way she tasted so amazingly different in locations just scant inches apart. “That’s all I was thinking about, when I was…” He managed to see the cliff before he jumped off it. “When I was away.” He finished lamely, avoiding her eyes. Looking for a diversionary tactic, he picked up her foot, and tickled it. She gave him a God-you-are-so-lame look that didn’t intimidate him in the slightest; as a matter of act, he found it so cute that it distracted him from whatever it was he had been thinking. It took a minute, but the thought occurred to him, what did she just say? ‘How Romantic’? Wasn’t that it?

Romantic. Sarcasm to indicate he wasn’t doing something that…he had been? Romantic. They had both been silent for seconds now, looking at each other, Spike watching her breathe, noticing that she was breathing faster, Buffy noticing his eyes going dark, and swallowing.

Spike crawled over her, lowering himself to her body, and then wriggling. Buffy stiffened under him and he stroked her cheek with one finger. “What?”

“That thing you do.” She whispered. Her voice got even quieter. “The way you..”She swallowed. “Just before…” With a visible effort, she steadied herself. “Just before you come inside me, you do that, you shift, like you’re settling in, getting comfortable….” He stared at her, sliding one hand down her body, slipping one long finger between her legs. She blinked a bit as he did that, her face all rosy and guileless, and she looked so innocent, somehow, that all he wanted to do was give her pleasure.

“Anything else you like?” He whispered, thinking, Damn. There is something to be said for making love in the dark. Her eyes were going to set fire to him. He had his chin propped in one hand now, but his other hand was busy, relentless, and her eyes were getting hot and confused. She cocked her leg around his hip, trying to pull him closer, but he just gave her a half smile. “Take notes, luv. There’s going to be a quiz. Can’t have you forgetting.” Keeping his eyes on hers, he kissed his way to her breasts, taking her shivers into his mouth. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her eyes closed now, but when he lifted his head she slowly opened her eyes. “Pay attention,” he teased. He kissed lower and lower, licking her belly button, the little hipbone, the inside of her thigh. He checked; oh, he had her attention, all right. No time for finesse, now. He shoved her legs wide open, separating her flesh with cool fingers and honing in on his goal. She was a fresh peach, soft and liquid, her pulse pounding against his tongue, in his brain, through his nerves, straight to his heart, his cock, the roots of his hair. He kissed her, showing her some of the things a man can pick up with a certain amount of inspiration, like a Slayer making soft little inarticulate noises above him. He clutched her hips to hold her still, lifting his head and clucking at her in mock disapproval for disturbing his rythm. Then he shook his head at himself, playing around when he had her spread out before him like a delicacy. He leaned in again, sighing in sheer pleasure when he could, murmuring appreciative noises in his throat, like some sort of gourmet. She clutched at his hair, the sheets, twisting, but she didn’t look away. Tipping her hips up for more, she matched his motion, circling and twisting, till all her tension gathered in a little ball and shook apart, tearing her thoughts to shreds and fragments. She was breathing hard, sweaty, her eyes heavy-lidded, her limbs quivering weakly, and Spike lifted his head, burning her image into his brain. Then he settled himself for another siege, thinking to himself that daylight wasn’t so bad, as long as it didn’t kill him. He could savor the sight and taste of her, the rare pleasure of seeing her clearly as he drove her mad with his tongue and his hands.

Only when she came again, and again, and he felt her wincing did he stop, realizing she was sore. Her hand lay limply in his hair, the other against his cheek, and he had to smile against her soft little stomach to hide his smug male expression. She was all soft and boneless, breathing with soft little pants as she came down. He kissed his way back up to her mouth, and was startled to find her clutching at him urgently, her fingers digging into his shoulder. Then she took his cock in her hand, and he gulped. “Sure?” He whispered.

“Oh, yes,” she breathed into his mouth.

Oh, she was wriggling under him, and he wanted to, all right. He was hard all over again, and she wasn’t helping at all, or rather, she was helping much too much. He positioned himself delicately, watching her close her eyes and shudder as he did so. “Buff?”

“Yes.” She kissed him with both hands on his cheeks, licking her lips when they separated, and he bit his lip in response. She found his cock again with one hand, but he knew the way, sliding into her as gently as he could. She flinched a bit at that, and he froze. “Buffy…I’m going to…” He made to pull out of her, but she stopped him with her feet behind his buttocks.

“No, it’s okay,” she gasped. “Don’t stop.” With gingerly care, he pulled back, feeling her relax slightly, and she urged him back with her mouth and hands, her little breaths against his shoulders. He went slow, a long languorous sweep into her body, giving them time they’d not had before. There was nothing like it, this slow leisurely fuck on a hot afternoon, having time to see her face, having time to see her body. Unreality hit him; this is really happening, the two of them rocking in each other’s arms, twisting and sighing, every sense rubbed raw and sensitive. He had to glance down to believe it, past her face, her breasts, his own body, to see himself, sliding into her. She was tensing and relaxing around him with shivering little gasps, freezing at the top of every stroke, her hands fluttering to his face and back, sliding all over. “Oh, god…”She whispered. She caught his lips as he thrust and receded in her, kissing him slow, whispering things under her breath that he couldn’t hear. She was boiling around him, turning him to ashes, so wet she was an ocean around him, the only thing keeping him from bursting into flames. He braced himself on his elbows to see her better, awed at the impossibility of it all.

“What?”

The very question deserved a kiss. Buffy Summers, demanding an explanation during sex. She shook her head at him, smiling slightly, and he wriggled his hips in the cradle of her thighs, watching her eyes widen. “You.” He whispered. “Trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?”

He didn’t know why it struck him as funny, but it did, and he laughed out loud, burying his face in her shoulder and collapsing on top of her. She giggled, too, despite being crushed, which only made him tip a glance up at her. “Now what?” Sad to say, he was having trouble keeping his concentration.

“Well, I was just going to say, it’s a good thing that I didn’t say what I was going to say.”

“What?” He slid forward in her, wondering if he could break her concentration. Slow and hard, as far as he could go, holding himself there, go a little further. He stared down at her, watching her watch his stomach muscles twitch as his hips rocked against hers. “You were saying?”

She brought up her fingertips to her face, her flat little stomach shaking against his, hands gripping his arms tight enough to bruise. “You.” She took a ragged breath as he hit something exquisitely sensitive. “God, you’re beautiful.”

He stared at her, eyes huge, proving her point. With his wide, stunned blue eyes and soft mouth, he looked like a debauched angel. She’d never complimented him before. His mouth opened and closed, and he looked bewildered. Her amusement faded away as she saw it---such a simple phrase---reverberate. Reaching up with both hands, she pulled him down to kiss him as gently as she could, unnerved by the look on his face, the look that didn’t go away. Slowly, he began to move, burying his face in her shoulder, faster, deeper, till one hard thrust made her freeze beneath him, hands clenching on his shoulders. Then he lifted his head, staring down into her eyes, and she back at him, face washed free of all defenses by orgasm. Almost dazed-looking, he moved slowly inside her to his own orgasm, never looking away, not even when it hit him and his whole body trembled, shaking. You’re beautiful, she thought, never more so at that moment. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told him she loved watching him come. He was naked in more ways than one then, and she wondered if she was seeing William without Spike’s defenses.

He rolled over onto his side, taking her with him, fingers on her chin. His scrutiny was unnerving, the same serious look he gave her when it mattered, when she was most in need of it. “I meant it.” She said quietly. He didn’t exactly smile, but some of the look left his face.

“Any other confessions you’d care to share?” he asked, too lightly.

The question fell like a rock between them, and Buffy scrambled to repair the damage.

“Lots of stuff.” He took a deep breath at that. “An awful lot of stuff. There’s…” She swallowed. “It’s easier for me to feel it than say it, you know?” She laid her hand anxiously against his face, swallowing when he turned his cheek into her palm. “But…”

He nodded, never looking away from her eyes. He could cope with that. “There’s got to be something you want to tell me.”

She moved closer to him, biting her lip to keep from grinning. “Well…”

“What?”

“You know what I was thinking?”

“When?”

“Before?”

He let it go, amused at the air of Big Secrets About to Be Revealed. “So?”

“You were wearing my sweats.”

“So?”

“So now both of us can say we’ve been in my pants.” She dissolved into giggles, embarrassed but pleased, and he drank in the sight of his Slayer, making stupid jokes.

“Is this a preview of the wit I have to look forward to?”

Buffy gave him a look that was so much like the old Buffy that his undead heart gave a jump. “If you’re lucky.”

Chapter 33

Wes had actually been looking forward to Sunnydale. First off, there was the drive itself, two peaceful hours of contemplation free of interruption, during which he could start to get some perspective. Then there was Sunnydale itself, scene of several humiliations. He rather liked the idea of putting those bad memories to rest, coming to terms with them. Not being loved in return might not hurt quite so much if he didn’t lump it onto the pile of everything else he’d fucked up, along with that handy mental list of flaws he kept at the back of his mind. Even the thought of seeing Buffy again had a certain piquancy. The idea that she might be pleasantly surprised at the Wes he had become seemed to release a lot of his pressure, and perhaps they might even have an educational session of catching up. It would be good to discuss Watching, recent developments on the Hellmouth, new regulations in Slayerdom.

Finally, well, there was Spike. The idea of chatting up a vampire would have been an alien one two years ago, something he once wouldn’t have dreamed of doing. He had to wonder, now, how many things he’d once never questioned were holding him back. Besides, he needed to talk to a kindred soul. He couldn’t discuss lost love with Angel, seeing as how Angel regarded himself as the touchstone for the subject. Angel had never loved someone without reciprocation; how could he talk about it? Truth was, the friendship there had undergone some troubling sea change not helped by the last several months. Much as he hated to drag his friends down with his feelings, he also couldn’t help but think that they might have displayed some tact in the way they acted around him. Young love was difficult enough to take when one had loved and been rejected; when the object of one’s affections then joyously took up with someone else beneath one’s nose and on one’s payroll, well, there was something to make a sober man contemplate alcohol.

Talking to Spike had been a curious experience, something he wanted to see if he could recreate sans alcohol. He wanted to talk about how much he loved Fred, how lonely he felt when he saw her with Gunn. He’d not only lost his love, but his best friend, hell, his only friend; maybe only another soul who loved heedlessly could understand that.

And then, too, how ironic to think of Spike in those terms.

All in all, it had been a pleasant plan, sort of like a mental process of packing, and he had found it immensely soothing.

Unfortunately, things had worked out rather different.

Instead of driving Angel’s convertible, top down and wind in his hair, he was driving, well, Angel’s convertible with the top up and blankets across the windows. Instead of the wind in his hair, he had air conditioning in his face, and he suspected it would give him a cold. Finally, there was the matter of two hours of thoughtful contemplation of life. It was just a tad difficult to think about life when one had a hungover vampire in the back seat, alternately moaning, and groaning, “Pull over,” so he could throw up by the side of the road. He’d pulled over so many times that they had probably left a quite clear trail of, well, clues, behind them, and if he lost his roadmap, unlike Hansel and Gretel, he’d be able to find his way back, thanks to Angel.

He just wasn’t sure of his feelings toward Angel right now, and the fact that Angel was sicker than a dog---well, a dead dog----didn’t make that easy to admit. In fact, he wanted to be able to resent Angel tremendously, and it somehow seemed desperately unfair to do so while his putative employee curled up in the backseat and moaned in heartrending tones.

He was rather pleased that he remembered the way to Buffy’s house; rather startled at the destruction of the high school. That was worth a second look, so he pulled up in front of the corpse of the building, and looked at it with a shiver. He got out of the car, crossing around the front, and leaning against the passenger side door to cross his arms and stare up at what was left of the building he’d once thought of as Hellmouth High. The class that had given Buffy her Class Protector Award. The library where he’d kissed Cordelia---or tried to. Faith, all bravado and torment, now long jailed. He felt the familiar twinge at the thought of her, the loss of potential, the waste. Looking up at the building, he thought perhaps it was a good thing they’d let the burned-out hull remain. It was a good thing to remember one’s mistakes, to remember the consequences…and the rewards. He was no longer a Watcher, and he was troubled by what was going on with his friends, but at least he had friends. No posing as something he wasn’t. He ran one hand over his chin, feeling the beard he’d not bothered to shave, and wondered where the old Wesley had gone.

There was a groan from the car. He winced at the sound, as much as at the reminder as the actual noise itself, then squared his shoulders and headed back to his duties.

Warren zipped down the sidewalk at a faster clip than he’d ever attained in Phys Ed. The keys in his pockets jingled annoyingly, the change bounced out of his pockets, and his hair looked about ready to jump ship on its own power. Dignity be damned. Who knew those fucking demons could look so human they’d fool you? Sure, vampires and all, but a drunken woman being a vampire…! It just wasn’t fair. It altered the natural order of the fucking universe. Damn. He dwindled down into a limping trot, then fell into an unsteady stagger, and doubled over, breathing like a two pack a day man suddenly embracing fitness. He coughed, hands braced on knees, and wondered how he could blame this on the Slayer. Not that he really needed a reason. That blonde bitch had it coming, just for the smug way she wouldn’t fucking get out of the way. Her continued evasion of his revenge was almost enough to make him turn around and figure out how to use the demon against her. Fucking women, he thought, with all the bitterness of a college geek who’d had a grand total of two girlfriends, one of which had required recharging. It never occurred to him that while he’d sneer at a girl with a vibrator, constructing a girlfriend who had her own voltage adaptor might indicate certain frailties in his own logic.

He straightened up gradually, taking a deep breath that hurt his lungs. What in hell was he supposed to do now? There had to be a better way to get girls. First there had been the unfortunate malfunction with Katrina, now this, but the device was the best way they had of getting some. Maybe there was something to be said for those drugs, after all. Maybe once they took control of Sunnydale, they could lay in a supply of those pills and just bag the babes that way.

Hell, at this point, it had been so long for him that he…He turned thoughtfully, to look back at the way he’d come, and in doing so glanced across the front porch of the house he was stopped in front of. He stiffened.

Jonathon, sitting in a glider, sipping a shake, was looking at him calmly, no doubt filing the sight of him gasping for breath after his hundred-yard dash away for future blackmail purposes. “Hey, Warren.” Jonathon said uncomfortably.

“Jonathon.” They eyed each other carefully, Jonathon trying to look unsuspicious, and Warren trying to avoid letting his contempt show. Then he realized that if he looked scornful, it would be normal, and Jonathon wouldn’t have any reason to think he’d been fleeing in terror from a feminist demon who no doubt wanted his balls. And not in the good way, either.

They sized each other up. Why did I say something first? Jonathon thought. Why? I should’ve waited, made him squirm, made him wonder what I was thinking. What would Obi-Wan do? Which he promptly forgot, because he was so wigged out by Warren’s frazzled appearance. Frazzled on Warren meant only one thing, and that was bad. Frazzled meant Warren was pissed, therefore Jonathon would soon be the butt of something.

“So, Warren,” Jonathon asked softly, “Whatcha doin’?”

“I’m out for a jog, you dwarf.” With a visible effort, Warren shook it off and glanced away, trying not to show too much contempt. After all, the demon had been pissed off at him. Who knew if it would be pissed off at Jonathon? Did anyone ever really get pissed off at him? How could they maintain their ire in the face of the soft voice, the boyish mop of hair, the virginal brown eyes? Even if they did, did it last long? How long could a demon hold a grudge? She had been really drunk, maybe she’d have passed out again by now. That could be kind of fun if she had. Maybe he could find stronger rope. He’d never had a demon. Well, actually, except for Katrina, he’d never had a human, but it could be time to branch out to other species.

They stared at each other, Warren calculating, Jonathon puzzled. “I’ve got a new thing to try out.” Warren said finally. He actually hadn’t planned on sharing with Jonathon, useless little twerp that he was, but hey, he could adapt now.

“What sort of thing?” Jonathon asked warily.

“A new thing for getting girls.”

Jonathon felt his stomach drop several stories. Great. Just great. What would Obi-Wan do? He thought. Well, for sure, Obi-Wan wouldn’t be pandering to this budding Ted Bundy. This was definitely Darth territory. His stomach dropped several more stories. A new thing. Who now? He carefully brushed aside thoughts of the twins he himself had bewitched, and focused on Warren’s beady eyes. Warren definitely had beady eyes, therefore he was in no way shape or form a good villain. Jonathon knew from long contemplation of his mirror that he had big brown puppy dog eyes, and was therefore not a bad guy, but maybe a Tortured Anti-Hero, like Heathcliff from the sort of chick flick he secretly watched when the other two weren’t in the lair.

“What sort of thing?”

“Oh, I still need to get some ingredients.” Warren said casually. “Figured I’d go see what I could find. It’s really rough.”

“Uh…”
Too casual, Jonathon thought. Something here he wasn’t talking about. Knowing Warren, that meant there was something he had that he didn’t want him to know about. The bad stuff, like disposing of bodies, he’d dump on Jonathon just fine. But the fun stuff? That was definitely for Warren and Warren alone.

“Oh, what kind of ingredients does it need?”
“Oh, just the usual stuff…” Warren looked off into the distance. “I gotta go get some, you know, stuff. Why don’t you come by later?”

“How much later?”

“Oh, much later.” Warren said with a smirk. “Wouldn’t want you to get intimidated by my expertise or anything. So I gotta go now, John-boy. See ya later, right?” He turned to walk away. “Much later, okay? Don’t screw up this time. I don’t want any interruptions. I’m going to make this special. You know how chicks like that. Even sex slaves. Especially sex slaves.” He gave Jonathon a wave, sighed like a man who’s done a job very well indeed, and ambled off as if he didn’t have a pissed-off demon plus an unconscious minion in his lair.

Jonathon stared at his back. It didn’t occur to him that Warren turned at the wrong corner to go downtown; it didn’t occur to him that Warren had turned in exactly the wrong direction to go downtown, and it didn’t occur to him that Warren might be pulling Jedi mind games on him while he was wondering what Obi-Wan would do. There’s a girl there. The bastard already got a girl. The bastard’s going to…He stared at the corner Warren had taken, unaware that his erstwhile buddy was peering at him through the hedge. Bastard, he thought. Of course, once again, the whole twin affair was overlooked. Somehow it just seemed so different when he had done it.

That’s it, this is really it, he thought. I’ll rescue her. And it will really piss Warren off. All of a sudden, he felt all Jedi-like. Actually, it was the first time he’d felt all Jedi-like since the whole super villain thing had begun. Maybe she’ll be grateful, he thought. Maybe we can watch Star Wars together, on that pirated DVD I downloaded off the Internet. Oh, boy, maybe he kidnapped a cheerleader.

Warren watched as Jonathon whirled around like a startled cat and dashed back into the house. Delegate, delegate, delegate, he thought. The secret to good management and successful world domination.

Xander knew it was serious when Anya rang up a hundred dollar sale and didn’t step into the back room to do the Dance of Capitalist Superiority. He knew it was worse when someone tried to break a twenty for a cup of tea, and she didn’t even snap at the luckless fool for depleting the precious change that was meant for better customers. And when Dawn came in with Willow and Tara, Anya did not bodily separate her from the merchandise. But when Willow came in and Anya didn’t do the subconscious Willow face, he realized how very bad it was.

“An,” he sidled up behind her and whispered in her ear.”Wanna talk?”

She was sadly fondling the money, stroking the big bills with a gentle finger. Only big bills for my girl, he thought fondly, then saw it for what it was; she was trying to console herself. Willow and Dawn were giggling over something in the corner, and Anya didn’t so much as even glance up. Ever since the whole, “Willow’s a demon” thing, there had been a certain tension between the two, because Willow had not liked being called a demon, and Anya had not liked that Willow had not liked it. Women, he thought. It used to be simple to insult a woman. Tell her she wears combat boots, and it’s all over. Now accuse her of belonging to a different species, and not only might it be true, but the recipient of the remark might very well regard it as a compliment. Who knew?

“I haven’t heard from Hallie.” Anya said softly. “She didn’t call.”

“Maybe, she, ah, forgot.”

“She could only do that for a bit.” Anya said softly. “It becomes a part of you after a while. You feel naked without it. She should have noticed by now.”

They looked at each other, and when Willow giggled in the background, Anya didn’t even so much as flinch. “We’ll call Buffy.” Xander said cheerfully. “Look! Problem solved.”

Wes didn’t feel nervous till he pulled over in front of the house, and turned off the engine. Angel snored in the backseat, something that once would have made him flee, but compared with the nausea-o-rama the trip had been, was a delight in comparison. He did get out of the car rather fast, though.

Buffy had to be home; there was an old DeSoto parked in front of the house, but as he looked closer at the car, he realized it only meant that perhaps Spike was home. The vehicle looked like the one he’d seen parked in front of the hotel; and it had blacked-out windows. Either it was a vampire’s car, and they weren’t really known for possessing them, or it belonged to an albino with a Sid Vicious fixation, if the bumper stickers were any indication. He stepped close to the car cautiously, as if the rust would infect him. Definitely Spike’s car. He glanced up at the house. Had Spike come directly here after returning? Hm. All of a sudden, he wondered if he should really go knock on the door. Maybe he’d be interrupting something. Shoving his hands in his pockets so they wouldn’t wave around like they always did when he was nervous, he tried the passenger door, and pulled it open.

Hm again. It was surprisingly neat. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he hadn’t ever devoted a thought to the car-cleaning habits of soulless demons. No beer bottles, for example, no body parts, no smell, except, perhaps, of cigarettes. He glanced in the back seat and froze. Lorne, sacked out and peaceful, a pleasant smile on his lips, lay stretched out on the back seat. His shoes were on the back window shelf, and the windows at his head and feet were slightly cracked. His ankles were peacefully crossed, and he was wearing the most amazingly colorful socks. He looked as composed as Sleeping Beauty herself, except for the green skin and the horns. Wes shook his head in amusement. God, how do you wake up a demon? He cleared his throat in preparation for making aloud remark.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I could blackmail you with the fact that you have a secret addiction to Patsy Kensit, and the only thing keeping you from plastering her eyebrowless face all over your apartment is the fear you might die suddenly.” Lorne grimaced at him. “Oh, my back.”

“Buffy didn’t let you sleep on the couch?”

“The couch was occupied.”

“Ah.” Spike, Wes thought. Ah, well. He wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. Vampire, vampire slayer, but still, how boring was it if birds of a feather…? He pulled himself back to reality at the look on Lorne’s face. The green demon eyed him patiently.

“You’re doing it again.”

“What? I am not.”

“You’re thinking of that Kensit person. Or Emma Thompson. Don’t even look at me like that, babycakes. If I said the words, “Much Ado About Nothing” in the lobby in front of a crowd of people, you’d blush like a schoolgirl.” Lorne sighed, and pulled himself up. “My mouth feels like the floor of this car.” He shook his head a bit, cracked his neck, rubbed his neck. “And I need a shower, so be warned. This wasn’t just a social call, was it?”

“No, we came up here for you.”

Lorne sighed happily at the prospect of home and shower, then focused abruptly on Wes. “We?”

“Angel and I.”

“Where is he?”

“In the car.”

“In what car?”

“Angel’s car.” Wes gestured at the black convertible behind Spike’s, and then watched as Lorne’s jaw dropped in horror.

“And what sort of mood is he in?”
“He’s not in a mood.” Wes said dryly. “He’s in a condition.”

“Well, he’ll be in another condition if he gets out of that car.” Lorne shoved the door open and jumped out. “Let’s go.” He glanced down, grimaced, then snatched his shoes and shoved them off his feet.

Wes fidgeted.

Lorne jumped to the side door of Angel’s car and looked in through the crack on the shady side of the car. Sure enough, there he was, and he was so much paler than he usually was. If he got any whiter, he’d be see-through. “How nice to bring him with. Why did you bring him with?”

“I can hear you, you know.” Angel mumbled irritably.

“Great.” Lorne said. “Let’s whisper.” He yanked Wes down the sidewalk. “Just how good are vampire ears?”

“As good as any predator’s, I suppose.” Wes shrugged.

“What does that mean?”

“Well, I’m sure he can hear quite easily into different rooms if he wants to.”

“Even while he’s drunk?”

“Actually, I suppose then it would be rather a disadvantage, wouldn’t it?” Wes said thoughtfully.

“Well, it’s going to be a disadvantage now unless we get moving, Wesley baby, so what do you say we go?”

Behind them, Angel blearily pulled himself up into a seated position in the back seat of the car. There was a fraught moment during which various internal organs tried to rearrange themselves and escape, but he won that battle and managed to focus his eyes. “Hey, that’s Buffy’s house.” He was, Wesley saw, at one of those weird pockets of bonhomie that sometimes interrupted really monumental hangovers. The vampire’s eyes peered unsteadily at the vehicle in front of him. “Hey, that’s Spike’s car.” He swiveled back to the house as if to confirm its presence. This was followed by the unsteady return on his gaze to the car. “You’d think he’d trade it in for a decent model.” He stared through the windshield and then his eyes slowly, steadily cleared. The fog departed, and the blank expression on his face gradually resolved itself to curiosity, and then bewilderment. “Why is Spike’s car here?” He looked at Wes, all goofiness gone. “Something weird is going on.” He gestured at them furtively. Cautiously, so as to avoid the alcohol fumes, they edged closer. Angel nodded encouragement, and beckoned them to come nearer.

Glancing nervously at one another, they tiptoed forward. Angel shook his head impatiently and reached out and grabbed. “I have an idea.”

That was quite an accomplishment in his condition. “What’s that?” Wes asked, dreading the answer.

“Let’s steal it.”

Chapter 34

Andrew found himself looking at ceilings tiles and struts. This made no sense at all because he’d been dreaming about some universe where he got to wear a tight black uniform and play with all sorts of cool weapons. Also, his head hurt, and it was becoming apparent that there were going to be repercussions unless he could crawl upstairs to the bathroom. He closed his eyes to see if that lessoned the pain. No such luck. Cautiously, he turned his head; there was the entertainment center. He turned it the other way, feeling the cool concrete oddly soothing. In the other direction was a gurney-like thing that Warren had set up and…Oh, shit! He yelped and sat up, scooting backward on his butt away from the woman on the table. “Don’t hurt me,” he quavered.

Hallie was not feeling good. She, too, had a distinct premonition of oncoming digestive difficulties, and the idea of what that would be like while tied to a table made her forget that she was tied up. If she had felt better, the knots wouldn’t have been a problem. The biggest item on her radar was her hangover, and Andrew was just an annoying noise that she’d slap away as soon as she felt better. If I ever feel good enough to get revenge on anyone again, it’s Jack Daniels I’m going after, she thought. Her mouth felt like the bottom of an coal miner’s laundry hamper. She turned her head just slightly. Strange. Ratboy was gone. In his place was some boy she knew she should have some vague memory of, but really couldn’t bother to waste the energy on. She tried to focus on this one, who skittered away from her as soon as he saw her looking at him. He looked like he was going to cry. She just hated that. A surprising number of these sleazeballs did all kinds of crap—murder, rape, whatever---and burst into tears when she so much as threatened their golf handicap. She’d told OJ Simpson she was going to curse him with girlfriends who were as beautiful as he was innocent, and he’d promptly displayed more acting ability then than she’d ever seen in his movies. Of course, D’Hoffryn just loved OJ’s movies, so she’d seen the damned things numerous times. Shame, really, that there was no category of artistic revenge….She drifted pleasantly for a few minutes, occupied by thoughts of making N’Sync pay for their crimes, when she realized she was still tied up. Damn. This reality was so unpleasant. Next time she was definitely going to pop out before the hangover arrived. She concentrated her brain cells and focused on breaking the ropes. Nothing. Not even a fizzle. What the hell was going on…?Then she remembered. Her pendant. Anya had her pendant. She stared at the ceiling resentfully for a while. Then she licked her lips and tried to figure out which of the two boys she saw actually existed. “You.”

“What?”

God, how pathetic, she thought. Human. “Untie me.”

“You’ll hurt me.”

Well, duh, you fool. Then she realized, mournfully, that minus her pendant, and severely hungover, she might not even be capable of that. Unless, of course, she could scare the little bugger. She turned her head the other way and tried to morph into demon face, but the hangover was rapidly getting worse, and all she could manage was a really bad case of acne. She sighed and turned back. “I won’t hurt you.” She paused. “If you untie me.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Andrew said tremulously. “Warren will be so….” His eyes widened at the way she glared at him. Hm. Think like a Supervillain! He thought. She was tied up. Warren was not. Warren might come back. Besides, how many people could boast they’d caught a demon? However, in order to get away, he had to get by the table to the stairs. Hm. How pissed would Warren be? Hm. He looked at where her hands were tied to the table; there were several thicknesses of rope around each wrist, and he knew her ankles were just as securely tied. She wasn’t going anywhere, at least as long as she was tied up. Tied up, she was just another woman, just another experiment. He smiled slightly to himself, relieved. His favorite solution to every problem was simple; do nothing and wait for Warren. Here was a perfect opportunity.

Hallie cleared her throat. “Well?”

“Well, I don’t think I should.”

A scraping noise on the stairs made them both turn. Jonathon stood on the stairway, wearing his Superman Tee-shirt, jaw agape. His expression of astonishment gradually faded into one of disappointment as he realized that Halfrek in no way, shape or form resembled a cheerleader. She hadn’t bothered to morph out of the demon face she’d managed, so she had a rather severe skin condition as well. “Oh,” Jonathon said faintly. No cheerleader. No gratitude. Rescuing her no longer seemed interesting; disposing of her seemed to be the problem now. He grimaced. Supervillains or superheroes were supposed to get all the cool girls; what was going on here?

“Uh,” Jonathon said. She was conscious, too, which meant he was about to experience conversational awfulness that no doubt would eclipse whatever torments had he’d survived in high school. How did you make polite conversation with someone your evil genius buddy had kidnapped for purposes he’d forced himself not to think about? Crap. He’d wanted to rescue a cheerleader. This person just wasn’t pretty enough to rescue. He sank down onto the steps and sighed.

Hallie looked at him, then waited for five seconds before looking again. He was still sitting there, pouting, and she wondered if she’d inadvertently turned him to stone. She looked at the ceiling supports for a while, then glanced back. Nothing. Was he just going to sit there? “You.” She said. “Untie me.”

“Uh,” Jonathon said, nervously standing up. It occurred to him he would have untied her if she’d been unconscious, but he just couldn’t do it while she was looking at him. He hesitated, completely flummoxed by something he hadn’t expected. “Uh. It’s …the phone.” He said faintly.

Inspiration dawned on Andrew’s face. “Yeah, I’m expecting a call.”

“No, it’s for me!” Jonathon said. “I’M expecting a call!”

“No, I am.” Andrew snapped, jumping to his feet.

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

“Are not!”

“Am too!”

Jonathon leaped and whirled up the stairs, Andrew at his heels. Out of Hallie’s sight, there was a thump, and a scuffle, muttered threats and insults, and then a door slamming. Her sigh reached only the ceiling.

She looked around again. No phone. No company. No pendant. No way to get a hold of anyone. She was hungover, sick, and not likely to improve if she didn’t get some aspirin. Plus, she just was not in fighting shape, and if those three twits came back, she’d have a great excuse for revenge, but not a lot of opportunity.

Oh, God, this is going to look so bad on my quarterly review, she thought. She closed her eyes and began chanting, softly and uncertainly. Before she’d gotten far, there was a roar, a puff of smoke that did her stomach no good at all, and an irritable-sounding cough. She tried to spot anything in the green smoke. There were tentative footsteps on the concrete, and the smoke swirled as someone waved irritably at it. Horns emerged from the soupy fog, and D’Hoffryn peered at her, only his head and face visible. “Hallie?!” He looked over her predicament. “What happened?”

For the first time, Hallie let herself get good and joyously angry. “You know that rule about us getting revenge on our own?”

“Yes?”

“Well, we need to talk about changing that.”

God, the phone again. Buffy jerked awake and glared at the thing. She was curled up against Spike’s back, her arms looped bonelessly around his middle, his hand curled back around one of her thighs. She groaned in a very un-Slayer like way, and rolled over to grab the phone, vowing to turn the ringer off when she was done.

“Hello?”

“Buffy?”

“Xander, don’t take this the wrong way, but if it’s another missing demon, your birthday present is in serious jeopardy.”

There was an interesting pause. He was calling from the Magic Box; she could hear the noise of the cash register behind him. Behind her, she heard and felt Spike move, rolling over onto his back as she had, then beside her. She glanced down and Spike was stretched thoughtfully out on his side next to her, cheek propped on one hand.

“Well, does it count if it’s the same demon?” Xander asked.

“Tell me again why I should care?”

Anya was saying something in the background, her voice alternatively buzzing and clearing in the earpiece. She sounded like a giant bug. “Anya says Hallie left, then Spike…” He let that phrase dangle suggestively in the air.

“What are you talking about?” Buffy demanded.

“Well, evidently there was some sort of history there between Anya’s friend and…Spike. I know you’ve been all buddy-buddy with him lately, but…”

Buffy’s mood slid from irritated to outright pissed in one second flat.

“Why don’t you just spit it out, Xander? What are you trying to say?”

“Well, like I said, you know, Hallie broke his heart when he still had a heart, so who knows what he’d do if he had the opportunity?”

Buffy thought rapidly, frowning, trying to figure out something she knew she was missing. Spike reached out with one finger and traced her thigh, distracting her from whatever it was that she was trying to remember. “This was Anya’s little vengeance demon friend?”

“Well, yeah.” Xander said cautiously.

“So if she broke his heart, how come she’s a vengeance demon?” Buffy demanded triumphantly. “He didn’t kill her then, why would he do it now?”

More muttering buzzing sounds just a bit too far away to hear. Buffy glanced down at Spike, sensing impending distractions. Actually, she was actively hoping for them. “Anya said Hallie left first, then Spike took off.”

“So?” Buffy said. She had the perfect defense, right in front of her, and she couldn’t use it. He was here with me, all night.

“Jeez, Buffy, what is it? You’re sticking up for him.”

“Somebody’s got to.” Buffy snapped. “You just automatically blame him for everything.” Something like shock slipped over Spike’s face, and he looked up at her with wary eyes. “ Dawn was telling me about this summer, Xander.”

There was a tense silence, and when Xander finally broke it, his voice was tight. “Yeah, so what does that mean?”

“He fought alongside you all summer, and you might be able to forget that, but Dawn and I can’t. And Glory tortured him.”

“That’s what he says.” Xander said scornfully.

“You saw him, Xander. Do you think he did that to himself?”

“He’s always getting into fights.” Xander said contemptuously. “He’s always got bruises and stuff all over. Look at that shiner he had at your party, and he didn’t even bring you a present, did you?”

“Xander, you have whatever opinion you want.” Buffy said. “But I have an opinion, too, and at least I change mine when the person it’s about changes. I’ll ask around about Anya’s friend. “ She slammed the phone down, hard, then picked it up and ripped the cord out of the base. Spike watched this with unreadable eyes.

“Talkin’ about me, were you.” It was not a question.

Buffy flopped down next to him. The day was at that perfect time of afternoon, not too hot, not too bright, not too dark, not yet cooling off into desert chill. Except Xander had spoiled it. “He talked, I just…”

“You were sticking up for me.”

She turned and looked at him, giving him a fierce look. “I’d do that no matter what, you know? I change my mind! You’ve changed, you’ve done things, and Xander just doesn’t change…” She glanced away sullenly as he brushed her hair out of her eyes.

“You talked to Dawn about more than boys, didn’t you?”

“Well, let’s face it, boys…” Buffy’s shrug encompassed the entire gender. “Not a big subject.”

“Oh, really, Little Miss-I-Change-My-Mind?”

“Living or dead.” She amended with a smirk.

“Well, thanks.” He was looking at her again, far beyond serious now, and she simply couldn’t look at him. She had stuck up for him to Xander, it was true. She wanted to believe she would have done that no matter what, but she really wasn’t sure. Desperately, she clung to the belief of Fair Buffy, able to change her mind, able to grow. “So what did Dawn have to say?”

It was her turn to reach out and brush his face, not because his hair was anywhere long enough to obstruct her view, but because she had to touch him. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

“Well, what did Xander say?”

“He said that that friend of Hallie’s was still missing.”

“So?”

“He thought that you…”

“Ah….” Spike shook his head and dropped his head back to the pillow. “And Anya said that?”

“How’d you guess?”

“I’m psychic.” Spike said sarcastically.

The phone rang. Buffy jumped, staring in surprise at the phone she’d disconnected, then realizing it was the one downstairs. She jumped up, grabbing her robe, and dashing down the stairs. Spike got out of bed and stretched, noticing that all the blinds were drawn. He looked around, startled. She’d closed all the blinds so the sun wouldn’t shine on him? No, probably just a coincidence. He ambled his way across the floor, tripping over his clothes, then kicking them out of the way. He scrounged in his pockets for smokes, pausing as he encountered the big roll of bills. God, he had to talk to Dawn, and who knew when that would be? He leaned in the hallway door, trying to catch bits of the conversation downstairs. All he could catch was a series of “Oh? Ew. Oh, no. Crap. Uh. Huh.” Then the sound of the phone being hung up rather more enthusiastically than was necessary. After a moment broken by the sound of stomping feet, Buffy appeared at the base of the stairs, not looking happy. She started up about the time he started down, and they met in the middle. He turned her sideways till they on the same step, then turned around, so that she was a step higher.

“What?”

“Bad news.”

“And that would be?”

“Something weird is going on.”

“This is Sunnydale.” He got his hands into the pockets of her robe, and she squirmed against him, grumpy but still persuadable. He kissed her just once, hands cupping her bottom through her robe, inching her robe open. Warm skin against his, heat spreading to his bones, he leaned against the wall, kissing her again, gauging her reaction. “How weird?”

“I guess somebody turned half the chess club into newts, and the trekkies at the Trek marathon were suddenly afflicted, with, uh, toaditis.”

He pulled back and looked at her. “You are kidding, right?”

“Nope.” She leaned against him for a minute. “So now I really have to go and act all Slayer like.”

“I guess that means you have to get dressed.”

“That’s the plan.” She muttered.

“Does that mean I have to get dressed?”